Page 78 of It Couldn't Be You
I rolled my eyes. “Says the writer.”
“In pen, sure. In person?” He shook his head. “In person, not so much. “
“Gabe, for real, you’re one of the least cruel people I know.” I was looking at his mug, not in his eyes.
“Well, I feel bit like a jerk.”
“I think that’s a sibling thing. I wouldn’t know, personally. But from my studies, I think they can sometimes make you feel very good and cozy, and then other times they make you feel like a big ole jerk.”
“This is from your research, eh?” his eyes creased in a smile.
“Yes, my research.” I nodded.
“Well, I’m gonna head out,” he said. He patted the bar and then waved a few fingers goodbye.
He headed toward the door, but Katie crashed into him halfway there. She wrapped her arms around him and gave him a tight squeeze. He hugged her back, lifting her off the ground, and the two laughed like when they were ten years old. She told him to put her down, and he said “never,” but eventually did.
The people in the shop were smiling because the customers knew the loud, loving Katie Hernandez. Honestly, most of them had known KatieandGabriel both since they were kids and recognized that laughter almost as well as I did.
Twenty-Seven
Ihad been working on essays since January. I told myself I was writing them “just for myself.” I saved them in a folder on my laptop I named “Reflections.” I was getting back in touch with what it felt like to write as a teenager when my writing was often passionate, inspired, personal, and not written as an assignment or for a particular set of eyes.
There was a piece about Katie and her relationship with home. I was thinking about that piece after her argument with Gabriel. I found myself back at the keys that evening, curled up in a blanket on my balcony and writing as the sky went pink and purple over and around me. I reworked sentences, editing my wording.
While writing, I realized that I had figured something out after listening to her talk with Gabriel, and it made the whole essay click. Then, boldly, I emailed it to Katie with a message asking,Can I send this piece out? It’s about someone I love most in the world and the city she loves with her whole heart.
A few hours later, while I was reading a book in bed, she replied to my email.Yes. I love it, and I love you too.
That was an early March night. Weeks went by as I carried this essay in the back of my mind. I frothed milk and poured it over espresso, wiped counters, finished the book I’d been reading that one night in bed, ate dinners with friends, and all with that very personal story sitting in the back of my mind, waiting in the little folder on my laptop.
To share with the world, or not? I didn’t usually share the things I wrote just for myself. I could submit the stories that were very impersonal, about trips, morning routines, and news around the world. But nothing that sat in my little folder named “Reflections.”
I would return to my place on the balcony. I would edit those essays. I even started another. I made lists of places I could, would, and should submit these essays. I found the requirements. I found the contacts. I was organized and prepared. But I couldn’t bring myself to share them.
“Have you heard back about my essay?” Katie asked over cobb salads during our lunch break. It had been a few weeks since that night on the balcony. We were sitting at a diner a few doors down from Coffee & Commas at a table outside.
“Youressay?” I asked.
“The one you wrote about me,” she said, as she poured dressing on her salad.
“Myessay about you?”
“Yes,my essay,” she said with a twinkle in her eyes.
“Well, I haven’t actually submitted it anywhere,” I said casually.
“What, why not? It was really good. I know I’m a wee bit biased, but it really was a great piece.”
“I just…” I was trying to find the words. “I feel a little hesitant about submitting it. I’m actually sitting on a few personal essays that I really like that weren’t writing assignments I picked up. These are pieces straight from my heart.” I tapped my chest. “But every time I go to submit them…I just can’t bring myself to do it. I just sit and stare at my laptop.”
“Em.” Katie stabbed a big piece of lettuce. “I’m just going to say it. These people aren’t all going to be Terrence’s who show up in your inbox singing your praises. You have to do it yourself now. You are a writer, and from what I’ve heard, it’s a life of vulnerability. I’ve seen the Goodreads comments. It can be harsh out there.”
I groaned into my salad.
“But it’s worth it, right? Why don’t you just send these essays out with zero expectations? Just put your goodness out there in the world, and if you get some good responses back, how amazing! How great. If you get nothing, or rejections, say, ‘Hey, I kind of expected it might go that way’ and move on. Kind of like that time I got on the dating apps. I put all the profiles out there. Do you remember that?”
“Yes, that was like not even a full year ago, Katie.” I took a bite of tomato.
