so damn sensitive. When was he going to grow a tougher hide? Mark had told him for years he needed to stop taking everything so personally.
A cutting remark from a publisher, editor, reader, or, God forbid, another writer, transformed him into an emotional wreck, drowning in snot and tissues one minute and then screaming invectives at his computer screen the next. Bad reviews plunged him into the depths of hell, and he’d retire to his bed, comforted by bags of Cheetos and reruns of chick flicks. He’d emerge, days later, looking and smelling like a homeless bum. Eventually, Mark put his foot down and insisted on reading everything first. Seth was only allowed to look at review sites when he was given the okay, and he no longer attended conferences unless Mark had enough vacation days to accompany him. Seth knew it was childish and he could have refused, but part of him was flattered that his partner loved him enough to protect him from his own demons.
Now he wondered if Mark’s body had been some kind of sponge, absorbing all the bad juju that should have rightfully gone to Seth. Many cultures in Western Asia and the Mediterranean believed in the evil eye, a malevolent glare that brought misfortune to the receiver. They wore tiny blue pendants in the shape of an eye to ward off the bad wishes and envious thoughts. In theory, the incongruous blue stone acted like a bulletproof vest, shielding the wearer from malignant vibes floating around in the ether as one became more and more successful. Perhaps if Seth had been capable of handling the normal wear and tear on his psyche the way many other writers did, he wouldn’t be in such a pickle—traveling through the UK on the arm of a reluctant companion.
Was that what Mark complained about? His clinginess and childish need for attention? Bryce had been so quick to defend Mark, Seth had to wonder what horrible things he’d shared about their marriage. Seth had been positive there were no secrets between him and his late partner, but the suicide had proven that there were layers to Mark he hadn’t uncovered. What other surprises would he have to deal with going forward?
Determined to be more resourceful and not impose on Bryce any more than he already had, Seth wiped away his tears, signed the book, and began to explore the magnificent shoppers’ paradise. After walking through different departments, he ended up purchasing a few trinkets: a key chain with the Harrods logo, two refrigerator magnets—a corgi and a red telephone booth—a small tin of Scottish shortbread, a bag of English toffee, and a decadent cashmere scarf from Tom Ford’s boutique. Seth realized there was no way he’d be able to cover everything in one afternoon. This was the type of store that would take an entire day or more, but a slice of Harrods was better than nothing. At least he could check one item off his bucket list.
He took the elevator down to the basement level, where he and Bryce had agreed to meet. After inquiring, he was told there was a small café toward the back. Passing through the doors, he scanned the area but didn’t see Bryce. Checking his wristwatch to make sure of the time, he saw that he was a few minutes early and decided to use the restroom first. The bug that had wreaked such havoc earlier seemed to have moved out of his system, thankfully. He rinsed his hands after doing his business, grabbed his two shopping bags, and stepped outside.
Bryce hadn’t appeared yet so Seth requested a table for two. He put his shopping bags on the floor beside his chair and picked up the menu to see if there was anything bland enough to stick to his finicky innards. When the waiter reappeared, he asked for a glass of fizzy mineral water, a bowl of potato and leek soup, and some oyster crackers. They seemed like a safe choice. Once that was out of the way, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and tapped on the Facebook app to see what was happening in his writing world.
He was so
A cutting remark from a publisher, editor, reader, or, God forbid, another writer, transformed him into an emotional wreck, drowning in snot and tissues one minute and then screaming invectives at his computer screen the next. Bad reviews plunged him into the depths of hell, and he’d retire to his bed, comforted by bags of Cheetos and reruns of chick flicks. He’d emerge, days later, looking and smelling like a homeless bum. Eventually, Mark put his foot down and insisted on reading everything first. Seth was only allowed to look at review sites when he was given the okay, and he no longer attended conferences unless Mark had enough vacation days to accompany him. Seth knew it was childish and he could have refused, but part of him was flattered that his partner loved him enough to protect him from his own demons.
Now he wondered if Mark’s body had been some kind of sponge, absorbing all the bad juju that should have rightfully gone to Seth. Many cultures in Western Asia and the Mediterranean believed in the evil eye, a malevolent glare that brought misfortune to the receiver. They wore tiny blue pendants in the shape of an eye to ward off the bad wishes and envious thoughts. In theory, the incongruous blue stone acted like a bulletproof vest, shielding the wearer from malignant vibes floating around in the ether as one became more and more successful. Perhaps if Seth had been capable of handling the normal wear and tear on his psyche the way many other writers did, he wouldn’t be in such a pickle—traveling through the UK on the arm of a reluctant companion.
Was that what Mark complained about? His clinginess and childish need for attention? Bryce had been so quick to defend Mark, Seth had to wonder what horrible things he’d shared about their marriage. Seth had been positive there were no secrets between him and his late partner, but the suicide had proven that there were layers to Mark he hadn’t uncovered. What other surprises would he have to deal with going forward?
Determined to be more resourceful and not impose on Bryce any more than he already had, Seth wiped away his tears, signed the book, and began to explore the magnificent shoppers’ paradise. After walking through different departments, he ended up purchasing a few trinkets: a key chain with the Harrods logo, two refrigerator magnets—a corgi and a red telephone booth—a small tin of Scottish shortbread, a bag of English toffee, and a decadent cashmere scarf from Tom Ford’s boutique. Seth realized there was no way he’d be able to cover everything in one afternoon. This was the type of store that would take an entire day or more, but a slice of Harrods was better than nothing. At least he could check one item off his bucket list.
He took the elevator down to the basement level, where he and Bryce had agreed to meet. After inquiring, he was told there was a small café toward the back. Passing through the doors, he scanned the area but didn’t see Bryce. Checking his wristwatch to make sure of the time, he saw that he was a few minutes early and decided to use the restroom first. The bug that had wreaked such havoc earlier seemed to have moved out of his system, thankfully. He rinsed his hands after doing his business, grabbed his two shopping bags, and stepped outside.
Bryce hadn’t appeared yet so Seth requested a table for two. He put his shopping bags on the floor beside his chair and picked up the menu to see if there was anything bland enough to stick to his finicky innards. When the waiter reappeared, he asked for a glass of fizzy mineral water, a bowl of potato and leek soup, and some oyster crackers. They seemed like a safe choice. Once that was out of the way, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and tapped on the Facebook app to see what was happening in his writing world.
He was so
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