1
ANNA
You’d thinkafter ninety-nine rejections, I’d stop checking my email at work.
But there I was at Muses Bar, elbow-deep in cocktail napkins and flaming shots, waiting for a miracle. Or at least a tip of over five dollars. My phone buzzed in my apron pocket. I already knew it wasn’t good news.
The subject line confirmed it:Thank you for submitting your story. It was a unique concept, but unfortunately…
The dreadedunfortunately.I didn’t bother reading the rest. I knew exactly how it ended.
I’d written ten novels and four short stories in the past five years: romance, cozy mystery, literary fiction, dystopian horror, ghost pirates, even a retelling ofGreat Expectations.A few had earned polite interest, but each one had ended up here, in my inbox of rejections.
The first one had stung. The ninety-ninth felt like the universe was sending a clear message:give it up, Anna.
Behind me, my friend’s familiar voice sliced through my sulking. “Anna, please tell me you’re not looking at another rejection email. If you cry into someone’s margarita, I’ll charge you for it.”
“I’m not going to cry.” I shoved my phone into my apron. “But yes, it’s another rejection.”
The voice belonged to Marie Antoinette, my co-worker and best friend. She sauntered over, waving a towel dramatically. She insisted that everyone call her by her full name, claiming thatif you’re named after royalty, you don’t do anything halfway.
“Was that the big one hundred?” She narrowed her perfectly lined eyes at me. “Have we hit triple digits yet?”
“No, it was ninety-nine.”
She leaned against the bar as if she had all the time in the world. “Oh, honey. That’s a milestone. We should celebrate. Champagne, maybe? Or cake? Let them eat?—”
“Don’t say it,” I warned, grabbing a dirty martini glass and shooting her a look.
She sighed dramatically. “Fine. But are you still planning to quit at one hundred rejections?”
“I am.” I set the glass down harder than I intended. “One hundred rejections, and I’m done. No more writing. I’ll officially retire my pen, or keyboard, or whatever.”
My friend arched a skeptical eyebrow. “But what about that fancy award you won in college? What was it called again? You were supposed to be the next big thing.”
The reminder stung more than I wanted to admit. “It was the National Emerging Writers’ Prize. And that was years ago. I peaked at twenty-two. All downhill from there. I’m a failure.”
“Failure, schmailure. You know what I always say: I haven’t failed. I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work.”
“Who said that?”
“Me. And Thomas Edison.”
I didn’t respond. The truth was, I had won the National Emerging Writers’ Prize for a deeply personal story about my mom, who died when I was young. It was raw, emotional, and the most vulnerable thing I’d ever written. People loved it, but I hadn’t been able to replicate that magic.
Marie Antoinette studied my face, her teasing tone softening. “You’ll get there.” For a second, I almost believed her.
But before I could respond, reality crashed in, reminding me that the rejection letter wasn’t even the worst part of my day. I groaned and rubbed my temples. “Oh, and get this—I need to find a place to stay. My cousin Lucy’s having another baby, and apparently, they need the nursery back.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Another baby? Is she starting a daycare or something?”
“Right?” I sighed. “My aunt and uncle said I could stay with them, but, uh,no, thank you. They’d turn it into a family intervention about how I’m the only Amato who isn’t married with children. Aunt Delores would spend all day giving me pointed looks about mylife choices, and Uncle Ray would pull out his calculator to explain how much money I’m wasting not working a ‘real job.’ I’d rather live in the walk-in freezer here at Muses.”
She whistled. “Ouch. Nothing like a family intervention to put the ‘fun’ in dysfunction. Honestly, the freezer might be the more comfortable option. Where are you going to go?”
“I’ll figure something out.”
The truth was, I didn’t know what I was going to do, and the rejection email had just solidified the growing pit in my stomach. As much as I hated to admit it, I was running out of options.
