Read Between the Pages: A Novel Online
Authors: Amanda Richardson
Between the Pages: A Novel
Between the Pages:
A Novel
Amanda Richardson
Between the Pages: A Novel
Amanda Richardson
Published by Amanda Richardson
© Copyright 2016 Amanda Richardson.
Amanda Richardson
P.O. Box 1961
Burbank, CA 91507
Editing by
Making Manuscripts
Proofreading by
Karen Lawson
Cover Design by Amanda Richardson
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
For Becky.
“A sister is a little bit of childhood that can never be lost.”
Love you, sissy!
CHAPTER ONE
Finley
On
my way home from work, I pass exactly three bookstores. Barnes & Noble comes first—five stories of anything you can ever want, situated conveniently on Union Square’s northeastern corner. It’s everybody’s favorite for a reason—the reliability is comforting. They all look the same, so you know exactly what you’re getting everywhere.
Next up is Allabaster Bookshop, a used bookstore full of rare and generally unread literary fiction. It’s sandwiched between an old dry cleaner and a trendy pie café. It’s the perfect place to peruse unknown works of fiction while still looking cool and hip. It’s also a place where one might go to buy an overpriced first edition—not exactly my cup of tea.
Finally, St. Mark’s Bookshop on East 3rd Street, my personal favorite—but perhaps I’m biased because I live one block away. It’s the perfect mix of the two bookstores above. Plus, it’s never too crowded, and there aren’t tacky calendars on the aisles. It’s a win-win.
I walk up to the window of St. Mark’s. A warm breeze blows my pale hair across my face. I blink twice, trying to interpret what I’m seeing. In the window sits a hardback titled,
In Hiding
. That very same book sits in every window in all three bookstores. My eyes gloss over the dark blue background, the serif font, and the hand sliding against a steamy pane of glass . . . I clutch my purse tighter and walk inside. The bell on the door jingles delightfully, and a large, orange cat nuzzles up against my bare right leg.
“Hey Teddy,” I say softly, petting his silky fur. He starts to purr instantly. I walk over to the main table in front.
New Releases.
I pick up a copy of
In Hiding
. Thumbing the pages, I land on page 320. My eyes scan the writing, and a warm flush blooms on my cheeks as I read the whole page, and then the next. The words are familiar yet foreign. I smile and bend down, clutching the book and holding it open. Teddy watches me curiously.
“I wrote this,” I whisper, and Teddy purrs louder. “And no one will ever know. Well, except you.” The cat just blinks slowly and nuzzles the hardback. I laugh and stand up, replacing the novel back on its special table. I wave to Emily behind the counter.
Before leaving, I connect to Wi-Fi on my phone and look the book up on Amazon. Number three overall, number one in contemporary fiction. A sense of pride fills me as I walk down the block to my apartment and unlock the gate to our walk-up. I skip up three floors of stairs. When I get to our door, I reach out to find it already open.
“Hannah?” I slowly push the door open.
Hannah is on the couch, painting her toenails. She looks up. “Oh, hi.”
“Why is the door open?” I ask, closing it behind me and looking around. Immediately, something seems different. The couch has been rearranged to sit across from the fireplace, and the television has been mounted above it. “Is that . . . a new coffee table?” I ask, sliding my purse onto the hook next to our front door.
“Mmm-hmm. Geoff bought it for me.”
I study the oak. “That was nice of him.” I look around for other clues of her boyfriend’s generosity, but don’t find anything.
“There’s Chinese in the fridge. The wine is on the counter,” she mumbles, focusing on her toes.
“It’s like you know me,” I retort sarcastically. I walk down the hallway to my room and take off my faux-leather pencil skirt, flats, and starchy blouse. I unpin my hair and throw on a pair of old sweats and comfy T-shirt—instant relief. I hate the uniform my shitty retail job requires me to wear.
After heading to the kitchen and warming up a plate of leftover Chinese, I don’t hesitate to pour myself a large, much-needed glass of red wine. It’s a welcome relief when I plop down alongside Hannah on the couch.
