“Invisible Friend Jesus, why won’t you help me get my books published?”
He sits next to me on the couch, his bare foot crossed over his knee, and I see him roll his eyes a little.
I huff and glare at him. “Don’t roll your eyes at me.”
He rolls his eyes again, with a theatrical deliberateness this time. “I’m Jesus, I’ll roll my eyes if I want.”
“Oh, that’s real nice, pull rank.” I cross my arms and look away, forcing down the lump in my throat. “You told me once that you’d help me get my books published, one way or another.”
“I did say that, yes.”
I risk a glance at him; he’s smirking and tapping his long fingers against the armrest of the couch. My hurt and anger slowly ebb away. “Invisible Friend Jesus, will you help me to not care about my books getting rejected?” I ask.
He grins in a way that gives me a pang of happiness. “Yes,” he says. “Watch this.”
He jabs a graceful finger towards the orange kitten, who immediately gets tangled up in her own tail, gets scared, jumps straight up into the air, then scampers off and runs into a wall. That seems to knock the sense back into her, and she shakes Invisible Friend Jesus’ spell off and sits nonchalantly licking a paw, like she’d meant the whole thing to happen. I cover my mouth with my hand, trying to stifle my laughter. “That’s mean,” I say, and he shrugs.
“She’s okay.” He sighs and tousles my hair. “Feel better?”
“Yes.” I squint over at him. “Feeling better is the same thing…forgetting about all that marketing bullshit is what I need to do, because then I keep writing.”
“It’s what you love to do,” he says.
“And if I keep writing, eventually I’ll get published, even if I self-publish.”
“Correct.” He smiles. “You just have to stop arguing, and start asking the right questions, Tink.”