The Anatomy of Regret Ex, Know Your Place

Maya's hand went numb around the two hundred and forty-seventh signature.

She flexed her fingers, trying to restore feeling.

She smiled at the woman standing before her table.

It was an automatic smile—warm but professional.

"Thank you very much, Dr. Wright. Your book saved my marriage." The woman clutched her book, "Recognizing Emotional Manipulation in Intimate Relationships."

"My husband was doing exactly what you described in the book. The gaslighting, the minimizing—the way he made me feel crazy for having basic needs. I showed him your book, and he finally understood what he was doing to me," she cried, tears streaming down form her cheeks.

Maya smiled faintly.

She had heard variations of this story at least fifty times that day.

She felt someone had scooped out her insides, leaving only a shell.

"I'm so glad it helped," she said. "That's exactly why I wrote it. You deserved to be heard."

She signed the book with her standard inscription:

"Trust your instincts. You know more than you think you do." —Dr. Maya Wright.

The woman pressed the book to her chest, as if holding a Bible.

The line stretched past the New Releases table, past the café where the espresso machine hissed and steamed, and out the door onto Broadway.

Her publicist, Simone, had warned her that it would be very hot.

"The book has been on the New York Times bestseller list for sixteen weeks and counting!"

Maya hadn't expected this.

Hundreds of people, mostly women, waited for hours just to tell her that she had given them words for their pain.

She should have felt triumphant.

And she did, mostly.

But she was also something exhausted.

She was tired of adapting to a new identity — Dr. Maya Wright is an expert on emotional manipulation.

She was reaching for her coffee when someone called her.

"Maya."

Her hand froze halfway in the air.

She recalled seven years ago.

She was twenty-eight back then.

In a restaurant, she checked his phone while she tried to tell him about her day.

He asked her to delete photos of them together from her Instagram. 

"People might get the wrong idea," he said.

At the party, he introduced her to his colleagues. "She's just one of my friends."

She looks up.

Jonathan Cole stood three feet away from her, holding a copy of her book.

The Jonathan she remembered had been polished—wore expensive watches and got his hair cut every two weeks at a Tribeca salon.

But now he had dark circles under his eyes.

His Oxford shirt was wrinkled.

His hair was too long and fell into his eyes.

It seemed that he hadn't had a good night's sleep in months.

Good.

The thought came sharp and immediate, and it was deeply, viscerally satisfying.

"Hi," he said, his voice cracking slightly.

The entire bookstore seemed to go quiet.

Simone approached, tense and protective.

The reader next in line looked between them with curiosity.

They even pulled out their phones, angling cameras.

This was going to end up on social media.

People would analyze their body language, their expressions, and the subtext of every word.

Let them.

Maya took a slow, deliberate sip of coffee.

She then picked up her pen and checked the ink level.

"Can I help you?" she asked, meeting his eyes.

He froze.

"I...I need to talk to you. It's about your next book," he said.

"My agent handles all business inquiries." She turned to the next person in line, dismissing him with a gesture. "Hi there, what's your name?"

"Maya!" Jonathan shouted, making several people turn to look. "I'm your new editor at Meridian Press. At Meridian Press. For your memoir."

"Excuse me?" Maya looked at him.

"Your memoir. Invisible Mother. The one about your relationship with your mother and how it shaped your adult relationships," he said quickly, afraid she would cut him off. "I've been assigned as your editor. I tried to recuse myself. I told them it was a conflict of interest, but they said—"

"No," she said flatly.

"Maya—"

"Absolutely not. Find someone else."

"There is no one else. Your agent signed off the contract last week," he said, raising his voice.

"I have the paperwork right here." He pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket, shaking with trembling hands.

She froze.

The book where she'd written about him—she'd dissected their relationship like a case study, analyzing every manipulation, and every time he'd chosen his comfort over her dignity.

And now he was going to edit it! 

He was going to read every word she'd written about him.

"Then I'll break the contract," Maya said.

"That's half a million dollars in penalties. Plus projected damages based on expected sales," he said hoarsely. "Your agent said it could be over a million once they factor in your current bestseller status."

A million dollars?! 

She was shocked.

"I know you hate me," he said softly. "I know this is the last thing you want. But I promise I'll respect you. I'll make this as painless as possible."

"Painless?" Maya's voice rose, heedless of the professional image she was supposed to maintain.

"You want to make this painless? You hid me for two years, Jonathan. You made me feel like I was something to be ashamed of."

"And now," she continued, her voice carrying across the bookstore, "you want to edit the book where I wrote about what you did to me? Do you want me to discuss the most painful period of my life with you? Do you want me to trust you with my most vulnerable work?"

"I don't expect you to trust me," he said. "I just need you to work with me, or I'll be in breach of my contract. I'll lose my job. You'll lose your advance. We're both trapped."

Maya stared at him, catching the desperation in his eyes.