I stare at myself. Puffy eyes. Blotchy skin. Shaking hands.
I got this.
I don’t got this. But nobody else is going to do it for me, so.
I wash my face. Reapply foundation with trembling hands. Concealer under my eyes, extra, blended with a finger because my beauty sponge is somewhere in the mess on the floor. Mascara, waterproof this time. Lipstick.Unbothered. I press my lips together and stare at the woman in the mirror who is held together with cosmetics and willpower and absolutely nothing else.
I grab my bag, step over the broken glass, and pull on the heels that Katie swore would make me feel powerful but currently make me feel six inches closer to a fainting spell. The car horn sounds from outside, and I hurry out the front door into the cold, bright morning of Mistberry Cove, where the fog is already starting to roll back from the coastline.
I slide into the back seat, press my knees together, and call Katie.
She answers on the first ring. “Hey! How are we feeling? Ready to smash it?”
“Louis left me.”
Silence at first. “He what? That fucker!”
“Packed suitcase. Asked for the ring back. Another woman, probably an Omega, was waiting in the car.” I say it flatly, mechanically, the way you relay information that hasn’t fully reached your nervous system yet. “About twenty minutes ago.”
“Oh, fuck.” Her voice drops. “Claire. Are you okay? Where are you?”
“In the car. On the way to the studio.”
“Are you… wait, you’re still going?”
“If I cancel again, we lose the slot.”
“Claire, forget the slot. If you need to?—”
“I can’t, Katie. The producer already thinks I’m flaky, and the publisher needs this coverage for the second printing. I just need to get through one hour, and then I’m done.”
She’s quiet for a moment, and I listen to her breathing. “I’m so sorry, babe.”
“What’s wrong with me?” My voice wobbles. I press my thumbnail into my palm until the pain gives me a point of focus. “Am I broken? Is there a defect in me that people can see and I can’t, because I’m starting to think there is.”
“Don’t you dare let that mediocre prick make you think you’re anything less than extraordinary. You know what Louis is? A man who peaked when he learned how to use a tripod and has been coasting ever since.”
A laugh escapes me. Wet, ugly, but real. “Katie, you don’t?—”
“I’m serious. And you’re going to get through this. Walk in there, talk about your recipes, plug the book, and get out. Tonight? Chinese food, wine, and the worst movie I can find on streaming. I’m talking something so bad it has a two-star rating and a CGI shark.”
“I love you.”
“Obviously. Now blink away those tears, fix your face, and remember: You wrote a whole actual book that people buy with real money and then text their friends about. Louis can barely write a caption. So he can go fuck himself. I’ll be waiting at the studio.”
“Love you.” I hang up, staring out the window as Mistberry Cove slides past. The town stretches out along the coast in a long, lazy sprawl, clusters of multicolored buildings giving way to open cliffs and then more buildings again, the whole place spread across the headland as if it couldn’t decide where to settle and chose everywhere. I grew up here and still love it just as much, seeing as I moved back after my studies. The harbor is below to my left, charter boats and fishing vessels huddled at the docks beneath the marine fog that gives this town its name, that low silver mist that sits on the water until midmorning and burns off slowly, turning everything soft at the edges. On a good day, this view calms me.
Today’s not a good day, except the view doesn’t know that, and it tries anyway.
The car turns away from the coast and climbs the hill toward the station. My chest aches. The pressure behind my sternum is back, spreading outward, and my palms are slick against my bag. I wipe them on my pants, which defeats the purpose of the nice slacks, but I’m past caring.
Once inside, I realize the studio is smaller than I expected. A squat building with a satellite dish on the roof and a reception area that smells of stale coffee and carpet cleaner. Someone is ushering me down a hallway, clipping a microphone to my collar, dabbing powder on my forehead, telling me I’m going to do great in a voice that suggests she says this to every person who sits in this chair.
Then I’m on the set, which is really just a corner of a room dressed up with bright lights, potted plants, and two armchairs angled toward each other. There’s a small table between us with a stack of my cookbooks, the glossy cover showing a rustic berry tart dusted with powdered sugar, my name stamped beneath it in gold. The host, Veronica Keane, is already seated. She’s mid-fifties, with red hair pinned in a twist and reading glasses pushed up on her head. She’s been Mistberry Cove’s morning fixture for eleven years, and everyone in town adores her. She reaches across and squeezes my hand.
“First time on the show?” she asks with a smile.
I nod. “Yep.” My voice comes out thinner than I want. “Sorry. I’m a bit nervous.”