Would have been nice to have her write a blurb for his latest book. Something like:

William Barnes is back with a stunner.

or

Hidden in the Shadows deserves the full light of day.

Just one line that didn’t mention clichéd or poorly constructed or disappointment.

If he read disappointment in the same sentence as Flying Toward the Sun one more time, he might buy a gun. Then he’d find the reviewer and show him what happens to critics who can’t differentiate between genius and garbage.

Orelia wrote commercial garbage and he wrote articulate and carefully groomed prose. His world had suddenly become transposed and William couldn’t understand how, why or when this occurred. But she could have fixed that. Righted him by rubbing some of her new-found luck over his work.

When she didn’t return his call, he had tried again. And again. The more he had thought about her endorsing his book, the more he believed a few simple sentences from her would partway help restore his career.

He tried texting and after several messages she did respond with a reply peppered with busy living the dream. Busy apparently was a reasonable excuse to ignore the very person who’d made living her dream possible.

A year had passed since he’d heard anything from Orelia, until the message three weeks ago. The living-the-dream text, as he’d named it.

He saw her in his imagination when he’d spoken here those few years ago. Imaginary Orelia stood at the back of the crowd, sizing him up. Her perfectly-styled, too-cute-for-words pixie look hiding her dark thieving intent. The anger rose in him to the point where swear words seemed the only choice to describe his feelings.

William detested curse words. Even thinking them recalled that little nugget: swearing is for those with a limited vocabulary. But when he imagined Orelia typing that message, he read between the lines and realized her true message.

“Fuck you, William Barnes!”

He saw his imagined tormentor pause to decide whether this line required a smiley face or a reversed single finger. The smiley face she’d choose because that’s humorous irony. With a self-satisfied nod she’d hit send, then grin at the distress delivered to him.

William looked down at his phone, expecting the offensive message to appear, but of course it was all in his head. Orelia Mason wouldn’t waste time sending him messages, vulgar or not. She was at home with her fabulous life, working on the next book, finished in fewer than thirty days.

“Wouldn’t that be amazing, William, my books taking up the top three slots of the New York Times Best-Seller list?”

“Oh, yes, so amazing Orelia. I’m choking on my keyboard.”

William breathed deeply. His heart took off at a gallop again. He felt suddenly hot and faint. Thirsty too, like he’d eaten a bagful of pretzels, which now stuck in his throat. And like that Seinfeld line, these pretzels were making him thirsty.

He managed to find his way to the signing table. The half empty glass of water beckoned like an oasis waterhole. He fell into the chair, reached for the glass and swallowed the stale contents in one swig. When he breathed out, all the tension within him released as if his body had been deflated.