LEMONADE
Part One
I stood at the top of the stairwell, staring at Amber’s still body in disbelief. It was splayed on the ground like a chalk outline from a crime scene.
One of her pink furry Snugg slippers had followed her down the steps and lay upside down next to her head. The other was still next to me.
Her eyes were closed. She was unconscious.
My anger turned into ice-cold fear. I knew what it would look like if anyone found me there: I had pushed her down the stairs. But this wasn’t my fault.
It didn’t matter. People would assume the worst. I had to get out of there…
SEVEN WEEKS EARLIER
I was scrolling through socials on my seven-year-old desktop computer, seething. I could take the overjoyed Zepbound weight-loss posts even though I couldn’t afford the meds. I could get past the GoFundMe campaigns for undeserving people like the bride who complained she didn’t make enough money off her wedding gifts.
What I couldn’t stomach were the champagne publishing announcements from authors I followed. It made me burn inside.
The accolades should have been for me. I had written a masterpiece. A masterpiece I had dedicated countless sleepless nights to after working long hours at my job. A masterpiece that sat on my hard drive because I was a nobody.
I’d sent out one hundred and thirty-seven query letters to literary agents. Most didn’t respond. A few emailed generic passes. Only one agent requested my full manuscript and set up a Zoom call afterward to discuss it.
She was in her twenties with sharp black bangs and tortoise-shell-framed glasses. As soon as she got one look at me, she said she had an unexpected work emergency and abruptly hung up. I never heard from her again after that.
I logged into my work email. An email from HR sat at the top of my inbox with the subject: URGENT.
This letter serves as a formal notification that your employment at Bio-Solutions Laboratories is being terminated, effective two weeks from today—
I’d recently heard rumblings from higher-ups about new AI software the company was implementing and had been worried about my job security. I had good reason to be. AI had come for me. Soon, it would come for my entire field.
I stared at the HR email. My twenty-eight-year career as a technical writer, working on medical devices, security systems, and instructional manuals, was up in smoke.
My palms broke out in a clammy sweat. I felt like I couldn’t breathe, got up from my desk, grabbed my bag, and ran out of my apartment.
Mason, one half of an influencer couple that lived on my floor, stood next to Amber, the other half. They filmed themselves non-stop, mainly videos for brands who threw free stuff their way because they were young and pretty and had one hundred and seventeen thousand followers on TikTok.
Both in their early twenties, he always carried his guitar, which he was strumming, and she always wore a signature pair of pink furry Snugg slippers, whether 55 or 105 degrees out.
“Stop playing,” she scolded him. “We need to get this shot.”
He stopped. With her arm extended in front of her and phone in hand, she filmed them entering their apartment with their latest haul.
I walked behind them toward the stairwell, head bent.
“You just ruined our shot! Now we have to start over,” she barked.
“Sorry,” I said.
“Bitch,” she muttered.
*******
That night, I lay in bed, unable to sleep, staring at a brown kidney-shaped water stain with two specs of black mold on the ceiling.
What will become of me? I wondered.
I only had one month’s rent saved and thirteen days left before it was due. Where would I go when my money ran out? I couldn’t move into my car because I’d sold it the year before due to skyrocketing insurance costs.
A blood-curdling scream interrupted my thoughts. I sat up in bed, wondering if a neighbor was being robbed—or worse.
“Don’t!” a woman shouted. I recognized the voice. It was Amber.
I got out of bed, ran to the front door, and looked through the peephole.
Mason was rolling a small suitcase. His guitar case was strapped to his back. A crying Amber stood next to him, pulling on his arm.
“You’re just going to leave me?” she asked between sobs.
“I need to be in Nashville to pursue my music,” he said.
Realizing her display of emotion wasn’t working, she wiped the tears off her cheeks and shifted gears. “If you do this, I’ll make sure our followers never buy your music.”
He shook her hand loose off of his arm. “Threatening me isn’t a good look,” he said before opening the stairwell door.
“Fuck you!” she screamed. “You were a nobody when I met you. I made you!”
He disappeared while she crumpled to the ground, knees to her chest, in defeat.
*******
The next morning, I woke up and got ready to go to Dunkin’. I didn’t have the money to get breakfast out. But did it matter? If I saved seven dollars instead of spending it on a donut and iced coffee, I still wouldn’t have enough to pay rent each month. No amount of donut and coffee savings would touch the middle-aged professional AI hole I was in.
When I opened my door to leave, I saw Amber, phone in hand, filming herself alone in the hallway. “Mason left for Nashville. I hope you’ll follow me on my next chapter as a single woman—”
She abruptly stopped, violently threw her cell phone against the concrete hallway wall, and shrieked at the top of her lungs, “Fuck HIM!!!”
