Page 79 of Wham Line
“I know you love me,” I said, and to my surprise, it was difficult to say the words.Not because I didn’t believe them, but because a wave of mixed emotions tightened my throat.“I know, Bobby.You don’t have to worry about that.”
His hand tightened around mine.“I know that’s important.I heard what you said to me.Expressing that stuff.Validation.”
“Yeah, well, let’s not put too much stock in that because I definitely fall into the category oftooneedy.I don’t need you to do anything you don’t want to do, Bobby.I just don’t want to let you down.I don’t want you to feel like—” I was glad for the dark because my face was hot.“I don’t want you to feel like I failed you.”
He sat up.He cupped the back of my head and kissed me.
It wasn’tthatkind of kiss.(Ladies and gents, stop revving your engines.) But it was so vulnerable.So unguarded.And in its own way, that made it more intimate than the adults-only-step-behind-this-beaded-curtain variety of kisses.
“I love you,” I said when he broke away.
“I love you too.”
“Lie down and go to sleep.”
He laughed quietly, but he lay down, and so did I.
And then, in a way that had become so familiar, he rolled onto his side, and one strong arm pulled my back to his chest.He kissed my neck the way he so often did.I thought I could feel his heartbeat.
And that’s how I fell asleep.
Chapter 22
The next morning (it’s still morning if McDonald’s is still serving breakfast), Bobby was gone when I woke up.Sunlight filtered into the room through the blinds, and in spite of my body’s determination that another six hours of sleep wereabsolutelynecessary, my brain told me it was time to get up.
I showered.I dressed.I realized Bobby and I were both running low on clothes, so I found the Mais’ utility room and started a load of laundry.I made my way upstairs, trying to catch any sound that would indicate that Bobby was nearby, or that his dad was moving around, or that Eric was in the house.I felt like one of those admirals summoned to talk to Darth Vader—youknewit wasn’t going to go well.
But I pushed that thought aside.I decided to be optimistic.I was an optimist at heart.That’s because I remembered I still had the Malibu and, if necessary, I could drive straight north and flee the country.
Instead, though, the main floor of the house was empty.Cooking wasn’t exactly my strong suit, and it felt doubly hazardous in a kitchen that wasn’t my own.I put in a delivery order for coffee—LOTS of coffee—and three different breakfast scrambles.I told myself it was because Bobby would probably want something to eat.But let’s be honest: how is a human being supposed to decide between the Achin’ Bacon egg scramble and the Ham-ster’s Delight?(It’s got ham, not hamsters, in it—just to be clear.)
While I waited, I went back downstairs and got out my laptop.I’d been putting this off as long as I could.Mostly because I was a procrastinator, which was mostly because I was a perfectionist.(Although you’d never believe it to see my sock drawer.Bobbygaspedthe first time he saw it.) (He didn’t; I made that up.) (And for frick’s sake, they’re socks—as long as you can find two of them, why does it matter?What is everyone’s obsession with folding them in neat little pairs, which is—now that I think about it—probably heteronormative?) (You can say anything is heteronormative if you’re gay.)
Anyway.
I went to work on my laptop.I’d spent enough time feeling sorry for myself about the agent rejections.Now, it was time to get back on the horse.
See, that’s the thing about writing.You never know if you’re going to touch a live wire.You never know if it’s going to be as good as you hope.That’s why, in all art, there’s some degree of magic.All you can do is try your best and keep creating, keep working toward that moment when the muse speaks or whispers or, uh, tickles.All you can do is keep trying, so that someday you’ll make something that will touch someone else—comfort them, or excite them, or make them smile.All you can do—and I guess this goes for life in general—is hope.
I worked my way through each rejection email again.If you haven’t gotten a bevy of rejections before (cue jokes about my dating life), you might not know that there’s a range of, uh, quality, at least in terms of feedback.Some agents simply don’t respond.Like, ever.(Rude, right?) And others send a one-line rejection.(I even got a one-wordrejection once.The word wasNo.) But sometimes, they write a little more.They might tell you what wasn’t working for them with the opening pages, or with the character, or with the voice.They might tell you they got bored.
And at the end of the day, all feedback is data.The trick is mining that data for something valuable.
So, I set to work, combing through the emails, making a list of the feedback I’d gotten.Like I said, it wasn’t a ton.But I’d go back.I’d take another look atA Work in Progress.I’d see if there were ways I could make Will Gower’s first story stronger, if I could make it better, if I could address the things that these agents had stumbled over.
And then, at some point, I’d have to let it go, and I’d write something else.
(I mean, all that was in theory.Let me tell you: I am amasterat avoidance, and I was already brainstorming all the time I could waste turning this “data” into spreadsheets and graphs and maybe even rallying a focus group thatdidn’tinclude a certain fortysomething who had once thrown themselves dramatically on a fainting sofa, in the middle of my reading, and declaimed,If he waffles about which door to open one more time I’m going to scream!And then theydidscream.)
My phone buzzed.I grabbed it, expecting it to be Bobby, but instead, Indira’s name showed on the screen.
“Are you okay?”I asked.“Oh my God, the sheriff didn’t arrest you, did she?”
Indira laughed.“No.I am, apparently, cleared of all charges, although the sheriff did give me a talking-to about my decision to avoid arrest.”
“She’s terrifying, right?I mean, she’s amazing.But terrifying.”
“She’s a formidable woman.And an excellent sheriff.”Indira’s tone lilted with amusement.“She told me that she plans on having a conversation with you about your decision to investigate even after she asked you not to.”
