Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 52663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
“Good to know,” I say. “You should know there are plenty of guys who’d take it.”
Color creeps into her cheeks, but she doesn’t look away. She just presses her lips to the edge of the mug and takes a sip.
“I just want to feel what everyone claims to feel,” she says. “That’s all.”
There’s more beneath that, but she doesn’t offer it.
She reaches for a croissant, tears off a corner, and places it on my side of the tray. “Figured you’d skip breakfast again.”
I nod toward the empty chair across from me. “Sit.”
“I should finish a poem.”
“You’re lying.”
Her smile is brief, but it softens the tension in her shoulders. She sits, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and I slice into one of the croissants, handing her half.
“What’s the turnaround time for one of your poems?” I ask.
“For you?”
“For anyone.”
“If I’m focused, a few days.”
I nod again. “I’ll wait.”
Her lips press together like she’s trying not to smile. I watch the way she moves—small shifts, subtle tells. She’s not guarded, exactly. She’s bracing. Like she’s waiting to see if she can really settle into this moment or if it’s going to vanish the second she does.
“You’re not wearing a shirt again,” she says, and there’s a hint of deflection in her tone.
“I paint shirtless.”
“It’s distracting.”
“Don’t look.”
“I dare you to wear one tomorrow.”
“You suck at dares.”
“You suck at focus.”
“I’m focused right now.”
“Not in the ways that matter.”
I tilt my head, considering her. “So a shirt would help your creative process?”
“It would help my sanity.”
“You hum when you write,” I say. “And talk to yourself.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You do. It’s distracting.”
“Then maybe I’ll wear duct tape and you’ll wear a raggedy old shirt and we’ll call it even.”
“I don’t own raggedy old shirts.”
“I’m sure you can paint one into existence.”
I let the silence stretch, watching her mouth twitch as she tries not to smile again.
“I’ve got a delivery to make,” I say, standing. “Out of town. I’ll be back late.”
She doesn’t respond, but something shifts in her expression. Barely a flicker, like she’s not sure if she’s supposed to care.
I shouldn’t say anything else. I’ve already touched her too much. Let her in too far. This thing between us—whatever it is—is already closer to the edge than it should be. I should keep my distance. I should leave it there.
But the words are out before I can stop them.
“Want to come with me?”
Her head tilts slightly, surprise flickering across her face.
I don’t move. Don’t try to take it back.
She doesn’t answer right away, but her eyes stay locked on mine. Searching. Considering.
And in the quiet that follows, I know she’s already said yes.
13
EMILY
A few afternoons later
I’m rushing down the stairs with a poetry binder tucked under my arm. My “performing poet” badge is swinging from the lanyard around my neck, and my pale pink dress is fluttering with every step.
“Mom?” I call out. “Mom! How much longer do you need to get ready?”
“Huh?” She looks up from her phone when I reach the living room. “Ready to go where?”
“Funny.” I roll my eyes. “My poetry reading. We need to leave now if we’re going to make it to New York in time.”
“That’s … today?”
“Don’t tell me you forgot.”
“I am so sorry.” Her voice softens. “I did forget.”
“Well, I’ll forgive you if you hurry up get dressed. We can be a little late.”
“Well, I…” She shoots me a sympathetic smile. “I promised Aidan I’d go somewhere with him this evening.”
“He’s more than welcome to come, too.”
“We’re sightseeing on his yacht,” she says. “He left to go pick up the captain.”
“Please tell me you’re joking.” I cross my arms. “This has been scheduled for months and you promised.”
“Won’t there be other readings?”
Behind me, I hear the fridge open, a bottle clinking.
Cole.
“Perfect!” my mom says, overly bright. “Cole, would you mind taking Emily to her reading in the city?”
He shuts the fridge and leans against the counter. “Not at all.”
My hands tighten around the binder. My throat is full of words I can’t say without screaming.
I storm off to the garage.
14
COLE
Emily hasn’t uttered a word in fifty miles.
Staring straight ahead, she’s clenching her jaw and shaking her head every few minutes. It looks like she’s fighting between the urge to cry and the urge to scream.
As much as I want to ask her what happened between her and her mother, I hold back.
It’s none of my business.
The windshield wipers swatting the rain serve as the only sound between us.
When we arrive at the café—Petals & Notes—I have to circle the block five times. The lack of parking in New York is always a reminder why I’ll never take the bait and build my art gallery here.
“You don’t have to come in,” Emily says, finally speaking. “I’m sure you’d rather do something else than watch a bunch of writers read poems, so… maybe just drop me off and then come back in a few hours?”