Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Ethan
T he words on my laptop screen blur together as I stare at them, the cursor blinking like a judgment. I've been sitting in my usual corner at Novel Sips for two hours and written exactly three sentences. All of them terrible. Outside, spring sunlight dances across the sidewalk, and the cherry trees along Main Street are heavy with pink blossoms. It's the kind of day that should inspire prose. Instead, I'm drowning in doubt.
She deserves someone stable. Someone who can offer her more than coffee shop conversations and half-written manuscripts.
Andrew's words echo in my head, drowning out everything else. The worst part is, he's not entirely wrong. What am I offering Maggie, really? A stack of rejection letters and a bank account that gets smaller every month? I check my email compulsively, hoping for word from any of the literary agents I've queried. The only new message is from my former editor, asking if I've "come to my senses yet" about returning to journalism.
I close my eyes, but that only makes it worse. Because then I remember last night—the softness of her lips, the way she melted into me, how perfectly she fit in my arms. The memory of her fingers threading through my hair sends a physical ache through my chest. I can still taste apple pie and coffee on my lips, can still feel the way her breath caught when I pulled her closer.
My protagonist, James, would know what to do. He's braver than I am, willing to tear apart time itself for love. Me? I'm sitting here paralyzed by fear, watching my cursor blink and listening to the gentle whir of the espresso machine like it might somehow give me answers.
"You look like you're thinking too hard."
My eyes snap open to find Maggie standing there, holding a fresh cup of coffee. She's wearing a t-shirt with an actual constellation pattern, her curls pulled back in a messy bun, and my heart does a complicated flip in my chest. There's a dusting of cinnamon on her apron, and all I can think about is how much I want to pull her close and kiss her again.
"Wrestling with a difficult scene." The lie tastes bitter, like coffee gone cold. Through the windows, I watch another pink blossom drift to the ground. How fitting.
"Want to talk about it?" She sets the coffee down and moves to take her usual seat across from me. The afternoon light catches her eyes, turning them the color of honey, and I have to physically stop myself from reaching for her hand.
"Actually, I should probably focus." I keep my voice carefully neutral, even as something inside me cracks at the hurt that flashes across her face. "Deadline, you know?"
My agent would laugh at that—if I had one. Three months of queries, and all I have to show for it are form rejections and silence. Some deadline.
"Right." She straightens, and I hate how formal her posture suddenly becomes. The easy warmth between us freezes over. "Well, if you need anything..."
I need you, I think. I need you, and that terrifies me because I have nothing solid to offer you. Because everyone in my life who believed in me—my editor, my colleagues, even your brother—they all think I'm making a huge mistake.
"Thanks," is what I say instead, forcing a smile that doesn't reach my eyes. My hands itch to reach for her, to pull her close and explain everything. Instead, I clench them around my coffee cup.
She lingers for a moment, like she's waiting for something more. When I don't give it, she nods once and turns away. I watch her walk back to the counter, the usual spring missing from her step. The distance between us feels vast, impossible—a temporal paradox of my own making.
My cursor keeps blinking. Three months ago, I quit my job to write about time travel and second chances. Now here I am, probably making the biggest mistake of my life, and I can't even write about it. The irony would be funny if it didn't hurt so much.
The afternoon crowd starts to filter in. I watch as Maggie greets each customer by name, remembering their usual orders, asking about their days. Her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes, but no one else seems to notice. No one else knows it's my fault.
I open my notebook, flipping to where I've written about my protagonist's greatest fear—that changing the past might erase the best parts of his present. The irony isn't lost on me. Here I am, trying to build a future as a writer, and I might lose the best thing in my present because I'm too scared to believe I deserve it.
Through the shelves, I catch glimpses of Maggie as she works. The way she smiles at customers. How she absently touches her lips when she thinks no one's looking, like she's remembering our kiss too. The gentle way she straightens books on the shelves, her fingers trailing over spines like she's reading stories through touch alone.
My coffee grows cold as I war with myself. The practical part of me—the part that sounds suspiciously like Andrew—says to end this now, before we're both in too deep. Before I inevitably disappoint her like I've disappointed everyone else who believed in me. Before she realizes that loving a writer means loving someone who lives half in reality and half in dreams.
But then she laughs at something a customer says, and the sound cuts through all my doubts like sunlight through clouds. I think about how she believes in my writing, how she sees past my careful walls, how she makes me want to be brave enough to deserve her faith in me. How she reads my pages with such care, finding meaning in words I thought were just taking up space.
She deserves someone stable, Andrew's voice echoes again.
She deserves someone who sees her, my heart argues back. Someone who understands that she's not looking for safety. She's looking for someone who believes in possibilities the way she does.
