Page 69 of Past Present Future

They looked at each other, and then at the single key dangling from the receptionist’s hand.

I couldn’t have picked a better word than “looked”?

Hannah’s gaze held Hayden’s, a silent question passing between them.

Okay, at least now they’re gazing—

“We’ll take it,” she said, looking at the key and then back at Hayden, whose cheeks were starting to turn pink.

Jesus Christ, how many times can these idiots look at each other? Did I even read this back before I printed it out?

(Yes. And apparently I decided it was fine.)

Only right now it is solidly not fine, especially as I listen to everyone else read, feeling worse and worse about my only-one-bed scene. Kait’s humor is unparalleled. Noor’s sentences are sharp and choppy in the thriller she’s working on. Sierra’s literary fiction is beautiful, even if I still don’t fully understand it.

Everyone has a voice, and apparently I left mine back in Seattle.

If I ever had one to begin with—something I’m seriously starting to doubt.

On Gazebo Night, I was so full of inspiration and optimism. I don’t know why I can’t have that all the time. Surely cheap wine isn’t the answer.

Then there’s the thing I haven’t let myself think about that’s been tapping away at the back of my brain. You’re in love but you can’t write about it. Something’s wrong with you.

It’s ridiculous—surely plenty of romance authors are deeply in love with their partners.

The group claps for Sierra before turning to me. Fuck, this is going to be brutal. Slowly, I unclench my fists around the pages as a half dozen eyes flick toward me. A thick swallow, my heart thumping in my throat.

It’s starting to feel like I can’t measure up to any of them. How can I truly feel like I belong if I can’t do the one thing I came here specifically to do? Maybe I shouldn’t be here, not in Professor Everett’s beautiful home, not in this major, maybe not even on this campus.

“Sorry—I have to—” And I spring to my feet and escape.

* * *

I only make it as far as the kitchen before everything starts spinning and I have to press my back to the counter to keep from collapsing. My breaths are coming harder, faster. I guzzle down another cup of cider.

I should be able to do this. Why can’t I fucking do this?

I half thought Kait might come after me—and half hoped she would—so I’m surprised when it’s Miranda’s voice I hear.

“Rowan?” she asks. “Is everything okay?”

I do my best to appear as though I haven’t been having a mental breakdown and/or crisis of confidence. I lift a hand and give her a weak smile as she enters the kitchen.

“Just your standard why-is-everything-I-write-garbage kind of breakdown,” I say, trying to sound light and breezy.

“Ah. I see.” She gestures for me to sit down at the sleek marble kitchen counter, so I tuck my dress underneath me and hop up onto a wooden stool. Bowls of overflow snacks cover the countertop, but my stomach isn’t having it. In the other room, everyone is sharing, laughing. “Is this maybe why you’ve been busy every day after class?”

“I’m sorry.” The guilt underscores the way my pulse pounds, not good enough, not good enough, not good enough. “About this, too. I don’t want to disrupt the night for you or for anyone else.”

Miranda fills a glass of water, placing it in front of me before taking the seat across from me. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Unless you’re the one who made those oatmeal raisin cookies, because—” At that, she screws up her nose, and we both laugh. There was definitely an overly doughy consistency to them. “I feel I’ve gotten to know you a little through your work and during class, even if you tend to be a bit quiet.”

I have to wince at that. In high school, “Rowan Roth” and “quiet” would never have been uttered in the same sentence, unless that sentence was “Be quiet, Rowan Roth and Neil McNair are about to get into it.”

“I’ve just been… a little blocked.” A gulp of water. “I’ve never felt this way before. I’ve written for myself even after long days when I was working on an essay for class. I’d open up my work in progress and the words were just there. I didn’t have to fight nearly as hard for them. I haven’t been fully happy with anything I’ve turned in, if I’m being honest. And I’m starting to wonder if I’m even supposed to be in this class.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” she says, and when my eyes widen in horror, she’s quick to correct herself: “Not if you’re supposed to be in this class, because I firmly believe you are. I’m not concerned about the quality of your writing, but I can see some of the pressure you’re putting on yourself—even right now. Writing for yourself is very different from writing for an audience. I had a similar experience with my second book.”

“I loved your second book. More than your first,” I tell her. “All those reviewers who said the themes didn’t seem as universal as the first, or that the characters weren’t likable… Not every character needs to be likable for a book to be good. I mean—” I break off, realizing too late that maybe she didn’t read the reviews or doesn’t want to know what critics thought.

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