I think my mouth might be hanging slightly open.

Rosalind Lindbergh's beta reader. Me.

To some people, maybe beta reading doesn't mean much of anything. Maybe you don't even know what it is—if so, I'm happy to break it down for you.

Beta readers are kind of the first line of defense for authors. Usually, they help polish an author's first few drafts—the ones that are more so "unofficial," I guess, before they get passed off to agents and editors and big, important people with salaries that would make me cry. So maybe I'm more of an alpha reader here? Or ... I don't know what I am, since Catalina has already given Roz her feedback.

What I am is "happy to be here."

"Thank you," I say again. Redundantly. Stupidly.

Roz grins. "Of course. Now, what was it I even came out here for...." She peers around the living room, and then looks back at me, her eyes wide. "Oh, dur. Groceries. Groceries."

"Oh, right. Of course." Dur.

She heads in the direction of the laundry room, presumably to the only room I haven't seen inside yet: her bedroom. I wait on the couch with my hands in my lap like a child—after, of course, minimizing my offline Google Docs tab and inconspicuously setting my closed laptop on the coffee table, next to my abandoned second cup of coffee.

My mind is abuzz. It's like there's a whole new flavor added to my palate, one that I hadn't considered before now. Roz.

They pop up in my brain all at once, in short little colorful bursts all around the inside of my skull, sending shivers down my straightened spine. Maybe ... maybe I can write something better than Short-Haired Girl and Curvy Girl. Maybe there's a world out there where Short-Haired Girl meets a slightly older girl—maybe a grad student? Who knows—and moves on from Curvy Girl after the handsy closet incident. There's never makeup sex, or a falsified happily ever after, or anything like that.

It's almost too much power.

I shouldn't. I couldn't.

Like, at what point would that basically be fanfic anyways? Who writes fanfic about their bosses? I'm sorry, but my life is not a Wattpad book. I refuse.

But then I go back to thinking about those more R-rated scenes that came fully-developed in my head, and of all the insane thoughts that have been popping into my head the past couple days, and adding that new romantic interest almost makes sense.

I'm still arguing with myself when Roz comes back out into the living room, her little black purse from yesterday slung over her shoulder, her thick black card in hand. Her hair is even more disheveled than before, which says a lot.

"Here," she says, slightly out of breath.

"Dang, Roz." I tentatively take the card from her. Our fingers brush, and I hate that my stomach flips. "You—sorry—look like hell. How many ninjas did you have to fight for this?"

"They weren't ninjas," she says immediately. "They were samurai. Big difference."

I let my mouth open in shock. "Samurai? Sorry, that's on me. Usually, when listing the typical parties one might encounter when attempting to re-obtain stolen or lost property, they're number four on my list."

"Well, so long as you would have gotten there eventually." And then she whips out her phone—it looks surprisingly worn-down, not unlike my ancient model that is still, somehow, managing to hang in there—and hands it to me.

"Give me your number," she commands.

I don't know how to respond. For, like, five seconds. Then I ask: "Don't you already have my number?"

She squints at me, confused. "How would I have your number, Marcie?"

Is she ... serious? Or just ... stupid? "Roz, you texted me on my first day."

"Oh." She blinks. Hard. Then nods and pulls her phone back. "Of course."

I watch her type in what must be my contact name—and then, I watch her face twist up in confusion. "I'm not seeing you in my contacts."

"Huh?" I hold my hand out this time, expectantly. "Give it here."

It takes two seconds of typing in my number for me to find out what the problem is. I'm torn between a laugh and a sigh. "Roz. You spelled my name wrong."

"I did?"

"'Macie.' You spelled it 'Macie.'"

"Oh." Then she scoffs. "Okay, my bad, but look—I'd have looked up your application to get your whole, real name, but it's somewhere in the deep, dark crevices of my impregnated inbox—"

"Woah. Okay. 'Impregnated,' Roz? That's the word you're going with?"

"—and I just, if I have to spend more than two seconds looking at my computer screen for anything outside of this god-damned book, I think I'm going to throw up, rip my own eyeballs out of their sockets, eat them, and then throw up again. I thought I was doing a fantastic job remembering things that first day." She smiles suddenly, this sudden tension that appeared during her rant now leaving her face. "I just wanted you to think I was, I don't, deserving of the hype."

