Chapter 21
Every hour of the last two weeks has crept by like a creaky carousel on its last legs.
When I was under a month-long writing deadline, the days flew by, terrorizing me. Now every minute crawls by, also terrorizing me.
“You know, you’re acting kind of crazy,” Olivia says as I hit the Refresh button on my email for the 4,586,345th time of the day.
To her credit, she’s sitting on the couch, having discovered something I introduced her to three days prior: popcorn covered in chocolate chips. And she’s enjoying herself.
The result of the microwave popcorn and thorough dousing of chocolate chips is a sticky, melty chocolatey mess—a fact that normally would have led to a half-hour lecture about salt, sugar, and the importance of eating at the kitchen table. But here she is, in actual pajama pants at ten in the morning, eating popcorn on the couch.
Honestly, I have never been prouder.
“And that’s coming from me,” she adds, giving me a little eyebrow wiggle before popping another piece of popcorn into her mouth.
Two nights ago, after she caught me checking my email every other minute, I finally let her in on my little secret. Told her the truth about how I’ve secretly longed to establish myself in the book world, not just as an editor but as an author. And to my surprise, she didn’t balk at it. Not even when I told her my chosen genre.
“I’ve always secretly wanted to go into fitness,” she said when I told her, digging her way through a bowl of popcorn in her yoga pants.
“Fitness?” I exclaimed. “Like . . . as a job?”
She looked at me and shrugged. “I know it’s not the most unique idea out there, or profitable, but I love working out. I love everything about it, really. The smell of a newly unrolled mat. The look of those large glass doors I walk through when I enter the gym. The sweat rolling down my arms as I push to new limits. I love it. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to own my own.”
I stared at her. It was the first time in my life she had ever said anything, anything, about anything outside finance, and yet . . . it made sense. In fact, as soon as she said it, I couldn’t imagine her doing anything else.
“You should do it. You should own a gym.”
She gave an incredulous laugh. “Yeah, right. Why work on two degrees when you could be working on two degrees while opening your own business? You sound like me.”
“No. I mean, drop out of school. You’ve only got so many hours in this life. You may as well spend them doing something you’re passionate about.”
She raised a brow. “You’re stealing from my speech now.”
I grinned. “I’ve heard them so much, the words just pop out of my mouth sometimes. I’m like a walking motivational poster.”
“Yeah? Then here’s another one that you should consider,” she said and glanced at the phone in my hand. “Waiting impatiently for something that will inevitably happen either way is a waste of time. Enjoy the journey, not just the destination.”
And begrudgingly I put my phone away that evening and sat beside her for the movie.
It was a movie we’d seen several times before but that, as I could hear it for once without the Peloton whizzing in the background and the distraction of captions in French, felt like the first time.
But the fact is now, despite all the positive messages about enjoying and living for each moment, I can’t escape the reality that it has been fourteen days with no email from Claire.
Fourteen.
And regardless of how much better off I’d be embracing the mild Saturday morning without checking the screen, the fact is I need to know.
I need to see what she thinks the second the email arrives.
I need to finally have this torturous waiting end.
One way or another, even, I need to—
I stop.
Because there, as if willed into existence by my longing, the new email blips onto the screen.
A little heart-stopping ding goes off.
A little number 1 pops up beside the word In-box.
1.
1 new email.
From Claire Donovan.
Even Olivia has heard the ding and noticed, probably by my petrified face, something is up. “Is it her?” she says.
I can’t say anything. I just nod.
My arms feel all prickly.
And I just stare at the bold subject line: RE: Manuscript.
This is it.
In regard to my manuscript. From Claire.
“Well?” Olivia says.
My finger hovers over the mouse, but it has trouble clicking.
Because all of a sudden I am acutely aware that I’m standing on the precipice of knowing and not knowing.
And really, the not-knowing land was not such an imposing land to live in after all, when you think of it. In not-knowing land there was still hope. There was still a chance that things would work out for me. In knowing land, though—if I step into the Land of the Know—I’m going to know without question. And if the answer isn’t what I want, I can’t strap hope back onto my back for safekeeping. No, hope is for those who stay in the Land of the Not Know.
Vaguely, I realize Olivia is now hovering over my shoulder.
“It’s going to be okay either way, Sav,” I hear her say quietly and feel a squeeze on my shoulders. “C’mon.”
I press my lips together. “You know, I do often tell authors that the longer it takes for me to reply, the better the odds are in their favor. It takes me a second to send a rejection when I know something won’t work. But working through a manuscript with real potential . . . There’s a lot to it. It takes a lot of time.”
Olivia nods encouragingly. “And she’s already said how much potential your book has,” she adds. “Way before you made those revisions.”
I nod, slowly garnering courage to press the button. “That’s true.”
“I read some myself. It hooked me from the start.”
“Mmm,” I murmur, although I can’t help being aware of the fact that if that were entirely true, she’d have finished it two days ago when I gave it to her.
“I’m all the way to page 86!” she exclaims as though that really says something.
And to be fair, she’s never been a big reader. At least, not of material that talks about anything fun. In her world, that probably really does mean something.
“C’mon,” she urges and lifts her face into a grin. “I’ll take you out to celebrate tonight. Just for opening it. Either way.”
The excitement in her eyes is the penny that tips the scales, and with a final nod, I turn to face the computer. And click.
From: Claire Donovan
Received: 10:03 AM
To: Savannah Cade
Subject: RE: Manuscript
Dear Savannah,
It is with deep regret that I must tell you that Baird Books will not be moving forward with your manuscript. Although I was greatly impressed by the final product you sent, my own opinion seems to vary from the team as a whole, and I have been unsuccessful in my efforts to sway them. These are hard days, as I’m sure you know. The competition is quite fierce. Nevertheless, I have no doubt you will find a wonderful home for your story. You truly do have much to be proud of.
Best wishes,
Claire Donovan
Chief Editor, Romance
Baird Books Publishing
For a long minute, neither of us speak.
I read the email again. And again. Quite solemn. Quite still.
My book is rejected.
My dream . . . crushed.
After my fourth reread, I realize Olivia is no longer standing behind me but is in the corner of the living room, a phone pressed to her ear.
“Yes, I’d like to order for delivery, please. What are your specials?” She pauses, listening. “Yes, that’ll be fine. Bring it all. Yes. All of it . . . All.”