I looked back at the person who asked the question. It was a guy with brown hair, a trimmed beard, and a sweater vest on. He looked like he’d be skinny underneath his clothes judging by the way that hung off of him. He glanced at me while I looked at him, and I made sure to meet his eyes for a moment before looking away. That was something I learned these past few years: don’t look away immediately. If you do, you’ve lost. Something like that. It worked out whenever I did it.

“He’s cute, right?” Rachel whispered to me, ignoring Jane’s answer to the guy’s question.

I looked at her, “what? Who?”

She gave me a pointed look, “don’t act like I didn’t just see you guys staring at each other.”

“I wasn’t staring,” I insisted, to which she shook her head.

“Yeah, you were.”

“No-,”

“Am I boring you, Ms. Haydon?”

Rachel and I froze, then turned toward the front of the room, where Jane was staring at us, along with everyone else. The fact that I was having a conversation, and Jane singled me out, confirmed my earlier suspicions. She had a problem with me, and I figured it had something to do with how I got here. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it, and a few times even felt guilty. But, it only lasted as long as I left the logic out of it as well. Even if I hadn’t had a connection in the company, I had the experience and degree necessary to get this job. That was something outsiders didn’t understand about my family. No one got hired without showing that they were just as good, if not better, than anyone else that wanted a position. There was no way Fawn would have given me a chance without it. It was how our family was.

I smiled, despite the thoughts running through my head, “we... We were just talking about how much we’re looking forward to the tubing and spa. It’ll be really nice for me to get to know everyone in that kind of laid-back environment.”

Jane narrowed her eyes, but I knew there wasn’t much she could say to make me look bad after that. I wasn’t the only person that had been talking to someone, and it would appear odd for her to continue targeting me. The corners of her mouth lifted, barely a smile, and her eyes were almost void of emotion. She nodded, “glad to hear it.”

Fawn looked at Jane, then at me, and tipped her head towards me like she was tipping an invisible hat. I wanted to ask her what all that was about, but I knew she wouldn’t say. We continued on with the questions, and the meeting, while my mind went to the fact that this would be the first time I’d be vacationing without my family in years.

It was 10:30 am when I walked into the bookstore down the street from the publishing house. My initial plan was to call Beatrice and just tell her about the edits I thought we could make in the first few chapters of her book. It was a simple debrief, and we could plan an extensive meeting later, but she had way too many questions. At the end of them all, Beatrice insisted that I meet her at this bookstore. I came with a copy of the manuscript that I’d started marking up with a green pen. I looked around the store, unsure of where exactly Beatrice planned for us to talk. There was almost no seating in the establishment, which didn’t surprise me. Going to bookstores for hours was how I’d spent a lot of my time when I was younger. I would meet Yana or Myra there when I convinced them to let me pick a spot, and eventually get them to pick a book that they liked. We didn’t spend our time reading, though, choosing to use our time on the carpet floor to talk and laugh while we sipped our smoothies or frappes and shared a snack or two.

I had seen this bookstore once or twice, but this was my first time going inside. It was in the opposite direction from where I travelled to go to the office. It was a nice place, though, and independently-owned which was a rare sight downtown. Michael Buble sang in the background of the shop, and I could smell cinnamon and apples as I took everything in. There were three floors, which were visible once you walked in, and the holiday decorations were already up. A winding staircase was right across the entrance, with merch and books at the foot of it. I sent Beatrice a text before I walked over to see some of the things they were selling, and figured the right things could make nice gifts for some of the people in my life. There was a cute Christmas mug I spotted and, just as I was about to grab it, someone tapped my shoulder twice.   

 I turned to see an older woman, probably in her 40s, peering up at me. She was short and stocky, and was wearing so many layers I thought she’d pass out in the heat of the store. She had light brown skin, and short, grey hair. The woman peeled off one scarf, then another, then unbuttoned her long, black coat. She had on a rainbow skirt, a knit sweater, black stockings, socks, and dark boots. I tried not to make our difference in height obvious, but the woman couldn’t have been taller than 5’. 

“Olivia Haydon, right?” She asked.

I wanted to ask how she knew what I looked like, and with such confidence, because she looked like she knew I was the person she walked in to see. I just nodded, “yes. I’m guessing you’re Beatrice Beamont.”

Bea nodded as well, “I am.” She looked around the store, “let’s find somewhere to sit.”

She made her way towards the back of the store, moving much faster than I expected her to, and I followed the woman’s lead. Her curly, grey hair bounced right above her shoulders as she walked. When we finally stopped walking, we’d gotten to a quiet alcove at the back of the store with a few wooden tables and chairs among bookshelves. Beatrice picked the table closest to the large windows, and threw her jacket and purse onto the back of one chair before she sat down. I sat across from her, and she watched me as I pulled out the thick stack of papers that was simply bound together.

