35. Thirty-Five
Letting Evie in was a bonehead mistake. I told her we were done at the door—something I should’ve said when she brushed me off after Ben’s death or, hell, any year previously—but she played the damsel in distress card and brought out the tears—fiancé troubles. I didn’t want to be her safety net, but maybe I wanted to test myself. If her kryptonite didn’t weaken me, I’m better than Superman at this love thing with Rowan. And I am—I didn’t touch her, even when she tried.
It just looked bad.
The shocked and relieved look on Rowan’s face assures me that showing up here, despite what she said earlier, has worked in my favor.
Always chase.
She practically melts. And my love for her swells like a universe expanding. She is brainy and complicated and fucking gorgeous, no matter what she thinks. I can’t let her think the worst of me.
But I get it. She’s been hurt so many times, in so many atrocious ways—it’s no wonder she expects it.
I approach her desk, set down the cardboard cup holder I’m carrying, and take out the contents. Two coffees, a water, and a bottle of ibuprofen. I tried to think of everything she might need, like she did for me after the party. I tried with my appearance, too—dark skinny jeans, Adidas, a white polo, and a black blazer create a fitted, author-y look, and for the first time since she’s known me, I’m clean-shaven.
With my back to my awaiting audience, I crouch beside her elevated leg, resisting the urge to touch her. Instead, I grab the medicine and tap pills in her hand.
We lock eyes, and I whisper, “Rowan, I swear on Devin’s memory and everything I love, nothing happened.”
She softens, her distrust vanishing like a tide being pulled to sea. “I know,” she mouths. “I’m sorry.”
My hand tops hers, to hell with the kids, and my grip tightens. “Sorry for putting you through that. It won’t happen again.”
The tension in her shoulders releases with a smile.
I rise, grabbing the second coffee. “Sorry, I’m late. Parking’s a bitch around here.” I turn to the crowd. “I’m Jack Graham, by the way, and… holy shit. This is the coolest classroom I’ve ever seen.”
They practically hop from their seats to introduce themselves and give me a tour, explaining the books represented on the walls and their plans to add to the mural this year. It’s clear—Rowan has made this their classroom, and they’re damn proud of it.
A blonde with a valley twang—Ashley—offers me water and food from a stocked pantry. “Ms. Mackey says we learn better with calories.”
“I know I do. Who keeps this stocked?” They motion to Rowan. “No surprise there. She thinks of everything.”
When the tour ends, Julio leads me to the winged-back chair to the right of Rowan, and a QA begins.
Mia timidly asks, “Why romance?”
I launch into my usual spiel about journalism and chasing human interest stories. “I’m surrounded by beautiful, tragic, messy, complicated, and daring love stories. So, I started writing them down and asking myself what if. That’s a writer’s best tool—asking what if. What if this had been different? What if they’d met then? Or later? Or what if she’d married someone else? But even though I loved stories like these, it took me a while to call myself a romance writer.”
I chuckle. “Guys are supposed to write about spies or cops or murderers or sports legends. How could I tell my basketball buddies I’m writing romance without it becoming a joke?”
The class laughs with me.
“Did they tease you?” Ashley asks, already offended.
“Of course, they did. But they also helped convince me to do it, indirectly.”
“How?” Benny asks.
“One night, after too many beers, my friends were complaining about their girlfriends making them watch romantic movies all the time. That got me thinking—why do women love rom-coms? My drunk self concluded, with the help of my idiot friends, that romances offer a bit of everything. That’s what I wanted for my books. Most genres are one-note when it comes to emotion. Horror books are scary. Thrillers are… thrilling. Mysteries are mysterious, and, well, you get the idea. A good romance is everything—scary, thrilling, mysterious, happy, sad, funny, dark. I wanted a genre with an emotional depth that could be anything I wanted it to be. Romance fits me best.”
I smirk deviously. “And it has the highest readership of any other genre, so now my friends come over and drink my beers, swim in my pool, and ask me how to romance their wives, so they don’t tease me much anymore.”
