Meet Me in the Margins

by Melissa Ferguson

And I do try to multitask. At least on good days when I feel one of those rare bursts of genuine motivation—or at least when my sister prods me until I give in. Because I am a Cade. Specifically, Savannah Cade. And the Cades are a pure breed distinguished by indefatigable energy, marked enthusiasm, and a dash of insanity. Seamlessly exceeding expectations is what we do.

Which is why everyone inside these popsicle-green, osprey-ridden walls claps now like obedient penguins on cue at a waterpark show.

why penguins??

His posture is as perfect as his mother’s, as though they both have rods attached to their spine. They look like a couple of penguins standing side by side in impeccable gray suits—the kind that are sleek and mind-numbingly dull and that few in this room could afford.

again with the penguins

And how many times have I edited this manuscript at this point? Two dozen times? Fifty times? A hundred? Whatever it is, it certainly feels like a thousand. And that feeling, as I’ve told my own authors so many times, means it’s done. It’s finally ready. That’s the telling moment. Or when the deadline hits. Whichever comes first.

I know I look like I’ve lost it. But anyone would if they’d spent every spare minute of the past three years talking to imaginary characters in their heads, dreaming about the story they’d created, staying up late on more nights than they could count putting that story onto paper.

There’s something about being in a room filled with free books that always makes me feel like a kid in a candy shop.

To pen novels—to play any role in bringing fiction to life, for that matter—is to wield a superpower.

“Oh,” I say, shrugging. “I may have read him at some point years ago. I’m more of a . . . a Chaucer fan myself nowadays.” There’s a long pause. “Chaucer,” he repeats. His lips twitch. Is he trying not to smile? “Yes,” I say, lifting my chin a millimeter. “I adore Chaucer. Chaucer’s . . .” I scour the crevices of my brain for that new Word of the Day I learned recently for just such an occasion. “. . . phantasmagorical.” I wave my hand around. “I can read Chaucer’s tales for hours.”

“Well, of course.” William’s eyes turn to Oswald as he puts out a hand. “Landscaping. So. Chaucer and . . . landscaping. You must have a sizable yard, then. For all that gardening.” “Not at the moment,” I hedge. “But I do have a window box that’s very inviting.”

I HEDGE is that a pun

Oswald and I have just taken our first steps toward the door when William adds, “And Savannah?” I pause and turn my head. “I am particularly intrigued to hear how your experience goes in the pod today. Please be sure to update me. Perhaps it’ll be something for the company to consider adding as a benefit in our health plan.” And there it is again. The merest twinkle in his corporate eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d even call it a dare. I plaster my smile firmly in place, partly because I refuse to admit a dare from my boss and the CEO’s son could even exist, partly because the mere thought of adding float tanks to the corporate health plan is so revolting it threatens to make me nauseous. “Of course. I’ll be looking forward to it.” * * *

My manuscript. Sitting in a crisp, neat pile. A rubber band snapped around the middle. And worst of all—in bold black ink—are words. Dozens of fresh handwritten words, scribbled down the margins. Words that are not mine.

Wait i didn’t realize this was the plot omgg future me: i didn’t read the synopsis but cmon the book is literally called MEET ME IN THE MARGINS

Ferris is my ex-boyfriend. Ferris is Olivia’s fiancé. I try very, very hard to be an adult about it.

Omg

Nauseating and directly plagiarized from every Hallmark movie in the last ten years.

the audacity!

I’m doubting myself, ergo I must be a real writer after all.

Because we Cades live by three life words: Generosity. Persistence. Family. You live each day looking for an opportunity to serve another. You persist in achieving the best for your life come drought or high water. And you stick to family. Always and forever, you stick to family. We’re like the mafia. Only . . . nicer.

Etiquette can take the back seat on this one.

I look down at Tom’s shoes and grimace. He’s wearing them. The pointy red cowboy boots with at least a dozen rhinestones.

oh dear

when I feel somebody step in and grab Tom by the arm. “I think that’s enough,” William says, and my mouth practically falls open as I see him. He’s still clad in his blue suit and tan oxfords from earlier in the day. But he looks different now, less polished than the poised professional I saw this morning. His tie is crooked, the perfect creases in his perfect blue trousers gone. There’s even what appears to be a bit of gum and torn-off paper stuck to the bottom side of one shoe. By clothing alone, he looks weary. But in his frank blue eyes there is an icy steeliness that says he can go all night.

AHHHH

“Even so, there’s an Uber waiting outside for you,” I hear William say coolly. “It will take you wherever you need to go.” “But . . . Savannah was going to drive me back to the hotel. And we had some things to talk about for my next book.” “Good news, Tom. You will be pleased to know you have been promoted. I am now personally taking responsibility for you as editor, and unfortunately, I don’t have time to dance with you. Good night.”

