Page 29

I push my hands into my forehead, urging myself to take deep breaths. I’ve had bouts with perfectionism before, but this should be easy. My favorite thing about Professor Everett’s class is that genre fiction is not only accepted but encouraged, which I know isn’t the case in all writing programs. I’ve read several hundred romance novels and written my own. I’m in a relationship with someone I love. If anyone should be able to write romance right now, it should be me.

Unless.

A strange, uncomfortable revelation whispers at the back of my mind.

I’ve never written while in love.

Sure, I’ve been in relationships—but never love, the overwhelming, belly-swoop, stars-in-my-eyes feeling I have with Neil. It doesn’t make sense that I wouldn’t be able to write about it now that I know what it feels like. I should be more inspired, the words spilling out too quickly for me to catch them all. My hands should be tripping over themselves on the keyboard.

Yet at the end of an hour, I’ve somehow only written a single paragraph, and I detest Amara with every fiber of my being.

A shadow pauses in front of my table, an immediate relief washing over me.

“Hey! Rowan,” says Kait, and when a few people shush her, a whispered: “Hey.” She’s in an almost identical sweater, which confirms my theory.

“Hey. I’m actually working on Professor Everett’s short story right now.”

“Ooh, I just finished. Need a reader?”

I shut my laptop a little too quickly, reluctant to admit how much it’s putting me through the wringer. Ugh. Now I’m even thinking in clichés. “It’s not ready yet.”

“I get it. Some things need longer to cook than others.”

“How’s the class going for you so far?” I ask. “I loved what you read last week about collecting seashells in Maine.” Sharing work in class: something else I don’t have the courage for yet.

A blush tinges her cheeks. Kait doesn’t often get embarrassed, but when she does, it’s usually because someone’s paying her a compliment. “Thanks. The class isn’t as challenging as I thought it would be. Everett was a little intimidating at first, but I think she’s a secret softie.”

“I wish I could say the same.” Isn’t as challenging as I thought. I used to be that person. “I don’t know if I’m exactly thriving.”

“Well, if you let me read something of yours, maybe I could help you out.”

I give her this grimace as I slurp the last of my latte.

“I hear you. Fan fiction probably made that part easier, even if I wasn’t using my real name online,” she says, sliding into the chair across from me.

“It’s never a struggle for you?”

A shrug. “Sometimes.”

“But… you like it. Right?”

“I like having written,” she says. “No, no, I do love it. It’s just not always one hundred percent love, right? There’re some negative emotions in there too. The ‘Is this actually good enough, or am I wasting my time?’ or ‘Am I kidding myself thinking I’ll ever be published someday?’ ” Then she lets out a sigh and drops her head to the table, short blond hair fanning out across it. “Or maybe I’m just grouchy today. Gabriel was going to visit for Thanksgiving, but turns out he didn’t book the flight when I asked him to. Now it’s too expensive and the trains are completely sold out. So it’s not happening.”

“Oh no. I’m sorry,” I say, meaning it.

She pulls herself back up, props her elbow on her chin. “It’s fine. I mean, it’s not fine, but it will be. We’ll see each other in December anyway, but still. It’s not easy.”

“It’s like everything the world told us about long-distance relationships was right.”

“Hate it when that happens.”

I glance down at my phone, realizing I don’t know what Neil’s up to tonight. Of course we can’t know what the other is doing all the time, and it’s not that I’m worried—I’m not. It’s just that even after my trip, I can’t always visualize how he’s spending his time, and that makes him feel farther away.

“As thrilling as the library is on a Friday night,” Kait says, “Tegan texted me that a bunch of them are going to meet up in the Common for a little… what did they call it?” She swipes at her phone. “Ah. ‘A drunken trip down literary memory lane,’ aka sharing some of our old writing. Sounds amazing and horrifying. I just don’t know if I should bring the Chronicles of Narnia self-insert I very clearly plagiarized or the Sherlock slash fics. Ooh, or maybe the semi-satanic poetry?”

Kait has layers, I’m learning.

“Oh God, I have too much to choose from,” I say. “All of it’s way too embarrassing.”