Page 51 of Beg, Borrow, or Steal

“What’s incredible?” I say, giving in to the dream’s silly little side plot.

He frowns lightly at my sensual tone of voice. “Your book.”

My dreamland bubble pops, and I yank myself upright when I confirm that this is reality. “My…” I blink a few times. “My book? That’s my book.”

“This is your book.”

“You’re reading my book.”

“Ireadyour book. Twice,” he says. “Saw it come through my email when I got into bed and meant to read only a chapter and instead, ended up staying up the entire night to read it.”

“Twice.”

He grins. “Twice.”

“And you printed it out? You own a printer.”

He looks confused. “Doesn’t everyone?”

I need to sit down. I need to…there’s nowhere to sit. There’s nowhere to escape. The dreamy sunlight from a minute ago is suddenly a piercing spotlight. I’m now searching through our entire interaction of the last minute to remember what it was he first said.It’s incredible.

“You liked it?”

His eyes are bright and a little wild. “I loved it. And it’s not that I didn’t think you would be a good writer, it’s just that when I read stuff from friends or novice writers I try to go in with pretty low expectations because I never really know what I’m going to get, but I should have known better.” He cracks another smile. “I should have known you would approach writing with the same precision and expertise you approach everything else in life. Emily.” He steps forward, a little breathless. “It was exceptional. You have to do something with it. It would be a shame for this story”—the pages wobble in his hand as he shakes it firmly again—“to live in a drawer.”

I’m light-headed. Jackson Bennett thinks I’m a good writer. Thinks I could do something with this work. I turn away from his intense gaze and retrieve my coffee again; I drink it too fast andburn my tongue. “Shit.” The mug goes on the counter again and I whirl around. “You’re not lying to me, are you? Just saying what I want to hear?”

“I always tell you the truth. That’s our thing, right? For good or bad, it’s nothing but the truth.”

Jack read my book.

I breathe in, resisting the burn of my eyes. This book…it was so deeply personal. I wrote my feelings on those pages. I wrote my struggle with grief. With anxiety after childhood trauma. I wrote about how I feel like the walls close in on me when I’m alone. And although Jack doesn’t know that any of that is personal, it is, very deeply personal. And he liked it.

“I…” My eyes bounce everywhere, and I decide I need something to do with my hands so I turn and pour Jack a cup of coffee too. I add two splashes of flavored vanilla creamer too because I know he doesn’t like his coffee black. “I don’t know if I want to do anything with it yet. It’s…terrifying.”

“Unfortunately, I can promise you that feeling never goes away, no matter how many books you publish.”

I hand him the coffee mug and watch his face closely. “That’s how it’s been for your dad?”

He takes the hot cup from my hand and stares at me a beat longer before answering. “No, actually…My dad has never lacked confidence. Even when he should.” He sips his coffee. “But others I’ve known have definitely felt the terror.”

I nod, unable to shake the feeling that there’s more he hasn’t told me.

“So what now?” I manage to ask despite my wobbling legs. “I mean, hypothetically…if I wanted to do something with this, what is my next step?”

That light floods his eyes again. “The next step I would suggest is to edit what you have. I went ahead and made some notes for youif you want them. And then after you’ve done another edit or two, you can either decide to get additional reads or take it on submission to find an agent. Unless you want to self-publish it, though I’ll admit I don’t know much about that. But I can find out if you want me to.” He pauses with the most uncertain expression I’ve ever seen from him. “I mean if you want help, I want to…be the one to help you. I have resources and I’m happy to use them for you.” I’ve seen a lot of sides to Jack. But this one is brand-new. He’s excited. He’s happy. He’s in his element and feeling silly about showing too much joy. Jack, as it turns out,lovestalking about writing.

Maybe it’s because of his upbringing and watching his dad walk through all of it, or maybe it’s because he secretly wants to be a writer himself. All I know is it feels good being on the receiving end of his attention like this. His excitement is contagious, and the fact that he’s feeling it toward something I wrote—it’s giving me that same confidence I felt after riding with him on his motorcycle. It’s got me considering my future in a new way.

Over the last two years, I’ve become conscious of how I used to hold my siblings back from their dreams because I was afraid of them leaving me behind or them getting hurt. Afraid of that ever-creeping loneliness taking root in my heart and leaving a permanent ache. But that awareness has led to me championing my siblings toward their dreams even if I secretly—and like a terrible, horrible monster—hoped they’d fall through. Misery and fear will do that to a person, though.

I’m in possession of enough self-awareness at least to know that I was in the wrong. To bury those feelings and pretend they didn’t exist so I could outwardly cheer them on. I’ve made helping them achieve their dreams my whole personality. My main objective. And I never realized until this moment how much I needed someone to do that for me. How good it feels to be on the receiving end of a person believing in you.

“What kind of notes?” I ask with equal parts anticipation and dread.

He smiles. “Well, that depends on what you want from me. If you need a cheerleader who only focuses on the good parts of your story and lavishes you with compliments and praise until you find your footing and confidence to dig into the meatier stuff—then you’ll want this one.” He holds up one stack of papers.

“And the other one?”

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