Chapter 11 #3
“I hadn’t even thought about it,” he said slowly. The lie burned in his mouth. “I got into this because it was something she loved. I was going to be a literature professor. That was the plan.”
“But you wrote that one story,” Livvie said. “The one from junior year. You’ve always wanted to write. Wasn’t it a space opera?”
He blinked at her. Oh wow—he remembered now, he’d told her about that.
Shoot. And of course, the memory surfaced before he could stop it.
The critique group in college. The circle of chairs.
The girl who’d said his prose was “overwrought” while everyone else laughed.
The professor afterward, who’d pulled him aside and said the story was gutsy—but by then the damage had been done.
“There was this critique group,” he heard himself saying. “They tore my work apart. Made me feel like an idiot for even trying.” He paused. “Emma was the only one who said it was good. She was always the only one.”
Livvie cocked her head. “Not the only one.”
He stilled, but she just moved on to the bookshelf, dustcloth in hand, working her way along the spines.
His pulse thundered as he turned back to his laptop, tried to focus on the blinking cursor.
Not a chance.
Behind him, he heard the clink of glass. Frames being moved.
Then: “Oh my goodness—you were a finalist for the Edgar Allan Poe Award? For Minnesota Young Writers?”
His stomach dropped.
The photograph of him holding his certificate, standing in front of a banner that said Minnesota Young Authors, was supposed to be face down, buried behind other frames, invisible.
“I didn’t win,” he said without looking at her. “Just a finalist.”
“That’s still amazing!” She was holding the framed picture now. He could hear it in her voice—that excited, delighted tone that made him want to hide and never stop looking at her at the same time. “And it says you got invited to a writing camp? The Young Authors’ Residency?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you go?”
The silence stretched too long.
“Nate.” Her voice was softer now. “Did you go?”
He turned his chair to face her. She was holding the photograph in both hands, looking at it like it was evidence of something. Which, he supposed, it was.
“No.” The word came out flat. Dead. “My sister was sick. My dad was working. Nobody could take me. I was sixteen—couldn’t go alone.”
He remembered that summer. The acceptance letter on the kitchen table.
The excitement that curdled into understanding when he saw his mother’s face.
We just can’t right now, honey. Maybe next year.
There was no next year. There was only Emma’s hospital room and the stories he wrote to make her smile.
“So you’ve always wanted to be a writer,” Livvie said.
“No.” He shook his head. “It was just a school assignment—”
“That got you to the state finals.” She held up the photograph like it was proof. “That got you invited to a prestigious camp. You’ve wanted this your whole life. You’ve just never let yourself have it.”
The words landed somewhere deep. Somewhere he’d been protecting for thirteen years.
He didn’t answer.
She set the photograph down on the shelf—upright, facing out—and walked to the kitchen.
He waited until he heard the coffee maker start.
Then walked over and picked up the photograph.
It had been face down for years. Buried under other frames, other memories. The boy in the picture was smiling, full of a hope that had been snuffed out before it ever had a chance to become anything.
You’ve wanted this your whole life. You’ve just never let yourself have it.
He returned the photograph to the shelf. The boy stared back.
The coffee maker beeped in the kitchen. He heard the coffee pouring, the clink of mugs.
Outside, the fog had started to thin—pale sunshine breaking through, the lake slowly reappearing, the maples along the shore revealing additional bursts of red and gold overnight.
A pair of mallards drifted past the dock.
He sat back down at his desk. Put his fingers on the keys.
And the words came.
Not easily—sort of forced out of him—but they came. Sentences forming. The story moving forward. He wrote through the sound of Livvie in the kitchen, through the fog burning off, through the smell of fresh coffee and cedar smoke and autumn through the cracked window.
At some point, he started humming. He didn’t notice until Livvie walked in and set a fresh cup beside him. Steam curled up, carrying the dark-roast smell.
“Thanks.” He didn’t look up—middle of a sentence. “That’s great.”
“Would you like a candle?”
He glanced at her. She was holding a match, looking at him with that expression—hopeful but braced for rejection.
He remembered the first time she’d tried this. He’d been a jerk about it. Told her he didn’t need ambiance.
“Sure,” he said. “Why not?”
Her whole face lit up.
She struck the match. Sulfur, then flame. She lit the candle on his desk—cedar and clove, autumn in a jar—and adjusted the blanket on the back of his chair, moved his empty water glass to the kitchen.
She started to leave.
“Hey—what would you do about this?”
She turned back. Came to look at the screen. Close enough that he caught the floral scent of her shampoo. Close enough that he could see the paint still on her cheekbone.
Blue. Gold.
“What about…this?” She pointed to a line, leaning over his shoulder. “Instead of ‘the wall pulsed with ancient power,’ what if it breathed? Like it’s been sleeping and now it’s waking up.”
“Perfect,” he said. Then he gestured to the pages from yesterday, printed, but not all read or edited.
She settled onto the couch with the manuscript pages. Drew the blanket over her lap. Tucked her feet beneath her. Started reading with a red pen.
He went back to typing. Aware of her in his peripheral vision. The way she frowned at a passage. The soft laugh at something on the page—his words. The way she tucked her hair behind her ear.
Keyboard clicking. Huck snoring on the floor. The scratch of her pen on paper. The candle flickering between them, filling the room with the smell of autumn.
This is what it could be like.
He looked up at her.
She was already looking at him.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The firelight caught the gold flecks in her hazel eyes, the auburn in her hair, the curve of her smile.
She wasn’t Emma’s friend right now, not the agent from New York, not the woman who’d shown up to save his career.
She was just Livvie. And she was looking at him like she actually saw him—not the fraud, not the grieving brother, not the recluse who couldn’t finish a book.
Just him.
He smiled. Maybe even winked—he wasn’t sure where that came from, it just happened.
She ducked her head, but he caught the flush on her cheeks. The pleased little turn of her mouth.
Something warm settled in his chest. Something he hadn’t felt in a very long time.
Don’t. She’s here for work. She’ll leave when it’s done.
But he looked back at the screen, and the words came easier.
The afternoon stretched on. The sun tracked across the sky, shadows shifting through the windows, the light going from pale to golden. He saved the document at some point—four thousand words, a new record—and when he looked up, Livvie had fallen asleep on the couch.
The manuscript pages were scattered around her, the red pen still in her hand, her cheek pressed against the armrest. The blanket had slipped down to her waist. The paint on her face had faded, mostly rubbed off against the fabric, but he could still see traces of blue and gold.
He should wake her up. Send her back to Lila’s cottage before it grew dark.
Instead, he got up and pulled the blanket higher. Tucked it around her shoulders. Let himself look at her for one unguarded moment—the freckles across her nose, the soft part of her lips, the way the firelight played across her features.
She shifted in her sleep. Murmured something he couldn’t quite catch.
His chest ached.
Don’t, he told himself again. She’s here for work. She’ll leave when it’s done.
But the photograph was upright on the shelf. The boy who wanted things was visible again.
And Nate was starting to want things too.
Very, very much.