Page 11 of Role Play (Off the Books #1)

Sora

Movement at the foot of my bed jostles me awake. My eyelids reluctantly peel apart and I’m greeted by my best, and only friend, Daphne, sitting cross-legged at the edge of the bed, squishing my toes.

“I am thoroughly convinced you would not survive a home invasion,” she deadpans.

A wide yawn escapes my lips as I un-wedge my toes from under her ass. I sit up, leaning against my rickety, wooden headboard. “If you’re the intruder, all I stand to lose is Toaster Strudels and maybe some box wine.”

“I’m serious, Sora. I’ve been here for thirty minutes. I purposely dropped a mixing bowl in the kitchen to startle you awake.”

I blink at her. “How’d that work for you?”

She rumples her nose. “To be honest, I’m surprised you own mixing bowls. What do you use those for? Popcorn?”

Her glib smile is because she’s right. I can’t cook anything without a microwave. “Perhaps,” I mumble, stretching my arms overhead.

Daphne’s smile softens. Her thick, blond hair cascades over her right shoulder when she cocks her head to the side. “Happy birthday, to my best friend, and the world’s best romance author. This is going to be your year, babe. I can feel it.”

I believed her last year. And the year before. Also, the year before that. Daphne’s enthusiasm is now losing momentum. “Thank you.”

“I also have some great news for you.” She claps her hands together in glee. “Guess what your amazing personal assistant extraordinaire did for you?”

I show her a froggy, close-lipped smile. “Break into my apartment at the crack of dawn?”

Daphne pretends to check her nails. “First off, I’m popping all the balloons I got for you on my way out. Second, you’re going to regret your sourpuss mood when I tell you what I pulled off. But wait! First, how did yesterday go?”

“Fine. Dad was… Dad . He gave me the brownstone.”

Her jaw falls apart. “ The brownstone ? As in the West Village brownstone?”

I nod. “He’s staying in LA because he insisted on babysitting the showrunner for Hell & Heroes .”

“That does not surprise me remotely,” Daphne says, lying down and curling up on top of my goose down comforter, like a loyal labradoodle. “Coop is a control freak.”

“He hates that you call him that, by the way.”

She laughs. “And here I am just flattered he knows I exist.”

Of course my dad knows Daphne. She’s my only friend, and my PA out of the goodness of her heart.

Without her, I am borderline pathetic. I like to remind Mom and Dad every now and then I have at least one real-life friend.

Otherwise, they might circle back to the antidepressants they so desperately think I need.

“But that wasn’t what I was talking about,” Daphne continues. “I thought I’d pop by this morning while you still speak to us lowly folks. How did it go with Dane? I thought you’d text me at least. Did he bring a contract, or do you have a follow-up meeting?”

Her big green eyes sparkle with hope and it instantly brings tears to my eyes.

I wake up every day and have my heart ripped to shreds by this industry.

Whether it’s a mean-spirited review, being ignored by influencers, my sales dashboard telling me I can’t afford to chase this career anymore, or my dream agent telling me I’m just not good enough, I know how to function with a broken heart.

But crushing Daphne? For some reason that hurts the most. She believes in me.

And maybe she shouldn’t.

“Babe…tears?” she asks, crawling up the bed to sit beside me.

“He didn’t want me. He was looking for an in with my dad.

” That’s all I manage before I’m wrapped in her slender arms. I mean to clarify and present the rejection in some kind of sugarcoating of “it’s not the right time,” or “it’s still early in my career and I might have a chance down the road,” but I can’t muster the strength to ignore the simple truth: Dane saw no value in me.

“What do we need to do?” Daphne asks. “Because I have to leave for work in fifteen minutes, and I won’t abandon you crying here on your birthday.” She kisses the top of my head, then scoots backward to examine me. “You’re going to be okay, Sora. You’re unbreakable.”

She’s wrong, though. I’m broken. But she needs a smile so she can get on with her day, so I don’t say that. Instead, I do what I’m best at—placating.

“Thank you. I just need a day to shake it off.” Clasping my hands together, I rub them furiously like I’m trying to start a fire.

“Oh, I forgot. I know you were asking last week. I found one more foiled special edition of Lovely for that big influencer, RoxyReadz. I got a bunch of cute stuff for her package and got it sent last week, so keep an eye out on socials for an unboxing. Her following is huge, so hopefully that’ll help with visibility before book two comes out. ”

Daphne’s eyes descend to her lap. “Shit.”

“What’s wrong?” I ask. But I already know.

