“Of course,” I say, though I can’t believe how thrilled I am at the feedback.
“I’m sure the rest will be great,” she goes on. “I just know you’re graduating and I wanted to tell you that you have talent. A gift, if I can use a cliché.”
My grin is splitting my face in two. So much for being cool and composed. “You can use all the clichés you want.”
“I just hope you don’t stop. I know you’ve finished a business degree and I know how important Crawford’s Books is to the community. Just don’t let that side of things squelch your creative side. If you stay disciplined, you’ll be able to write whatever you want and perhaps make a living off of it, as long as you make it a priority.”
Obviously this is all music to my needy ears. But I still ask, “What about Amanda?”
She tilts her head at me. “Amanda? I’m not at liberty to talk about another student.” She waits a beat. “But I will say that I was right when I thought the two of you would work well together. She’s got a bright future ahead of her too, so as long as she doesn’t give up either. Writing is a hard profession and it easily weeds the dreamers from the workers, the ones who want a quick buck versus the ones who want to build a career. Stay with it and you’ll both do great.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure you can’t really make a quick buck these days unless you’re writing Fifty Shades of Grey Part Eight: Grey and Greyer.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” she says, her tone dropping with disapproval. “So many authors are popping up all over the place because of how easy it is to get rich writing self-published erotica. But real writers take the high road.”
And I’ve totally tuned her out because now I’m thinking about what she said:
Get rich quick.
Self-published.
Erotica.
“So people are still buying those types of books,” I say slowly. “I mean I know that sex sells and ebooks are taking over, believe me I hear about it enough from my father, but…”
“The romance market is bigger than ever,” she supplies and from the set to her jaw I can tell she shares my father’s opinion. “And short, dirty, kinky books are leading the pack. These so-called authors, all using pen names obviously, are uploading their trash, selling it for a buck and yet bringing in hundreds of thousands of dollars. But that’s just on Amazon. In the real world, literature rules and that’s definitely where you should be focusing your efforts.”
“Definitely,” I repeat absently. Hundreds of thousands of dollars? I’m starting to think working in a bookstore has blinded me to what’s really going on in the ebook market.
“Anyway,” she says quickly, giving my arm a squeeze with her dainty hands, “You have an honest and bright future ahead of you. Stay focused, make writing a priority and you’ll be displaying your own books one day in the store. If you need any advice, you know where to find me.”
“Thanks,” I tell her as she waves and heads back down the hall to the classroom.
A million wheels are spinning in my head, a million gears churning in my gut.
I run down the stairs and out into the parking lot, blinking at the bright sunshine and the few students milling about, the last stragglers after exams. Amanda and her Mini Cooper are nowhere to be found.
Calm down, I tell myself, heading to Mr. Mean. You don’t need her to do this.
And I’m right. Even though I need to do a lot of research to see if what Professor Dumas said is right, Amanda doesn’t need to be involved. Our partnership is over. Besides, erotica? She’s the least erotic person I know.
Unless she has some dirty, kinky side hidden deep within, one her ex-boyfriend never let her indulge.
This could bring it out.
I could bring it out.
I shake my head, trying to get my thoughts straight, to get those thoughts about Amanda far, far away.
I make a plan. I have to go to the bookstore anyway but if my father catches me scrolling through Amazon books I can just tell him I’m doing merchandising research. Then I’m going to text Mr. Mercedes girl (what was her name again? Stella? Stephanie? Cersei?) and see if she’s available for drinks tomorrow. I have some steam I need to blow off and now that Amanda’s steely presence is no longer unintentionally cock-blocking me, I need to jump back into the dating pool. Like, a fucking cannonball where all parties get wet.
April marks the start of tourist season in the city. The flowers are in full-bloom and foreigners descend on the clean streets, looking to spend their money on tiny bottles of expensive maple syrup, T-shirts with moose and beavers on them and slabs of smoked salmon. They also find their way to the bookstore, looking for a vacation read or just to admire the ambience, so when I get there we’re already slammed.
We work non-stop, which is great for business and even my father seems to be in a boisterous mood. He still hasn’t mentioned the divorce to me and I don’t dare bring it up but at least he’s smiling more. The summer seasons have saved us in the past but I’m not sure if this season will be enough to do it.
I end up staying late putting all the books back in their proper places and tidying up the store while my dad jets off to an appointment that he seems awfully cagey about (I’m assuming it’s with a lawyer). With the lights in the store off and darkness settling outside, I hop on the stool behind the counter and pull up the Amazon Kindle site on the work computer.