Page 58

My mystery editor added lights. For us.

Us.

That includes me.

As I go over his newest additions, my eyes can’t help nearly shimmering with tears of mirth as I read, then reread, the expansive story written all down the page. Maybe it’s the humiliating story about my mystery editor’s worst blind date that does it. Maybe it’s the ball of tension that’s starting to release in the pit of my stomach since I passed the halfway mark on the manuscript. Or maybe it’s the new string lights surrounding the little room, making the whole place glow.

Or maybe all three.

I take my pen and finish off the conversation we’ve had going back and forth for the past four days at the bottom of the page.

Okay, okay, I get it. I’ll take out the blind-date scene. But geez, that’s pretty embarrassing, Mystery E.

Then I trust you can keep that little secret between you and me.

Or use it in my next manuscript . . .

You wouldn’t dare.

Wouldn’t I?

Not if I’m editing it.

Does that mean you’re up to the job? Mystery E. henceforth and forevermore? This is getting a little Phantom of the Opera–esque.

I always thought he got a bad rap. He built Christine Daaé’s career.

You like the show?

One of my favorites.

Fine, then. This book gets contracted, and I’m taking you to the show. My treat.

Make it on Broadway and you have a deal.

Broadway it is.

I smile to myself as my finger slides to the bottom of the page and I add: By the way, these lights are beautiful. Then I turn the page and laugh at his own note: These lights are the ambience this room needed.

Agreed! I reply, then move on down the page.

I’ve spent more and more time up here in the ARC room lately, and while I can justify in good conscience repeatedly leaving the second floor because I’ve been devoting so many hours to the job at night, the real trick has been managing to sneak away so much without suspicion. Thankfully, with everyone at Pennington having such a tangle of meetings with one person or another throughout the day, everyone seems to have assumed I’m off to talk with someone about something. As it turns out, as long as you’re turning in quality-level work on time, there’s a surprising lack of accountability for Pennington editors. And with Lyla and the way she falls so deeply into new projects you could practically eat from a dinner plate on her head without her noticing, it’s been remarkably easy to escape and come back without notice.

There’s another long paragraph at the bottom, and I pause. It’s a moment where my lead lady has messed things up yet again and the best friend—the perfect, polished best friend—comes in to fix things up and save the day. My leading lady isn’t perfect. Actually, to be perfectly honest, my leading lady isn’t perfect at all. She’s a mess, really. Incomplete. Untalented. Truly mediocre. She is neither the glossy girl living with a perpetual can light spotlighting her every move nor the ugly duckling in the back of the room who turns out to be a witty, suddenly-knockout-gorgeous-when-she-washes-her-hair type of female. No, she’s just Cecilia. Fifteen pounds heavier than she was in college, and yet the chocolate muffins matter more to her than her weight. Funny, but never commanding a room with her wit. Enjoys movies and music and TV but couldn’t read music if her life depended on it. Intelligent enough to get by but not intelligent enough to win awards or get promoted to anything big. She’s just . . . Cecilia.

She’s also, I’m realizing, just . . . me.

I’ve heard other authors say they write to explore their own problems. They write to work through what they’re going through. It’s a sort of therapy.

And here, looking at my own work through fresh eyes, I see. I’ve done it too.

The problem is, what has changed? Nothing. My life hasn’t changed. I haven’t finished this book with a eureka moment and grown. I’ve learned no lessons.

I’m still just me.

Where’s my darn eureka?

I read through the rest of Mystery E.’s entries, defending my actions on some, taking pictures and making notes to adjust things on others. The positive notes are popping up more and more, I’ve noticed, especially as I’ve printed out new copies of my edited scenes to stack on top of the manuscript for him to see. He likes the way things are turning out. And, with growing certainty, I do too.