Bliss
. “How was your day?” I ask, watching as she applies a deep red to her left pinky toenail.
“Applied for sixteen thousand waitressing jobs. I have no callbacks and zero auditions. My life sucks, basically,” she says quietly. I study her dark hair; it’s currently pulled back into a casual ponytail. She’s striking—her features are exquisite, and I feel nothing but anger toward the theatre industry.
She’s beautiful, and she can
actually
act! How DARE you not cast her?
“I’m sorry,” I say, rubbing her shoulder. “It’ll happen soon.” I’ve repeated these same five words over and over for the last four years. I’m starting to sound like a robot. I just don’t know how else to help other than sit and project optimism onto her.
She groans and finishes the last nail, studying her work by wiggling her toes. “It better happen really fucking soon. I have about seventy cents to my name.”
I swallow. I wish I could help her, but the truth is, ghostwriting doesn’t pay very well. It’s enough to live on while I’m writing, but between gigs, I have to work a shitty retail job. And now that I’ve decided to try and write for myself instead of ghostwrite, I know things will be even tighter around here.
“Well, I’ll be getting my final check for my last writing gig soon. That should tide us over for a month or two.”
She shrugs. “I hate taking money from you.” She glances up at me, and her brown eyes are watery and sad.
I laugh. “You know you’ve helped me in the past, too. It’s what best friends do.”
“You better get cracking on that novel. Maybe you’ll sell a million copies.”
I squirm uncomfortably. “It doesn’t really work like that.” I’m quiet for a few seconds. I know what we’re both thinking, so I decide to bring it up first. “I could always do another ghostwriting gig—”
“No. You left your agency last month for a reason. It’s
your
turn now.” Hannah sticks a hand out as if to strengthen her argument.
I bite the inside of my lip. “I know, but Madeleine could set me up if I needed her to. The option is on the table.”
She shakes her head vehemently. “Geoff can help me out until I get my feet on the ground.”
“Okay.” We’ve had each other’s backs for so long now, but I truly hate feeling so useless. I want more for us both.
“Let’s get a drink,” she suggests, eyeing me mischievously and changing the subject. She points to her phone. “You’re number one, Finn. That’s fantastic.”
I giggle. “Number
three
overall.”
“Don’t downplay your success. That may not be your name on the cover, but it’s
your
fucking book. We deserve an Old Fashioned.”
I roll my neck and sigh. “We’re broke.”
“You don’t need money to drink in New York City.” She says it so flippantly.
“We can’t always take advantage of poor, unassuming men.” I stand to get my food and wine. “Let me finish up some writing, and then we’ll go out,” I say, succumbing to her pleading, puppy-dog eyes. I grab a pair of reusable chopsticks and begin to eat the veggie chow mein as I walk down the hall. I wash it down with a big sip of wine.
“Perfect,” Hannah says, smiling warmly from her seat on the couch. “Let me know when you’re ready.”
I carry my food and wine to my room and close the door. With most things, I can tolerate music and/or sounds, but for writing, I need absolute silence. I close my window and sit down at my desk, the plate of food in my lap. I grab a pair of headphones that don’t work—I just need the silence.
Such a glamorous life I lead . . .
I open the Word doc and watch as the cursor blinks.
And blinks.
And blinks.
I eat more chow mein. I sip some more wine. I repeat this cycle until the food and wine are gone, and my head is a little bit clearer. I wish I had something to go on. This is chapter one of my debut novel—the same chapter I’ve been working on for a month. It’s not an easy transition, going from writing for other people to writing for yourself. It requires more soul-searching. It requires actual
work.
I’m trained to write, so why is this so damn hard?
The woman knew her time with him would come to an end.
No . . .
The woman felt certain her time with him would come to an end.
That’s even worse. I sigh and stare at the stupid sentence for six minutes. What is a sentence, anyway? Essentially: a random combination of verbs, nouns, prepositions, and adjectives. What makes one sentence better than the other? I study the letters within the words. I get distracted by the way they all start to blur together if you look at them too long. After I blink, my eyes wander to the Mason jar sitting next to my computer. I pull a slip of paper out.