I stared at the cracked phone screen that had landed on the stained grey hallway carpet.
“It took us two years to build our following, and he just left me in the dust,” she said, blinking away tears that ran down her blazing red cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Our entire brand was being a couple and selling things to other couples. Now I have to start over.”
“I know how you feel,” I told her.
“No, you don’t. You have no idea what it’s like to make a living online.”
“I lost my technical writing job to AI. I have one month’s rent saved and no other professional skills, except a book I wrote that no publisher wants to touch because I don’t look like you.”
“What’s it called?” she asked.
“The Nurse’s Sanctuary.”
“That’s probably why,” she said snidely.
“It fits the book. The story is about a nurse during World War II who hides children in her hospital until an injured German officer grows suspicious of her.”
“Historical fiction.”
“You know what that is?” I asked, surprised.
“BookTok,” she replied flatly. “How’d you come up with the idea?”
“It’s inspired by the story of Elisabeth Eidenbenz, a Swiss nurse who hid and saved six hundred kids. I read an article about her and got the idea.”
*******
It was the fourth night in a row that I lay in bed, unable to sleep. I had tried everything, including going to my local mall to ask about retail jobs and fast food positions. Two store managers in their twenties told me I could apply online but warned: “The job requires standing up all day.” I got the hint.
I thought about my masterpiece. I knew The Nurse’s Sanctuary was a bestseller, but I had no way of letting the masses know it existed. I thought about Amber, who I’d seen multiple times in the hallway since Mason had left, crying and carrying on. She was so caught up in her drama that she couldn’t see she had everything needed to survive in this big bad world—youth and beauty.
That’s when the idea came to me. What if I used some of the money I had left to pay Amber to sell my novel online to her followers? I’d seen books go viral on social media when authors promoted them, but most of those authors looked like Amber. She was the perfect vessel to get The Nurse’s Sanctuary out in the world.
*******
The next morning I woke up and went to Dunkin’. This time, I ordered two French crullers—one for me and the other for Amber—and stuffed them in my purse.
I returned to the building, trekked up the “killer staircase,” as the tenants dubbed it. It was so long and so steep that we had to use our hands to climb it like a ladder when coming and going.
I knocked on Amber’s door. She took a while to open it. When she finally did, she looked half-asleep with bed hair, dressed in a t-shirt with no pants on. Her pink furry Snugg slippers were barely hanging on her feet. “What’s going on?” she asked.
“Sorry to wake you. I want to chat about something.”
“It’s really early,” she said, yawning.
“I brought donuts.” I held up the Dunkin’s bag.
Amber hedged, slowly moving away from the door. I followed her inside to her living room and noticed her filming setup in the corner next to a window: a tripod, microphone, and ring light.
We sat down on her couch, and I offered her one of the donuts.
“Is it gluten-free?” she asked.
“No.”
She grabbed it anyway and bit into it.
“You mentioned things have been tough with brands since Mason left.”
“Don’t say his name,” she snapped and took another bite of the cruller.
“Sorry.”
“All of our deals have evaporated, except for a non-toxic tissue brand that reached out because I spend my days crying online,” she explained. “And Snuggs, but I had a deal with them before I ever met Mason.”
“Is that why you always wear the same slippers?”
“You’re one to talk,” she said, motioning to my white sneakers.
“I’m on my seventh pair. They’re really comfortable and only cost eleven dollars. Walmart.”
She ignored me and kept eating, demolishing the donut quickly.
“Is that real sheepskin?” I asked her, pointing to the pink fur band on top of the slippers.
“Yeah, can you get to it?” she said, annoyed.
“I’m assuming Snuggs isn’t paying you enough to live off of, so I’d like to hire you to sell my novel.”
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t think you can afford me.”
“I don’t think you can afford to turn me down.”
“I’ve never sold a book before.”
“Will you take a look at it?”
“Do you have another donut?”
*******
That night I lay in bed, staring at the kidney-shaped water stain on the ceiling. I’d given Amber a printed copy of The Nurse’s Sanctuary with the cover I’d created on Canva using a stock image of a nurse standing in front of a hospital during WWII.
I wasn’t holding onto any hope that she’d read it, let alone agree to help me sell it. There was also the issue of how much she’d try to squeeze out of me if she miraculously did.
There was a loud knock on my door. I looked at my phone: 2:07 am.
“It’s me, Amber,” she called out.
I got out of bed, put on my bathrobe, and walked to the front door. When I opened it, she was holding my book.
“I read it,” she said.
“Already?”
“I got the gist. It’s giving Kristin Hannah.”
I bristled. Hannah was my nemesis. She had the career I should’ve had.
“Can I come in?”
