“Looks like we’re in for the night,” Fletch says, hanging his coat by the door.
I hold my hands out to the fire, soaking up the warmth, then wander the small space in search of supplies while Fletchstacks the firewood he managed to bring in before the snow covered it.
After brushing off, he says, “Hope you don’t mind being stuck with me.”
“There are worse things,” I blurt.
“Like a poke in the eye.”
“Like hitting your funny bone.”
“So not funny.”
We settle on the small, threadbare sofa with mugs of instant hot chocolate that I scrounged up.
Not only is the couch worn, but the cushions have lost their springiness and we kind of smoosh into each other. Fletch is warm, so I don’t mind. You know, strictly so we don’t freeze to death.
The silence between us is surprisingly comfortable as the fire crackles.
Then he asks, “What did you want to be when you grew up? Before you became a writer?”
The question catches me off guard. “In some ways, I always wanted to be a writer. But non-fiction, reporting facts because that was practical. Then, after college, reality seemed less and less appealing, so I started writing romance.”
He’s quiet for a long moment as if contemplating my words. “The end?”
“No. That was just the beginning. I sought out an agent.”
“I have one of those, but no plans to write a book.”
“A literary agent, not a sports agent. I got a form rejection letter. The first of forty-six.”
“You counted?”
“I used them as motivation to keep improving. Each one meant I wasn’t good enough yet, but that I was also getting closer to the dream of being signed by an agent and then amajor publishing house, which would mean becoming a full-time author.”
“Achievement unlocked.”
I nod slowly, feeling uncertain about my current status, given the lull in inspiration and missing my original deadline.
“Bree, you did it. That’s incredible. Forty-six rejections and you kept going.” The admiration in his voice is warm like the fire.
I don’t talk much about the personal side of my career. It’s so solitary that it feels good to be recognized.
Fletch continues, “That kind of persistence and dedication is rare. I knew you’d have something valuable to tell the teens. So often, people only see the success, the name in lights or whatever, but they don’t see the years of hard work that led to that. You know?”
“Nor do they recognize the hard work that continues day in and day out. Sometimes late into the night.”
He snorts a laugh through his nose. “You got that right. Maintaining your place, whether in pro sports or publishing, is a battle to be your best. Every. Single. Day.”
“Exactly. What they don’t tell you is that you immediately need to write another book. And another. It never stops.”
“And train, workout, refine skills.”
“It’s relentless. The pressure to keep producing, to top your last success. Sometimes I wonder if I’m just a one-hit wonder.”
Fletch’s hand slides around mine and he squeezes. “The way you’ve kept your cute butt in the chair every day in front of that laptop says otherwise.”
His faith in me is disarming. I deflect because most of the time, I’m afraid I just don’t have it in me to reach the final draft. But then a little detail he slipped in snags my attention. “What do you know about my butt?”
