“They want to cancel me?” I say. At least, I think I say it. It’s hard to gauge how loud I’m actually talking, what with my heartbeat suddenly resounding in my eardrums.

“Not you, hon. Your books.”

“What’s the difference?”

“It’s like this,” Cass says plainly. “They’re worried about contracting five more books from you.”

“Because one book sold fewer copies than expected?”

“It’s more than a few,” she tells me gently. “It’s not personal. It’s all about money.”

“I hate capitalism,” I whine.

Cass cracks a smile, and it disappears as soon as it arrives on her face.

“I know you can turn things around,” she says encouragingly. “The publisher is worried, but they don’t know you like I do. And as your agent, I wanted to bring this to your attention before it becomes an issue. You just need to rekindle the passion you had for the first few books.”

Easier said than done, I think. I know she’s right, though.

The problem is…she’s right. I’m over An American Love Story. I don’t want to be known solely for erotic historical romance novels, even though my publisher would love for me to pump them out forever. I wish I could take a breather from the series and write something different. Maybe under a pen name. Something weird, like Jaundice. Something that Oprah and Reese and Emma Roberts would deem worthy of their book clubs.

Maybe An American Love Story was just a fluke, and this is the end of the road. I’ll have to find a new vocation. Maybe I’ll build tiny furniture for rodents or join an MLM. I could learn to embrace essential oils.

“What am I supposed to do, Cass? If the series gets dropped, that’s it for me.”

“I don’t think we’re there, yet.”

“Where are we, then? You pulled me into your office for an emergency meeting.”

“It’s not an emergency,” she counters. “I wanted to see you in person because it’s been ages. Honestly, I wanted to make sure you were still alive. I worry about my clients who go completely off the grid when they’re working on a project. You artists torture yourselves.”

“Art is torture,” I insist. “Is this about my work ethic, or should I be concerned about losing my job?”

“You’re not losing your job. I know you. You’re a writer first and foremost. Your books are your babies.”

“They are,” I sniff.

“So maybe take a few days to reconsider what it is you really want to be writing. It’s not the end of the world if your heart’s not in this particular series. An American Love Story has had a great run. Sometimes, series aren’t meant to continue forever. Just look at Grey’s Anatomy. It’s like a beloved family pet that should’ve been put down a long time ago.”

“Jesus, Cass. You’re comparing my books to a dying animal?”

“It’s not a comparison. It’s a cautionary tale.”

I look down at my coffee, worried I might burst into tears out of frustration and pure exhaustion. I wish she would’ve just relayed all of this in an email. Was it really necessary for me to hear this from her in person? I could’ve avoided this whole awful day.

“It’s going to be alright, Rhea.”

I don’t believe her. But I force a smile.

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m just sick of the Carvers and I just need to write a new romance series. Maybe something more contemporary. The lack of technology does get kind of annoying after a while.” I try to sound like a good sport, but I’m not sure Cass is buying it.

“What do you have planned for the rest of the day? Do something nice for yourself. Get a manicure or a massage or something,” she suggests. “You look like you could use it. No offense.”

“None taken.” (It’s taken. Very personally.)

“This is just a blip,” she says, and I wish I believed her.

Sensing we’re at the end of our meeting, we both stand up. Neither of us are huggers, so we don’t hug. Instead, I get a light pat on the shoulder.

I can barely look Krystal in the eye as I disappear inside the elevator.

On the way back down, I wonder if it would be so bad if the elevator suddenly plunged to the lobby, flattening me like a pancake. It might be better to die in a freak accident than publish another lackluster novel.

Then again, if I die now, I will be known only as the author of An American Love Story.

And I don’t think I want to go out like that.

The elevator stalls for a moment before opening, and I briefly wonder if I’ve accidentally manifested my own demise.

But then the doors open, depositing me back into the lobby.

I exit the building, making sure to look both ways to avoid anyone slamming into me. As I walk, I struggle against the urge to dry heave.

I’m a writer who is dreading writing.

And that’s a huge problem.