I stare at my screen, at the scene I've been trying to write where my protagonist has to choose between playing it safe and taking a leap of faith. The words still won't come. The blinking cursor mocks me, counting out the seconds between what I want and what I fear.
When I look up again, catching Maggie's eye across the shop, I realize why. I've been writing about someone afraid to change the past, when what I really need to write about is someone brave enough to fight for their future. Someone who understands that the scariest chances are often the ones most worth taking.
The cabin's porch creaks beneath my feet as I pace, fountain pen tapping against my weathered notebook. Through the trees, I can just make out the lights of downtown Juniper Falls twinkling in the gathering dusk. Somewhere down there, Novel Sips is closing for the night. Somewhere down there, Maggie is probably wondering why I shut her out today.
My notebook sits open on the old wooden deck chair, the pages ruffling in the spring breeze. I've been writing furiously since I got home, pouring all my fears into my protagonist's story. Now the ink-stained pages are full of his anguish—about changing the past, about risking love, about the terror of reaching for something you're not sure you deserve.
"Well, this is quite the brooding scene."
I turn to find Hazel Elliott climbing the porch steps, a covered dish in her hands. Her signature scarf today is a soft purple that matches the twilight sky.
"I wasn't brooding," I protest weakly. "I was writing."
"Darling, I taught English for thirty years." She sets the dish on the small table. "I know brooding when I see it." She settles into one of the rocking chairs. "Sit. Have some cobbler. Tell me why you're up here writing about heartache instead of down there making Maggie smile."
"I don't—how did you?—"
"Small town." She waves a hand dismissively. "Besides, I saw you practically run out of Novel Sips earlier. Very dramatic, by the way. Good writing fodder, I suppose, but rather hard on the heart."
I sink into the chair across from her, running a hand through my hair. "It's complicated."
"Things worth having usually are." She pushes the cobbler toward me. "Now, is this about Andrew's disapproval or your own?"
The question hits too close to home. "Both? Neither?" I flip through my notebook, finding the scene I’ve sketched out, waiting to be typed up on the computer charging inside. "Here, my protagonist is trying to decide if he should give up his research into time travel. He knows it could change everything, erase the good things in his present..."
"Mm." Hazel's eyes twinkle. "Sounds an awful lot like someone else I know. Except he's not worried about time travel so much as matters of the heart."
"What if Andrew's right?" The words burst out before I can stop them. "What if I'm being selfish, pursuing this writing dream? I have some savings, but it won't last forever. And Maggie deserves?—"
"Stop right there." Hazel's voice is gentle but firm. "Let me tell you something about Maggie Carter. That girl has never wanted what other people think she deserves. She wants what she chooses. And for some reason I can't quite fathom at the moment, she's chosen you."
"But—"
"No buts. You know what I see when I look at you, Ethan? I see someone who's finally writing the stories he was meant to tell. Your words have life now, heart. They didn't have that when you were reporting facts and figures."
I stare at my hands. "Heart doesn't pay the bills."
"No? Tell that to Nicholas Sparks or Brandon Sanderson." She chuckles at my expression. "The point is, you're not just writing stories about time travel. You're writing about love and courage and taking chances. Maybe it's time to practice what you write."
"I'm afraid," I admit quietly, watching the first stars appear above the trees. "Not just of failing, but of dragging her down with me."
"Oh, sweetheart." Hazel reaches over to pat my hand. "Don't you see? Maggie's not some delicate flower who needs protecting from life's uncertainties. She's had her own failures, her own doubts. What she needs is someone who understands that about her. Someone who sees her strength, not just her scars."
Her words sink into me slowly, like rain into parched earth. "I do see her. Sometimes I think I see her too clearly. It terrifies me how much I want to be worthy of her."
"Then be worthy. Not by playing it safe or living up to Andrew's expectations, but by being brave enough to love her exactly as you are." Hazel stands, adjusting her scarf. "You know, your protagonist isn't just researching time travel. He's learning that some things—some people—are worth any risk."
She moves to the steps, then pauses. "The cobbler's peach, by the way. Maggie mentioned it was your favorite."
After she leaves, I pick up my notebook again. In the growing darkness, I read the words I've written—all my fears and doubts poured onto the page. But there, between the lines about temporal paradoxes and changing the past, I find something else. Hope. Possibility. The kind of love that makes you brave.
I think about Maggie's smile when she reads my pages, how she sees the heart of my story even when I'm lost in the details. How she makes me believe, just for a moment, that I could be the kind of person who deserves a happy ending.
My protagonist is afraid of changing the past because it might erase his present. But maybe the real story isn't about what we might lose by taking chances. Maybe it's about what we definitely lose by being too afraid to take them at all.
I reach for a fresh page, my pen moving with new purpose. It's time to write a different kind of story. One about a man who stops running from happiness, who learns that sometimes the bravest thing we can do is simply stay where love finds us.