Meet Me in the Margins

by Melissa Ferguson

Whoever took my manuscript not only read it without permission but stole my moment too. I’m supposed to feel elated right now. I’m supposed to feel like a load has finally been lifted off my shoulders. I’ve been dreaming of this particular moment for months now. No, years. But now? Now all I feel is a growing sense of panic. So much for my celebratory day.

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.

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. 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.

Unlike for my mother, father, sister, and Ferris lounging in their chairs beside me, looking more like they are suntanning at the beach, giving blood has never been easy for me. My blood pressure is chronically low. Half the time I come here, the staff make me eat crackers and drink a Coke before I can even start, just in case. And my blood, when they can actually get it, so stubbornly refuses to come out of my body it always takes twice as long. Then, of course, there is the ever-present reminder of that one time I passed out afterward. Not that any of these things stops me from donating. No, I’m a Cade. We just arrange carpool.

Wtf

What about me? What would somebody think of a person like me? Who, out there in the world, would think I was special enough to make the heroine in their story? Or am I to be only the protagonist of my own?

The first positive comment. The first positive comment amid a slew of critiques. I feel myself smiling as I lean back in the chair, sunlight streaming through the window highlighting a thousand dusty particles dancing around me.

He can’t be but a few years older than me,

Edit

She’s also, I’m realizing, just . . . me. I’ve heard other authors say they write to explore their own problems. They write to work through what they’re going through. It’s a sort of therapy. And here, looking at my own work through fresh eyes, I see. I’ve done it too. The problem is, what has changed? Nothing. My life hasn’t changed. I haven’t finished this book with a eureka moment and grown. I’ve learned no lessons. I’m still just me. Where’s my darn eureka?

Who am I? Nothing but a lowly assistant acquisitions editor at the bottom rung in a company full of experts. I wasn’t offended when I wasn’t included in that upper-level meeting at the Polar Star. In fact, the thought never crossed my mind. Why? Because I am Savannah Cade. Not my mother, Laurie Cade, not my grandmother, Hazel Cade, not even my great-grandfather, Geoffrey Cade, caught out of his hospital bed after having his arm amputated in the first world war fixing the creaky bed. Just . . . me. So what is it he sees in me that he finds worth trusting?

Lack of self esteem

“And that’s where I wonder if I should correct you, Savannah. You may be loyal, but it doesn’t sound as if the rest of your family is loyal to you.”

Well, fine. I admit it. I hate kissing. It’s disgusting. It’s unhygienic. It’s a bizarre cultural phenomenon. Do you even know how many germs are in someone’s mouth? Six billion. SIX. BILLION. And how exactly, while we’re at it, am I supposed to describe tongues playing hockey with each other in a mass of saliva? Is that really what you want? If I were to be completely honest, I’d say the whole world should give up on it altogether. We should all just give jolly soft hugs to one another. That actually makes sense. And keeps you from spreading mono.

They ARE attracted to each other! They just . . . prefer holding hands. And anyway, romance isn’t just about attraction. It’s about companionship. You don’t see old married couples who’ve been through two world wars and five babies together making out on a bench when they’re ninety and think to yourself, Now THAT’S what it’s all about. You see the way they hold hands, the way they serve each other scrambled eggs on plates they got on their wedding day, the way they shuffle through the paper in the mornings together without needing to fill the space with empty conversation. Because they are happy. Just happy. Together. That is why I want to write romance. I’ve seen enough insta-meet romances at conferences and in supermarkets. Books that presume instant attraction magically leads to a lifetime of happiness. But I know what really happens after the last page.

!!!!!!

I know what it’s like to be left because a man gets captivated by someone prettier, someone more graceful, someone who dazzles the room. So please, don’t try to convince me to change genres because I can’t capture a kiss. What I want to see in all this, what I want to share, is a story about two normal people, with both hiccups and highlights, who share a lifetime of companionship over eggs and wedding plates.

“Who do you think supplied the rug and furniture?” Will grins and lowers his voice as he leans down. “Mother’s a bit of a Narnia fan.” Well, I’ll be. Ms. Pennington likes happy fiction. Playful, whimsical fiction without any despairing ending or anything.