\ \ HEN I WALK INTO EVELYN’S office the next morning, I’m so nervous that my back is sweating and a shallow pool is forming along my spine. Grace puts down a charcuterie platter, and I can’t stop staring at the cornichons as Evelyn and Grace are talking about Lisbon in the summer. The moment Grace is gone, I turn to Evelyn. “We need to talk,” I say. She laughs. “Honestly, I feel like that’s all we do.” “About Vivant, I mean.” “OK,” she says. “Talk.” “I need to know some sort of timeline for when this book might be released.” I wait for Evelyn to respond. I wait for her to give me something, anything, resembling an answer. “T’m listening,” she says. “If you don’t tell me when this book could realistically be sold, then I’m running the risk of losing my job for something that might be years away. Decades, even.” “You certainly have high hopes for my life span.” “Evelyn,” I say, somewhat discouraged that she still isn’t taking this seriously. “I either need to know when this is coming out or I need to promise Vivant an excerpt of it for the June issue.” Evelyn thinks. She is sitting cross-legged on the sofa opposite me, in slim black jersey pants, a gray shell tank, and an oversized white cardigan. “OK,” she says, nodding. “You can give them a piece of it— whatever piece you like—for the June issue. If, and only if, you shut up about this timeline business.” I don’t let my joy show on my face. I’m halfway there. I can’t rest until I’m done. I have to push her. I have to ask and be willing to be told no. I have to know my worth. After all, Evelyn wants something from me. She needs me. I don’t know why or what for, but I know I wouldn’t be sitting here if that weren't the case. I have value to her. I know that. And now I have to use it. Just as she would if she were me.