We sat at my kitchen table. “I did some research. Most books that go viral on BookTok are written by people who look like me. I think my followers might buy it if I wrote it.”
“But I wrote it,” I said.
“They don’t have to know that.”
“What do you mean?”
“We can say I did. Change the cover. Put my name on it.”
I was shocked at how flippant she was with this suggestion. The Nurse’s Sanctuary was my baby. I had no children and had dedicated years of my life to it. Tears, sweat, sleepless nights. Amber could’ve cared less.
“You’ve never written a book before. I poured years of my life into it.”
“I was just trying to help,” she said. “Imagine a historical fiction novel coming from someone my age. I’d be considered a prodigy. It might go viral for that reason alone.”
I hated admitting that what she was saying was true. The world loved its young, bright, shiny objects like the one agent I spoke with proved. Still, this would be a very bitter pill to swallow.
“If we do it this way, you won’t have to pay me to promote it,” she said.
My ears perked up.
“I just want fifty percent of the profits of whatever books I sell.”
Not having to pay her was the best thing she had mentioned so far. Books were notoriously hard to sell, even ones written by authors who looked like Amber. If I didn’t have to pay her anything upfront and there were no sales, I wouldn’t be out any money. And the cold, hard truth was I didn’t have the cash to spare.
“I can Venmo you your share every time I get paid,” she said. “I’ll handle all social media—Instagram, TikTok, YouTube—”
“What about Threads?” I asked.
“I don’t have a Threads account.”
“I can create one for you and manage it.”
*******
The next day, we sat in her living room as she prepared to speak to her followers. She picked up a pair of black-framed glasses from the coffee table and put them on.
“I didn’t know you wore glasses,” I said.
“They’re non-prescription,” Amber said. “I need to signal a shift. They code author.”
She stepped in front of the tripod that held her phone, clutched my book, and covered my name with her fingers. She had already updated the cover with her name and ordered new physical copies, but they wouldn’t arrive for a few days.
“I’m going to record now,” she said before hitting the record button.
“By now, most of you know Mason left for Nashville to pursue his music. What you don’t know is that I’m an artist too—a writer. I’ve been working on a book for a few years, and I hope you’ll give it a chance.”
I sat in awe, marveling at how easy it was for her to lie. She went on to explain what The Nurse’s Sanctuary was about and thanked her followers for their support during this challenging time in her life.
*******
The next morning, I woke up to urgent fists banging on my door. I ran through the hallway, worried. But when I opened it, Amber stood smiling and shoved her phone in my face.
“We have an orange Amazon banner!” she yelled.
I knew what this meant—The Nurse’s Sanctuary was a bestseller.
“It’s the number one new release in the Historical World War II category! A big booktoker saw my TikTok yesterday, read it overnight, and made a video that went viral. Check this out.” Amber played the video.
A young woman in cream-colored sweats with a messy hair bun on top of her head stood in her kitchen, crying, and clutching her Kindle. There was a small graphic in the corner of the screen with the new The Nurse’s Sanctuary cover with Amber’s name on it.
“This book broke me,” the woman said. “I stayed up all night reading. Mason, you’re a legend—a legendary idiot for leaving Amber. But thank God you did. Otherwise, she might’ve never shared her masterpiece with us.”
I scanned the “first few comments underneath the TikTok:
watch out, mason…amber just entered her author era
this is the best book i’ve ever read!
sequel stat
*******
One month had passed since the release of The Nurse’s Sanctuary. It remained high on multiple Amazon and Barnes & Noble bestseller lists. By every objective measure, it was a breakout runaway hit.
I felt vindicated. I was a good writer and had always believed it would be a bestseller. Amber had sent me a couple of payments through Venmo. They were less than I had hoped for, given the book’s success, but they were enough to keep me going.
She had explained that book profit margins were small. Still, if I could earn this amount each month for the next year, I could get by and work on my next novel without worrying about a day job.
I’d just arrived at her apartment, ready to discuss the audiobook version of The Nurse’s Sanctuary, which would be another income stream.
“Before we get to the audiobook, I have some exciting news,” she said. “A few literary agents contacted me to set up meetings about possible representation.”
I could feel the tectonic plates below me shift. Agents had wanted nothing to do with me before. They had snubbed me. But now that my book was successful and had a younger author attached, they were ready to take their cut.
“They mentioned a traditional publishing deal, foreign translation rights, and film and television options,” she continued.
I was getting more and more upset. It was one thing if Amber’s followers thought she had written my masterpiece, but it was entirely different if the world believed her to be its author. None of it sat well with me.
“I don’t want to go that route,” I said.
“Why not?”
“I just want to stick with what we’ve been doing.”
