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“Of course. I mean, it’s not like I do anything else with my writing. No one’s ever even read it.”

I study her in disbelief. “Wait, what? You’ve never shared your stuff?”

She chews on her lip with another shrug. “I never really thought about it. I write because it’s part of me, but I could never actually be a real writer.”

Huh? That doesn’t make any sense.

“Why?” I ask in genuine confusion.

“Why?”she scoffs. “I don’t know, because that’s not realistic. You don’t just get to ‘be a writer’ because you like to write.”

My skepticism must be all over my face when her eyes narrow.

“Don’t get mad,” I say, holding up my hands. “I’m just not understanding what you’re saying. You like to write, so write. Why do you have to put labels and expectations on it?”

Her brows knit, and suddenly it feels like we’ve landed at another crossroads. Maybe this is my chance to drag someone in therightdirection for once.

“Show me something,” I say before she can shut this down.

“What?”

“I want to see something you’ve written. I saw you come with a bag yesterday. You have to have something in there.”

“Oh, you know writers so well?”

Is she serious?

“Iama writer,” I remind her.

If she wants to play this game, fine, but she better brace herself. I may be easygoing on the outside, but I grew up sandwiched in the middle of nine siblings. I’m as competitive as they come.

She looks genuinely confused as I leave her on the couch to head down the hall. After retrieving my carryon from the office beside the second bedroom, I make my way back to the living room. She hasn’t moved from the couch and looks just as bewildered as when I left.

“I kept my stuff in the office,” I say as I comb through the contents of my bag. I may not have brought clean clothes or toiletries, but I never go anywhere without the most important things.

I find the beat-up notebook and tug it from the space beside my laptop.

“I do all my serious stuff on the computer, but carry this for any spurts of unexpected inspiration.”

Her eyes fill with understanding, like she knows exactly what I mean.

I flip it toward her and she stares at it. Her gaze scans the cover, then my face, like this is a joke. I motion for her to take it, and she tentatively reaches for it.

I get it. These journals are sacred. There are times I’m even hesitant to show Luke my unfiltered thoughts. But I really need her to see it. I need her to understand the only thing that separates my art from hers is my willingness to put it on display.

She finally seems to accept what’s happening and flips through the pages with slow reverence. She stops on a maze of scribbles for a new song that’s been haunting me for a while.

I’m relieved the words I wrote about her are safely on my phone.

“I know. It’s kind of a mess,” I say, explaining all the weird notations. “I hear the music in my head but it’s hard to get it down exactly right without a guitar or piano, so I just make notes to myself for later.”

“I thought you played drums.”

I snort a laugh. She’s too cute.

“I do. I also play guitar, keyboard, and violin. Well, with any skill, anyway. I dabble in a bunch of others, but those are my main ones.”

“Then you probably sing, too.” She says it like having another talent would be downright offensive.