Page 40 of Pick Me
With the way things had been going between us, or not going, I figured the email I sent would be my final communication with Owen, so I’d made it thorough.
After he ignored my half-dozen texts and stuttering voicemail message, it felt like the only acceptable way to reach out.
Plus, I attached his outline with my revisions and suggestions included.
I spent way too long working on the body of the email, because it was yet another chance to get in front of his eyeballs so
I could try to sell myself, like I was a marketer aiming for those seven to twenty exposures to me . I kept it short:
Owen,
This book is important and you have to see it through. You have a gift that I was lucky enough to experience firsthand. You changed me, and I’m better for it,
in so many ways. Now it’s time to share what you know with the rest of the world. Make it happen, Owen.
Truly,
B
I hoped the insights I’d added to his outline would help him, even if it was just the cheerleading I put in the margins. I
knew firsthand how ruthless the industry could be. I wanted Owen to feel armed with positivity before the inevitable rejections
started coming.
Although thanks to the email from Celeste, I was a writer with hope on my side for the first time in ages. She’d absolutely
loved the Archer pages I’d sent and had basically demanded that I finish it yesterday.
On it. But first? Pickleball.
I was at Jimmie McDaniel waiting for my final practice session with Howard before the tournament, trying not to think about
the Owen-sized hole in my life. I almost felt like my skills were devolving without his consistent insights, even though Howard
and I won every game we played.
Most of the tournament pressure was off a little after doing some research about past New York Parks pickleball events. I’d
envisioned a TV-worthy production, with rows and rows of seats for spectators and sponsor banners ringing the courts, like
what I’d seen in YouTube pickleball tournament videos. Instead, it looked like normal public play with the added benefit of
a referee, and small crowds of people standing around watching, who were probably just other players waiting for their own
games to begin.
Very low-key, which was exactly what I needed.
I settled onto the already hot metal bench outside the court and refreshed my inbox a few times. No reply from Owen, but I
wasn’t surprised. This was our new, depressing normal, me desperately trying to reestablish contact and Owen freezing me out.
In Romancelandia, the solution to our problem would be an extended grovel, to convince Owen that I’d made a mistake thinking that I was falling for the wrong guy.
The fact that I needed to be the groveler went against the trope of the guy trying to win the girl back after fucking up royally, but real-life
love stories weren’t always as predictable as fiction.
I’d gotten to the courts early to observe other players, which was yet another Owen suggestion. The four women were playing
the world’s slowest round, pausing to chat and laugh after each bad shot. What I was watching was perfect despite their less
than stellar effort. It was a big part of what the sport had to offer: community, camaraderie, and intervals of intense exercise—in
this case, in between the gossip.
I’d gotten hooked on pickleball, and it sucked because absolutely every element associated with it was haunted by Owen. I’d
almost been tempted to go back to my pink-and-yellow paddle, because every time I wrapped my hand around the one Owen gave
me, I was reminded of him.
But of course , I played better using the paddle he’d carefully selected for me.
The women gathered at the net to chat, so I pulled up my notes app and went back to plotting Archer while I waited for Howard to arrive. In the days since Celeste’s email, I’d managed to write a few thousand words that I
felt really good about. I was now at a moment in the book that suited my current depressed state of mind; Zandria was lost
in the woods after trying to chase down what she thought was an orphaned alicorn foal, but was in fact an illusion designed
to weaken her for capture. Einar was determined to find her despite his wounds, both the physical ones and those from his
fight with Zandria.
“Good morning! You look very serious.”
I jumped. Howard had materialized beside me without me even realizing it.
“Oh, hi.” I laughed at my skittishness. “Just doing some plotting for my next book. I tend to go into the zone.”
“In all things,” Howard agreed with a nod. “I’ve seen how you get out there.” He gestured to where the ladies were finally
back to playing, then sat down beside me. “So when will I see said book on the shelf at the Strand?”
I was used to dodging the question. “Not sure. There are no guarantees in publishing, so there’s a chance you won’t.”
He frowned at the thought. “Quite a gamble for you, yes? Dedicating all of your time and effort to something that might not
come to pass.”
A brilliant summary of my chosen profession that I was of no mind to process.
“Yup. But the sad fact is, I can’t stop myself. Sometimes an idea takes hold of me and I’m off.”
“How many books have you written?”
I paused to consider it. “I haven’t counted, but let’s just say I’m a prolific ghostwriter. Or I was , but I’d prefer to not talk about that mess at eight o’clock in the morning. Too complicated.”
“Understood.” Howard’s gaze shifted from me to the gameplay. “They’re not very good, are they?”
“But they’re enjoying themselves,” I offered.
“Indeed.” He nodded. “I’m guessing that we’ll be playing against two of them once they finish? Won’t be much of a practice
session. None of my guys could make it this morning. Worst case, if they can’t stay and play, we’ll just work on drills. I
think we’re in good shape for the big day.”
I glanced down at Howard’s knee brace. “How are you feeling?”
“About as creaky as an old barn door, but that’s life. You?”
Brokenhearted. Foolish. Miserable. Worried.
“Fine.” I smiled despite the dull ache in my chest. I jutted my chin toward the court. “Looks like they’re finishing up.”
“Good.” Howard got up slowly. “Let’s go ruin their day.”
Turns out, the only day ruined was ours, thanks to me. I played like I’d never set foot on a court. All of my shots were too
hard. A dink? Never heard of her. I served into the net. And my accidental pop-ups were ridiculous, to the point where I was
basically setting up our formerly sweet old lady opponents to smash the ball in my face. Sure, they’d been holding back during
their gossipy play, but on a regular day, Howard and I could’ve buried them.
I got so frustrated that I nearly threw my precious paddle during our final game. I mustered up a tight grin as we tapped
paddles over the net once it was over, furious at myself for a million different reasons.
Howard and I walked toward the door side by side and silent. He finally spoke up, like he couldn’t hold back any longer.
“What’s going on with you today?” he asked softly.
His voice was almost grandfatherly with concern, and it was enough to open the floodgates I’d been keeping locked up tight.
“I’m... I’m dealing with a lot right now.” I sniffled as tears sprang to my eyes. “ Life . It’s too much.”
“Yes, but it’s better than the alternative,” he mused, watching me out of the corner of his eye as we walked out to the street.
He turned to me. “Are you sure you want to play in the tournament? It’s perfectly fine to back out, you know. We can try for
the next one, in the fall.”
Not playing in the tournament would derail my only concrete goal. Even Archer didn’t have a due date; it was all up to me. I’d realized that I craved a deadline, a point where timing and effort merged
and I was forced to deliver something.
“No, we’re doing this. I’m not backing out.”
“Wonderful,” he said with a nod. “Then we’ll consider today our dress rehearsal. I’ve done my fair share of community theater—I
was recently Buffalo Bill Cody in Annie Get Your Gun —and a bad dress rehearsal is an omen for a good show.”
He reached out to give my shoulder a squeeze, and my eyes flooded again.
“You’re going to be okay, Brooke.”
I felt my chin tremble. “I’m really trying to believe that.”