Laughter fills the room again.
“Where do you get your ideas?” Julio asks.
“Everywhere.” My eyes return to Rowan’s. “My neighbors feature in my stories often.”
“Oh, does that mean Ms. Mackey will be in your next book?” Eddie asks.
“We’ll probably all be in the next one,” she says, smiling.
“Yes. I pull from real life all the time. When I write a love story, it’s almost subconscious for me—putting the people I care about in it.”
The class moves on to literary devices, techniques, and my process—I just try to be honest. I admit that every first draft sucks and has to be rewritten. I confess to getting angry at salesmen and Jehovah’s Witnesses at my front door when they interrupt my writing and being an asshole generally when words aren’t flowing. I talk about my music playlists and how I organize them by writing moods—pissed off, sexy, upbeat, ominous, beast mode, love sucks, and so on. I even share my insecurities about imposter syndrome and anxiety when someone first reads my work.
Turning to Rowan, my eyes narrow. “Tell the truth. What did you think of Bare?”
Her soft, easy grin answers my question. “It’s my favorite Jack Graham romance to date.”
“Really? Your favorite Jack Graham romance?” My brow cocks, and she blushes. Hard. This is turning out to be a very good day.
Always chase.
She clears her throat. “It was the extensive annotating that did it.”
Her students groan, but I laugh.
Then, almost like she catches the vibe between me and her teacher, Mia speaks up again, her doe-eyes huge behind her glasses. “How do you know if you’re in love?”
Now, I’m blushing. “Damn, Mia, you’ve brought your A-game today.”
She giggles.
“Okay, how do you know if you’re in love…” I square my shoulders as the class leans forward for the answer. “I’ve asked this question often, and everyone has different answers. A neighbor knew he was in love when she laughed at a terrible joke to make him feel good. My Aunt Susan fell for Uncle Rob because he kept showing up to her tennis matches even though he hated tennis. My parents claim love at first sight—not sure I buy that—but they’ve been together nearly forty years, so anything’s possible…
“But my favorite answer is what my brother Devin told me when he was your age. It’s love when home is no longer a place but a person, and that’s where you always want to be.”
A long, silent beat breaks when the bell rings. Students moan with irritation.
“Ms. Mackey, if we get permission from our other teachers, can we come back?” Julio asks.
“Of course, if they agree. But you have to give up your seats for the incoming class.”
Satisfied, they file out, promising to return. The classroom empties.
Rowan stands, kicking her cushioned foot-chair and losing her ice pack. I rush to her side, bracing her as she winces.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“To you. I owe you a huge—”
“No. You don’t.”
“I said things I didn’t mean,” she says desperately. “It’s just seeing you with her—it was a shock—”
“You had every right to be angry. I should’ve considered that you might see us. She came over late, upset about her fiancé. We talked—that’s all. There is nothing between us anymore. Hell, we spent half the time talking about you.”
“Me? Oh, no.”
“No, don’t worry about it. This is my fault—”
“But I’m grateful you’re here, anyway. I didn’t think you’d—”
“Rowan.”
Her pleading face relaxes when she meets my smile.
“I will always show up for you.”
She gapes breathlessly like I’ve said the perfect words. Finally. This morning’s drama dissipates into nothing, like a meaningless spat from ages ago that we can’t remember, ghost memories that no longer matter.
I slide my hands to hers. “Let me back into your life. Please, I’ll do anything. Keep the sign up if you need it, but rescue me, Rowan—my love, my pen, my dick.”
She blushes again—she’s pretty in pink. “I can’t believe I said that.”
“That will definitely feature in my next book.”
“Not my best moment,” she groans.
“Go out with me tonight—just you and me.”
“Yes,” falls from her lips with barely a thought. “After we take our signs down.”
“Really? Signs down?”
“Yes.”
Heat rises in my gut with the way she looks at me—her blue eyes fix on mine, deeply and wholeheartedly, like there’s magic there that no one understands but us. It’s a very good day.
