Chapter 35
THIRTY-FIVE
ROBYN
It was well after midnight. The only light on in Robyn’s apartment came from the light above the oven and her laptop screen. She glanced over at her bed.
Tyler was asleep, sprawled on his side. His hair was mussed, one arm flung across the mattress, the other tucked under his pillow.
Her cheeks pinked as she thought of the scene they’d replayed downstairs hours before.
And when they were finished, Tyler had cared for her, kissing her gently, offering to draw her a bath, make her a cup of tea—anything she wanted.
But all Robyn wanted was to cuddle in bed, watch movies, and eat tiramisu.
With Emma spending the night at her friend’s house, Tyler had been more than happy to oblige.
They’d spent the rest of the evening together, curled up in bed, talking about their lives. Robyn opening up more than she’d expected, talking about her ex, Professor Beige Cardigan, the polished, perfectly acceptable boyfriend who’d looked right on paper and still managed to break her heart.
Robyn thought Tyler was going to say something about Emma’s mom, but instead he talked of his childhood. How his mom was a kindergarten teacher for thirty years, and how she was thrilled that one of her three boys had inherited her love of reading.
He’d smiled a little, like he was seeing it. “There were always paperbacks on the coffee table and library books stacked on the counter. I swear, my mom offered to take me to the library at least once a week. It was one of those grand ones too with three levels, and an entire children’s floor.”
“Your childhood sounds perfect,” Robyn had remarked.
Tyler laughed. “It was a lot. We had one bathroom for five people, a couch that squeaked every time somebody sat down. My brothers were always wrestling or shouting about something, and if one of us had a bad day, everybody knew about it before dinner.”
It couldn’t have been further away from her own childhood, which had been spent in a gated community with private tutors, color-coded schedules, and more extracurriculars than should’ve been legal.
That’s probably where her love of highlighters and sticky notes came from.
Excessive organization had been the only way to keep her head above water.
Now, after Tyler had drifted off to sleep, Robyn sat curled in her favorite corner of the couch, knees tucked up, laptop balanced on her thighs, ready for fresh inspiration to roll off her fingertips.
Mr. Darcy had claimed the other end of the sofa, curled into a tight black circle with his nose tucked under his tail.
The living room was still, except for the occasional creak of the old building settling, the soft hum of the refrigerator, and Mr. Darcy’s purrs.
Ideally, she wanted to write something new for her AfterHoursAuthor account. A scene with heat and heart. Something her readers would devour.
But the moment she clicked into her profile, her brain froze, and she sat there, silently, as if the cursor was judging her, waiting for her to write something so it could mock her.
When fifteen minutes had ticked by, and Robyn found herself staring off into space, she switched over to Isabel’s manuscript.
She read a few lines. Then a few more.
And still… nothing.
The pressure returned, settling on her chest like a weight she couldn’t shift.
Everyone in Maple Falls was going to read this book.
Everyone was expecting it to be brilliant.
Everyone was counting on her to somehow turn a half-finished story into the kind of ending people would talk about for years.
Those thoughts alone were enough to make Robyn set the manuscript down and vow not to pick it up until she was forced to.
She set the laptop aside for a moment and rubbed at her sternum, trying to breathe through the tightness. Her gaze drifted back toward her bed.
It would be so easy to give up.
To close the laptop, tiptoe over to the bed, and slip in beside Tyler. To let him pull her against his chest without even fully waking. The image flashed so vividly, she could practically feel it: his warmth, his steady breathing, the weight of his arm around her like a promise.
And for a heartbeat, she almost did it.
She was this close to choosing sleep and softness and pretending the rest could wait until morning.
Mr. Darcy, apparently having made his own decision, hopped silently off the sofa, crossed the room, and jumped onto the bed.
He turned three times and settled into the curve of Tyler’s body, tucking himself against his chest. Tyler’s hand shifted in his sleep, coming to rest on the cat’s back, and Mr. Darcy closed his eyes with a deep sigh.
Robyn watched them, her cat and her person, breathing together in the lamplight, and felt it. The spark.
The spark to create flickered in her chest. Robyn nearly didn’t recognize it.
She stilled, almost afraid to move in case she scared it off. She’d been so tangled in pressure and expectation lately that she barely recognized the feeling.
Because the spark wasn’t just about words.
It was about him.
Tyler, asleep in her bed, who made her laugh when she was spiraling. Tyler, who didn’t look at her like she was a problem to solve or a disappointment waiting to happen. Tyler, who made her feel like maybe she didn’t have to earn love by being perfect.
Her heart twisted, aching in that sweet, terrifying way.
She was in love with him.
There. She’d finally said it to herself.
And of course she was. Because falling for Tyler felt less like tumbling and more like slowly realizing she’d been holding her breath her whole life, and he’d taught her how to breathe again.
And it wasn’t just him. She loved Emma too. Emma, the sweetest eight-year-old with a curious mind and a big heart. The little girl who wanted to bake cookies for her friends when they were hurt, who knew a million facts about llamas, and somehow seemed to come up with a dozen more every day.
But love didn’t magically fix logistics.
Yale was still Yale. Her career was still waiting. Her parents’ expectations still loomed like a ceiling she’d been taught never to push against.
What would they say if she told them she’d fallen for a man in a small town while she was supposed to be “getting her life back on track”? What would they say if she admitted she didn’t want to go back to the version of herself who only existed to impress other people?
Robyn’s fingers hovered above the keys again.
She glanced over at Tyler one more time, letting herself take him in: his relaxed mouth, his lashes resting against his cheeks, the way his hand lay open on the sheets like it was waiting for hers.
Then she turned back to her laptop and took a deep breath.
And instead of opening her AfterHoursAuthor dashboard again, instead of forcing herself back into Isabel’s unfinished ending, she clicked New Document and began to type.