Having drinks with my editor who used to be my boyfriend and his new girlfriend who was not alive for the first half of his life sounds…

Better than whatever I had planned for the rest of the day, honestly.

I try not to judge about Anne too harshly. It’s not like she’s a fetus. She’s only a few years younger than me. Which means there’s a significant age difference between myself and Geoffrey as well. I am nothing if not a hypocrite.

The age thing is just an easy excuse to try to diminish her. In truth, Anne has always been kind to me. That hasn’t always been the case with Geoffrey’s new girlfriends, who aren’t thrilled with the fact that we still interact for work.

Not only is Anne nice to me, she’s also a fan of my books. Which was a little weird at first, but I’ve learned to appreciate it. An aspiring writer herself, she’s always shyly asking for my opinion. She’s never asked me to read her work, thank god. I’m not sure if I could handle that. But I know she also writes romance.

Anne, unlike myself, can afford to write romance. What I mean by that is she’s never had to worry about supporting herself as a writer and can devote her days to hobby writing or whatever the hell else she feels like. In other words, the girl is from money. From what Geoffrey has told me, she comes from a long line of doctors, and her parents own the largest private hospital in San Francisco. To pay homage to her family’s legacy, she spends a decent amount of time frequenting the plastic surgery wing, particularly the med spa. Her face is like fucking porcelain. Her skin is absolutely flawless. We’re less than a decade apart in age, but I know that when I hit fifty, she’s still going to look eighteen. That’s what money and good genes get you.

So yeah, it’s fortunate that she’s a writer, since she has a lot to fall back on.

And yes, I’m extremely jealous.

Whether her work is any good or not, I have no idea. But she’s happy enough to write down whatever drivel comes out of my mouth in a little pink notebook she carries around with her, with a matching ballpoint pen. The pen is pink, not the ink. That’d be a bit too much. It’s a little strange that she takes notes during our conversations, but I try to remind myself that I “inspire” her, and she’s just trying to learn.

I was never that astute. I don’t even outline my own books. It’s something that drives Cass insane.

“If you don’t know where you’re going, how do you know that you’ll get there?” she always asks.

The answer is, I have no idea. Dumb luck or blind faith. For me, outlining stunts my imagination. I like being surprised by my characters. My readers think my plot twists are brilliantly plotted out beforehand, but they’re not. I’m always several steps behind.

I don’t tell Anne this. I haven’t admitted my slovenly writing style to anyone but Cass and Geoffrey. They don’t question it, as long as the books get written.

They’re probably going to start questioning it soon.

What concerns me more in all of this is Geoffrey’s happiness. Anne is young and flighty. According to him, she has a history of flitting from one guy to the next. Her relationship with Geoffrey is the longest one she’s ever been in (and probably the most “grown-up,” I think condescendingly). On paper, they’re both happy. But Geoffrey is so…Geoffrey. And Anne is like a labradoodle—friendly but easily distractible and with fleeting interests. Who’s to say she won’t gravitate to a new shiny person tomorrow and leave Geoffrey nursing another broken heart?

I shouldn’t care this much. He’s my editor. That’s all. His love life is none of my business.

I’d like to make it my business.

Besides, Geoffrey’s right. Being in this bookstore is doing the opposite of what I intended. If I stay any longer, I’m going to collapse in tears in front of the new bestsellers section. And god help me if someone recognizes me then.

“It’ll be good to get out of your head,” Geoffrey tells me.

How long have I been standing here staring at him while having a complete inner monologue? Probably at least a whole minute. Luckily, Geoffrey is used to my brief mental departures.

“I could use a drink,” I admit.

Understatement of the year.