right? Was Trent falling for the wrong woman all over again?
…
Later that night, they were back at the house, extra fairy bread and leftover meat pies stacked high in plastic containers that his mother had forced on them. She’d fussed over Cora, squeezing her with hugs and complimenting her in not-so-subtle whispers to Trent. She was exactly the kind of woman his mother always wanted him to bring home—sweet, friendly, eager to be part of the group.
Cora had even tried to help his mum clean up by sneaking into the house and washing the dishes before she got found out and shooed away. Rule number one, the birthday person never had to do the washing up.
But talk about the way to his mum’s heart…
“Your family is so delightful,” Cora said as she flopped down on the bed, still in her party dress but with feet bare and eye makeup a little smudged from all the laughter. Her hair was a wild halo, frizzed out from bouncing up and down in the jumping castle for a good portion of the afternoon. She’d taken to it with gusto, laughing and encouraging everyone to join her. “I had a good chat with your brother Jace and his wife. They were telling me all about his comics, and I’m hoping to put him in touch with someone from the agency. We’ve got some of the publishers looking for more graphic novels, and he’s so talented.”
“I hope they don’t send him a letter like the one your dad sent you,” Trent replied. “I’m not sure how well Jace would do with the rejection.”
The comment came not from any doubt of his brother’s talent—Jace was blessed with more talent in his little finger than most people had in their whole bodies. But rather, the feeling came from a deep-seated protectiveness he had for his siblings. He hated seeing them hurt.
Cora propped herself up on her forearms and watched him closely. Her expression was difficult to read, like a frozen lake trapping all her emotions beneath the surface. “My father is very direct with me because he knows I can take it. But rejection is part of publishing.”
“Even from your own father?” Trent asked.
“Yes,” Cora said. “And I prefer it that way. I’d rather know if I’m any good than waste my time because he was filling my head with lies just to be nice to me.”
There had to be a middle ground between those two things.
“Why is he the person to determine whether your work is good or not? Isn’t creative stuff all…subjective?”
It wasn’t like building a house, where the lines of good and bad were more clearly drawn. If your walls didn’t line up or your foundation wasn’t properly set, then it was bad. Easy call. But like he and Jace would argue about which Marvel movie was the best until they were both blue in the face, there was no right or wrong answer when it came to art.
Cora’s gaze slid away from him, and she pushed herself up to get off the bed. “He’s been a literary agent for over thirty years. He knows what he’s doing, and I trust his opinion.”
Trent wasn’t sure whether that was the right move. Why should one person—no matter how experienced—have the right to tell someone their work wasn’t good enough?
It had given Trent flashbacks to one dragon of an English teacher he’d had back in year seven. Her comments, scrawled in red pen across his essay, had made him feel small and stupid. But when Trent had shown his father, he’d pointed out all the areas where Trent had made good arguments.
It had been an important lesson in subjectivity.
Maybe that was one of the reasons Trent had always preferred building things over writing essays. The boundaries and goalposts were clear.
“You could always have my dad read it,” Trent offered. “He’s been teaching literature for just as long, and he’s been a lover of books his whole life. I’m sure he’d be happy to give you a second opinion.”
She turned away from him and tugged at the zipper of her dress. “You can’t compare teaching with publishing. They’re two different worlds.”
Trent had always hated that phrase, different worlds. Rochelle had thrown that term at him more than once, and he’d never understood it. Were they not all human? Were they not all made of flesh and blood?
Why did people feel the need to draw these artificial lines around themselves?
His mind flicked back to the earlier conversation with