Beg, Borrow, or Steal (When in Rome, #3)(79)
This is bad.
Colette is a top-of-the-industry agent—and maybe this is my fault, but I really wish this weren’t Emily’s first experience with a rejection. There is no reason for an email this blunt, and it leads me to believe that it’s good Emily isn’t going to sign with her. Emily is tough, but she takes criticism very personally. I’ll never forget the year she called out a mom for pulling her daughter out of school too many days for seemingly no reason, and the mom lashed back by attacking Emily’s teaching style and overall personality. Emily took it on the chin, but I walked by her class after school and heard her crying, alone at her desk. I couldn’t go and comfort her. Not only was I with Zoe, but Emily wouldn’t have wanted me to see her like that. So I found Madison in the parking lot about to go home and told her I thought Emily needed help carrying something out. I don’t know if Madison comforted her that day, but I like to hope so.
But tonight, I’m here.
“Emily, I know this probably hurts, but just because Colette says it doesn’t make it true.” I put my arm around her to pull her into my chest, but she immediately shrugs me off and steps out of reach. My muscles tense with alarm.
She doesn’t meet my eye as she says, “Colette thinks my book is”—her voice cracks—“garbage.”
“And she’s wrong. Colette never should have said all—”
“No, Jack,” Emily snaps, finally meeting my eyes. “I never should have sent it in the first place.” She’s in her head, not listening to a word I’m saying. It’s clear Emily has grabbed onto these words from Colette like they’re the next ten commandments beamed down from God himself. It’s bullshit. I hate it. I hate Colette for sending this to Emily. And I hate that I was the one to encourage her to do it—especially when she had apprehension. I thought I was doing the right thing, but I should have let her listen to her gut.
And now I feel like she’s slipping from me while standing right there.
I take a step forward. “Hey. Please hear me. I don’t know what the hell that woman’s problem is, but I’ve read your book. And it’s incredible. Don’t lose hope because of this one rejection.”
Her eyes dart away and back to me, fury blazing hot. “It’s clearly not incredible. It’s junk. And maybe you were just horny enough for me that you overlooked serious issues and had me submit a terrible book to the best agent out there.”
I flinch against her words. “Don’t do that. Don’t diminish my opinion just because I also have feelings for you. That’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair is that you rushed me to send it out before it was ready!”
“I thought it was ready, Emily. I really thought it was great. I still do! And this . . . this feedback, as shitty as it is, is a part of the job. Sometimes they’re right. And sometimes they’re just people having bad days and taking it out on your work. Just like you’re doing to me right now. Take some space from this and tomorrow, decide what you actually agree with and what—”
“How many rejections did you get when you submitted to agents?” Her hands are balled up at her sides and I hate it.
“You said you were done meeting me in the arena.”
Her hands are curled so tight I can see the whites of her knuckles. “This isn’t me competing with you. It’s me not wanting to receive comfort and advice from a successful author when he might not have ever experienced this in the first place.”
I sigh, knowing my answer isn’t going to help. “None.”
“And how many editors turned you down after you and your agent pitched?”
I sink my teeth into my lip until it hurts and look away. “None. The book went to auction.”
Emily blinks back fast and furious tears. “Exactly. You don’t know what this feels like—so don’t pretend you do.”
I want to argue, but she’s right. I don’t know what it’s like. My experience was rare. I had agents clawing to win me as their client, and that’s an entirely different situation than this. “Okay, you’re right. Then tell me how it feels. Don’t push me away. Let me help.”
“No,” she says, voice shaking, eyes drifting away from me again. She’s erecting a wall directly between us. “You have helped enough. I am done with it. I’m not submitting this again to anyone. It was stupid to do it to begin with. Clearly, I’m not made to be a writer.”
“Emily . . .”
She’s going for her laptop.
With a tense voice, I ask, “What are you doing?”
“Deleting it. Sending it to the garbage where it belongs.”
Before she can click a single button, I shut her laptop. Her eyes rise to mine, flaming.
“Take it out on me. All your anger. All your humiliation. Take it out on me because I can stand it. But I’ll be damned before I let you wreck something that you’ve worked so hard for. Something that you deserve. Something you love.”
“Maybe I don’t love it! Maybe it was just a nice distraction for a while but now I’m at the end of the road with it!” I refuse to read into that as a double meaning, even though I feel like she meant it to be one.
“That is absolute bullshit, and you know it. This was making you happy. Going for a dream of your own ignited a spark in you that you liked. And writing . . . you found a home in it. I know you did. I saw it in you.”