I ease her into her chair, re-situate her foot, and grab her water-logged ice pack.
“Which one of your minions can we send for more ice?”
She chuckles at the way I say it and finds a willing volunteer from the students filtering in.
Some of the same faces return, which happens for every class until it’s standing-room only. I answer their questions until my voice is raspy and sign their books until my fingers cramp. And finally, I turn the questions on them, asking about reading choices.
The first period kids are quick to tell me about Julio’s grandfather’s poetry.
“He’s like… deep and wordsmithy,” Ashley sums up.
“It really makes me think how lucky I have it,” Eddie adds.
Curious, I ask Julio to share a passage, and he picks one he’s read to the others already—when Dominic Martinez first sets eyes on his family after being apart for two years. First in Spanish and then in English, Julio recites the narrative to seventy mesmerized students, and even I tear up at its conclusion.
“Is he still alive?” I ask boldly.
“Yes.”
“He should publish. Think he’d be interested in talking with my agent about getting his work out there?”
Julio’s shock changes to excitement in a blink. “Yes, I’ll call him this afternoon. Thanks, Mr. Graham.”
I don’t need thanks. Dominic Martinez has a powerful voice that needs to be heard.
When Tom first suggested this classroom visit, I didn’t like the idea at all. I thought it might be too hard, being back here. Coastal High is where Devin secured his kingship as the coolest guy in school, and I went from his nerdy, awkward brother to the angry loner who lost him. The walls could’ve felt haunted.
Rowan seems to understand this the same way she reads between the lines of my books. During her planning period, she insists on hobbling to the gym, where Devin’s picture still perches beside our regional baseball championship trophy.
“Tell me more about Devin. What was he like?”
“He was an asshole. Sometimes. He pantsed me in the eighth grade in front of the cheerleading tryouts. Embarrassed the hell out of me and made me undatable for about… two years… But most days, um, he could bring out the best in anyone. He had this annoying Andy Samberg vibe, which made him stupidly popular. He was everyone’s friend.”
“Kinda like you.”
My wry grin appears briefly. “Eh, I grew into being a good person, sort of. For Devin, it was… automatic.”
She lets me ramble on about how we wouldn’t have won without Devin’s double play in the bottom of the ninth. We detour to the library, where she pulls Devin’s senior yearbook off the shelf, prompting more stories. Not that I need much urging. Revisiting good memories feels like being in them again.
Talking about him to Rowan feels even better.
Her last-period class fills beyond capacity, but no one seems to mind being shoulder-to-shoulder. It goes by fast with questions. The final bell rings, bringing on applause and thanks from students as they leave.
Parents flood the room next in a not-so-subtle ploy to combine pick-up with a book signing. Teachers show up, too, hugging my books like treasures. It’s been so long since I bothered with a book signing, but now I wonder why I stopped—it’s damn cool that people resonate with what I write, and definitely more of an ego boost than a hassle. Rowan jumps to the rescue, ready to shoo them out, but I tell her it’s okay. I sign every book, pose for a thousand selfies, and even get on a FaceTime call with a fan’s mom in another state.
When Julio is the only one left, we call his grandfather and get permission to share his work. Then, Julio hands me a thick-tipped Sharpie. “Sign our wall?”
I glance at the homage to timeless classics, unsure. “Really? I’m not—”
“Yes, you are,” Rowan counters sternly.
I pick a space on the sandy beach near the black cat that looks like Edgar. I bookend my signature with an off-centered heart, like the one scratched into the closet door by Corey and Devin.
When Julio leaves, we stand alone by the mark I’ve left, me bracing her with my arm. She looks as exhilarated as I feel. We latch on to each other, and I whisper, “Thank you for today. I’ve never been happier to call myself a writer.”
This sudden truth makes me realize how closed-off I’ve been, pumping out manuscripts while limiting my life to one small block for inspiration—no wonder I had writer’s block. I need more. Not just more of Rowan—though, yes, her, too. But more purpose. More… life in my life.
And now that my head is finally out of my ass, I plan to keep it that way.