Just Like Her

Chapter 9

Emma

Three years ago, I was introduced to Youssef Ayari by the publication of his first novel, Wading, which cataloged the trials faced by a pair of siblings as they escaped famine and made their journey to Europe. It was heart-wrenching and yet, as I read the dry-witted dialogue, I still managed to find myself laughing through my salty tears.

At the time, I had been inundated with pop fiction and trite mystery thrillers. Youssef's writing, by contrast, was fresh and elegantly tied together with lyrical prose. He was nearly unheard of in the publishing world, and though I searched eagerly for more of his work I came up uncharacteristically empty-handed.

About six months before my trip to Hay-on-Wye, I came across his name in a science fiction subscription magazine of all places. 

It turns out, Youssef had not fallen off the face of the planet since publishing his first book—like I had begun to suspect—but rather fallen into flash and micro fiction, some of which embodied a dystopian flare that had been selected for the magazine's anthology. I contacted the editor asking how best to contact Youssef or his agent, but I only received a curt response that the magazine was not in the habit of assisting "competitor publications." So when Youssef's name appeared again on the Hay's Festival list of featured panelists, I knew it could very well be my only opportunity to meet the beautiful mind behind the words that had so hypnotized me.

In the end, I had allowed Youssef to walk me past the growing queue and timidly followed as he led me through the rows of seats and back behind the elevated stage. I stayed with him while he was fitted with a microphone and performed soundcheck. To my surprise, none of the staff seemed to mind my presence and easily moved around me as they went about their business.

As I was taking notes on the layout of the venue, my phone chirped reminding me to put it on silent.

Busy day?

I smiled down at the screen as I typed back my reply: Insanely.

Time to chat tonight?

My smile faltered slightly. 

As I reread the text, I could almost hear Tom's voice like I had heard it nearly every night since leaving London. Usually, he was the one to call as I was often lost in work, only surfacing at hours I feared were too late to reasonably phone him. That said, I was usually the one to initiate our texting conversations throughout the day, sending him pictures of things that made me think of him or that I thought he might find interesting.

I bit my bottom lip and hesitated before responding, then deleted what I'd written and tried again.

I'm on deadline... Raincheck? I could call you tomorrow.

It wasn't necessarily a lie. I was on deadline... though admittedly I had already submitted the pieces I needed for submission. 

And I could call him tomorrow... just as I could call him tonight if Youssef didn't invite me for a drink after the panel, which I was hoping he would do.

I carefully switched my phone to vibrate and slid it into my back pocket. Audience members began to slowly trickle through the rows of seats until finally every lawn chair had been claimed and the last of the trickle pooled near the back, standing room only.

My phone finally vibrated again just as the panel moderator began her introductions.

Looking forward to it.