Now it's my turn to blink. Hard. "Can ... can we go back to your pregnant inbox? I just wanna examine what prompted the word choice there." I'm trying not to smile.

"Your application is definitely in there," she promises, which isn't really an answer. Or a response. "Somewhere. Probably. I don't get a lot of emails from Kestler. Which is definitely part of why your application stood out—Kestler is the ultimate recommendation. Y'know?"

My throat feels dry. I try to smile. "Yeah." But all I'm able to think is: did I only get this job because Professor Kestler gave Roz my name? I can't be mad, I guess. Networking is networking. And out of all the students that Kestler has ever had at Iowa, I was the one whose name was passed forward. It feels like crowd surfing over the competition—competition which was, I'm sure, way more qualified than I am.

"She spoke really highly of you," Roz adds. "She says you're one of the most promising writers she's ever met, even outside of the program."

"Really?" That's insanely high praise. University of Iowa's Creative Writing program is no joke. Kestler is the least joke out of all the not-jokes. She was always my favorite professor, if only because it seemed like I was obviously her favorite student. I'd never been anyone's favorite student before. I'd never been anyone's favorite anything.

Man, I should send her an email, see how she's doing.

I go ahead and change my name in Roz's phone from "Macie" to "Marcella Harper (Assistant)"—just so she can't lose it. My number still contains my 712 area code—I never changed it, even after Gina and I moved to NYC after school. She was from New Jersey originally (I thought that was so goddamn hot at the time), but I was a born-and-bred Iowan. Which never really got me anything, aside from a weird obsession with Targets and ranch dressing, and the ability to withstand the overbearing stench of pig shit.

"Perfect," Roz says, taking her phone back without looking at me. "I'll send you my barrage of random groceries. Expect to be annoyed—I'll definitely forget some and continue to send you random items while you're there. You're going to hate me. I'm so, so sorry."

"I could never hate you," I promise, hoping it doesn't sound quite as earnest as it really is. "But don't be annoyed back if I make fun of your dietary choices."

"What? Impossible. I make only the soundest of grocery decisions."

"Yeah? Well, I don't believe you," I tell her, standing from the couch and stretching. I feel my back pop as my crewneck rises up over the waist of my jeans—and, when I open my eyes, I swear I catch Roz's gaze flit away from me. Like she'd been caught staring. Which, yeah, no, absolutely no way.

Cheeks flushed, I adjust my maroon crewneck so that it sags correctly over the front of my jeans once more.

"And why not?"

I'm honest-to-god too distracted by her lips in that pout to hear what she says the first time. "Huh?"

"Why don't you believe that I make only the soundest of grocery decisions?"

Oh. Right. "Because you're sending me to go get them for you."

She types something on her phone, frowning, and mine buzzes in my pocket. I whip it out to see a text from the already saved number—this one, with a Manhattan area code—that says just one thing.

"'Watermelon,'" I read aloud.

"The soundest of grocery decisions," Roz says, then crosses her arms in front of her chest. "I could be out here eating pack after pack of ramen noodles, but I'm choosing fruit instead. Instead of being skeptical, you should be proud."

"Roz, I mean this in the nicest way possible. You're actually pretty well-known for your affinity for fruits."

Her lips part. "What? I—" She closes her eyes. "Marcie."

"You're actually a pretty well-known fruit yourself."

"It would be so easy to fire you," she murmurs.

I freeze. "Oh? Oh. I'm, um, I'm sorry. I...." It's like there's a bird trapped in my ribcage all of a sudden, frantically, desperately beating its wings against the side of my ribs, sinking its little talons into my heart. I can't breathe. Too far. I need to cool my jets here, seriously.

"Oh! Marcie, no, no, I'm sorry. That was a joke." Her expression is pained, yet a little bit pleading. "Just a really, really bad one."

I manage a smile. I imagine it looks wobbly, like a Peanuts character or something. "Ahhh. That makes sense."

"I am so sorry," she says.

"It's okay. Don't worry." But even as I say it, I can feel tears pricking the backs of my eyes. Fuck. Not here. Not right now. I do not need to cry in front of my boss two days in a row. Especially if that boss is Rosalind Fucking Lindbergh.

