I stepped inside, holding my breath, and then exhaled when I spotted Samantha washing dishes in the sink. Maybe she’d left.
“Hi!” a voice called from the living room. I swung my head and spotted my literary agent on the couch, her fingers wrapped around her phone.
“Hey, Erin,” I said as casually as possible.
I dropped my keys on the counter and fucking Samantha finally looked up from the rushing faucet and grinned. “Katie, your friend’s here!”
“I see that!” I forced a smile and Samantha went back to scrubbing.
Erin started to rise and I crossed to the sofa to hug her. The black muck had settled all over my brain and chest again, this time with a splash of panic. “It’s good to see you, lady,” I said.
“Likewise. I was starting to think you were still in Michigan.”
Something shot through me, an unpleasant geyser. “Erin, I’m really, really sorry I’ve been MIA. I’ve been so crazed with the move—”
“You’re probably wondering how I found you,” she cut in. I opened my mouth, closed it. “Josh mentioned you were subletting from someone in his sister’s year. I asked for the address.” She rubbed at her wrist. “I hope that’s not creepy. I’ve been sitting here for a while thinking about it, and I decided my text was actually pretty creepy.”
“No, it’s—I understand. Should we…?” I looked over my shoulder, where Samantha was washing silverware with the furious concentration of a frat guy playing flip cup. “Let’s maybe talk in my room.” Erin nodded and followed me in; I offered her the small chair in the corner, bordered with boxes, and sat on my crumpled duvet.
She took a deep breath. “Katie, I know this isn’t super professional of me. I’m sorry if I’m overstepping, but…I’m worried about you. I don’t know what the fuck happened in Michigan or why you’re not answering my calls, but we need to talk.”
Hot tears filled my eyes. Since I got back, everyone had been so curious, so interested, so jealous of my fancy book deal and research sabbatical, I’d barely admitted even to myself how broken I felt.
“Katie, talk to me. Nothing good is gonna come from avoiding me. I’ll just keep clinging. Like a…flea.”
I laughed and wiped my eyes.
“No, a leech, because girl, I don’t get paid until you do,” she continued. “Agents are real bloodsuckers, you know?”
I laughed again and allowed her to hug me. We’d been friends since junior year, when we’d randomly chosen seats next to each other in a massive Russian Lit seminar. When she was finally promoted from an assistant to a true literary agent two years ago, I was one of her very first clients. And when my article on Northern Sky Labs had blown up, she’d helped me pull together a proposal, and she’d convinced a bright young editor at a prestigious publisher to offer me a book contract. I owed her so much, and I hated fucking her over.
“You’re gonna kill me,” I announced, hunching like a pill bug.
“I’m not.” She patted my knee. “Let me guess: You don’t think you can write the book.”
I nodded, tears trailing down my cheeks.
“Everyone feels that way when all they have is a pile of reporting and a deadline and a scary blank page. We can figure this out. What do you need, transcription services? A research assistant?”
“That’s not it,” I said. “I know it sounds like writer’s block or whatever, but it’s not. I can’t write this book.”
Her eyes flashed, but she squeezed them closed and said soothingly, “Tell me what you need, Katie. We’re in this together.”
“I need to cancel this book.”
“But why?”
Strobing lights: red, blue, red, blue. “I just need you to trust me. I can’t do it. I’ll pay back the advance.” I stole a glance at her. “I’m so sorry.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand. Between the proposal and research, you’ve sunk a year into this. And now you just want to throw it away? Why? Did something happen there?”
I saw myself pulling over on the fifty-minute drive from Kalamazoo to Iron River, resting my head against the steering wheel and sobbing. “I just can’t.” I shook my head, sniffling. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”
“You’re being childish, frankly.” I watched her morph into the bad cop, trying a new tack. “You signed a contract, Katie. This could be very, very bad for your career. What publisher wants to work with someone who gets a book deal, cashes the check, and then pulls out?”
“I know,” I said, my voice bloating up into a wail. “I just…please.”
“Is there a different angle I can go back to them with? Something more general…weird start-ups in the Midwest? The Rust Belt meets Silicon Valley? ‘Rust Valley’—ooh, that’s kind of a good title.”
I considered it, then felt another blast of nausea. “No.”
“Katie, what the hell? You’re making this huge decision and you won’t even tell me why.”
It flashed before me: the flickering lights, darting through the woods. Then the wail of a siren, rumbling between the trees. I shook my head again, and she lifted her chin and closed her eyes. “I can’t believe this is happening. You know I’m still trying to establish myself as an agent too.”
“I know,” I whispered.
“You were my first sale. I really advocated for you.”
“I’m sorry.”
I peeked up and saw she was blinking back tears too.
“What do we do now?” I said.
She threw her hands out. “Unless you have another brilliant fucking book to write instead, we go back and tell them you’re pulling out. And we pay back the advance.” Her palms settled on her stomach. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”
My mind hurtled after it like a drowning person spotting a hole in the ice: another brilliant fucking book to write instead. I bit my lip, sifting through the articles I’d written over the last few years. Tired-eyed Trump supporters who’d voted for Obama eight years earlier, hooking their hopes on the promise of change. Weary poll workers who’d tottered out of retirement to check in registered voters, less interested in the democratic process than the $9.50-per-hour paycheck. Ruddy-nosed men at local rallies, wearing misogynist T-shirts and spitting as they spoke: “You’re too pretty to be a part of the fake media. You’re actually fuckable.”