My Sort-of, Kind-of Hero (11 page)

Actually, anytime I tell anyone it is the happiest moment of my life. My
mailman
even started to get teary. And then I started bawling. The mail was a little late for everyone after my house today.

“What the−” Travis asks, shielding his eyes from the sun.

“It’s an inflatable obstacle course!” I exclaim, though obviously it’s not necessary. With the sun blazing down on it, it is even more glorious than I remember.

It looks a little bigger than I remember. But that just makes it more spectacular.

Travis doesn’t say anything, he just stares at it as though it is a UFO.

“Can’t you just imagine it?” I ask, moving closer to the inflatable beast. “Everyone will have so much fun racing. There is a zipline, a climbing wall, a slide. There’s even a bouncy castle at the end for the winner’s victory dance!”

“What−” Travis says, still frowning. “Where are you going to
put
that thing?”

“On my parent’s street,” I shrug.

“There is no way it will fit. And even if it did, it would shut down the whole street,” Travis says. “You’d definitely need a permit for that.”

“You do not need a permit,” I say, looking to Tina for agreement.

“Well, actually, if you are putting it on city property…” she says.

“Okay, I’ll get a permit,” I offer.

“How much does this thing
cost?
” Travis says, walking closer to it.

Honestly, Travis is always like this. A negative nelly is what my mother would call him. He always has to ask the questions that nobody wants to answer because it ruins all the fun.

“Well, that’s a hard question. Are you talking about the rental price or the price of all the smiles on everyone’s faces as they are having the time of their lives?”

“The rental price.”

“Well, here’s the thing−” I start, but he holds his hand up and looks to Tina.

“$1599.00 plus deposit and taxes,” she says.

“WHAT?” Travis exclaims. “No way! Forget it. This is a veto.”

“You can’t use a veto for this!” I argue.

“Well, I just did,” he says, shrugging.

I can see he has already put the idea out of his mind, which is completely ridiculous. I mean, I know it is pretty expensive, but then I think of all the fun memories everyone will make together− and can you really put a price on that?

“Travis, you’re not seeing the bigger picture here!” I argue.

“We said a small party. A couple of friends, some food and wine. This,” he says, pointing to the obstacle course, “is not small.”

“Who wants small for a thirtieth birthday party? I mean, you only turn thirty once−” From the look on Travis’ face I decide to switch tactics. “What about if we charge people?”

“You’re crazy,” he says.

“Not our guests, but the neighbours and stuff. Kind of like a carnival.”

Actually, I just thought of that idea right here and now, but it’s not a bad one. Plus, it might be easier to have the neighbours agree to have it on the street if I let them join in the fun.

“Or we could just stick to the regular plan,” Travis says and turns to Tina. “I’m sorry we wasted your time.”

I already know the next part of this conversation is not going to go well.

“I kind of already put the deposit down,” I say, trying to get an imaginary piece of dirt off my sweater.

No one says anything and I am starting to feel pretty sorry for Tina because she looks beyond uncomfortable with the conversation.

“What kind of deposit?” Travis says in a low tone.

“The non-refundable kind,” I say, biting my lip.

“How much was the deposit?” he asks, looking from me to Tina. Tina’s eyes are wide and she looks to me desperately, asking me to rescue her from this awkwardness.

Honestly, if anyone needs a life jacket right now− it’s me.

“Nimfy perfin,” I mumble.

“What?”

“Ninety percent,” I say, meeting his eyes. “The remaining ten percent is due on delivery.”

“You really
are
crazy,” he says, shaking his head.

“I don’t know what you are getting all worked up about,” I say. “I’m paying for it!”

“Etty, this…
thing…
is your rent for the month!”

“I’ll take extra shifts,” I say, shrugging. “I wanted to make sure Scott’s day was really special.”

“It’s going to be special because he’s with his friends and family. You don’t need to do these things.”

“Yes, I do!” I say. “It’s how I show people that I care about them.”

“Write them a nice card,” Travis says slowly.

