The Decoy Girlfriend(59)
“So you go into each book bracing yourself for the worst? It must be hard to write that way.” There’s no judgment in Taft’s tone, but Freya bristles a bit anyway.
He doesn’t get it, and she can’t blame him for that, but he needs to understand.
“You put your heart in your book,” she says, “and then you send it out to literary agents who basically decide if that book is good enough for them to represent. I can’t begin to count how many seemed excited at first, then ghosted like I wasn’t even worth a rejection.”
She chances a peek at him. Most nonwriters don’t care about publishing politics, feigning polite interest until a lull when they can change the topic to something they find more interesting.
Taft’s undivided attention is on her.
“But that was nothing compared to the ones who picked apart everything I loved and told me how much they hated it, how it was unmarketable, that it wasn’t even ready to query. Even though I never told them I was only eighteen, I was terrified they somehow knew, and someone would tell me I didn’t belong.”
Taft makes a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat that is both sexy and validating.
“Like, when Alma offered,” says Freya, “she told me she fell in love with my book and could champion it. That she already knew the perfect editors to sub it to, which she did. But even so, every time you send part of your heart out into the world, it just means dozens of more chances to be rejected, a ‘no’ waiting to happen.”
Now Taft’s leaning a little bit into her voice, like he’s listening extra hard.
“There’s this thing people say, totally cliché but it’s true. ‘It only takes one yes.’ Getting Alma’s felt like winning the lottery, but the noes never stop coming, even for super-successful authors. It’s probably the same for you?”
Taft whole-body nods. “I lose out on roles I want all the time. Sometimes I don’t even get a reason. Just a vague, unhelpful ‘They decided to go in a different direction’ or ‘You don’t have the right look.’ There are times I think I’ve been counted out before I even step foot in the room.”
Freya makes a face. “And, like, it’s not even always something you can improve on. Sometimes it’s just you they don’t like. Publishers, readers, random people who are ready to tell you all the reasons why you suck. Even when it’s constructive and tactful . . . And don’t get me wrong. Art should be critiqued. Once it’s out in the world it isn’t just mine to love and protect anymore, but it doesn’t make it any less brutal.”
For creatives, a thick skin is a must. For every one incredible person who connects with an artist’s work—with their heart—there are a dozen more who will happily tear it apart.
The truth is, honesty is rarely gentle. You learn to take what you get.
Taft steeples his fingers together, presses them against his lips. “When I first started acting, I was so excited every time someone had heard of me. I was so grateful that I existed to strangers. And as much as I will always love Once Bitten, as it got more popular, I wasn’t just Taft, anymore. I was a target.”
She knows. She remembers the reviews. And it doesn’t surprise her that Taft felt each one.
“And on the day that the show got canceled, when I felt so shit,” continues Taft, “I saw this Twitter thread about top-tier OB fanfic. And there was this one that I started reading, and it took my breath away. It felt like someone saw me. Understood my character. The writer said I inspired them, but the truth is, they inspired me. I’m so grateful they didn’t abandon the fic, because sometimes I still go back to binge the whole thing.”
Freya’s heart squeezes. “But you never reread anything. What made this the exception?”
“This line.” And then he quotes it: “?‘There is no greater magic in all the universes combined than someone who builds a home for you in their heart.’?”
Goddamn it, he’s quoting her. It may even be the sexiest thing he’s ever done.
“And in their author’s note,” Taft says, “they said that some chapters end before you’re ready, but it’s only one chapter, and you can always change the ending, so they were going to keep writing what they thought season two would look like. I told myself if they could keep going, so would I.”
“Of all the fanfics in all the world, he happened to click on mine,” Freya says under her breath.
“I’ve always wondered what happened to them,” he muses, looking a little lost in thought. “They haven’t updated with any new fic in a while, but I hope they’re still writing. Did you ever read it? It was called—” His eyes widen, and she can see him catching up. “Wait, what did you say?”
Her voice is deceptively neutral. “I have read it. At least five times.”
It’s a callback to their first breakfast together, and she can see the exact moment he gets it.
But she understands something now, too.
Her voice becomes choppy as she confesses, “When you create, your heart becomes fair game. And I guess I didn’t realize how much of my heart was . . . her heart. My mom’s.”
Taft covers her hand with his larger one. His solid, unwavering presence anchors her, and his silence holds space for her to continue when she’s ready.