Page 38 of Dear Mr. Brody

“Shut the hell up so I can listen.”

“...is aNew York TimesBest Selling Author. His debut novel,Love Always, Wildtopped the charts its first week, his second book is being adapted into a television series as we speak, and he just released a new book last Tuesday.”

“I sound busy,” Wilder teased. “I swear… Most of my time is spent sitting around a coffee shop staring at a blank screen, second-guessing myself, and growling at unsuspecting customers who happen to walk by during one of my many panic attacks. I promise my life isn’t glamorous.” He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a few Cheerios. Laughing, he threw them in a wastebasket near Mr. Brody’s desk. “My daughter Sam loves these.”

Daughter? He seemed way too young to have a kid. Dressed in tight black jeans and an expensive-looking, oversized shirt, he could’ve passed for a freshman.

“I ran into Wilder yesterday at the agency and asked if he would mind going over his writing process with us. He graciously accepted, and hopefully if there’s enough time, we’ll get to torture him with questions.”

“Shit, should I be scared?” he asked, and Mr. Brody’s eyes filled with mirth as the class laughed. “I probably shouldn’t swear either.”

“We’re adults,” someone in the front row said. “Swear all you want.”

“Thank you, Ms. Billings.” Mr. Brody chuckled. “The floor is yours, Wilder. But please try and keep the profanity to a minimum. I’d like to keep my job.”

Wilder pushed his heavy curls from his forehead, and with an anxious smile he told us about what he called his “writing journey.” He talked about how he’d met his husband Jax in college, and how his relationship with him had paved the way for his first book. Hearing his story, learning about how he’d started, it was like Wilder had opened up this private door and asked us to climb inside his heart.

“Writing stories is giving life to your dreams,” he said, and the room was silent, breathless as he continued. “Van can teach you about the eight elements of fiction, teach you the definition of a metaphor, but your process is something that belongs only to you. Your words and how you choose to sew them together isn’t something that can be taught.” Wilder ran his hand through his hair again and leaned against the desk. “I hope that’s okay to say, Van… no offense.”

“None taken.” Mr. Brody waved him off with a smile from where he stood in the corner of the room.

I kept my gaze on him as Wilder continued, watching as he stared at the author with what could only be described as awe. It made me want to ask him why he hadn’t written a book. Why he’d chosen to sell them, instead.

“I’ll go ahead and take some questions before you get sick of the sound of my voice.” Wilder glanced around the classroom, his smile dimming when no one raised their hand.

“I have a question,” I blurted, and Marcos nearly choked on his laugh.

Wilder’s dark eyes held mine, and it was the first time I noticed he had on eyeliner. Intimidated as fuck under the weight of his stare, my words caught in my throat, and I stuttered. I was sure Marcos would never let me live this moment down.

“D-did… you ever worry about hiding your sexuality in order to sell books?”

“I’ve always been open about who I am, but my parents wanted me to use a pen name. Asked me to not write the book at all, actually.” Wilder laughed without humor. “And there was this brief but big moment where I hesitated… when I thought maybe they were right. I thought maybe I couldn’t have both. I couldn’t be out and proud and have my dream. But then I realized writing was like love. I didn’t get to choose. I couldn’t stop writing any more than I could stop loving men, and eventually said fuck it and published anyway.”

Almost all the students applauded except for the two guys at the end of our row. Indignant, they sat with their arms crossed, with disgusted looks on their faces. The world could evolve, and time would continue to push its way forward, but no matter how far we’d come, there’d always be a select few ready to drag us back fifty goddamn years.

Once the applause died down, Wilder answered a few more questions before it was time to go. Mr. Brody thanked him again as everyone started to pack up. “Don’t worry about sending your flash fiction stories into me until Friday. Any submission received after that will not be graded.”

Marcos stood and lugged his bag over his shoulder. “You’re really going to stay home tonight?”

“I’ve got a history quiz to study for, stats to do, and I think I’m going to rewrite this story,” I said, slipping it into my notebook as I stood.

“Shit… I forgot about the history quiz.” He clapped me on the arm. “You’re the murderer of dreams.”

“Me?” I asked and zipped up my backpack. “I didn’t make you take history.”

“No, you made me take this fucking class. Which eats up a lot of my social time.”

The classroom emptied around us as I pulled my bag onto my shoulders. “Then, drop it. You still have time.”

“Mr. Mills, do you have a moment?” Mr. Brody asked, his expectant gray eyes a much better visual than my best friend’s stupid smirk.

“Of course.”

Marcos squeezed past me. “Try not to drool on the cute author.”

Mortified, I made my way down the aisle, hoping Mr. Brody and Wilder hadn’t heard his commentary.

“What’s up?” I asked.

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