Page 25 of Not in My Book

He jumped again. “Jesus, I’ll be sure to bring a bell, too.”

“It needs to be romantic. You can’t just take me to McDonald’s and expect everything to fall into place.”

When we reached a crosswalk, I tried to walk despite the red light. But Aiden held his arm out as a bike whirled by, stopping me from stepping in its path and giving me an annoyed glance. “I can’t plan something romantic.” He grimaced. “I’m not good at that.”

“I don’t care.” He gave me a flat look. “I don’t! Okay, if it’s not romantic, then whatever. We just spruce it up in the chapter. Anything is romantic if you look at it in the right light. You just have totry, Aiden. I will, too.”

He rubbed his hand at the side of his jaw where stubble was just appearing. The muscle in his jaw ticked back and forth, making me lose all coherent thought. “Text me your address. I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow.”

The next morning, I whipped Ida’s door open and, once again, she didn’t even look up from her laptop.

“I’m glad we’re back to normal,” she murmured. “I was afraid that you’d start knocking and coming in here like a quiet mouse like you did at the beginning of the semester.”

I fell into my usual seat as I pulled off my coat. “You’vebetrayedme. You’re a traitor. You’ve crossed enemy lines.”

She rolled her eyes and shut her computer. “Oh please, don’t be so dramatic.”

“That man is my worst nightmare. And now I have to sit across from himby myselfand make polite conversation.”

Ida looked like she was trying to suppress a smile. “You’ll be fine.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “Why are you so invested in our book? You don’t ever push anyone else like you do us.”

She frowned. “That’s not true. I made Logan go to a comedy show last week after his chapter about the stand-up comic made no sense. I suggested three young adult novels to Amelia when hers kept including scenes set at house parties with weedandI made her call her fifteen-year-old niece to see how real kids talk these days.”

I huffed. “That’s convenient.”

Ida laughed. “Listen, I believe in you and Aiden as writers. But you’re both stubborn and too comfortable in what you’re writing. I’m just trying to push that comfort.”

“You rarely write anything other than romance,” I pointed out.

“But I had to learn to write other things before I could feel comfortable in the genre. I had to learn how to give my female characters agency and control over their lives and sexuality by making them believable. I wrote so many character studies and character-driven novels before I ever attempted my first romance novel.”

She leaned forward. “I know romance is a big passion of yours. And it’s a big passion of mine, too. But what makes romance novels so good is the fact that they’re a complex dive into human emotion. There’s so much more to a romance than just love. That’s important too, don’t get me wrong, but your characters need a bigger range than that. A tragic ending may not be what you want, but I think writing a scene like that and making that pain visceral will help you in the long run.”

I knew she was right. My characters had only ever felt flat, never dynamic. I was too afraid to hurt them or make them suffer. Working with Aiden was going to force me togo there.

“Fine.” I reached into my bag, pulling out my laptop. “Besides complaining about how you stabbed me in the back, I was hoping we could look at some pieces I was thinking about submitting for the fellowship?”

She smiled. “Of course. I’m really glad you decided to submit.”

“Me too. I mean, I might not get it, but I think it’s important that I try.”

“As a writer, Rosie, you’re going to face a lot more rejection than praise. We all do. I personally think you have a good shot, but it’s important to get out there and pick yourself up when you’re told no.” She reached out for my laptop. “Let me see what you’ve got.”

“I was thinking of submitting a piece I worked on last semester. It’s an epistolary story about a couple trying long distance.”

We went over the story for a while, discussing plot and some line edits. But it was the way her eyes lit up when she read my story that made me really believe I had a good shot at this thing.

Of course I wanted to grab dinner with Max. This felt like my one shot to prove to her that I wasn’t as bad as she thought. I felt like the best version of myself around her and I wanted to chase that feeling.

I wanted to prove to her that this mattered to me. This opportunity wouldn’t come twice, and I couldn’t risk squandering it. When it proved difficult to get a reservation on such late notice, I did the one thing I hated: I called my father.

—Excerpt fromUntitledby Rosie Maxwell and Aiden Huntington

CHAPTER EIGHT

That night, I pulled out a bunch of different outfits and laid them out on my bed. Usually on a date, I’d wear my jeans or a miniskirt and a nice shirt. But what do you wear on a date with a man you don’t actually like?

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