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Despite my skepticism, Rosebud is a compelling story.

It’s about a young girl who grew up in an overly religious household, à la Stephen King’s Carrie , seeking revenge on the youth minister who groomed her growing up.

The plot is straightforward yet surprising.

Her use of figurative language makes it come to life.

As much as I try to find fault in her every word, I find myself sitting on the edge of my seat—literally—to hear what will happen next.

When the story ends, my body is tingling with that sensation readers get when they read something spectacular, and I know Rosebud , and Marley, will remain imprinted on my brain.

My skin burns with jealousy.

“That was amazing,” April says, clapping her hands together. “How long did it take you to write that?”

“I don’t know.” Marley shrugs her shoulders. “A week?”

“Seriously?” Danielle is just as taken aback. “It takes me that long to come up with a shitty outline.”

“See what I mean?” Victoria, the proud professor, smiles. “She’s a real talent.”

“I’ll say,” Danielle says. “How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Twenty-one.”

Another blow to my fragile ego. When I was Marley’s age, I was going through the hardest, most uncertain time in my life. I wasn’t writing literary masterpieces. I can’t even do that now.

“You have to submit that somewhere,” April adds.

“I’ve sent her a list of some different contests. If she keeps writing like that, the sky is the limit,” Victoria says.

Heat climbs the back of my neck. I realize I’m the only person who hasn’t said anything. I practically choke on the words as they come out: “You’re talented, Marley. Great story.”

“Thank you.” She beams. “I’ve never shared my work with anyone besides my professors. I can’t wait to hear what you’ve all written.”

“I don’t want to follow that,” Danielle says, honestly. I feel the same.

“I’ll go! I’m already drunk,” April says, putting her laptop in front of her.

April reads the opening pages of a manuscript about a hell-bent wife slashing her husband’s tires, no doubt a precursor for more slashings to come, followed by Danielle and Victoria sharing excerpts from their works in progress.

When it’s my turn, I still don’t want to share.

Hearing Marley’s story seems to have erased all the confidence I had built.

Still, The Mistake is the only inspiration I’ve had in weeks, and I’m tired of reading old stories to the group, knowing they’ll go nowhere.

“I’ve been working on this one the past couple of days,” I say, clearing my throat. “I had a nightmare I couldn’t shake, and I just started writing.”

My mind returns to the dark streets, the lamplight above, the shadows. A strange soreness develops in my chest, the sensation expanding with each breath. I haven’t even started reading, and yet I’m already feeling emotional. My body’s way of warning me not to continue.

“Ooh, that’s what happened with the lady who wrote Twilight , right?” Marley says. “The whole thing came to her in a dream.”

At least her comment forces me outside of my own thoughts and feelings. I stare at her, not knowing how to respond. That’s the second mention of a book with a cult-like following. Are those the only novels Marley knows?

“That’s right,” April says, looking to me. “Becca, please don’t tell me you’re writing about vampires. The horror stuff is supposed to be my specialty.”

“No vampires, I promise.”

I begin reading The Mistake , and as I do, the emotions I felt during the dream return.

The dread and confusion and fear. My body has a physical reaction to this story, perhaps warning me to leave it alone.

I feel my throat closing in, my chest pulling tighter.

By the end of the story, I realize there are tears in my eyes.

I swipe at my face with the sleeve of my shirt so the others can’t see.

When I finish, I look around the table, waiting nervously for their reactions.

“I love it,” Victoria says. “I felt like I was right there with Layla. Chilling.”

“It must have been a really messed up dream,” Danielle says.

“It was.”

“Is this the start of a new book?” April asks. “Now that Night Beat is out of the way, I know you’re looking for something else.”

“I’m not sure,” I say. “Really, I was just so rattled, I had to get the story out of me.”

“That’s how I felt with Rosebud ,” Marley says.

For a moment, I’d forgotten she was here.

When I look at her, she smiles with perfect teeth, her cheeks plump and blushing, but there’s something in her eyes that doesn’t quite match the rest of her face.

An anger or sadness beneath her sparkling facade.

Whatever it is, I don’t trust it, and a twinge of anger rattles through me.

I’ve worked alongside the other women for more than a year.

They’ve become my friends, earned the right to hear my most intimate writings.

Having Marley—a stranger—present feels like a violation.

When the meeting comes to an end, as she waves goodbye, I catch myself staring at the sparrow tattoo on her wrist. For the rest of the night, every time I close my eyes, that small, inky bird is all I see.