Chapter 24
Honey: Week five and you’re riding a winning streak. New York tonight. You’ve got to be feeling good?
Zach: One win isn’t a winning streak, Honeycomb.
Honey: Then call it a start. Either way, you looked good out there last week.
Zach: You think I look good? Damn. Maybe this really is a winning streak. I’m going out there and I’m winning this thing.
Honey: Wow, is one compliment all it takes to get you to fall in love with the game again?
Zach: Not the game. Just you.
“Oh, no—” I accidentally bump into another student as I walk to class. “Sorry,” I say flustered, to the guy in front of me. With his airpods in, he doesn’t give me a second glance as he walks away. I glance down back at my screen, smiling at Zach’s last message.
He’s not flirting with me. Not really. He’s just being honest and acting more like the Zach I’ve been missing since high school.
Having this distance—far enough away that he can’t hover over me, but close enough that we still text—has started bringing something back between us.
Something that got buried underneath all the pressure and expectations.
Our friendship.
He was right to leave me on that cruise; I get it now. We needed the space to get back to us.
Honey: This is exactly why I can’t text you before class.
Zach: Which class are you going to?
Honey: Advanced Fiction Workshop
Zach: At which school?
Honey: Zaaaach.
Zach: Don’t worry. I’ve been doing some research.
Honey: Uh, oh. Nothing good ever came from a jock doing research.
Zach: Did you know that there are 350 colleges in the country that have a dedicated Creative Writing major?
Honey: Your point?
Zach: That’s a lot of schools you could be hiding in.
Hiding. As though we both aren’t choosing this right now.
Zach: I managed to narrow it down by removing all schools in Connecticut, Indiana and Georgia.
Georgia? Why did that make the list?
Zach: Assumed you wanted a fresh start without me on your doorstep. So that leaves me with 200 schools.
Honey: Only 200? Wow. Your investigative skills are really improving, Evans.
Zach: Give me another month and I’ll figure it out.
I don’t doubt he will. I’m just not sure how he’ll react when he does.
Honey: As much as I’m enjoying this conversation, I’m going to be late if I don’t get into class in a minute.
Zach: Fine. Enjoy your class, I’ll continue my extremely serious investigation.
Honey: Go do your job, quarterback. I’ll talk to you later.
I slip my phone into my jacket pocket, hitching my laptop up before pushing through the double doors. The classroom is already half full by the time I get there, and Stevie is already in her seat, scribbling something in her notebook.
“What are you doing?” I ask, dropping into the chair beside her.
She flicks her red hair over her shoulder, tips her glasses down her nose and takes me in. “I’m ranking everyone in this class.”
I place my laptop on the table and laugh. “Based on what? Their seat choice? Because I’ve got a feeling mine might be the worst.”
“Oh, please. This is the best spot in the room. Not only, do we have the best view of the whiteboard, we’ve also got the best view of Professor McFineAsHell’s ass.”
“Stevie,” I hiss, looking around to see if anyone heard her.
“What? That man does not squat for us to ignore his ass. Do you think he could squat me? Oh, —” she drops her pen and lets out a breath, “—how I yearn to be squatted by a man like that.”
“I’m begging you to lower your voice,” I whisper, focusing on my laptop screen instead of engaging in this conversation. “Or at least... stop saying the word squat like that. Professor Stephenson can probably hear you.”
“Let him. He’s been ignoring my stares at the gym for the last three weeks. He needs to know how I and everyone else in this class—bar you—feel about him.”
This statement alone makes me turn and look at her. “You see him at the gym?”
“Mhm, now you’re interested, aren’t you? I knew you were into athletes. You have that vibe.”
“What vibe is that?”
Her hazel eyes take me in. “You’re cute and peppy. Definitely someone’s good luck charm. So tell me, are you a hockey girlie or a baseball baddie? I’m leaning hockey, because you seem way too unimpressed by a great ass.”
I frown. “Do baseball players have great asses?”
“Called it. And for the record, yes. If you want to see a couple of truly great ones, you should look up JB Anderson or Austin James when you’re alone in your room. I promise they will not disappoint.”
“I actually really like football,” I admit.
It’s the most I’ve told her about my past since we started hanging out three weeks ago, after she met me in our dorm and realized we were both studying the same major.
We instantly hit it off, talking about the books we love, movie adaptations that deserved better, and everything in between.
