Breaking You Darling

LIFE IS A BITCH, and I want to slap her in the face and spit on it. Right now, I want to say those words, but I hold back. Instead, I look down at my hands and notice that the purple nail polish has vanished. I can’t recall if I chewed it off or simply removed it with acetone. Those small details often elude me. My thoughts are constantly shifting, and most days, I’m okay with that, except for today. Since winter began, my mind has been fixated on one—or a few—things.

So many thoughts flood my mind at once. Honestly, being me is challenging because while I aspire to be a girl boss, my brain sometimes rebels and craves laziness. It’s a constant loop of questions without answers.

Will this winter be long and lonely? Don’t care.

Will things ever change? Nope.

How should I decorate my bookshelves this year? This is important.

The same questions hover over and around my head as soon as the Winter season comes around. Beautiful and horrible, that is what this time of the year is for me.

Just go ahead and stab me with a knife, cover the wound with glitter, and give me eggnog, would you?

Hot chocolates always taste bittersweet, mingled with memories, both good and bad. Even my coping mechanisms fail to ease the ache. Cashmere blankets are strewn around my apartment like cozy decorations, forming a cocoon of comfort and nostalgia. And the Christmas lights—I adore those little sparks of magic that bring to mind stars and cherished memories with Dad. Winter is a season I both love and loathe. Welcome to my world of contradictions, folks.

The past always finds its way into my home after Autumn ends. Winter without family is a complex experience, and most days, I despise being alone with my thoughts. It’s not something I’d recommend, but being alone is better than being mistreated, so I make do with my own company. Even though I choose solitude now, it hasn’t always been this way. Thankfully, the beautiful city where I found refuge takes care of my wounded heart. I often wonder how I would have managed without the colorful landscapes of Quebec.

“Amelia, your books are not selling!” A mumbled sound far away pulls me back to reality, and I immediately feel guilty about not paying attention.

A thump.

“I am sorry, Anna,” I manage to say and quickly straighten my back. “I know my sales are low, but what can I do? My job is to write, not to sell. I am...a w-writer.” I hate myself for stuttering. Impostor syndrome is a given when you have mommy issues, people, so let’s just roll with it. “You know I can do nothing about the selling part of the business.”

Anna frows, like always. “I know your job is to write, and you’re wonderful at it, mostly, but you struggle with marketing yourself, which is critical for a writer. It’s affecting your career, and I can’t ignore it. As your agent, my role is to help you sell your books and secure contracts, but I need material to work with. Words alone won’t bring in money. You are a writer, as you said, so you are as much a product as your books.”

Anna has been my friend through so much. She’s seen my dark past, the one I want to forget. Whenever I needed help, Anna stood by me. Of course, the word “friend” carries many meanings. I often think that even if Anna feels some deep-rooted love towards me, she would never jeopardize her financial stability for our friendship, and I admire her for that. She’s straightforward and practical, which I find reassuring. Anna is excellent and kind as a friend but assertive and ruthless as an agent—unapologetically.

“I am sorry, but you know I hate being around people, and crowds make me dizzy. You have seen how I freeze in social situations.” I try to muster my best sad puppy eyes, but who am I kidding?

Anna has learned to navigate my various manipulation techniques. She won’t let my doe-eyed act sway her; she has no patience for mediocrity. If I know her well, she’s about to lay her cards on the table.

“Yes, you are right,” Anna says, crossing her arms over her chest. “That is why I have been thinking you will need to learn from one of our other authors how to market yourself, sell your image, and...” She pauses, and even when I want to believe she is just trying to create tension, I know better. There is definitely a deadly blow coming. “How to better you’re writing.”

I gasp even when her words are expected. “How dare you?”

Anna grins, promptly dispelling the sweet, sad eyes I was attempting to give her.

“I do not know; I mean…” I tap my finger against my chin, contemplating what excuse I can conjure and how convincing it needs to be. “I am not sure I am ready to meet someone new.”

Anna chuckles in amusement.

I know! What a sorry ass excuse! Not very creative of me.

“You must, or your career as a writer will be over very soon. And...” Anna raises her eyebrows as if an idea just materialized in her mind. “I have someone in mind. He is the opposite of everything you are! No disrespect intended.”

I roll my eyes, knowing very well that some disrespect was intended, but I decide to keep quiet.

“He is one of our best-seller authors. Always in the public eye, playful, sexy.” Anna sighs and shakes her head. “Even his reputation outside the written community is notorious. A little bit of a dangerous character, which helps him a lot.”

“Does he have a bad reputation?” I tilt my head, pondering. It’s not uncommon for writers to adopt a persona to captivate their audience. Many portray themselves as squeaky clean, but is a dangerous image beneficial for this author? “What do you mean by dangerous? Is he... a criminal?”

Anna laughs, a somewhat awkward chuckle adults use when unsure how to explain something to a child—a strange choice given I’m certainly not a child, though Anna sometimes treats me like one.