AHHH

“Yes, but not that vital,” he says, raking a hand through his brown hair as he darts his eyes toward the doors. He throws an arm out. “For heaven’s sake, Savannah. Surely you know it’s never, ever that vital.”

He waves a hand as if done with the conversation. “It’s fine. I just need to make a memo for the next company pep talk: Do Everything within One’s Power to Please Authors, Except Line Dancing with Scurrilous Men.” “‘Scurrilous.’” I grin as my hand itches to type that one into my phone’s notes app. “That’s a good word. People should use it more often.” He pauses, and I see him smile lightly. “Or not.” I raise my brows, a question forming, and he continues as he pulls his drink toward him. “Not when ‘complete idiot’ will do.”

I’m just starting to feel a little creeped out imagining what he witnessed from his point of view when William takes a thoughtful sip, then smiles a little darkly. “I am going to thoroughly enjoy being his editor.” The previous picture in my head slips away as I give an all-out laugh. “You do realize you sound terrifying.” “As an editor, I can be terrifying,” he replies, and he says it so automatically and with such authority, I believe it.

“I’ve been there a few times,” I say, trying to keep the tone upbeat. “Once when my father ended up on the TODAY show to make some baklava and talk about his new cookbook, and once when my sister was marching in the Macy’s Day Parade.”

What

“Your father is a chef?” “No. Dentist,”

LOL

“A real go-getter family you got there.” “You have no idea.” “Well, I can see why Pennington Publishing must be glad to have you, then.” “Oh no.” I almost choke on my gin. “No. I’m nothing like the rest of them.” Will’s eyes widen, and a smirk slowly rises on one side of his face. “Ah. So you aren’t a high achiever. Too bad.” “Wait, no,” I amend quickly, setting my glass down to focus on correcting myself. “I don’t underwork. I do just . . . enough.” “A very satisfactory level, you might say.” I see it now, in his eyes. They’re mirthful. He’s teasing me. My lips start to curl. “Pleasantly sufficient.” “Perfectly adequate,” he says, his eyes crinkling too. “You could highlight that on your CV.” “How do you think I got this job?”

His smile grows. “After all, not everyone at Pennington shares the same appreciation of the more . . . adventurous fiction as you and me.”

Dear Mystery Editor and Intruder into My-Most-Secret-Precious-Oasis-of-a-Room, If you are reading this . . . Help.

while I do what I do every Wednesday morning for our editorial meeting. I click on Merriam-Webster’s Word of the Day and try my best to focus on the task at hand and not the looming deadline and the desperation in my heart. I read the large, bold word: bailiwick.

WORD OF THE DAY SUPREMACY

I feel a slight jump in my stomach and blink quickly back toward Ms. Pennington, not daring to let my eyes linger on anything but her. Rachel, our former marketing manager, was caught distracted by that cardinal out the window not too long ago and was fired on the spot for insubordination.

INSUBORDINATE and churlish

Why does Will look so tired? There’s a red rim around his eyes, looking like mine do after too many hours staring at a computer with not enough sleep. He’s wearing glasses today, subtle copper-colored rectangular frames that make him look even more intimidating in his white button-up and navy-blue tie. Intimidating . . . and . . . well, sleek. Let’s just call him sleek.

Does he always wear glasses? Or are those the blue-light glasses Lyla has been badgering me about buying? Honestly, I do not care.

“Oh,” I say in surprise, feeling a surge of both shock and revulsion toward Giselle. “Yes, that. Well . . .” Quick, Savannah. Think. What were you doing sitting with an editor at LOA? During work hours? With an editor of romance? Why . . . I feel the panic within me rising as any plausible response falls short. All eyes are on me, including those of Giselle, who’s sitting coolly in her chair, a simpering smile thinly veiled as she holds her silver tumbler to her lips. “I asked her to.” Everyone at the table turns to Will in surprise, including me.

STOP I LOVE HIM

“A meeting with Claire,” she says. “Yes.” Somewhere in the distance, I hear a pencil snap. “As you are well aware, Will, Pennington thrives on being a stable foundation in the nonfiction and literary fiction sector—” “Given the financial reports of the past twelve months, one might disagree on both the terms stable and foundation here—” Everyone’s eyes bounce back to Ms. Pennington. “We have a loyal following—” “Who are leaving in flocks for competitive publishers—” “And decades of accomplishments lining our walls—” “The dusty clippings from the eighties. Yes. I’ve seen them.”

okayyy, will, i see you

“And most important, we have no intention of prostituting ourselves out with flighty paperbacks one drops into one’s shopping cart while perusing the aisle for Cheetos—” All heads snap to Will. “Which is well and good, just so long as you inform everyone here to start looking for employment elsewhere as soon as possible.”