“I knew you wouldn’t understand. You’re always the storm cloud that rains on my parade!”

“No, I’m the voice of reason in a land of eternal sunshine and daisies,” he says, and turns to Tina. “Is there any way we can get her deposit back?”

Tina is now fidgeting with her skirt. “No, I’m sorry, but−”

“Don’t worry Tina, I don’t want my deposit back. What I want is my brother to have the best day ever with his friends and family on a hundred foot inflatable obstacle course,” I narrow my eyes at Travis while lifting my purse further up my shoulder. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have to go and start my first of twenty overtime shifts to pay for the best day of all of our lives.”

And I’m not telling him about my letter from Lisa Hart either, because he’ll just say something negative about that too and ruin it. I lift my chin in the air and stride past both of them− ready to take on the world.

Chapter Nine

“Ms. Hart will see you now,” the young receptionist alerts me.

This is it. I can feel it in my bones.

I open the door to Ms. Hart’s office and look around.

My dad was right: I wore the perfect outfit; my skinny jeans, a cream blouse and black blazer with little leather trims around the collar, paired with my little black ankle boots. I look the perfect combination of business artsy. My hair is secured in a casual bun at the back of my head that looks like I just whipped it up there. Fashionable, yet practical.

That bun took me forty-five minutes to do.

Lisa’s office (I now refer to her as Lisa in my head because I have basically turned her into my best friend forever… I even tried calling her Lissy last night, but I felt it was a little too soon) is super trendy. The far wall is original brick and the one adjacent has floor to ceiling bookshelves with an awesome metallic ladder that slides across for easy access to the higher shelves. The ceiling has to be at least fifteen feet tall.

And there is my Lisa, sitting behind her desk, reading a book. I knew she would be this cool. She has bright red glasses on, her hair is in a messy bun (not unlike mine) and she’s wearing a tight leather dress. A leather dress on a Tuesday.

She looks up as I make my way into her office and smiles at me.

“You must be Henrietta,” she says, standing up.

I walk over to her desk and take her outstretched hand.

“My friends call me Etty,” I say.

“Etty,” she says, nodding. “I’m so glad you were able to come in today. I’ve read your latest novel and I was pretty impressed.”

“You were?” Okay, I know it was in the letter, but honestly, after all the rejections I have received I’m not going to say no to someone actually complimenting me.

“You have a unique voice. You’re funny.” She takes her seat again and indicates for me to take the seat in front of her desk.

She moves so gracefully in that leather dress. I once had a pair of tight leather pants and anytime I went to sit down they slipped right over my bum. Maybe she’s wearing some sort of garment adhesive. I’ll have to dig my pants out the closet and give them another try. Then when we go out together to get lattes and talk about my latest novel deal we could be like the leather sisters.

“But your voice isn’t right for historical romance,” she says, and suddenly all thoughts of leather are out of the window.

“Sorry?” I say, confused.

“Let’s be frank with each other,” she says. “Do you
like
writing historical romantic fiction?”

“I−” I shrug. “It’s all I have ever written.”

“And you started writing it because there was a gap in the market for it at the time?” she guesses.

Damn, she’s pretty good.

“I thought I would have a better time selling it.”

“When I read your work, I heard an irony in your voice. You weren’t overtly funny, but I could see a certain… disdain for what you were writing,” she says. “I liked it.”

I have no idea what she is talking about, but I smile. I thought my novels were pretty heartfelt, not ironic.

“What do you like to do for fun?” she asks, shifting back in her seat to cross her legs.

“Er−” My mind goes blank at the sudden change of topic and my hands feel clammy. I have always been terrible at job interviews. My voice gets extremely high pitched, I speak way to fast, and I shake for the rest of the day.

“You know, like on the weekends?”

I’m not sure if she is asking professionally or personally and my mind quickly turns over all the possible answers.

The right answer is going to flea markets to scour for bargain antiques in my personal life. Professionally, I read at the library.

But for some reason I feel if she questioned me on those any further I would get tongue tied; so I shrug and go for the truth.

