The rain was coming down harder now, streaking the plate-glass windows.
Hugo sat forward, smiled gently, and squeezed my hand.“We’ll just take the check.”
4
The rejection email stared back at me from the screen of my phone.
I’d sent “At Blanding House” toDime Detectivealmost a year ago.And the longer the story had floated in the ether, the more my hope had grown.It hadn’t been an auto-reject, like so many of my early pieces.It had survived the slush pile.It had landed in front of one of the editors.It was being considered, seriously considered.It was going to be their story of the year.They were going to campaign for me to get an Edgar Award for it.
Okay, maybe I was getting ahead of myself.
Still, it had felt good, knowing my story was out there, knowing that every day meant the likelihood was better that they were interested, that they might even want it.Heck, I’d be thrilled to get a revise-and-resubmit like Andrew.And then today, in the middle of my writing session, I’d gotten the email.It hadn’t been personalized.It hadn’t contained life-changing feedback.It hadn’t suggested that I was a literary genius, and that the story was perfect but simply wouldn’t work for their magazine for any number of perfectly plausible reasons, and great things were waiting for me.It was a form rejection.One sentence.They didn’t even say thanks.
“Babe, listen to this—” Hugo appeared in the doorway.Neither of us had left the house today, but he was still dressed in chinos and a polo that I’d once described as the color of milk after a bowl of Lucky Charms.His hair was perfect.He was even wearing socks, the ones with the gold toes.I, on the other hand, was in a pair of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle shorts that had never been meant for an adult male, plus my tee that said CHECK OUT MY SIX PACK and then showed six different gaming consoles.No socks, by the way.Hugo frowned at where I lay on the bathroom floor (dead) and said, “I thought you were writing.”
“I am.”
Hugo sighed.
“I was writing,” I said.“And then I realized we needed to clean the bathroom—”
“During the block of time we set aside specifically for you to write,” Hugo said.
“—and then I realized we’d never power-washed the grout—”
“Dashiell.”
“—and then I got this rejection email, and I died.”
“Oh, babe.”Hugo stepped over me, sat on the side of the tub, and reached down to cup my cheek.“I’m sorry.”
I shook my head.
“Sit up,” Hugo said.
“I can’t.All my muscles died and my brain died and my career died and my whole future died.”
“Your muscles are working fine, babe.Sit up, please.”
Somehow, I got myself into a sitting position.Hugo knelt and wrapped me in a hug.He kissed the side of my head and whispered, “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I said, mostly because I thought I had to say it.“It’s not a big deal.It’s one magazine.”
“This was Blanding House?”When I nodded, he continued, “It’s a great story, sweetheart.It’s so smart, and it’s so compassionate.You’re going to find a place for it.”
I shrugged, which is kind of hard when you’re being hugged.
“Come on,” Hugo said.“Forget about power-washing the grout.Let me make you a snack.”
When you’ve been with someone as long as I’d been with Hugo, you learn all the magic words.
Seated at the island in our kitchen, I tried to keep myself upright as Hugo sliced fruit.
“So,” he said.“Where are you going to send it next?”
“Nowhere.”
He grabbed banana and started to peel it.
