Page 41 of The Enemy of My Enemy Is… My Fake Boyfriend?

"Um, yes. Although I probably shouldn't admit it."

He laughed as I rifled through my bag, studiously ignoring the table next to us, full of young ladies who were subtly watching my every move. Not able to find what I was looking for, I endedup emptying half my bag out onto the table and finally came up with the tickets.

I handed them over to Ethan. "Two tickets to the Rangers game tomorrow night that someone gave me. I can't go, but a little birdie told me you like them." He wasn't as easy to research as I was apparently, but I had stumbled upon that little tidbit.

"Are you fucking serious?" He grabbed the tickets, reading the fine print. "You know this is a huge game, right? Their biggest rivals?"

"Oh, I didn't know that. Well, enjoy then."

"Jesus. Wow. Thanks."

Smiling to myself, I began to clear up the mess I'd made, stuffing things back into my bag, but a hand held onto the two books I'd taken out.

"Wait," Ethan asked. "This is obviously the poetry book, but what's this other one?"

He held up the purple journal that I'd begun to carry around since the big break-up, and I clutched it back, the two of us embarking on a playful little tug-of-war.

"Nothing," I groaned. "And let me have it. It's mine."

Laughing, he let go, and I quickly jammed it into my crowded bag.

"Sounds personal. Is it a journal of some sort?" he asked, not taking the very obvious hint that I didn't want to share.

"Not a journal."

"Well, then, a book of your deepest, darkest desires."

"Not that either."

"The great American novel that you're currently in the middle of writing."

"Nope. Guess again."

"You're really from the future, the 3200s, and it's your time-travel notes."

I laughed. "No. Almost. But no."

"Song lyrics because you secretly want to be a rock star."

Actually, he wasn't far off, because weren't song lyrics poetry in fact?

"You're hesitating," he said, a triumphant note in his voice. "So that's it then."

"Not song lyrics. Just really, really lame poetry that I'm attempting to write in order to broaden my mind."

"Poetry? You're writing poetry?"

Something about the surprise in his tone hit me the wrong way and my shields came up. "Maybe. And it really sucks. So please don't ever tell anyone or mention it again." I should probably just burn the stupid thing so no one would ever have to see it.

"Wait a minute. What the hell is that about?" He leaned in closer to me. "It's damn impressive that you're writing poetry and trying to learn something new. You know that, right?"

"So you'renotmaking fun of me?" I asked, utterly confused by this whiplash of feelings.

"Of course not. I think it's incredible. And who cares if you're bad at it. Everyone has to start somewhere. If none of us ever took chances, well, we wouldn't have any of the great things we have today. No poetry, no movies, no books, no plays. You're the brave ones."

I had to smile at his encouragement. "You know what? Iambrave. Because poetry is hard. Writing itandreading it. Sometimes I'll read one of those poems in the book you got me, and I have no clue what it just said. Why can't they just say what they mean? It's like they're purposely beingobfuscatorious."

"Obfusca... what? What on earth does that mean?"

---