“I brought the manuscript for you so that you could look at some of my suggested edits. We’re going to be communicating throughout this entire process, and I’ll never make a change without your ‘okay.’ But, some things will have to be adjusted based on the market, audience, and so on.” I placed the pages on the table and pushed them towards her.

Beatrice looked at the manuscript, then at me, before she licked a finger and started flipping the pages. I waited for the several minutes it took her to look over my suggestions so far. It was getting closer to 11am, and she had yet to say something about the book.

Once she was done, Beatrice blew up her cheeks and shook her head, slowly. It was like I wasn’t even there, and she was trying to use her face to fly away. She deflated her cheeks, sighed, then smiled at me. 

“Call me Bea,” she said. 

I stared at her, confused. “Uh, okay-,”

“I wonder if you’re understanding the essence of Paulette Moore. The stream-of-consciousness that I represented on these pages is the written account of how her mind is working.” Beatrice jabbed at the pages with her index finger.

“I can see that,” I told her, “but, the notes I made had to do with the inconsistency. As it is now, Paulette can seem like an unreliable narrator, when she’s really an intelligent and sensitive woman.”

While I did think Beatrice was creating a strong character, Paulette Moore was not being presented as the complex woman the author was intending her to be. The writing was good, but there was a lot of work to be done. I understood Beatrice’s personal response; I’d been in her shoes a few years ago. But, there was a reason editors existed.

Beatrice narrowed her eyes as she watched me, then leaned back in her chair as she drummed her fingers against the manuscript. We sat there in silence for at least five minutes, and I checked my phone to make sure I even had the time to be wasting. I didn’t have much time until I needed to go back, but it was there.

“I’m going to mull this over,” Beatrice said before she grabbed the manuscript with both hands. Her short, thin fingers wrapped around the edges of the paper, covered in gold and brass rings. She lifted the flap of her leather book bag, then stuffed the manuscript into it. I waited for Beatrice to stand before I did, and she offered me her hand to shake.

“I’ll be in touch within the week,” she shook my hand, nodded, then walked off.

I tried not to think too much about that first meeting once I left the bookstore. So far, Beatrice Beamont seemed like a strange woman. She reminded me of one of my art teachers in high school with her flowing skirt and scarves. Her natural confidence was also like theirs, and she seemed nice enough. Nice, not kind. I felt like she was reminding me during our meeting of how young and inexperienced she thought I was compared to her. Yes, I still had a lot to learn, which is why I was a junior, not senior, editor. But, I did know what I was doing, and what I was talking about. Hopefully, Bea would learn to trust and understand me the way she wanted me to understand her characters.

Fawn was still out by the time I got back, which gave me the opportunity to make some notes on Beatrice, the story, and her comments. I’d just typed the ‘.’ key when Fawn walked into the office, her heels tapping against the carpet floor. She seemed pleased, with an easy smile on her face, and she was armed with a small box of timbits. 

“I take it your meeting went well?” I asked her.

She put her bag down on her chair, and the box on her desk. “It did. The book Gene proposed looks very promising, and the manuscript that’s in progress is getting close to its final stages. We’re going to be looking at numbers for publishing and the 1st run.” Fawn sighed, put her hands on her hips, then looked at me. “How’d it go with Beatrice?”

I nodded, slowly, “it was... Fine. She seems dedicated to Paulette Moore.”

Fawn gave me a quizzical look, then her brows shot up, “oh, right, her protagonist.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s just Beatrice,” Fawn waved off whatever she seemed to think my concerns were, though I hadn’t really raised any. I guess my unenthusiastic response gave her that kind of impression. 

“You’ll learn a lot from working with her, I’m sure you can handle it. And, maybe she’ll finally stick with an editor. We’ve yet to find someone she really likes.”

I smirked, “oh, she didn’t like you?”

Fawn laughed, “I’m not just an editor.” She picked up her cup of coffee from earlier, took a sip, then grimaced. It was definitely freezing cold, and I would bet the milk had created a layer at the top of whatever was left. Fawn had a bad habit of leaving her drinks unfinished, and this was her daily consequence of that. I looked forward to the day when she’d finally finish her coffees, or start getting smalls instead of mediums.

She picked up her bag, then nodded towards the door, “okay, let’s go get some food. I’m so hungry, and timbits are not a meal.”

I quickly grabbed my things, then followed her out the door. We were in front of the elevator when I realised, “Oh, how are Ami and Haven doing? I haven’t seen them in weeks.”

Fawn pushed the elevator door button for us to go down, “they’re good, good. I just find myself feeling like I’m in a simulation when I get into arguments with Ami about why she can’t wear the short skirt in the Winter without her stockings.”

“How would that become an argument?”

Fawn groaned, “she accused me of killing her freedom of expression.”