Chapter 1 #2
"It's true." I leaned against the bedroom doorframe, suddenly very aware that we'd be sharing this space for a week.
Sharing a suite. A bathroom. Getting ready for bed within feet of each other.
The thought sent an unexpected flutter through my stomach.
"Commercial fiction has formulas. Literary fiction has to mean something. "
"I'm not sure my manuscript means much of anything yet." He gave me a self-deprecating smile. "But I'm hoping this week will help me figure it out."
Before I could respond, a bell chimed somewhere downstairs—one of those genuine bells, not a recording.
"Dinner," Jason said, checking his phone. "Welcome reception at six."
***
We made our way down to the dining room, which turned out to be an extension of the great room with long tables set for communal dining. The other writers were gathering, and I immediately felt the shift in energy when people recognized me. Whispers. Sideways glances.
Danica appeared at the front of the room, tapping a fork against her wine glass.
"Welcome, everyone! We're so glad you're here.
Before we eat, I want to introduce someone very special.
This year, we're honored to have bestselling thriller author B.L.
Cross—Brent Lafferty—joining us as our guest instructor for the week! "
The room erupted in surprised murmurs and a smattering of applause. I felt a dozen pairs of eyes turn to me. I managed what I hoped was a gracious nod.
Beside me, Jason had gone very still. "Guest instructor?" he whispered.
"News to me too," I muttered back.
Danica was still talking, explaining how I'd graciously agreed to lead workshops and one-on-one sessions throughout the week. Which was absolute news to me, but I supposed I should have read the fine print more carefully when Cassandra had handed me the workshop paperwork. She’d probably known about this all along.
As people began to settle at the tables, several writers immediately gravitated toward me, introducing themselves with varying degrees of starstruck enthusiasm. I shook hands, made polite conversation, and tried not to think about how exhausting the next seven days were going to be.
Jason, I noticed, had claimed a seat at the far end of the table, deep in conversation with a woman about narrative structure.
He wasn't looking at me, wasn't trying to monopolize my attention like some of the others.
His glasses caught the light as he leaned forward, animated about whatever point he was making.
That made him more interesting.
Dinner was roasted chicken with root vegetables and fresh bread—comfort food that would have been enjoyable if I wasn't fielding questions about my writing process and how I hashed out my characters.
I answered on autopilot, watching Jason down the table.
He was listening intently to the woman beside him, occasionally scribbling notes on his napkin.
When he laughed at something she said, his whole face lit up.
I wanted to be down there, having that conversation instead of this one.
After dessert—apple crisp with vanilla ice cream—I escaped back to Suite Seven, grateful for the quiet. Jason wasn't there yet. I'd heard him tell someone he was staying behind in the lodge's library.
I changed into sweats and a t-shirt, pulled out my laptop, and stared at the blank document I'd been staring at for three months. The cursor blinked. Accusatory.
Write something. Anything.
Nothing came.
The door opened quietly. Jason slipped in, looking apologetic. "Sorry. Didn't mean to disturb you if you're working."
"I'm not." I closed the laptop, watching as he shrugged out of his cardigan. Seeing him in his button-down and jeans, more relaxed than he'd been earlier, made the suite feel smaller. More intimate. "Pretending to."
He smiled at that, understanding in his expression. "Writer's block?"
"Or whatever they're calling it." I watched him move around the room, tried not to notice the efficient grace of his movements, the way his hands handled his belongings with care. "You settling in okay?"
"Yeah. This place is amazing." He sat on the edge of his bed in the bedroom. I followed, leaning against the doorframe. The silence between us felt charged. "I know you probably didn't expect to be put on the spot as guest instructor. That must have been awkward."
"That's one word for it." I ran a hand through my hair. "I came here to write, not teach."
"For what it's worth, I think people will be excited to learn from you." Jason's expression was earnest behind his glasses. "Your books have helped a lot of people fall in love with reading. That's not nothing."
The tightness in my chest loosened. Not the defensive praise of a fan, but genuine appreciation from someone who understood what stories could mean to people.
"Thanks," I said quietly. "That's... yeah. Thanks."
We sat in comfortable silence for a moment. I studied him—the way he'd made this space his own with his color-coded notebooks and the dog-eared paperback on his nightstand. There was grounding in his presence, relief from the performative exhaustion of the evening.
"So," Jason said, breaking the silence. "What are you working on? Or is that a forbidden question?"
I almost deflected, almost gave him the standard line about not discussing works-in-progress. But the late hour and the unexpected comfort of this room made me honest.
"I don't know," I admitted. "I've been trying to figure that out for months. Every thriller I outline feels hollow. Every character feels like a retread. I think I'm..." I paused, searching for the right word. "Creatively bankrupt."
Jason considered this, then leaned forward. The movement brought him closer. I caught a hint of his scent—clean and bookish, like old paper and coffee. "Maybe you're not bankrupt. Maybe you're trying to write the wrong thing."
"What do you mean?"
"You said literary fiction has to mean something." His eyes held mine, and I felt the full weight of his attention. It was intense, being seen that clearly. "Maybe you need to write work that means something to you. Not for the publisher or the audience. For yourself."
The observation was simple, delivered without judgment, and it hit me like a punch to the sternum. When was the last time I'd written for myself? Before I'd sold the first Redline book? Before I'd become B.L. Cross?
"That's terrifying," I said.