I murdered my lover.
Great. I fling the slip of paper away.
That
was an idiotic Pinterest idea. How are random sentences on slips of paper supposed to combat writer’s block? Is that sentence supposed to inspire me somehow? I try it.
You know, just in case.
The woman recognized her time with him would come to an end, because she had to kill him.
Ugh. Delete. Why is conjuring up your own idea so much harder than writing for someone else? When I’m hired to ghostwrite a story, I can sit down and concentrate on the
story,
and the words needed to convey that story. Yet, when I sit down for myself, nothing comes. It’s like there’s a disconnection between my idea and the computer. Maybe this whole
writing for myself
thing is irrational. Maybe I’m not meant to be a writer. Perhaps I’m not meant to write my own stories.
I slam the laptop shut and decide that tonight is a night for whiskey—
not
writing.
*
Ace Bar is the place Hannah and I habitually go when we want free drinks. The dartboards, pool, and arcade games appeal to all kinds of men, and we just so happen to be excellent skee-ball players, thus attracting the attention of the patrons. I link arms with Hannah as we stroll north two blocks. I’m grateful for the warm June air, and that I can finally leave our apartment without a jacket. Early summer in New York City—before the humidity appears and ruins everything—is my absolute favorite time of the year.
I tug at my hair as we enter the bar. I’ve kept it down and flowing for tonight, though I’m itching to pull it up because I hate wearing my hair down.
“Leave it,” Hannah murmurs. “Men love blondes.”
I laugh. “This is sadistic. Flirting to get free drinks.”
“We’re poor. It’s not like we’re high-class escorts.”
“How does Geoff feel about his girlfriend of two years soliciting herself for free drinks?” I implore, smirking.
“I’m sure he’d be fully supportive of free booze. And you know I’d never compromise my relationship with Geoff. He buys me furniture.”
I laugh. The fact is, I know Hannah loves Geoff. She pulls me behind her as we make our way to the skee-ball machines. I eye her casual outfit—a plain back T-shirt, skinny jeans, and flat, metallic gold sandals. She’s stunning. I smooth down my sleeveless denim dress and fidget with the hem.
“Who’s going first?” I ask, sitting on one of the chairs near the machine.
Hannah shoots me a look of death. “I don’t even have enough money for a fucking game of skee-ball.”
We fall into a fit of hysterics. “Let me get the game and our first round of drinks,” I say between giggles. “We can let the men flock to us after they see our skills,” I joke, looking around at the relatively empty bar. “Old Fashioned, right?”
“Duh,” is all she says.
I shake my head and walk over to the bar. “Two Old Fashioneds, please,” I say sweetly. I reach into my cross-body purse and produce a credit card. I would never tell Hannah this, but I’m twenty-two dollars away from hitting my credit limit. The bartender mixes our drinks, and when he runs my card through the machine, I hear the sound I fear the most. Denied. He tries again, and the sound repeats.
That sound should be the soundtrack to my sad, pitiful life. I can’t even buy two drinks.
“Declined. Do you have another card I can try?” the bartender asks. My cheeks flush, and I reach into my wallet.
“Umm, try this one.” I hand him my debit card—my only other card—and pray it goes through. I’ve done a lot of withdrawing and not a lot of depositing lately . . .
The harsh sound echoes in my ears again, and I sigh loudly.
“Okay, umm, never mind about the drinks then.” I take both cards back and turn, but not before a man at the bar swivels around.
“I’ll buy them,” he says. His distinguished voice piques my interest. I squint to get a better look at him. He’s wearing a black baseball cap over his unruly, dark brown hair, a grey T-shirt, and black jeans. He’s young, and when he tilts his head up, I can finally see his face. Intense, honey-colored eyes watch me shrewdly as he hands the bartender a crisp twenty-dollar bill. His face is a mix of smooth, pale skin and weeks-old stubble.
“Thank you,” I utter quietly. “My card must be broken.” I am flushing.
So embarrassing.
