The outdoor patio had a high fence covered in climbing vines and an overhead canopy of dangling plants and cream shade sails to block the sun. Their table in the corner was private enough that they could have a conversation and not be overheard, which was why Sophie supposed Poppy immediately launched in after they’d placed their food orders.
“This is a safe space. We were best friends in our past lives, too. You know that, right?” Poppy’s fingers slid toward Sophie’s hand and gave her a sincere squeeze. Sophie did know that because Poppy had told her as much after her recent hypnosis session.
“How are you feeling?” Nina crossed her arms and studied her. She was the older sister and had practically raised Sophie. Ever since their mom passed, she’d become the de facto parent.
“Not great. I have six weeks to deliver a book I can’t finish, and a video of me drunk-sobbing to Elton John went viral. I can move into your place when I run out of money, right?” Sophie’s voice went up at the end, as a chunk of her pride chipped off.
“I’m usually the cynic. It’s weird to see you so down.” Nina’s brows pinched together. “The viral video thing sucks, I’ll give you that. But you’re a writer, and you’ll write another book.”
Sophie didn’t want to whine or complain, but… Nina’s career was completely different from hers. Nina had known from a young age that she was going to be a chef, and she’d worked every day of her life to make that happen. Whereas Sophie had always wanted to be a writer but had never had the same courage to fully commit. She’d tried out every single job other than writing to find something else she could do: a practical, reliable gig with a steady paycheck. She wasn’t brave and fearless, the way Nina was. She wanted a job that would bring her the security they’d never had growing up. Unfortunately, her passion just happened to be writing—one of the most unstable and least lucrative of all the creative pursuits.
Their waiter set down their food—crab omelet for Nina, avocado toast for Poppy, and a burrata plate for Sophie—which was a great excuse to not talk.
Once the waiter left, though, Nina continued, “I don’t want to go all Hollywood-PR-machine on you, but your video going viral is an opportunity. You can build a brand-new audience so that when you do finish this book, you’ll get on that bestseller list, like you’ve always wanted. BookTok is one major way books blow up, and fans of your first book tagged you in the video. Now they know you’re a romance author who’s never been in love, which sounds like the plot of a rom-com, if I’ve ever heard one. So give your fans that story.”
“That story? You mean, my story?” What exactly was her sister suggesting? Sophie wasn’t a character in her own book, she was the author.
“Soph, you work well when you have a roadmap. For Whisked Away, you used Leo and me as inspiration.” Nina shrugged. “Why not use yourself?”
Sophie had based Whisked Away loosely—very loosely, as she’d mentioned in interviews—on her sister’s real-life romance with Leo. She’d turned both love interests into bakers and utilized the secret-billionaire trope. But Nina was right: Sophie had been able to finish the book because she knew how it ended. She’d had their relationship as a kind of outline.
“But your answer here is that I do the very simple, quick, and easy thing of falling in love in order to solve all my problems?” Sophie wanted her question to hang for a beat so Nina would feel, even just momentarily, a bit silly. But that was not who Nina was, and so she launched back in with solutions.
“Just take control of the narrative.” Nina cut into her omelet. “People paying attention is an opportunity, and you should see the comments—they’re rooting for you.”
Sophie remembered some of the comments.
My new Tinder bio.
You and me both, sister.
mood.
“Don’t just roll over and never write another word again. Writing is your dream. So do whatever it takes to make it come true.” Nina leaned across the table, then added, “Mom wouldn’t have wanted you to give up.”
Well, Nina definitely knew how to punch Sophie right in the feels. Their mom had been so encouraging of Sophie’s writing and always knew she’d be a published author. What would she say about this situation if she was still around?
“How many views does your new video have?” Poppy cut off a piece of avocado toast and popped it into her mouth.
“Six thousand.” Sophie held the phone up, as if it were evidence in the trial of The People of TikTok vs. Drunk Sad Lady.
“I’d raise my eyebrows, but I just had some Botox.” Poppy pointed to her forehead, which didn’t move. “Trust that I’m impressed.”
When Whisked Away came out, Sophie’s publicist, editor, and agent had all encouraged her to build up her social-media presence. The more followers she had, the more book sales they could bring in. Which meant she had to try her best to curate an exciting and bookish life, like an author you might want to be friends with. Even though she was squarely an introvert, part of the game was putting herself on display. So she’d posted selfies wearing bright pink lipstick in bookshops, lined up her to-be-read list in her apartment, written quippy captions, and done Ask Me Anythings on her Instagram stories. She wasn’t famous, like Nina, but she had fans.
Still, she had a sinking suspicion this was not what her team had in mind when they suggested she try to grow her social following.
“Are you really going to meet up with your exes?” Nina sipped from her cappuccino. “As someone who made the mistake of meeting up with an ex to hash things out, it doesn’t always end well.”
“I don’t want to see them either, really, but maybe I’ll learn something about myself. I mean, it’s weird that I’ve had a few long-term relationships but never said I love you. And I do want to find someone.” Sophie fanned herself, feeling intensely warm from the overhead sun plus all the attention.
Poppy suddenly gasped and covered her mouth with both hands. Still, she managed to talk through the hand wall. “Carla. Heart doctor slash heartbreaker. You won’t see her, right?”
Sophie stabbed a piece of burrata with her fork and took a bite before answering. “Carla did text me.”
Poppy gripped the sides of the table dramatically. “No! That gorgeous temptress. What does she want?”
When it came to Sophie’s relationship with Carla, her ex had the upper hand in several ways. For example, Sophie still followed Carla on Instagram, but Carla didn’t follow her back. And Sophie had, on a handful of occasions, reached out to try to reconcile. She’d sent Carla a Happy Birthday text, then tried calling her after she’d had a gummy-bear edible and was feeling sad. Carla never responded—another move that gave her the prime position of the ex who was better off. So to see Carla finally reach out after something completely humiliating had happened was an unfortunate plot twist in the novel of Sophie’s life.
“Carla said she saw the video.” Sophie dabbed her lip with a napkin.
“Ugh.” Poppy’s beaded bracelets had ridden up her arm, and she smoothed them back down toward her hands. “Of course she did. I think all exes have radar that beeps anytime we fuck up. Not that you fucked up. Just, ya know, had a moment. You know what I mean.”