Page 2 of Not in My Book

“Fine.” He straightened in his chair, pushing his sleeves up his forearms. The only thing more infuriating than Aiden’s phenomenal writing was the fact that he was the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen. He was historical romance cover hot. He had a strong jawline and perfectly combed hair that looked incredibly soft. His long-sleeved shirt stretched over his arm, tight enough I could see the swell of his bicep. I looked away, trying to convince myself that he was as ugly as his personality. “It’s a contemporary romance, right?”

“Right.”

“So, how much tension could there really be? We live in the age of instant gratification. The only tension nowadays is whether your thumb will swipe left or right.”

“I disagree,” Tyler spoke up. He was one of the only other voices of reason in class. Despite Tyler and me being good friends, he refused to take sides. The whole class had fully taken the side of Team Rosie or Team Devil, but Tyler fell squarely in the middle. I smirked at Aiden as Tyler spoke because having Tyler on your side meant you won in our unspoken competition. “I think a lot of people still meet organically, and when they do, there’s definitely some tension. My sister met her wife in a coffee shop. No Tinder or Hinge, just a pure meet cute.”

Aiden rolled his eyes at “meet cute.” The same way he did at “happily ever after” and “puppies” and “sunshine.”

“That doesn’t mean much to me.”

“Well, when I’m writing a book for disgruntled assholes in their late twenties, I’ll ask for your opinion,” I snapped, growing more irritated by the second.

“Great. And when I’m writing a book for lonely, old cat women, I’ll ask for yours.”

I jabbed a finger at him, flushed. “Itoldyou that was an outdated stereotype for romance readers. Asexistone, too.”

“AndItoldyouliterary fiction isn’t for sad people.”

“I don’t think literary fiction is for sad people!” The class was watching our exchange like it was a tennis match, heads turning with each word. “I think whatever the hellyouwrite is!”

“Okay, okay.” Ida stood up from her seat at the head of the table, glowering at us. From appearances, you wouldn’t expect her to be intimidating, but the first time Aiden and I fought, she proved how scary she could be. She had curly red hair that expanded around her head, and when she was mad like this, it looked like flames.

Aiden and I slumped back in our seats like five-year-olds, shooting daggers at each other. I crossed my arms over my chest, resisting the urge to stick my tongue out at him. Even though the semester had just started, there was lingering tension from last semester, and I knew the class could feel it, too. No matter what I said, he’d disagree with me, so I followed suit. I was sure there were more than a few stories floating around about us from our workshop last semester.

“Let’s remember to keep things civil in this room and make it a safe space to share our work.” Ida gave each of us a pointed look. “We all need to respect the content of everyone’s work, even if it’s not our preferred genre.”

She began to give me her thoughts on my chapter, and I tried my best to focus, but Aiden had riled me up. Once she finished and we moved onto someone else’s work, I shot a glare at Aiden from across the table willing him to vanish into thin air. He caught my eyes, and his lips curled in distaste before he turned his gaze toward Ida.

I dug my nails into my palm, vowing that one day, I would write a character named Aiden and give him the most excruciatingly painful death. Then again, the real Aiden might enjoy that too much.

“Don’t forget to finalize and outline your plot before add/drop because afterward, we’re going full steam ahead on drafting,” Ida said. “I know it’s intimidating, but we’re about to begin a marathon sprint to finish your novels. As always, come by my office hours if you’re stuck. I’ll see you all next time.”

“Rosie, you coming to drinks tonight?” Jess asked as I stacked all the pages of critiques I’d received today and placed them carefully into my tote bag.

Tyler, Logan, Jess, and I hung out regularly after class at a nearby bar, the Peculiar Pub. Jess and I had become fast friends during our first semester together, stressing over deadlines and writing frantically in cafés across Greenwich Village. Tyler was Jess’s on campus crush. We’d spotted him a few times at the library and in the Writer’s House before he walked through the door of our workshop last spring. Shebarely held it together in that moment, and like a true friend I invited him and Logan out for drinks with us one day. The group kind of fell together after that.

“I can’t tonight,” I said apologetically. “I picked up another shift at the Hideout. But I’ll be there next time?” I glanced at Tyler from across the table and whispered to Jess, “Make your move tonight.”

Jess rolled her eyes. “As if. He isn’t interested.”

“I think he is,” I insisted. “But if you don’t want to tonight, I promise next time I’ll be your wing woman.”

“I’m holding you to that,” she said before heading out.

I glanced at my phone and winced. I’d have to race to Union Square to catch my train in time for my shift.

“I’ll see you at office hours tomorrow, Ida,” I called as I left the classroom.

She smiled kindly at me and said, “Bring your chapter and feedback with you.”

Our workshop was off Fifth Avenue in the Lillian Vernon Creative Writer’s House. You would never know from the outside that it was home to NYU’s Creative Writing program. It was a lovely townhouse with tiny classrooms, and I adored spending my time there. After every class, when I rushed across crowded Fifth Avenue to the train, I felt like a real New Yorker. Fall was just beginning in the city, and I took in every crunch of leaves beneath my feet and shade of brown against the concrete buildings.

The great thing about NYU was the city was your campus. But the bad thing about NYU was the city was your campus. I didn’t just have to fight the crowds of students, but busy New Yorkers as they went about their day and tourists who stopped every three steps to take a picture.

Throngs of people were pushing their way through the street, and I tried to keep up with them. When I had first moved here, I wasn’t used to the fast pace of New Yorkers. In Tennessee, we ambled. We smelled the roses as we took our sweet time. We moseyed and saidhito nearly every person we encountered. That was not the case here.

I pushed my legs faster to make it to the 6 train arriving in two minutes, going against all my Southern nature.

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