“But that’s insane! This is a chance to get it into every bookstore and airport in America, countries all over the world, the big and small screen—”
“I get to decide,” I interrupted. I wanted to shut her down fast.
“Why do you get to decide? I’m the one doing all the work to promote it.”
“It’s my book,” I reminded her.
“Not anymore,” she said. “I’m the face of it now.”
“If you sign with an agent, I’ll tell them the truth. I’m The Nurse’s Sanctuary’s real author.”
“Will you also tell them you hired me to pretend I wrote it?”
“That was your idea!” I raised my voice.
“Do you think any agent or publisher will ever want to work with you if they find out what you did?”
“They’ll eventually expect you to write another book. I won’t do it for you if you go this route.”
“I can afford to hire a ghostwriter now,” she said. “And there’s this new thing you might’ve heard of—AI.”
*******
Every day was a fresh insult. It had been three weeks since I had my falling out with Amber, but I couldn’t avoid her. She was everywhere. Online. On television. She had just flown back from New York City after doing a Good Morning America hit to discuss the latest BookTok phenom, The Nurse’s Sanctuary.
I couldn’t even hide from her on Threads. I had only posted once on the account I’d created for her after the book’s release, but readers were constantly tagging Amber with their reviews, lighting up my phone with Thread notification alerts:
Cynthia.Snoww00
Amber Soltero is a once-in-a-generation talent!
SpooookieBooksBoo
1000/5 heaping stars for THE NURSE’S SANCTUARY
Shondahreadzzz11
hard to believe a 24 yr wrote it
I had nothing to show for surrendering my literary masterpiece to that snake besides the small amount of money she had sent me the month before, which was quickly running out. When I texted her about it, she said she’d send more at the end of the month.
I couldn’t write because of the rage that consumed me. And even if I wrote another book, I wouldn’t be able to sell it for the same reason I hadn’t been able to sell The Nurse’s Sanctuary.
But Amber had gotten what she needed from me—a new career, while I found myself on the same path toward destitution I’d been on after losing my job at Bio-Solutions.
It was morning. I left my apartment for Dunkin’, walked down the hall, and opened the stairwell door to find Amber. She stood at the top of the killer stairwell, arm stretched out, phone in hand, filming herself.
“It’s time to start a new chapter,” she told her followers. “I’m moving out of the apartment I shared with Mason—”
She looked up, saw me, and turned off her phone.
“I was going to text you,” she said.
“About the money you owe me?” I said.
“I’m Venmoing you a final two-thousand-dollar settlement payment so we can both move on with our lives.”
I gasped. Two thousand dollars!? According to Amber, The Nurse’s Sanctuary was just getting going. Distribution into every bookstore and every airport in America. Foreign translation rights. Film and television options. She was trying to fleece me.
“It’s not healthy to have entangled finances when we’re not even working together anymore,” she continued.
“How did you come up with a two-thousand-dollar settlement when my book was just released?” I asked.
“It’s a generous estimate. I’d take it unless you want to hire an expensive lawyer to hash things out. They charge four to five hundred an hour, and these kinds of disputes can drag on for months…”
I knew Amber would make sure to prolong it as long as possible. To bleed me dry of whatever savings I had left so I’d end up with nothing.
My chest tightened. Every blood vessel in my body felt like it was about to burst with fury.
“You should take the money and make this time count,” she said.
I only saw red. I had made Amber, and now, she acted like she was doing me a favor by stealing from me.
“I want to see the Amazon deposits for The Nurse’s Sanctuary,” I said, pointing to her phone.
“No,” she said.
“Why not?” I asked, stepping a few steps closer to face her.
“Get away from me,” she said, clutching her phone tightly to her chest with both hands.
“What are you hiding?”
“Nothing.”
I could no longer contain my rage and tried grabbing her phone. She lifted it above her head so I couldn’t get it. “Get your fat paws off me, you psycho!” she yelled.
I tried reaching up for the phone, and she swung it to her side. In doing so, she lost her balance, wobbled, and tried catching the rail behind her to steady herself—but missed.
One of her feet fell off the top of the stairs, and the other foot followed, twisting together like a pretzel, lunging her into the air at least a dozen feet before she landed at the bottom of the killer stairwell with a loud thud.
I stood at the top of the stairwell, staring at her still body in disbelief. It was splayed on the ground like a chalk outline from a crime scene.
One of her pink furry Snugg slippers had followed her down the steps and lay upside down next to her head. The other was still next to me.
Her eyes were closed. She was unconscious.
My anger turned into ice-cold fear. I knew what it would look like if anyone found me there: I had pushed her down the stairs. But this was Amber’s fault.
It didn’t matter. People would assume the worst. I had to get out of there…
Hope you enjoyed part one of LEMONADE.