Professor Feelgood (Page 42)

I pretend I can’t hear him. “I think we should aim for a weekly goal of ten-thousand words. I’ve done up a rough deadline of three months for the first draft, but I’m sure Serena will want to check our progress before then.” God, just thinking about spending three months with him has made my armpits cry. “Of course, I can do light editing as we go, so hopefully the second draft won’t take too long.”

When I don’t get a response, I glance over at him to make sure he’s listening.

He cocks his head. “So, what I’m hearing is that Phillipe is a total snore. Got it.”

I exhale. “Did you hear anything about our schedule? Or are you solely fixated on making fun of my boyfriend?”

He looks offended. “You don’t believe I can do both? Well, that’s just hurtful.” When I glare at him, he pulls out his phone and starts tapping the screen. “Ten thousand words a week, three months, light editing, I got it.”

“We’re working. Can you put the phone down?”

“Can I? Yes. Will I? No.”

“Are you that intent on inflicting yourself on the nearest hottie on Tinder? Or are you sliding into the DMs of some of your faithful fans?”

He stays focused on the screen. “Neither. I’m on a new app called Whiner. It locates the most insufferable nag within a four-block radius.” He looks at me in mock-surprise. “Holy shit, would you look at that? It’s pointing right at you.”

I’m about to go off when my phone rings. It’s Serena. After placing my laptop down on the table, I head out to the landing before taking the call. I close the door behind me for good measure.

“Hi, Serena.”

“Good morning! I thought I’d call to see how your first day is going.”

“Oh, fine,” I say, trying to sound untroubled. “We’re just sorting out a few details before our first writing session. You know, laying the groundwork and all that.” Constructing the scaffolding upon which our mutual torture machine will be built.

“Good to hear. How’s Jacob coping?”

I want to reply that he’s coping by annoying the crap out of me, but I bite my tongue. “He’s okay, I think.”

“Are you guys getting along? Over the years, I’ve discovered that the best editor/writer relationships involve a certain amount of chemistry. Are you feeling anything?”

“Ahhh, I’m definitely feeling something, yes.” Severe irritation. Mild disgust.

“Great. Well, the best piece of advice I can give you is to try to get to know him first. It’s hard to draw words out of someone who’s a complete stranger.”

Perhaps, I think, but it’s even harder when you’ve know them for most of your life.

“Jacob is new to novel writing,” Serena continues. “Try to by patient with him.”

I almost laugh. Being patient with Jake has never been my strong suit. Looks like I’ll be getting all sorts of on-the-job training in my new role.

“Will do, Serena. Thanks.”

“You’ve got this, Asha. Make me proud.”

I take a breath and try to absorb her confidence. If I can last a week without murdering Jake, then I’ll be proud as hell.

After we sign off, I head back inside to find Jake holding a notebook and pen, looking at me expectantly.

“When you’re finished with your personal calls, we should get started. Man, your unprofessionalism is spectacular. Get it together, Tate.”

God, give me strength. I grind my teeth as I sit and place my phone on the table. While I drain the last of my lukewarm coffee, I try to collect my thoughts.

I’ve sat in on enough author meetings with Serena and edited enough manuscripts to know that getting the most out of an author usually involved a combination of ego stroking and discipline. If I tried that with Jake, he’d laugh me out of the room. The best I can do is just be straightforward and hope for the best.

“Okay,” I say. “First, we need an introduction to bring us into the atmosphere of the book. Some sort of declarative statement about why you’re writing. Are you trying to work through your issues? Maybe describe your emotional turmoil since the breakup.”

He nods in understanding then frowns. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I reach into my bag and pull out my well-loved version of Eat, Pray, Love. It’s one of my favorite books, and if I wasn’t mostly broke, I would have jumped on a plane the moment I finished reading it and taken my own around-the-world sabbatical.

I hold it up to show Jake. “Have you read this?”

He gives me an incredulous look. “Of course. What self-respecting man hasn’t read an in-depth psychological treatise on the romantic odyssey of a neurotic white woman with attachment issues and a lady-boner for culturally appropriative armchair philosophy.”

I blink a few times. “I don’t even know if you’re joking right now.”

He stretches out his legs and crosses them at the ankle. “I’m not. It was one of the only books at a kibbutz where I stayed for a few months. The choice was between that or an abomination written by Sean Penn, so …”

“Great. So, I see your journey kind of like Elizabeth’s, but in reverse. She was inspired to travel the world to find herself after a bad breakup, while you traveled the world to find yourself, met your soul mate, then had a bad break up.”

“A simplistic version of the truth, but okay.”

“From the start, we need to become invested in you as a person, so we can sympathize about your heartbreak.”

“We?”

“The readers.”

His face stays placid, but I notice his fingers curl around the arms of the chair. “So, you’re including yourself in that group? Because I’m pretty sure you’re incapable of sympathizing with me about anything.”

“If you want someone who’ll overlook your personality disorders and treat your ego with kid gloves, then you could always request a different editor.” I give him a bright smile.

“I could do that. It’s becoming clear that Mussolini would go easier on me. But if I requested someone else, wouldn’t that kill your credibility? I mean, being taken off your first solo project would make you … now, what’s that term the kids use these days? Oh, yeah … an epic failure?” He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “Do you want to be a failure, Asha?”

The quiet serenity in his expression makes my face flush hot. He’s Biff to my Marty McFly, taunting me and calling me ‘chicken’. And just like Marty, my reaction is hard-wired and predictable.

“I don’t fail, Jacob. Ever.”

“Well, that’s a matter of opinion, but, okay.” He sits back and crosses his legs.

I swear to God, if my brain were a case of dynamite, this whole apartment would be a charred mess right now. That we’re together in this bizarre push-pull arrangement makes my head spin.

I breathe out through my teeth. “Pick up your notebook and pen, before I beat you to death with my laptop.”

He grabs the items off the table and looks at me expectantly.

“As I was saying, we need to give the readers a jumping-off point, so they can relate to you and your … emotional devastation.” I admit, it feels good to describe him that way.

“You don’t have to be so perky about it. I understand that seeing me suffer is like a day at Disneyland for you, but try to disguise your enjoyment.”