Bonus Chapter 32: The Magazine

The email came on Monday morning while Milo was in barn darkroom developing second gallery leftovers, red light, yellow gloves too big, Lucien helping and ruining again, white ruin number four now, because they ruined again in Provence barn.

Lucien's phone buzzed. He never checked phone in darkroom because Henri said "if you check phone in barn, I will throw it in lavender," but this email was to Milo's email, not Lucien's, forwarded from Lena, subject: VOGUE — PHOTOGRAPHER MILO CHEN.

Milo read it with yellow gloves on, hands shaking, chemical smell, red light making email glow red.

_Dear Milo Chen, We saw your Provence gallery photos on I*******m, from village lady who posted lavender and blue shirt boy. We love your eye. We want you to shoot for Vogue, Paris, fashion week, 10 days, $20,000, plus cover possibility. You would shoot real models, real clothes, real Paris. Please reply._

Milo stared at email. Vogue. Paris. Fashion week. $20,000. Cover possibility. Real models, not babies with mismatched socks. Real clothes, not blue good luck shirt with three drool patches.

He showed Lucien, with yellow gloves still on, email glowing red.

Lucien read, CEO face, not boyfriend face, reading numbers, $20,000, cover possibility, Paris, fashion week, real.

"This is big," Lucien said, quiet, red light on his face making him look serious. "This is Vogue. This is cover possibility. This is $20,000 for 10 days. This is real photographer dream."

Milo nodded, but his stomach tight, like baby client day, like first gallery day, like meeting Henri day, like wedding day, but different tight, because this was dream but also scary dream.

"I... I shoot babies," Milo whispered, in red light, with yellow gloves. "I shoot lavender that is real purple and grey-green that I say purple. I shoot Mrs. A rice and beans and Sarah toddler drool. I don't shoot real models, real clothes, real Paris."

"You can shoot real models," Lucien said, taking yellow gloves off Milo, holding his black-nailed ring hands, freckle rings shining red. "You shot Tokyo rain, you shot Central Park rain, you shot baby with colic who laughed, you shot my father who never laughs and made him laugh. You can shoot Paris models."

Milo looked at email again. Vogue. Paris. $20,000. Cover.

He thought about Paris — not Provence lavender Paris, but real Paris, Eiffel, fashion, cold city like New York but more cold, more tall buildings, more CEOs who talk Tokyo.

He thought about his 20 babies, 20 families, Sarah toddler who drools, Mrs. A grandson who started photo class, village old ladies with lavender, his mom who calls every Sunday saying warm.

He thought about blue good luck shirt with three drool patches. Real models wear white suits, not blue shirts with drool patches.

He thought about Lucien, who would be alone in penthouse with fridge that has 100 photos, or alone in Provence house with fridge that has photos, while Milo in Paris for 10 days shooting real models.

He closed laptop.

"I don't want," he said, quiet, but loud in barn darkroom.

Lucien stared. "You don't want Vogue?"

"I don't want real models, real clothes, real Paris for 10 days," Milo said, taking yellow gloves, putting them back on, developing again, chemical smell, red light, ring shining. "I want babies with mismatched socks. I want lavender real purple. I want Mrs. A rice and beans. I want Sarah toddler drool on my blue shirt, fourth drool patch. I want you in white shirt with lavender dirt, fourth dirt patch. I want our table forever, not Vogue table."

Lucien laughed, real laugh, French laugh like Henri, loud in barn, echoing.

"You said no to Vogue?" Lucien asked, holding Milo's yellow-gloved hands.

"I said no to Vogue," Milo said, nodding, freckles bright even in red light. "I said no to $20,000 and cover possibility. I said yes to baby money and gallery money and Provence gallery money. I said yes to our table forever."

Lucien kissed him in red darkroom, with chemical smell, with photos dripping, with white ruin number four hanging.

"My husband photographer said no to Vogue," Lucien whispered after kiss. "My husband photographer who once had box in moldy basement that said DO NOT THROW said no to Vogue because he wants babies and lavender."

Milo nodded, crying a little, but warm cry, not cold cry.

"I will email them," Milo said, taking laptop again, yellow gloves off, black nails typing, ring shining.

He wrote: Dear Vogue, Thank you for email. I love your magazine but I shoot babies with mismatched socks and lavender that is real purple and my husband in white shirt with lavender dirt. I don't shoot real models. I shoot love that drools. Sorry. Milo Chen, photographer with blue shirt and three drool patches.

He sent.

Vogue emailed back in one hour: We understand. But if you change mind, we have cover. Your eye is love, we saw. Love is Vogue too. But we respect babies and lavender.

Milo showed Lucien, and Lucien said "They said love is Vogue too, they are right, you are Vogue, but you are our Vogue, not Paris Vogue."

That night, Milo told 20 people — Mrs. A, Sarah, Lena, Eleanor, Henri, mom, village people — that he said no to Vogue.

Mrs. Alvarez said "You said no to $20,000? Milo, honey, $20,000 is many rice and beans!"

Sarah said "You said no to cover? But you have cover already, our babies cover our fridges!"

Lena said "You said no to Vogue】? Lucien, your husband is crazy, but good crazy, like you, you both crazy, perfect."

Eleanor said "You said no to Paris? But Provence is better than Paris, lavender better than Eiffel, you are right, my son."

Henri said "You said no to $20,000? Good. $20,000 is small. Your eye is bigger than $20,000. Your eye sees purple when grey-green, that is bigger than Vogue."

Milo's mom said "My son said no to big magazine because he wants babies and lavender? My son is warm now, very warm, warmest."

And Lucien said nothing, just held Milo's ring hand, with three drool patches on blue shirt, with three dirt patches on white shirt, with four white ruins now, with family key and white ruin still hanging on lavender stem outside, now one year plus 10 days later, still hanging.

That night, Milo taped Vogue email printed — printed on paper, because he wanted to tape rejection, not just acceptance — on fridge in Provence house, next to wedding photo, anniversary photo, second gallery photo, proposal photo, baby drool photo, gallery invitation, family key photo, key and white ruin one year later photo.

He wrote, with ring hand, with Vogue rejection handwriting:

I SAID NO TO VOGUE, PARIS, FASHION WEEK, $20,000, COVER POSSIBILITY, REAL MODELS, REAL CLOTHES. I SAID YES TO BABIES WITH MISMATCHED SOCKS, LAVENDER REAL PURPLE, RICE AND BEANS, 100 PANCAKES, BLUE SHIRT WITH THREE DROOL PATCHES, WHITE SHIRT WITH THREE DIRT PATCHES, HUSBAND WHO GETS LAVENDER DIRT, OUR TABLE FOREVER. I AM NOT VOGUE, I AM OUR VOGUE. - M WHO SAID NO

Lucien added:

He said no to Vogue. He said no to $20,000 and cover. He said yes to babies and lavender and me. He is crazy, good crazy, like me, perfect crazy. He is our Vogue, not Paris Vogue. Good possessive includes Vogue now too. - L

Eleanor added:

He said no to Paris, yes to Provence, I knew Provence better than Paris, lavender better than Eiffel, 100 pancakes better than $20,000, I was right again. - E

And that was magazine chapter, bonus chapter 32, where Milo said no to Vogue, Paris, $20,000, cover, real models, real clothes, real Paris, and said yes to babies, lavender real purple, rice and beans, 100 pancakes, blue shirt with three drool patches, white shirt with three dirt patches, four white ruins, family key and white ruin still hanging on lavender stem one year plus 10 days later, still there, still home, still forever, our Vogue, not Paris Vogue, warm Vogue, forever Vogue.