Page 42 of First Love, Second Draft

“No, wait.” Gracie writhed and another rush of soapy water flooded Noah’s face. “I can explain.”

“Just thought I heard screaming. Wanted to make sure you were okay. Obviously you are.”

“This isn’t what it looks like.”

Noah wasn’t sure whatanythinglooked like, the way Gracie kept shoving soapy water into his eyes. But he heard the bathroom door click shut.

“He’s just giving me a bath,” Gracie shouted as footsteps jogged down the stairs. “He’s just trying to help me get clean.”

Noah wiped the soap from his eyes in time to see Gracie scrunch her eyes shut and whimper, “Oh man, I stink,” right before she sank beneath the bubbles.

19

Simone:Not trying to pressure you, but... tick-tock. We’re almost to the deadline. How’s the story coming along? Keeping that horse alive?

Grace:The horse is alive and well.

Which was more than Gracie could say for the rest of the story. Or herself.

After the bathtub incident, when it became clear hours later that sleep wasn’t an option—since any time she closed her eyes she either saw Luke’s stony expression or Noah’s up-close lips—she spent the entire nightclick-clackingon the old typewriter she’d made Noah dig out of the closet before he left.

Obviously her special writing desk hadn’t been cutting it on its own. So obviously she needed the special typewriter she’d never used before. Because obviously her special typewriter would give her story that missing zing.

And at three in the morning, it had. Oh, it had!

Funny, though, how ideas that sound positively zingy at three in the morning feel positively stupid hours later in the bright light of day.

Simone:Great! Knew you could do this!

Gracie stared at her phone screen, tempted to text back,I lied. I can’t do this. The horse has a terminal illness and I can’t save him. I can’t save the story. I can’t save anyone. Sorry sorry sorry.

But after a tired sigh, she searched for a GIF of a horse giving a big toothy grin up close to a camera. Then hit send.

20

Saturday afternoon Matt’s truck bumped over the grassy field being used as the parking lot for the town’s annual Pumpkin Festival. A high school girl, looking cold with her hooded sweatshirt tugged tight over her head, waved a flag to a parking spot at the end of a long row.

Temperatures had dropped the past few days. The cloud cover today added a wicked bite to the air. Didn’t seem to be affecting the crowds though. Kids climbed all over the tower of hay bales. Families entered and exited a corn maze. A steady crowd gathered beneath the food tent.

Matt checked his watch. Hopefully Gloria wasn’t upset with him for running a little late. When he swung by Aunt Gracie’s to grab those brochures she’d made, she asked if he’d help Noah move some sort of special writing desk from the upstairs to the downstairs.

That part hadn’t taken long. It was the argument afterward between Aunt Gracie and Noah about where to put the desk downstairs that had caused the delay.

Matt hustled past a carousel, ignoring the enticing scent of fried bliss each time he passed a food stand. He’d grab a bite later. His eyes wandered from face to face in search of a pair of brown eyes he hadn’t seen since the coupon incident at the shelter. At least that’s what he was calling it. Better than calling it the belt buckle incident. Thatjust made him feel dirty. Like he and Rachel really had been fooling around on the floor.

They hadn’t.

But even if they had, why should he feel dirty?

Well, other than the fact they’d been rolling around on a humane society floor, even if it had just been mopped. But he shouldn’t feeldirtydirty. Like,guiltydirty. He and Aimee were over. Finished. They were never a good fit to begin with. Why didn’t she get that?

And how long would it take Rachel to get that she and Matt would be a perfect fit?

Maybe they’d get a chance to talk about it later this evening when he went over to help her paint her living room walls. Yesterday he’d squeezed in a few hours to replace some of the rotting wood on her front porch. Slowly but surely her place was starting to look more like a home and less like ground zero.

“Hey Gloria, sorry I’m late. I brought the brochures...” Matt slowed to a stop, his eyes taking in the scene playing out next to the animal shelter booth. “What’s going on?”

Wombat, shirtless beneath his suspenders, was holding a kitten. Leo, also shirtless, was posing with an axe propped over his shoulder. And half a dozen other firefighters, not shirtless but striking different model poses, pretended to walk a runway as people snapped pictures from their phones.

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