My gaze shifts to Ryan. He’s staring at me intensely, almost as if he has been willing me to look at him. When I do, he blinks, and his face crumples. He shakes his head slightly, but all I can do is look away. I don’t have the energy for the depth of emotion he’s displaying. This all feels so familiar that I can feel myself shutting down as they all talk around me.

“People would probably show up for signings again out of curiosity…”

“We could put a call out for people who had tickets to her last tour. Let them come for free…”

“Six weeks. Maybe ten. A break to write the new book, then back for another five…”

How am I possibly going to write and edit and do all this press again? Not to mention people showing up potentially still angry about the canceled tour last time. Can I take being shit on to my face by angry readers who don’t know any better?

I understand what this team is trying to do, or at least I think I do. From the snippets of conversation, it’s clear they think selling a ton of books will appease JMP. It’s not a bad plan, actually. JMP has always been all about the money. It would probably work, if it weren’t for one thing.

I can’t go back to that grueling schedule. I can barely handle writing, and if it weren’t for Ryan forcing me away from the work each night, I wouldn’t be able to handle that, either.

But I also can’t walk out of here right now. If I did, it would only serve to show that I didn’t change, that I’m not different. It would put the nail in the coffin of my career. There wouldn’t be any coming back from this.

No, I need to let them talk over me and about me like I’m not even here, and then I need to take all the information and figure out how to make it work. That’s all I can do if I ever want to write again.

So I sit there for the next thirty minutes as they come up with a plan. Trina asks me questions every once in a while, but all I can do is shrug. Ryan continues to stare at me as if he could hold me together with his eyes, but I can’t look at him. He would have ruined his career five years ago, and I believe that if he saw even a hint of doubt in me, he’d do it now, too. And I can’t let him.

As soon as they wrap up, I stand on shaky legs and silently make my way toward the door. I need to get somewhere where I can lose my shit in private, and I need to do it fast.