Jason smiled, and the warmth in it made my pulse skip. "Most good writing is."
I smiled back, feeling a spark I hadn't felt in months. Not of an idea, exactly, but of possibility. Of connection.
"So what about you?" I asked. "This manuscript you're working on—what's it about?"
"Oh." He glanced at the stack of pages on the bedroom desk. "It's about a small-town librarian trying to figure out if the life he's built is enough or if he's been playing it safe. A lot of quiet introspection. Probably too quiet."
"I doubt that." I nodded toward the manuscript. "Can I read some of it?"
Jason's eyes widened. "You want to read my manuscript?"
"Only if you want me to. But yeah. I'm curious."
For a moment he looked at me, unreadable emotion flickering across his face. Then he stood, retrieved the bound pages, and handed them over. Our fingers brushed again in the exchange, and this time neither of us pulled away immediately. "Okay. But be gentle. It's rough."
"All first drafts are rough." I accepted the manuscript, still feeling the ghost of his touch on my hand. "I'll treat it with care."
"In that case," Jason said, settling back onto his bed, "only fair if you let me read whatever you're working on. Even if it's notes or fragments."
I almost said no. Almost protected my ego and my failures. But the way he'd opened himself up, made himself vulnerable, made me want to do the same.
"Deal," I said.
"I should probably..." Jason gestured vaguely toward the bathroom. "Get ready for bed. Unless you want to go first?"
"Go ahead." I tried to ignore the flutter in my stomach at the domesticity of negotiating a nighttime routine.
He grabbed his toiletry bag and disappeared into the bathroom. I heard the water run, the sound of him moving around in the small space. When he emerged ten minutes later in sleep pants and a worn t-shirt, his hair damp and his glasses slightly fogged, my chest tightened.
This was going to be a long week.
I took my turn in the bathroom, fully aware that Jason was just on the other side of the door.
That he'd been in here moments ago, that the mirror still held traces of steam from his warmth.
I brushed my teeth quickly, splashed water on my face, and tried not to think about how I was more aware of this man than I had any right to be.
When I came back out, Jason was in bed with my laptop, his brow furrowed in concentration as he read. The lamplight caught in his hair, turned it golden at the edges. I forced myself to look away and settled onto my own bed with his manuscript.
We spent the next hour reading in comfortable silence—me sprawled on my bed with his pages, him cross-legged on his with my laptop. Occasionally one of us would make a note or a small sound of interest, but mostly it was quiet. Intimate in a way that had nothing to do with words.
Jason's writing was beautiful. Understated but clear, with the kind of careful observation that could only come from someone who paid attention to the world around him. His protagonist was achingly real, struggling with questions that had no easy answers.
I was thirty pages in when I realized I'd stopped reading like an editor and started reading like someone who wanted to know what happened next.
"This is good," I said, looking up.
Jason glanced over from the laptop, surprised. In the warm lamplight, his eyes looked darker. "Really?"
"Really. Your character work is exceptional. The voice is clear." I set the pages aside carefully. "You should be proud of this."
His expression softened into gratitude and disbelief. I had the sudden urge to cross the space between our beds and... what? I wasn't sure. Touch his hand? Brush his hair back? The impulse startled me. "Thank you. That means a lot, coming from you."
"What do you think?" I nodded toward the laptop, trying not to let my anxiety show. "Of the mess I've been making?"
Jason was quiet for a moment, choosing his words.
The silence stretched, charged. "I think you're trying to force yourself into a box that doesn't fit anymore.
These notes—there's a story in here about someone searching for meaning, for authenticity.
But you keep trying to shoehorn it into a thriller framework. "
"Because that's what I write."
"Is it what you want to write?"
The question hung in the air between us. I didn't have an answer. Or maybe I did, and I was afraid to say it out loud.
"I don't know," I admitted finally. "I don't know what I want anymore. Only that it's not this."
Jason stood. My breath caught. For a moment I thought he was going to cross to my bed, and I wasn't sure what I'd do if he did.
But he moved to the foot of his own mattress, sitting so he faced me more directly.
Close enough that I could see the darker ring around his irises, the slight curve of his mouth.
"Then maybe that's okay," he said quietly. "Maybe not knowing is where you start."
The spark from earlier caught, growing warmer. This man I'd known for all of three hours had somehow articulated what I'd been struggling with for months, and he'd done it without judgment, without expectation. And he was looking at me in the dim lamplight like I was worth understanding.
"Thank you," I said, and I meant it for more than the writing advice.
Jason smiled, and I felt the impact of it like a physical thing. "We're all figuring it out, Brent. Even the bestselling authors."
Especially the bestselling authors, I thought. But I didn't say it.
We stayed up too late, talking about craft and doubt and the terror of the blank page. Every time he laughed, every time he pushed his glasses up or ran his hand through his hair, I leaned a little closer, drawn to him in a way I wasn't ready to name.
When we finally turned off the lights and settled into our separate beds, I lay awake staring at the ceiling, thinking about Jason's words. About the warmth in his smile. About how aware I was of him breathing in the darkness a few feet away.
Maybe not knowing is where you start.
In the darkness, I heard Jason's voice, soft and hesitant. "Brent?"
"Yeah?" My own voice came out rougher than I intended.
"I'm glad we're roommates."
I smiled at the ceiling, warmth unfurling in my chest. "Yeah. Me too."
And for the first time in months, I felt like maybe I'd come to the right place after all.