Her eyes come up to meet my gaze. “She’s one reader with one opinion. Don’t give it a second thought.”

The familiar ball of lava settles in my gut as shame washes over me, head to toe.

I am brokenhearted every time my imagination doesn’t appease a stranger’s preference.

But there’s no room for apologies in publishing.

The authors who can’t learn to swallow the bitter pill of rejection and humiliation quickly find their cancel button.

Those who learn to smile through the pain, weather the storm.

I duck my head, nodding in understanding. So Roxy already read it…or maybe not. But either way, she certainly formed an opinion on my story. “How bad did she roast me?”

“It doesn’t matter. Hot takes are the industry standard right now. It’s just for attention,” Daphne assures me. She shrugs her shoulders, brushing it off like it’s nothing. “How much did that package cost?”

“A hundred and fifty dollars with shipping.”

Daphne bunches up her fists. “I’ll reimburse you.

I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize what kind of person she was when I initiated a collaboration.

I just wanted to help you get some views.

I’ve already unfollowed and muted her on socials so she can’t tag you in anything else so aggressive.

Don’t look at it, Sora. In fact, I’m changing your Instagram password. ”

Curiosity tickles my intrigue in a dangerous way. Nothing good can come of me knowing what she said. And there’s no way Daphne would allow it. She does a better job of protecting my mental health than I do these days.

“Reimburse me?” I ask, lifting one eyebrow. “You want me to take money from my best friend because you tried to help me? Don’t be silly. I don’t know. Maybe I just need to write something better.”

“ Lovely is a fantastic book. It’s my favorite of yours.” She grabs my knee over the covers and squeezes. “I love everything you write, but that one”—she taps against her heart—“spoke to my soul .”

“Then why do you think it doesn’t sell? What am I doing wrong?” I ask her point-blank.

“I don’t know, babe. I’m trying. I really am?—”

“Hey,” I interrupt, meeting her sad gaze. “I am nothing but grateful for you. You are not the weak link here…I am.”

Social media is the bane of my existence, but it’s an arena in which Daphne thrives. Her personal account, just for shits and giggles according to her, has ten times the following of my author account. She’s full of personality, and knows how to attract an audience.

When I found out authoring meant building a social media presence, I almost didn’t publish.

Luckily my best friend jumped in to save the day.

Daphne graduated from NYU with me, but didn’t get into Columbia Law like she’d always planned.

Since then, she made helping my career her life’s mission between bartending and waiting tables.

Of course, my plan was always to reward her richly.

Except, after years of sleepless nights, hustling like we’re invincible, we don’t have much to show for it.

My phone rings from the nightstand barely once before I scoop it up. “My mom,” I tell Daphne.

“Take it,” she says as she rolls backward off the bed, landing on her feet, showing off her cat-like agility. “I’ll cut us some cake.”

“Hey, Mama,” I answer, bracing myself for a painful serenade of “Happy Birthday.” My mother is not a talented singer.

“Happy birthday, my sweet girl. Twenty-seven beautiful years of bliss.” Something seems a little off in her tone.

“Twenty-seven years and nine months of bliss,” I correct.

“No. Pregnancy with you was not pleasant, love. Prepare yourself. Chos have terrible pregnancies. Get comfortable with vomiting.”

“Wonderful,” I gripe. “Are we still on for eight tonight?”

“That’s why I’m calling. I’m very sorry, sweetheart, but I’ve come down with a stomach bug. I’ve been lying on the bathroom floor all night. Can we take a rain check for later this week?”

“Oh, Mom.” I pull back the covers, a light breeze chilling my bare legs. “Can I bring you something? Tea? Soup?”

“No, no,” she insists. “I don’t want you catching whatever this is. Very contagious. My whole office is dropping like flies. Plus, it’s your birthday. Go have fun.”

“I’m not leaving you alone to rot over there. I’ll get dressed and come by first thing.”

“ Sora ,” Mom emphasizes before she goes off in Korean. I was always supposed to learn the language, but never made time. Mom often speaks to me in her native tongue as if it will magically seep into my brain.

“You’ll call me tonight and let me know you’re okay?” I ask once she’s done.

“Don’t worry about me. I just hate to miss your birthday. It’s the first time in?—”

“Ever,” I finish for her. There’s a pang of embarrassment in my chest when I realize how much I let my mom coddle me.

Somewhere along the line, I stopped seeing the importance of a social life.

I’m loved fiercely by my mother, by Daphne, and even by Dad in his own way.

I’ve been so focused on getting my career off the ground, I never asked if that was enough.