Page 5 of The Perfect Rom-Com

Stagnant. It’s a good thing I wore my bland brown dress today because I have sweated through it.

And just when I think I am going to burst, he casually sets the phone on the table face down.

“Sorry about that . . . ,” he says, without any sense of sincerity, and gives a startling clap of his hands. He drops his feet to the ground. His eyes skim over my lanyard. “Bryony. Whatcha got.”

It’s less of a question than a statement, because before I know it, he takes the folder from my hands and swivels it around to face him.

Just. Takes it.

Agents, in my vast experience of the past three days, do not do this.

They open the conversation slowly, like cats eyeing their mice carefully because they think it’d be fun to play a little before swallowing them. They say things like, “What’s your name?” despite the fact it’s written across your lanyard and printed on the sheet of paper before them. They ask questions like, “Where are you from?” and “Ah. So you’re a Knicks fan, then?” even though it has absolutely nothing to do with anything. All just filler conversation to break the ice and warm you up before they inevitably eat you for supper.

And they certainly don’t just snatch your folder from your hands.

But here Jack is, cutting straight to the stage reserved for the nine-to-ten-minute mark of the pitch. He’s actually jumped us ahead of everyone else now. Flipped past the one-sheet without looking. The pages of character descriptions. My author bio. Platform (or lack thereof). Straight to: the ominous silent read.

I clench my hands in my lap, back straight as a rail as I watch helplessly to see what will befall my fate. His eyes jump down the page before he flicks the page over and reads down the next. And the next.

There’s barely enough time for me to gather up this new situation before suddenly he’s ready for a verdict.

He snaps the folder shut.

Pushes it toward me, making a terrible scratching sound across the table. “Yeah, this isn’t going to work.”

I feel a thump in my chest.

It takes a second to catch up from all the whiplash happening here.

Nobody just starts with horrible rejection like this. People at least beat around the bush before they suddenly slice you through.

“I’m sorry? Um . . .” Do I want an explanation?

But of course.

I have to fight this.

“Is it . . . ?” I venture.

“It’s the genre.”

He looks at me. I look at him.

He sighs. Throws out a hand. “I mean, what really is this? Is it magical realism? Is it biography?”

Ah. A question I can answer. A question I’ve been asked. I grasp for the familiar ground. “It’s literary fiction,” I supply unsteadily, “with a touch of magical realism. And . . . a bit of suspense. And . . . somewhat biographical. After my grandmother’s life.”

“So . . . a commercial dead end.” He’s smiling at me as though he’s talking about something as superficial as which way it is to the bathroom instead of saying my book is “a commercial dead end.”

And there he is. His hand sliding, unbelievably, toward his phone. As though this was a nice chat but this conversation is over.

“Is there . . . anything I can do?” I throw out.

“Unless you’re hiding some amazing connections, you won’t get anyone to pick this up.”

Well. The other agents had said magical realism biographical suspense literary fiction was unique at least. Tim Graves called it “incredibly imaginative” and “never before seen in the industry”—which at the time I took as a massive compliment. Best not to think of it, actually.

None of them, at the very least, had called it a dead end.