Page 12 of Role Play (Off the Books #1)

“Maybe it’s good though. I’m sure your friends would like to take you out.” Oh, she’s mighty generous for adding the plural.

“I hope you feel better, Mama. I’m only a call away if you need anything.”

She ends the call after a quick, “Gotta go.” I shudder knowing she probably needs to put her head in the toilet again. Poor thing.

“How’s Mama Cho?” Daphne asks as she reemerges in my bedroom. “Did you tell her I’ve mastered the bunny chopsticks and am ready for my next lesson at Pajeon Palace?”

My stare is glued to the plate of chocolate cake in Daphne’s hand. My stomach rumbles. In her other hand is a small gift basket of assorted candies and other goodies. “Believe it or not, you don’t come up in conversation every single time I talk to my mom.”

Daphne scoffs, whipping her hair around in a diva-like fashion. “That’s just offensive. We’ve been going steady for ten years now. Kind of feels like the sun should rise and set on my ass. But you know, that’s your call.” She winks. “Since you’re up, you want to eat in the kitchen?”

“I’m kind of feeling cake in bed,” I say, nestling deeper into my mattress.

“I’ve seen you maul chocolate cake like a starving bear. It’s messy, and your comforter is very white.” My lips part, but before I can protest, Daphne adds, “Deny it all you want, but I have video evidence of it.”

I roll my eyes as I follow her into the kitchen. “One time in the past three years I got completely shit-faced, and I hadn’t eaten all day. Of course you were there with your phone, recording.”

She smirks over her shoulder. “It’s in the best-friend job description. I’m collecting content for your wedding video montage.”

I’m not sure what’s more hilarious, the idea of me getting married, or that Daphne thinks I’d allow a video montage at said imaginary wedding.

I sit down at my kitchen counter in front of the plate of cake. I don’t have a dining table. My apartment is just shy of six hundred square feet, which is a blessing in New York City. Thanks to a rent-controlled sublet, I can afford to sleep with a roof over my head.

“You’re not having any? I can’t eat my birthday cake alone.”

Daphne sucks in her lips as she shakes her head with firm resolve. “I have setup in half an hour. It’s a lot of manual labor and you know sugar makes me sleepy.”

“Where are you working tonight?” I swipe a small dollop of frosting with my pinky and pop my finger into my mouth. The frosting is sinfully delectable. Who needs orgasms when you have triple chocolate cake with a cookie-crumble crust?

“A wedding at The Plaza. Servers are getting paid one hundred bucks an hour. I couldn’t turn it down.”

“One hundred?” I gawk at her. “Damn. It’s a good time to get into serving.”

“This is basically the U.S. version of a royal wedding. A billionaire’s event.

They had custom-made couture uniforms for the women servers.

We had to verify we didn’t have any visible tattoos in a strapless dress.

I went through a background check. The only thing they didn’t do is a cavity search, but who knows what’ll happen when I get there. ”

“Hopefully not a cavity search.”

“ Anyway ,” she says, pointing to my gift basket. “I got all your favorites. Chocolate with almonds. The little Scandinavian sour candies you special order like a weirdo. And there are some gummy bears to help you relax. Okay?”

“Are you trying to help me relax by putting me into a sugar-induced coma?”

She flashes me a toothy grin. “You’re not a big drinker. I had to take liberties.”

I glance at my basket of goodies and my favorite kind of chocolate cake in front of me. “You arranged this basket and shrink-wrapped it yourself?”

She nods. “I know it’s no Chanel clutch or anything, but I’ve had to start saving?—”

I grab Daphne’s hand. “ It’s better . This is so thoughtful and wonderful. Thank you for always making me feel special. Not just on my birthdays. Even on my shittiest days, I’m okay because I have you, Daph. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“I’m always here for you.” She says the words with a soft smile but there’s a touch of sadness wrinkling the corner of her eyes.

“What’re you saving for?” I ask, squeezing her hand before I let it drop.

“Life,” she answers rather cryptically.

“Move into the brownstone with me. That would help you save on rent, right? The house is paid off. All we’d need to come up with is utilities.”

“That’s generous, friend. Really sweet of you.” She tilts her head. “Can I think about it and let you know?”

I was expecting an automatic “hell yes.” Daphne has two other roommates that she despises. We should’ve moved in together from the get-go but I opted for this place thinking I’d need the solitude to write masterpieces. So far it’s just been a fortress of writer’s block.

While I don’t understand her hesitance, I dare not tell her it kind of hurts my feelings. “Of course you can. No pressure.” I bite back all the questions on the tip of my tongue, sensing her reluctance to share any more.

“But hey, can I tell you what I pulled off for you? I’m so excited, I’m going to burst.”

“Go for it,” I say.

“You know that signing event in Brooklyn, City Nights and Novels?”

“Vaguely,” I answer. But of course I remember.

I’ve applied to the major signing in my own backyard, but they turn me down every single year.