I feel like im watching dance moms

Like everyone else at the table, I’m trying to process everything that just happened, every word that was just revealed. But also at the forefront of my mind is the growing warm recognition of a single fact: he stood up for me.

HE DIDDDDD <3

He told me about his girlfriend. Well, ex. No man in his right mind would say this. If I had said this to my ex-girlfriend when we first met, she would’ve run.

LOLL

And then he saw his own name, Renaldo, printed on her cup. His eyes lit up. “Well, well, well,” he said, closing the remaining inches between them until their shoulders touched. He smiled down at her, the young, beautiful fawn. “Looks like my lucky day.” He sounds like a serial killer. Furthermore, what two people stand there murmuring delightedly about their drinks in the pickup line at a coffee shop? Illogical.

IM DYING

And for the love of all, pick different names. This is not an opera. You can have Renaldo. You can have Cecilia. You cannot have both.

LOLLL

And while my first reaction, which I seem incapable of helping in the face of any and all criticism, is indignation, the second—a bit surprisingly—is a little smile. I reread the passage, seeing it from his fresh angle, and all I can think is, Oh my gosh, he’s right. Renaldo does sound like a serial killer. I read halfway down the page and can’t help tittering as Renaldo continues, “I’ve been looking for someone . . . someone exactly like you. Come to my car. I want to show you something.”

GIRL WHY DID YOU WRITE THAT LMAOOOO

I’m just stepping out into the hallway, fumbling to get my phone into my coat pocket while winding the scarf around my neck, when I nearly collide with Will—and his mug of coffee. We’re like magnets of the same pole, and just as his chest comes within two inches of mine, we repel ourselves so far back I knock into Ferris, and Will, along with his coffee mug, bumps into the opposite wall.

i’ve never seen this trope in reverse before lol

“I’m so sorry, Will,” I say, not really certain whether he or I was to blame. “Hazards of these narrow halls,” he replies. But then he’s shifting his preoccupied gaze from his hand and the still dripping mug to us, and I notice that it stops not at my face but on my middle. And his frown deepens. It’s only then that I look down and realize Ferris still has his hands around my waist.

Um awkward

Savvy’?” Will repeats, his brow crinkling. “Is that . . . your preferred name? Because I can—” “No,” I say hastily, my voice almost cracking. “It’s just a family nickname. No need to start spreading that around.” “Ah.” There’s the subtlest whisper of a smile on Will’s lips, and I know he has read through the lines. “I see. Well. You enjoy your lunch at . . .” “The blood bank,” I reply. “Ah,” Will repeats, the smile growing. “The blood bank. How nice.” I can practically read through his response, hearing the words he edited out: “Yes, Savvy, you enjoy your date with your sister’s fiancé at the blood bank, because everything about this conversation makes complete sense.”

“Some families make lunch dates together. The Cade family makes blood dates. Anyway, I’d better be going. I’ll be sure to get that report to you by six. And . . . I really do think Smith’s manuscript has real promise.” “Yes, well, that’s your bailiwick, so we’ll be leaning on you,” Will replies. Although his tone is all business, I see a slight twitch to his lips. I feel a blush starting to creep up my neck and loosen my scarf in hopes of concealing it. Before I can think of anything else to say, Will nods in the general direction of us both and turns on his heel.

“How are you feeling over there, Savvy?” my father calls out across the room. He’s sitting in a Hawaiian shirt, which he does on every blood day as his own joke, pumping his own ball with one hand while holding a Coke can in the other. Just then the nurse returns to my side, and my anxiety skyrockets. I smile and manage a thumbs-up with my opposite hand, and my dad lifts his Coke can to cheer me.

“I don’t know. I guess we all just . . . moved apart.” “It’s so strange how that happens,” he muses. “One minute you do everything together and the next . . .” He shrugs.

I think we just find ‘our people’ as we go along in life.” I pluck a phrase Lyla likes to say for the moment. “Eventually we meet our kindred spirits.”

Will Pennington. Longsuffering listener. Relentless . . . encourager. Not just a, but the most generous, selfless human being. On the earth. Wow. I was pretty pleased when one of my authors called me “smart,” and Will over here is basically getting the Nobel Peace Prize.

And how exactly would I define my mystery editor? Hmm. I swipe to my photos and tap on the latest picture I took today of a comment. If you use “suddenly” one more time, I’m going to die from overexposure. Cut. The. Adverbs. Yeah. “Selfless, generous human being” isn’t the vibe coming to mind.

LOLL

“No, no, I’m not implying you’re a sham of an agent exploiting the goodwill of your clients, Diann,” Lyla continues and I slide out into the hall. “What I’m saying is you’re a sham of an agent exploiting the goodwill . . .”

i love lyla

It was the method that was fun. The knowledge that you passed off a note, however trite it might be, and it was bound to be returned with an addition or two just for you in just a few minutes.