1
Lara
I genuinely thought that my college experience was going to be glamorous. I’d been naïve in thinking it was going to be stylish outfits, fun sorority parties on the weekends, exceptional lecture attendance and perfect grades. But now that I was in my fourth and final year in the English literature program, I knew the truth. College was nothing like the movies. Elle Woods made it all look so damn easy. In reality, my outfits normally consisted of dark grey sweatpants worn two days in a row, a baggy college sweatshirt with the logo splashed across the chest, countless weekends up until two in the morning cramming for tests on Monday, a spotty morning lecture attendance at best, and a transcript that averaged a B+ in most courses. To top it all off, I had to work part-time at the local bookstore to get a head start on paying back my massive student loans.
For the most part, Ramen Books was a pretty great place to work. My boss, Alistair, was this adorable old man with incredibly bushy eyebrows and a hunched back. He was a sweet little thing, the kind of guy I would have loved to have as my own grandfather. On more than one occasion, he’d bring in freshly baked brownies for me to enjoy while I worked the cash register. From what I understood, his two sons had long since grown up and moved away, living the bookstore in his elderly care. When I saw the ‘help wanted’ sign taped on a crooked angle in the window, I jumped at the chance and applied. What English lit student didn’t want to work in a place surrounded by works of Bradbury, Shakespeare, Yeats, and more?
I was busy setting up a display case full of copies of The Last Remembering series by Charles Hill. It was a science-fiction series that I’d grown up with all through middle school and high school. The books were full of action, political intrigue, tempting romantic subplots, and twists and turns I never saw coming, all the while dealing with otherworldly creatures and extremely advanced technology. As I placed the books neatly on the shelves, I couldn’t help but smile as I ran my fingers over the beautiful covers. A bubbly excitement filled my chest as I traced Charles Hill’s name, which had been printed in a raised font of gold at the bottom of the cover. The whole reason I was setting up this display was because the author himself was hosting a writing workshop here at Ramen Books. The workshop was supposed to run a total of six weeks, and because I was an employee, I had the lucky fortune of being able to attend for free.
I didn’t exactly have any plans to pursue writing after college, but I wasn’t about to say no to a chance at meeting and working alongside one of my literary heroes. I’d written a number of pieces for my classes, but academic creative writing and real-world creative writing were two very different things. Over the last three years, I’d been given a strict list of criteria to meet for every assignment. It was too rigid, too restrictive on my creative process. I was admittedly very hopeful that this writing workshop would be a breath of fresh air.
Surrounding myself with books was the real goal. I used to dream about curating my own private library full of rare first editions. Some girls wanted big mansions and fancy cars and a little chihuahua they could fit in their purse. But what I wanted was the smell of old paper and book bindings, and maybe a quiet little balcony where I could surround myself with natural lighting and thriving green plants as I cracked open another fantastical tale. Once I was finished earning my degree, maybe I’d go on to work for a publishing company for a little while. In my head, it was the perfect way to save up what I needed to get started on my grand collection.
I loved the smell of Ramen Books. I understood most people found page sniffers a little weird and creepy, but I swore by the scent. There was just something incredibly calming about surrounding myself with old novels. Some of them smelled a little musty, but in a good way. Walking into Ramen Books most days after class was like walking into my great grandmother’s living room. Things were a little dusty, sure, but everything smelled familiar. I adored flipping through old books with yellowing pages and fading covers, a feat only achievable after years of sun exposure. Each page was full of history, had likely been passed around and handled by a different people. One of the great things about books was that they could be shared, treasured by any and all who went out of their way to pick up a brand new story.
Once the display case was set up, I clapped the dust off my hands and turned just in time to hear the little brass bell above the bookstore’s front door chime. In walked a middle-aged man, probably no older than forty, with a large cardboard box in his arms. He was tall and slim, though I could see faint traces of muscular arms beneath his blue button-down’s sleeves. His dark brown hair was cropped short to match his trimmed beard. The man had tucked his shirt into his dark navy jeans, accentuating just how lean his waist was in contrast to his strong, broad shoulders. He looked at me with his dashing dark brown eyes and offered me a small smile.