Taking her glasses off, Anna throws them on the laptop in front of her. “No, he is not. I am talking about his reputation with women. No matter.” She waves her hand. “It is nothing you need to concern yourself with. It helps that he writes romance, so everything works in his favor.”

Glaring at her, I narrow my eyes—a clear invitation for her to say more.

A sigh. “Amelia. He is what you may know as a heartbreaker. That is all! No woman likes to have their heart broken, but again, many still go for the bad boy.”

“A dangerous man...” I mumble the words, and loud laughter overtakes me. “Do you mean he is a fuck boy?”

“Stop it!” She points a finger in my direction. “Do not do that!”

“Do what?”

“Blush, you little shit.” Anna massages the bridge of her nose. “He is not someone you should get romantically entangled with, okay? Plus, he is off-limits if you are going to be working with him.”

My laughter subsides little by little at the distress in her face, and I nod.

She has nothing to worry about. I generally keep my distance from everyone, especially men, so there’s no issue with what Anna is asking of me. Yet, another concern nags at me. Why would Anna want me to learn from someone she clearly doesn’t want me associating with?

“Your ideas are always good and new,” Anna says sheepishly. “He has the passion and the perfect public image that you should strive to have,” she continues, and I bury my body in the comfy chair. “In the last couple of months, he has been submitting work that does not scream anything else than...not boring but...ordinary.”

“Wow! Does he know that you are bitching about him like this?”

She sighs and ignores my question. “Maybe your ideas can help him think of new things to write about. After all, he is going to help you grow your social and writing skills.”

“Help him?” At that, I lean forward and narrow my eyes.

“Yes, possibly you could collaborate on a book or something similar.”

And there it is—a trade.

This whole conversation was planned to end up just like this.

I spring up from the blue chair and whisper while yelling simultaneously. “I knew this was just one of your strategies, a way to get something out of my time of need. You want us to work together because he is famous, but I need to better my image as a writer to work with him. Since that awful publisher rejected my last manuscript, you have discussed doing something like this. They told you my name alone did not carry enough weight or credit for a novel like that. I should have known you would not let it go. You want a big book hit.” I sigh deeply, feeling a heavy lump of emotions in my throat, knowing the following words will bruise my pride. “And, you know perfectly well...” A pause because I need to get the words out somehow. “I alone can not deliver one, so this is your way to get it, no matter what.”

A mischievous grin spreads across Anna’s lips as she points her finger at me. “You, my dear, are maddeningly shy yet exceedingly intelligent,” she declares, her eyes spitting passion. “That’s precisely what I need. It’s beneficial for both of us, for everyone concerned, so no harm done.”

My chest is on fire. It feels like a trick somehow, but...Is she wrong? I am having a hard time, and some help could change my year.

Anna has been my friend for so long and has played a crucial role in my success as an author. Saying no isn’t easy. With the collaboration idea firmly planted in Anna’s mind, resisting feels futile.

After pacing around the office, I sink into the plush blue couch, attempting to sit up straight while surrounded by a mountain of pillows that threaten to suffocate me—a prospect I welcome at this point.

I nod reluctantly. “Very well, Anna.”

Anna’s face brightens with a triumphant smile. “Of course! I understand your journey, and as a friend of your late father, I’ve always sought to protect you,” she says, moving to sit beside me. Taking my hand, she gently lifts my chin until our eyes meet. “It’s time to connect with your readers. You need to expand your little bubble. So, go home tonight, rest well, pick out your finest outfit, and get ready for tomorrow.”

“That is a little too much for a meeting, don’t you think? I mean, you’re making him out to be as important as the president or something,” I say, attempting a smile that feels forced.

Anna stands abruptly, pulling me along as we stride towards the office door. “Well, he can be picky and has never taken on any of my other new writers before...”

“Then why would you want me to meet some senior, mature men who will hate me?” I pout, trying to make her take pity on me for once. “Anna, I know how successful senior authors treat their interns and young writers. They think we are the worst of the worst.”

Anna rolls her eyes. “Oh! Do not be dramatic, Lia. He is only three years older than you.”

“He is only twenty-nine. But he is a senior, right?”

“Yes, he’s considered a senior at twenty-nine. He’s quite a genius, as I’ve mentioned! Working with him, you’ll find he projects a mature demeanor. He can be demanding and challenging, and it’s baffling how he manages it all. He’s charming and friendly in public, but among his colleagues, he can come across as sarcastic, cold, and extremely strict.” She stays quiet for a second, and I think she is thinking about calling this thing off, but then she smiles. “I am sure you will be fine.”

I pull my hand from her grasp and fold my arms over my chest. “In other words, you are sending me into the hands of a sarcastic, cold, inflexible monster!”

“Yes,” is all Anna says as she closes her office door with a pleased smile.