Plot Twist

  Sophie got to the door and pulled it open just as a paparazzo’s voice sailed over the crowd.

“Nina, is that a baby bump?”

Sophie’s eyes darted to Nina, whose jaw went tight. She didn’t wish bad things to happen to other people very often, but whatever jerk had called that out deserved to be pooped on by a bird in one of the overhead palm trees.

“The only baby you’ll see on me is a food baby,” Nina called out. Then she plastered on a megawatt smile and calmly walked past Sophie and into the restaurant. Once the massive door shut behind them, though, Nina’s fists balled at her sides.

“They never ask Leo about having kids,” Nina quickly said.

Sophie sensed her sister needed to rage, so she joined in. “I bet this restaurant has very heavy pots. Want me to throw one at that guy’s head?”

Nina sniffled. “Yeah, would you?”

Sophie rubbed Nina’s back, and they stood close together for a beat. Nina and her husband, Leo, had decided early on that because of their busy careers, they weren’t ready to have kids and maybe never would. Still, Nina had gotten her eggs frozen, just in case they changed their minds. Sophie knew her sister was okay with their decision, but she had a right to be annoyed that she was the only one ever asked about it.

“What did I miss?” Poppy’s long blond hair was tied up in a high ponytail and swished as she walked toward them. She wore flowing black pants and a matching top, looking equal parts resort chic and like a CEO in uniform. She removed her designer sunglasses and slid them into a pocket on her shirt. “Why are you both sad? Did they run out of that really tasty pita bread? I miss everything by going in the back way.”

As a habit, Poppy avoided anything to do with celebrity, which wasn’t easy considering she lived in Los Angeles and happened to have a very famous family.

“Oh, just the patriarchy at it again.” Sophie readjusted the sleeves of her lime green caftan. She owned pants but never cared to wear them.

Poppy crossed her arms solemnly. “I know those dummies well.”

The outdoor patio had a high fence covered in climbing vines and an overhead canopy of dangling plants and cream shade sails to block the sun. Their table in the corner was private enough that they could have a conversation and not be overheard, which was why Sophie supposed Poppy immediately launched in after they’d placed their food orders.

“This is a safe space. We were best friends in our past lives, too. You know that, right?” Poppy’s fingers slid toward Sophie’s hand and gave her a sincere squeeze. Sophie did know that because Poppy had told her as much after her recent hypnosis session.

“How are you feeling?” Nina crossed her arms and studied her. She was the older sister and had practically raised Sophie. Ever since their mom passed, she’d become the de facto parent.

“Not great. I have six weeks to deliver a book I can’t finish, and a video of me drunk-sobbing to Elton John went viral. I can move into your place when I run out of money, right?” Sophie’s voice went up at the end, as a chunk of her pride chipped off.

“I’m usually the cynic. It’s weird to see you so down.” Nina’s brows pinched together. “The viral video thing sucks, I’ll give you that. But you’re a writer, and you’ll write another book.”

Sophie didn’t want to whine or complain, but... Nina’s career was completely different from hers. Nina had known from a young age that she was going to be a chef, and she’d worked every day of her life to make that happen. Whereas Sophie had always wanted to be a writer but had never had the same courage to fully commit. She’d tried out every single job other than writing to find something else she could do: a practical, reliable gig with a steady paycheck. She wasn’t brave and fearless, the way Nina was. She wanted a job that would bring her the security they’d never had growing up. Unfortunately, her passion just happened to be writing—one of the most unstable and least lucrative of all the creative pursuits.

Their waiter set down their food—crab omelet for Nina, avocado toast for Poppy, and a burrata plate for Sophie—which was a great excuse to not talk.

Once the waiter left, though, Nina continued, “I don’t want to go all Hollywood-PR-machine on you, but your video going viral is an opportunity. You can build a brand-new audience so that when you do finish this book, you’ll get on that bestseller list, like you’ve always wanted. BookTok is one major way books blow up, and fans of your first book tagged you in the video. Now they know you’re a romance author who’s never been in love, which sounds like the plot of a rom-com, if I’ve ever heard one. So give your fans that story.”

“That story? You mean, my story?” What exactly was her sister suggesting? Sophie wasn’t a character in her own book, she was the author.

“Soph, you work well when you have a roadmap. For Whisked Away, you used Leo and me as inspiration.” Nina shrugged. “Why not use yourself?”

Sophie had based Whisked Away loosely—very loosely, as she’d mentioned in interviews—on her sister’s real-life romance with Leo. She’d turned both love interests into bakers and utilized the secret-billionaire trope. But Nina was right: Sophie had been able to finish the book because she knew how it ended. She’d had their relationship as a kind of outline.

“But your answer here is that I do the very simple, quick, and easy thing of falling in love in order to solve all my problems?” Sophie wanted her question to hang for a beat so Nina would feel, even just momentarily, a bit silly. But that was not who Nina was, and so she launched back in with solutions.

“Just take control of the narrative.” Nina cut into her omelet. “People paying attention is an opportunity, and you should see the comments—they’re rooting for you.”

Sophie remembered some of the comments.

My new Tinder bio.

You and me both, sister.

mood.

“Don’t just roll over and never write another word again. Writing is your dream. So do whatever it takes to make it come true.” Nina leaned across the table, then added, “Mom wouldn’t have wanted you to give up.”

Well, Nina definitely knew how to punch Sophie right in the feels. Their mom had been so encouraging of Sophie’s writing and always knew she’d be a published author. What would she say about this situation if she was still around?

“How many views does your new video have?” Poppy cut off a piece of avocado toast and popped it into her mouth.

“Six thousand.” Sophie held the phone up, as if it were evidence in the trial of The People of TikTok vs. Drunk Sad Lady.

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