Page 73 of In Sheets of Rain

I screwed up my nose and shook my head.

“Might have to read a little bit more,” I admitted.

“Sell me your book,” he demanded.

“What?”

“Sell me on the concept of your book.”

I reached out and grabbed a can of creamed corn, turning it over and over in my hand. I couldn’t tell him about the book I’d been writing. I just couldn’t do it. The story had been stupid. Pathetic. How could I possibly think I could let strangers read my writing if I couldn’t even handle the man I loved telling me it needed more work?

I looked up at the man — the stranger — beside me. He waited patiently. An attentive look in his blue eyes. He didn’t seem in a hurry like everyone else was in the supermarket right then. He looked like he’d stand there all night waiting for me to tell him about a stupid story and a pathetic protagonist and my delusional ideas of being a writer.

“Do you enjoy writing?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“What do you enjoy about it?”

“Getting lost in the story.”

He was silent a moment. Then said, “Just getting lost?”

I slowly shook my head. “No, not really. Getting . . . wrapped up in it, I suppose.”

He smiled.

“Tell me about your story,” he urged.

I shook my head.

“What made you start writing it?”

“I’m not sure.”

“What do you hope to achieve by writing it?”

“I want . . . I want to touch people’s lives. Give them a moment to escape reality.”

“Tell me about your story,” he said.

I laughed.

“I bet it’s a good story,” he said.

“You don’t know that.”

“I know I’d like to read it.”

“How could you? I haven’t told you about it.”

“Then tell me about your story.”

I huffed out a frustrated breath and then started speaking.

The story that came out was not the one I’d written.

“When we meet her, she appears weak,” I said.