“I like to sit in the park and people watch,” I say.

She smiles again and nods.

“Your characters are your greatest asset,” she says, “but you already know that.”

I do.

“Are you working on anything currently?” she asks.

“Well, as a matter of fact, I am,” I say.

“If it’s historical romance, scrap it,” she says decisively.

I sit up straighter in my chair.

“It’s not, actually. I decided a few weeks ago to switch genres.”

“Interesting,” she says, leaning forward on her desk. “And what brought this on?”

“I didn’t feel like I was getting anywhere with historical romance.”

And maybe, just maybe, my new best friend is right. Maybe I wasn’t successful with historical romance because I didn’t
really
want to write it. I chose it over seven years ago because there was a gap in the market for it and the literary agents were crying out for it. That should have probably been my first clue it wasn’t my forte: when a multitude of people are asking you for something and you still get a pile of rejection letters, some flags should have been raised.

“You’re a great writer,” she assures me, probably recognizing the fear and doubt that is written all over my face. “You just aren’t writing the right stories.”

I nod, feeling a little bit better. But at the same time, I’m not feeling better at all. Seven years and five books later. Where was Lisa Hart with this epiphany years ago? Why did I not clue in back then?

“So what are you working on now?” she asks.

“Well,” I say, pausing as I figure out how to explain. This, right here, is an author’s hardest job. Forget writing for hours and hours, deciding on cover art and getting the manuscript edited− trying to explain to someone in a few sentences what a three hundred page book is about and make it sound different from all the other books out there is next to impossible. “It’s a reality-based romance. I am following a man around as he finds true love in order to capture the true emotions of what it’s
really
like to fall in love. It’s a contemporary romance.”

She sits back in her chair and stews over my words.

I listen to them back in my head and wince. That didn’t sound exciting
or
romantic. Should I bring up the Caesar salad?

“I love it,” she says, nodding. “How far are you?”

“I−” She loves it? Holy crap. This is it.
This is it!
“Well, I have some really good preliminary notes.”

She shakes her head. “I need a rough draft by the end of next month. I think I might have a buyer lined up for this, but they will want it released for their Christmas stock, which means we need to get the ball rolling by summer at the latest.”

The end of next month? Who can write that quickly? Also, I have about a million overtime shifts to pay for the stupid obstacle course.

Okay, that’s not fair. I’m just a little anxious. I shouldn’t take it out on the greatest invention ever made.

“I can do that,” I say.

I don’t know why I say it. I’m pretty sure I
can’t
do it. Not only are things a little tense with Travis right now, but he also isn’t exactly rolling in the ladies for me to choose from.

But this might be my one and only chance at this. Also, I can’t let my new best friend down.

“I can do it,” I say again, more decisively this time.

Chapter Ten

On a scale from one to ten− I’m screwed.

It has been two weeks since my meeting with Lisa and I have nothing. Zippo. Nada.

I started to put
everything
down on paper; it wasn’t good. And that’s being generous. The trouble is, I know the story is there, but I just can’t get to it.

And it’s driving me crazy.

“Your parents are racing again,” Jill giggles from the front window.

It’s Scott’s birthday party and the obstacle course is a huge hit. The snow is gone now, and there is a little nip in the air, but everyone is getting by wearing just sweaters so I count my outdoor party in April a success.

And if Travis would stop darting in the opposite direction anytime he sees me, I could tell him that I told him so. I’m not sure what his problem is. I mean, I am the victim here. He got all snippy with me about the obstacle course, yet it is a huge hit. So he either doesn’t want to hear me gloat, or he is avoiding me because he is hiding something. He knows I am going to gloat regardless, so I am convinced he’s hiding something from me.

I put more of the precut vegetables out on the dining room table, but as I move my hand away my elbow hits the bag of carrots and they all tumble out of the bag onto the ground.

“Ahh,” I scream in frustration and bend to pick them up and transfer them to the garbage. I stand up to find my wavy hair no longer in perfect order, and I clench my jaw and try to calm down.