Chapter 4
The rejection email stared back at me from the screen of my phone.
I’d sent “At Blanding House” to Dime Detective almost 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.
“The recycling bin on my computer. No! I’m going to print it out and put it in the trash and then burn the trash.”
“But it’ll still be on the computer.”
“But it’ll feel cathartic. And catharsis is the most important thing in the world. After snacks.”
On cue, Hugo slid me the bowl of fruit. I picked out half a grape.
(Hugo had once, in total seriousness, told me it was better if the grapes were cut in half; presumably because otherwise, like a baby, I might choke on them.) Hugo leaned on the counter, head resting in his hand, his expression thoughtful.
“What?” I finally asked. “And now is not an opportunity for a discussion about how I use my writing time.”
“I don’t know if now is the right time.”
That made me take a second, longer look at him. It took me a moment to recognize the barely tamped-down excitement in his face.
“What?” I asked. “What is it?”
“No, I want to talk about you. I want to strategize. You know the best thing you can do after a rejection is send the story out again. You should send it out today, as a matter of fact. Have you already tried Hitchcock’s?”
“Hugo Fairchild, what in the world is going on?”
“I don’t want to make this about me. This is about you. Let’s focus on you.”
“I’m going to commit suicide by grape if you don’t tell me right now.”
His smile was like the sun coming up. “Phil called. Like, five minutes ago. I still can’t believe it; I think I’m in shock.”
Phil was his agent. And my parents’ agent. And he’d love to be my agent if I weren’t, as Hugo had once memorably put it, so willfully set on throwing away everything good you’ve got in your life.
“Phil called?”
“He sold it. He sold Mirror Box.”
“He—”
“He sold it, Dash! At auction! I can’t even wrap my head around it, around that kind of money.”
For a single, selfish moment, all I could see was that single-sentence rejection.
And then Hugo’s face came back into focus, the first shadow of doubt as he looked at me, and I forced a smile.
“Hu, baby, that’s great! That’s amazing!
I’m so proud of you!” Somehow, I got around the island and kissed him. “Oh my God, that’s wonderful!”
“It’s unreal,” he said with a laugh.
“What’s unreal is that we’re sitting here eating fruit! We should be celebrating. We need champagne! Do we have champagne?”
We didn’t, it turned out. So we decided to go buy some.
As we were letting ourselves out of the apartment, Hugo talked nonstop.
“He’s still trying to set up a call with the editor, and I’m sure there will be edits, and they don’t give you the money all at once—God, you know that.
I’m sorry, I’m babbling. But Dash, the money.
” He laughed again. He sounded giddy, drunk without a drop of champagne.
“Baby, this is going to change everything. You won’t have to teach.
You won’t have to write. You won’t have to do anything, not anymore. ”