“You’re not Alistair,” he chuckled, voice deeper than I thought it would have been.
“He’s just taking a quick lunch break,” I explained. “Can I help you with anything?”
“Would you mind taking this? It’s for my workshop.”
My mouth fell open slightly. I sincerely hoped I didn’t look as stupid as I felt. “Are you…” I breathed. “You’re Charles Hill?”
The man nodded, the corner of his lip twisting into an amused grin. “Please, just call me Chuck.”
A little giggle bubbled past my lips, full of nervous energy, “No way. There’s no way.”
“I can show you my ID, if you’d like,” he quipped.
“No, that’s not–” I felt my cheeks flush with heat as my tongue suddenly weighed itself down in my mouth. “Sorry. I’m just a huge fan. I’ve never seen promotional images of yourself in the back of your books, so I’d no idea you looked like– I mean–”
Chuck raised a curious eyebrow. “Looked like what?”
I cleared my throat, anxiously plucking at the ends of my pink knit sweater’s sleeves. “That you looked so handsome.”
He smiled wide at that, unabashed. “Flattery will get you everywhere, miss.”
“Lara,” I blurted out, sticking out my hand to shake before realizing his hands were full. I took my hand back just as quickly. “Lara Lance.”
“Your parents were fans of alliteration, I see.”
“It was entirely unintentional, I assure you.”
Chuck readjusted his grip on the box. “Can I put this down somewhere?”
“Oh, shit, yeah. Here,” I bumbled like an idiot as I pointed to a fold out table just to our left. I’d spent earlier that day dragging up collapsible chairs and plastic worktables from the storage room downstairs to prepare for the workshop. He placed the box down with an unceremonious thud. “What’s in there?” I inquired.
“Rejection letters.”
I shot him a quizzical look. “Are you hoping to start your workshop off with a positive note? Or is this some sort of reverse psychology thing.”
Chuck laughed, the sound of his voice absolutely hypnotic. His cheery manner was seriously contagious, because I was smiling with him in a matter of seconds. “It is a positive note,” he said. “These were all of the rejection letters I received when I first tried to publish The Last Remembering.”
“Seriously? But it’s an international bestseller.”
“It is now. But when I first got started, nobody wanted to take a risk on my work. I didn’t give up, though, and that’s the lesson I’m hoping to get across today.”
“I bet all the publishers who rejected you kicked themselves pretty hard.”
“I like to think so.” He tossed me a casual wink and I felt my stomach do a triple-flip. I thought science-fiction authors were supposed to be giant nerds. It must have been my luck of the draw that I wound up getting to meet the one hunk author who I’d been a fan of for years. “I take it you’ve read my books.”
I nodded. “Of course. I’ve been waiting for a sequel for years.”
Chuck scratched behind his ear, appearing the slightest bit dejected. “Yeah, well, the point of a trilogy is to stop after three.”
“Are you working on anything currently?”
“Yes, but it’s slow going. Writer’s block and all. I’m afraid my agent–” Chuck cut himself off, something akin to realization flashing across his eyes. “My old agent would never let me talk about works in progress. The fear of plagiarism is a very real thing in my line of work.”
“Oh, of course,” I laughed. “You don’t have to tell me. I was just curious.”
“I can say I’m trying my hand at a different genre, though. It’ll be a grand departure from speculative fiction.”
My eyes widened in excitement. “Really? I’m sure it’s going to be great, whatever it is. I actually did a report on one of your earlier books for my English lit class.”
Chuck tilted his head at me, the warmth of his smile spreading to his eyes. “Seriously? Which one?”
“Angels in Hell. We were talking about religious symbolism in class and were asked to write a paper on how to properly use it without going overboard.”