Just, that was the most terrified I think I've ever felt. This job ... this job is my lifeline right now. Holy shit. I need this job. More than I've ever needed anything else before in my entire life. This is it. This is go-time. I don't have some kind of big book deal I can confidently fall back on. I don't have any savings. I don't even have Gina anymore. For all intents and purposes, I'm borderline homeless right now.

If I lose this job, what would my options even be? Move back to Iowa? Go back to waiting tables at Bob & Ellen's family restaurant, like I did in high school? Force my parents to de-transition my room from a home gym back to my dipshitty 2010's decor? Do you know how many Lorde posters I'd have to hang back up? I don't even listen to Lorde anymore. Not that much, anyway. Not enough to warrant a wall of posters. I cannot go back to my Lorde posters.

"Marcie? Are you alright?"

My mouth opens and closes a few times before I'm actually able to produce any kind of sound. "Yeah," I croak out, then clear my throat. I'm not crying—yet—which is a good sign.

I give it another go. "Yeah." My voice is definitely clearer this time, thank god. "Sorry. You just scared me a bit there."

Roz peers at me, her head cocked, her lips pursed. "Do you have a place to stay, Marcie?"

My heart swoops. "Sorry?"

"You broke up with your girlfriend." I don't bother to correct her on that one. Better than hearing "your girlfriend brutally dumped you." "You said she was keeping the apartment. You have a place to stay, right?"

"Oh, um, yeah, of course." Lie. Complete and total lie. "I'm moving some stuff to a friend's apartment tonight. I don't mind the couch."

She looks skeptical. "Are you sure you don't mind?"

I want to ask her what she has in mind, but it feels too presumptuous. "I'll be fine," I promise. "It's no big deal. But thanks for asking. I ... I really appreciate it."

She takes a moment to respond, then nods slowly. "Yeah, of course. I just wanna make sure that you at least have a roof over your head."

"Hahaaa, noooo, yeahhhh, I'm all good. Super, duper good."

"Okay." She nods. "Perfect."

"I, um, I'm sorry, by the way. For oversharing yesterday. That really wasn't my best moment. And I know you only let me tell you everything because you felt really bad for me, which is so embarrassing, and I'm double-extra-sorry, and I'm also sorry that I got super drunk and let you fall asleep on my boob and then in my lap, and for all the—"

"I fell asleep on your boob?" Roz blanches. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry."

Oh, come ON. It's like I'm designed to keep making things worse. "No! No! I mean, yes, you did, but it's not a big deal! Don't worry."

"Marcie...."

"Hey. Hey, you were drunk. I were—I was—drunk. It's seriously cool."

Roz does not seem to think it's seriously cool, as she currently has her face buried deep in her hands. When she finally looks up at me, her cheeks are flushed a bright crimson, almost on-par with her lipstick from yesterday.

"Marcie, I am so sorry," she says. "That was a real professional overstep I made there."

"It's okay. Really!" I don't know how best to tell her that her falling asleep on my chest was the single most thrilling-yet-arousing thing that's ever happened to me. Or how to tell her that I'd let her fall asleep on my chest every night. Or that I've thought about what it would be like to hold her hair back while she—well. Did some things involving her mouth and my almost-breasts.

She stares at me for a moment. I can't read her expression.

Then she just shakes her head sadly. "I really am sorry," she insists softly. "Um, I'll ... I'll probably be writing when you get back."

"Oh. Yeah."

"So, I shouldn't be bothered."

"Yeah. Of course." My breath feels shallow. My chest is tight. I feel like I've made a massive mistake, but I don't exactly know how or in what way.

"So ... yeah. Just feel free to keep on doing whatever." She glances around the living room. Her eyes land on the entertainment stand beneath her wall-mounted TV—one of those fancy ones that look like a painting. It's made up of copies of each of Roz's eleven published books. It's a bookshelf that makes me happy.

"That's where all my author copies are," she offers, and I'm honestly taken aback by how sheepish she sounds. "Feel free to read one or, uh, take one. They're pre-signed. I'm just not allowed to sell them, legally. But I have way too many. They're a nuisance at this point—there are way more in my laundry room closet. So, if you want one, take one. Or two. Or three. And ... yeah. That's it. Um. Okay."

And then she turns briskly and all but races back down the hallway.

I look down at my phone, still in my hand. When I tilt it, the screen lights up. And there's Roz's text once more. Watermelon.

What's it going to take for me to make a good impression on this woman?