“Don’t act so surprised,” she responds quickly. One of the things I love about Dianne is that she’s not all gentle and kind with me. She’ll put me in my place when I need it. And I often need it.

“It feels like it should feel like a mistake,” I say eventually. It’s the only way I can describe what’s going through my head. “Working with Ryan is the right thing for this book. I feel it in my bones. But my brain disagrees. It’s still connecting him with everything that happened outside of the last book.”

“He is connected to more than work for you,” Dianne says gently. I don’t miss how she says “work” and not “books.” This has always been her subtle reminder to me that writing is a job, and it doesn’t have to infiltrate my entire life. Clearly, she’s not a writer. “Have you had a chance to talk to him personally? Have you opened up about your—”

“No,” I interrupt her before she can go any further. “There wasn’t time. We negotiated, set up a few initial deadlines, and they were off to another meeting.” I don’t mention that I flew out of there before Ryan could even say goodbye. “Besides, this is about the book. Not me. It’s not personal this time.”

Dianne tilts her head to the side. “Isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Art is intensely personal. Your art, especially. Are you really going to tell me that you have grown a sudden ability to completely divorce the past from the present? The personal from the art? Because if so, that’s wonderful news.” She doesn’t sound like she believes me.

I truly consider her question for a moment. She’s gotten to the heart of what has been bothering me about this for the past two days. Can I separate and compartmentalize enough to make this book into the best version of itself? In the end, that’s what really matters.

“I don’t think it’s about completely divorcing myself from anything,” I finally say. “It’s about moving on. Accepting what happened and coming to a place where I can work again. Working with him…I don’t know. It feels like it might be healing in a way.” I’m tempted to tip my voice upward at the end like a question, but I force myself not to. It’s not a question. This is going to be good, for the book and for me.

It has to be.

Dianne’s answering smile is wide and genuine. “Oh, Scarlett. I’m so proud of how far you’ve come. I hope you’re proud of it, too.”

“I am.” I smile back.