Not once have we talked about my past. It’s always about my future and who I am now. Exactly how I like it.
“Oooh,” she coos. “Well, then what’s your problem with great asses? They’ve got the best.”
I purse my lips, trying to stop my laughter, but she makes it hard when she looks at me so expectantly.
“I have no problem with great asses,” I say. “I just have a little more decorum than you.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Okay, hold on. You lit up when you said football.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.” She points her pen at me. “And suddenly Miss Decorum over here is defending athletes and pretending she’s above appreciating a good ass.”
“You’re insane.”
“Maybe,” she says. “But I’m also observant. You don’t talk about your past, you dodge every personal question I ask, and you aren’t salivating over Professor Yes, Sir.” Her eyes narrow dramatically. “Which means one thing.”
“Stevie—”
“You have a secret boyfriend.”
Yes.
No.
I don’t know.
I think so.
None of these really fit what Zach and I are to each other right now.
“No.”
“Secret ex, then?”
“No.”
“Secret situationship?”
I close my eyes. “Please stop saying words.”
She gasps softly. “Oh my God. He plays football, doesn’t he?”
Before I can answer her, Professor Stephenson strolls into the room with a stack of papers under one arm and a coffee in the other hand. “Good morning, everyone,” he says with a bright smile, his eyes twinkling from behind his glasses.
Stevie makes a very small sound beside me before greeting him along with the rest of the class. After placing his papers down, he shrugs off his jacket to reveal a dark navy button-down with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Stevie nudges my foot, but I ignore her.
“Before I give you the first assignment,” he says, “I want to ask you something.” He perches on the edge of the desk and folds his arms before scanning the room. “What’s the hardest thing to do in fiction?”
“Endings,” someone says immediately.
“Dialogue,” another person groans.
“Writing men,” Stevie mutters under her breath.
Professor Stephenson laughs softly. “All good answers, but I’d argue the hardest thing is restraint. Most writers overwrite because they don’t trust the reader to feel what’s underneath the scene.” He takes a sip of coffee. “So this week, we’re practicing control.”
A collective sigh fills the room.
“Your assignment is to write a scene where every sentence begins with the same letter.”
“Oh, that’s sick,” Stevie says beside me.
“You’ll hate me halfway through it,” he replies. “But limitations force creativity. You stop relying on instinct and start paying attention to every single sentence.”
A guy near the front raises his hand. “Do we get to choose the letter?”
“Yes. And choose wisely. Some are much harder than others.”
Stevie immediately opens her notebook. “I’m doing ‘S’ because it sounds sexy.” She shakes her shoulders to emphasize her point.
“That tracks,” I mumble.
“What are you picking?” she asks.
I stare down at the blank page on my laptop; my thoughts still half stuck in the conversation I’d just been having outside class. Without really thinking about it, my fingers tap against the keyboard.
Z.
I don’t even realize I’ve written it until Stevie leans over.
“Psychopath choice,” she whispers.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, and the blank page glares at me as I start to think about what I’m going to write.
Clicking keyboard keys fill the air while my hands stay still. Even Stevie is writing away as though writing the truth is the easiest thing to do.
What kind of assignment even is this? Every sentence starting with the same letter? It sounds less like creative writing and more like psychological warfare.
Click. Click. Click-click-click.
Everyone else is working while I’m stuck staring at a blinking cursor and a single stupid letter.
Z.
Just write, Honey. It’s not that hard.
I inhale slowly and start typing.
Zero chances existed of her going back once she left.
I stop immediately.
That’s not it.
I delete the sentence and try again.
Zach was easier to miss from far away—
No.
Delete.
My fingers hit the keys harder this time, frustration building beneath my skin.
Zipping across state lines hadn’t fixed anything.
I stare at the sentence for a long moment before deleting that one too.
The cursor sits there patiently while I sink lower into my chair. Every sentence somehow keeps drifting in the same direction no matter how hard I try to pull it somewhere else.
I hold down the backspace button again, irritation building with every disappearing word.
This is stupid.
It’s one assignment. One letter. That’s it.
So why does it suddenly feel impossible to write anything except leaving?
I press my lips together and start typing again.
Zero drafts ever feel good enough to share.
I keep it.
Then another sentence comes.
Zoning out is easier than risking failure.
And another.
Zippers, slammed doors, running shoes, escape routes.