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“Callie.” I blast her with a challenging look, making it clear I’m not backing down.

After a short standoff, she huffs in resignation. “Fine. Give me a minute.”

I’ll give her an hour if she finally opens up and admits to herself the truth about what she is.

“I’m not a writer.”

No, what she meant isI don’t have the accolades and validation of other people.

Guess what. It’s all bullshit. Sure it feels good for a split second, but it doesn’t last. No amount of awards and charts can drown out the screams of self-doubt when they take over. If anything, the higher you climb, the harder it is. How do you top the last success? How do you please people who thrive on finding the flaws in others? It’s a lot easier to surpass expectations when there are none. Once the bar is set, it’s impossible to jump over it.

I twist back at the sound of shuffling, but it’s not Callie returning with her notebook.

Luke hesitates as if he’s not sure if he should keep moving forward or scurry back into hiding. I swear, he’s become the world’s prettiest, most talented cockroach.

“You can stay, you know,” I say dryly. “I promise not to make you cuddle or talk about your feelings.”

His lips twitch in the slightest arc. “Damn. That’s the whole reason I came out here.”

I smirk, relieved when he circles the couch to drop a few feet from me.

“What are you doing anyway?” he asks.

“Actually—”

“Okay, but you have to promise not to laugh…” Callie shouts from the hallway.

Luke’s eyes widen, and I bite back a snort at what he must think is about to happen.

“Promise not to laugh at what?” he calls back when she steps into view.

She freezes. A terrified look spreads over her face.

Uh-oh.

“Um, nothing…” she mumbles before retreating back down the hall.

I ignore Luke’s utter confusion. We can deal with that in a minute.

“Callie!” I yell after her. “Where are you going? It’s fine! Come back!”

Nope. Nothing.

Well, shit.

“What the hell is going on,” Luke asks, passing a look from the empty space behind us to the well-worn notebook on the table.

“She was going to show me some of her stuff,” I say, more than a little disappointed. I’m dying to know what’s in her head when all the barriers are down.

“Yeah, she writes poetry.” His gaze locks on my journal. “I see you got the bible out. You let her see it?”

I nod and fall back to the cushion with a sigh. “I was hoping if I showed her, she’d open up.”

“I bet it’s good.”

“I bet it is too.”

He snickers. “Guess I’m not her favorite anymore. She never wanted to show me anything.”