The event is hosted by a big PR company called Cupids, which has also rejected me for services three years in a row.

That one stings. I’ve been rejected by agents, readers, publishers, you name it.

But it hurts a little more when someone you’re offering to pay still deems you unworthy of their attention.

“An author dropped out last minute, and after a few incessant DMs, I got you a table.” Her grin is so wide I see all of her teeth on display.

“You’re kidding.”

“I am not. That gives us one week to put everything together, but I know we can do it. You just have to see what inventory you have on hand, but even if we don’t have a ton of books to sell, we can still network and rub some elbows.”

My initial shock morphs into excitement. There it is. The little glimmer of hope after the gut punch that was my meeting with Dane yesterday. I slide out of my chair and wrap Daphne up in a rib-crushing hug. “You’re my favorite human on this planet.”

She can’t move her arms because I’m wrapped around her like a python. “Of course I am,” she wheezes out. Her tone returns to normal once I release her. “I know you have dinner with your mom tonight, but how about after we meet up for a drink?”

“She’s sick. She canceled.”

“Oh, babe?—”

“It’s fine,” I insist. “I actually need to go through Ellie’s edits. I do not mind a quiet birthday at home.”

“Working,” Daphne adds.

“But when you love it, it doesn’t feel like work.” Neither of us believes my excuse. Lately, writing feels more exhausting than a ten-hour shift in a coal mine.

“It’s your birthday, Sora. You can’t stay holed up in here doing nothing. I have an idea. How about you come with me? I have a plus-one for the event.”

I squint in her direction. “I thought you basically needed a security clearance to work this wedding. How did a server get a plus-one?”

“Strict on staff, a little loose on the guest list apparently.” She shrugs. “Don’t ask me why, but I’m allowed to bring a guest to the reception. It’s a black-tie affair with a dress code though. Do you still have that Marc Jacobs ball gown?”

“The one that gives me uniboob?”

“Only when you try to wear it with a bandeau. I’ve told you a dozen times, you have to let your girls swim free in that dress.”

I puff a little air into my cheeks and swish it back and forth as I debate. “I don’t know.”

“I do.” Daphne grabs my shoulders and waits until I look up at her. She’s at least five inches taller than me. “You need a life outside these four walls.”

“I think I need to focus. I have to write another book. I’m torpedoing toward the ditch of failure, and I’m not going to be able to climb back out.”

“You just finished The Way We Were . How about you take a little breather and do something fun? Maybe a weekend trip?”

The truth is, I’m debating scrapping my next release.

Ellie, my editor, who I’ve dubbed “the robot,” has always been tight- lipped with feedback.

Her focus is on structure and syntax. But normally I get a few comments sprinkled throughout my manuscript about relatable moments or things that made her giggle.

My latest book, all she said was: Here you go.

I emailed her back and asked what she thought of the book. Her reply was even more painful: It’s fine. Also, my rates are going up.

Over one hundred and twenty thousand words where I poured my heart out on the page, and the best she could come up with was, fine. And it’s possible she hated my story so much that she decided she deserves more compensation moving forward. If that’s not an ego check, I don’t know what is.

“I don’t want to have fun, Daph. I want to write a bestseller. I want an agent. I want to stop waking up every day and feeling like I’m sprinting in place.”

“All right, how about this?” Daphne releases me with a long exhale.

“Come to the wedding, eat a fancy meal, drink the free booze, then after cleanup, you and I will sit down with pen and paper and I will map out all the tropey reader stuff that makes a bestseller and we’ll stuff your next book chock-full of all the viral crap social media wants. ”

“Tropey reader stuff?” I quirk an eyebrow.

“Yeah, we’re talking about two different things, Sora. Being a bestseller and being a talented writer are not the same. Bad books make a ton of money, and some of the best literature of our day and age will die, unread, in obscurity. If you want to go viral, you have to pander to the trends.”

“You mean sell out.”

“No, I mean have a strategy. You don’t need to work so hard at being a great writer.

You already are. But if you want to be seen, then yeah, we’re going to need your characters to get trapped in a snowstorm overnight and the only inn in walking distance has one room with only one bed.

Or, you need a man in a mask chasing a woman through a forest with a machete.

Make your hero someone’s older brother. If all else fails, you could just write anything romantasy, because that genre apparently can’t miss. ”

“Readers and their freaking dragons,” I grumble. “But okay, yeah. I’m open to anything at this point. It’s a date.”

“Good. I have to get going, but I’ll text you the details.

And for the love of God, Sora, do not wear flip-flops.

I don’t care if they have rhinestones on them.

You need at least a kitten heel, mk? You have my apartment key if you need to raid my closet.

” Daphne leans down to press her cheek against mine.

“Happy birthday, my friend. I love you. Don’t worry too much. It’ll all work out.”

“Love you,” I answer back as she heads for the front door.

I smile at my best friend in the world who knows me to my core. Because, yes, I was most definitely debating wearing my bedazzled flip-flops tonight.