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Bienvenido a Miami!

It’s a cheesy caption but I type it under the Instagram selfie anyway. I’ve been avoiding social media for the past couple of weeks, but I’m back in promo mode. I’d posted from the airport as I departed, fresh-faced and bright-eyed.

So excited to attend the Miami Festival of Books and Authors!

Now I’m pale and disheveled from the flight (six hours plus a four-hour layover in Dallas) and beaming like a madwoman, which exacerbates my crow’s-feet and makes my top lip disappear. But the backdrop is stunning. I’m standing in front of my art deco hotel, just off the South Beach strip, a world away from my Pacific Northwest home. The experience is too incredible not to share. And supporting my book on social media is part of my job.

Made it! This is my first-ever festival and I can’t wait to talk about BURNT ORCHID with some of my writing idols. @MiamiBooks #grateful #writerslife #Miamiglamor

At the front desk, a uniformed clerk with a Cuban accent checks me in with friendly efficiency. “Here’s your key card,” he says, sliding it across the sleek wood counter. “It also gives you access to the gym and our saltwater pool. The pool is amazing. You don’t want to miss it. Towels are poolside.”

“I’ll definitely check it out,” I say, collecting my card. “Thank you.”

“The festival war room is down the hall to your right. They’ll give you your lanyard and a schedule of events. And one more thing…” He turns to the counter behind him and gathers a small, tasteful bouquet of flowers in a round glass vase. “These came for you.”

“They’re lovely.” I dip my face to inhale their fragrance. “Are they from the festival?”

“I don’t believe so. None of the other authors received any.”

For a split second, I wonder if I’m a VIP, but I know the lineup. There are hugely popular authors here with more books, more fans, and more credibility. I dig for the card among the dahlias, rosebuds, and greenery, but I already know: The flowers are from Theo.

There’s been tension between us since I announced my travel plans. We’ve both been busy: Theo took a group of German tourists on a multiday kayak trip up Indian Arm. I’ve been working on my outline and immersed in the Abby Lester situation. Abby is still refusing to return to school after the mortifying video release. Her parents are worried that she might hurt herself. I’ve been providing all the support and resources I can, and it has been consuming. Theo and I have kept up the pretense of normalcy with regular text check-ins and social media support, but we’ve been avoiding each other. I’m grateful—and relieved—that he has reached out and made the first move.

Alone in my room—a sexy navy-and-white space with a private terrace complete with clawfoot bathtub—I find the card nestled in the bouquet. It simply says:

I can’t wait to see you.

The sentiment fills me with warmth. My boyfriend is a man of few words, but he’s chosen perfectly. I call him, eager to tell him how much the gesture means to me. His voicemail answers.

“Hi, babe,” I say brightly. “I arrived, safe and sound. Thank you so much for the beautiful flowers.” There’s a smile in my voice. “I know things have been tense between us lately, and I was so happy and relieved to get your bouquet. I promise we can talk about everything when I get home.” I look at the flowers, so pretty, so thoughtful, and my chest fills with warmth. “I want this to work, Theo. I love you. And I can’t wait to see you, either.”

I hurry to the shower to freshen up.

That evening, the festival hosts a meet-and-greet for attendees on a seaside deck. We sip signature cocktails (something pink with rum) and nibble Cuban-inspired canapés. It’s warm, but a sea breeze blows in, making it completely comfortable. I’m wearing a new silk dress I bought for the occasion, and despite mild jet lag I feel energized, happy, and nervous as hell.

The other authors all seem to know one another, or at least know of one another. I recognize some of them by face, others by their name tags. The festival is hosting bestsellers, award winners, writers I’ve admired since I was a kid. I’m a debut: unknown, unproven, quite possibly a one-hit wonder… and it’s a mid-level hit at that (sales are “strong” but not exactly exploding). Some of the writers smile genuinely at me, others dismissively, while others ignore me altogether.

Across the crowd, I spot her. Zoe Carpenter is hard to miss, tall and curvy, with long dark hair cascading down her back. She’s one of my favorite writers: fearless and insightful, with a strong, assured voice both on the page and in the many interviews and podcasts I’ve listened to. When Olivia told me I’d be on a panel with Zoe, my impostor syndrome kicked in with a vengeance. Zoe is talented, accomplished, even famous. And now she’s moving deliberately toward me.

She holds out a manicured hand as she approaches. “Hi, I’m Zoe Carpenter.”

“I know.” I shake her hand. “I’m Camryn Lane. I’m such a fan.”

“So am I! I absolutely loved Burnt Orchid.”

Her compliment delights me, validates me, and makes me realize… maybe I do belong here after all.

“Let’s go sit somewhere so I can pick your brain about your fabulous book,” Zoe says. She takes my elbow and leads me toward a settee. I practically float behind her, feet just skimming the ground. My literary idol wants to chat about my novel, all while sipping pink cocktails. This is my personal version of heaven.

Later, when I get back to my room, I’m exhausted, tipsy, and happy. I throw myself on the bed, scrolling through my texts. There’s one from Liza asking where her defrizzing hair serum is. One from Martha asking about my trip. And there’s one from Theo.

Got your message. Call me.

I do.

“Hey you.” The rum makes me feel flirtatious. “I miss you.”

“I miss you, too.” His exhale travels down the phone line. “But I didn’t send you any flowers, Camryn.”