Chapter 16
Tyler
On Monday, it was back to work. Katie was wearing an emerald green tennis dress, platform sneakers, hair clips that looked
like butterflies, and—I swear to god—body glitter. She was sipping an iced coffee and tearing off little pieces of croissant
bit by bit while staring into her laptop screen, typing away.
I was reviewing everything we’d written so far, updating our outline, and making a running list of internal and external conflicts
on pastel-colored sticky notes shaped like hearts and stars. I’d just arranged them on the table next to us when she closed
her computer and said, “Chapter done.”
“Fast,” I said.
She shrugged, then walked behind me, studying my work. The hair on the back of my neck did not stick up, that would’ve been
ridiculous. She ran her fingers over a pale blue heart—internal conflict; Willa’s Armor—and nodded.
“You’re getting good at this.”
I snickered, then reached for her laptop to read through her latest while she disappeared into the back of the café, one leg
after the other, hands full of fake problems we gave to fake people.
I stormed into the storage closet as Katie smoothed a sticky note onto a case of biodegradable straws.
“What the hell did I just read, Katie!”
She spun around. “Huh?”
“Willa? Your last chapter? What is she even doing!?”
“I don’t know. Her character went on an adventure!”
“An adventure? She let that landscape architect fondle her! That is not in the outline! She’s supposed to bat her eyes, get ten percent
off some privet, and come right back to the Inn. How did she end up in his greenhouse without her dress on?”
“They had a vibe, okay? She was into it!”
“It doesn’t matter if she was into it!” A thin layer of sweat had gathered on my neck, and my cheeks were burning, and I did
not care. “She’s supposed to be pining for Henry! Not having her nipples stimulated by a fortysomething single dad!”
Katie stared at me. “There’s always going to be a local boy or man or whatever in the way, Tyler. It’s really outdated you
think she can’t explore her sexuality or have a bit of fun, even if this guy’s not the one. She’s mid-cycle. It’s been stressful.
Her parents are being awful again. What was she supposed to do? Put one of those chrome showerheads between her—”
“What the hell is going on in here!” Lola. Not pleased. “I can hear you guys from the register! Other people pay to spend
time in this establishment!”
I was panting. Katie’s dress had somehow gotten, like, three inches shorter in the past two minutes. I could not with this
girl. She was fucking with me. The clothes. The hair. The landscape architect.
“Tyler’s having a bad day,” Katie said, so cooly I wanted to pin her against a wall, clamp my hand over her mouth, make her—
“I can see that,” Lola said.
“Willa’s just out there, giving herself away!” I was out of breath, and I’d wrung the hem of my shirt in my hands. Lola looked
at me like I was from another planet.
“He’s upset,” Katie explained, “because Willa kissed a vendor.”
“There was heavy petting! Do not minimize this!”
“Interesting,” Lola said. “And was there penetration?”
We both shook our heads no.
“I think that’s par for the course, then. For a boring straight girl, anyway. I’m Team Willa.”
Katie scoffed. “Even if there was a side character inside of her,” she said, and now I was officially experiencing heat stroke.
“She’s not betrothed to anyone. Willa has every right to get fucked six ways from Sunday. She’s single. She’s, like, twenty-four.
Henry’s been a fuckboy his whole life—it’s right in his character description! Nobody’s mad at him! It’s such a double standard!
What, do you think she should just sit around with her legs closed, waiting for Henry to make a move?”
I howled. “Yes!”
“This is ridiculous,” Lola said.
“I know!” I said.
“No, Tyler. You. This. Men, in general.”
And then she reminded us to shut the fuck up, grabbed a sleeve of cold cups, and closed the door. All of a sudden, the closet
was completely silent—and obscenely small. Katie was maybe two feet away, standing there next to a towering stack of cardboard
boxes, inspecting a sticky note that had fallen to the floor.
“Your, uh . . . your dress,” I said.
“Huh?”
I rubbed my throat. “Your dress is, like, up.”
“Oh.” She tugged the skirt back down. “Sorry.”
My hands were, somehow, tangled in my hair. “Anytime.”