Page 104 of Yes No Maybe

LettingEvieinwasa bonehead mistake. I told her we were done at the door—something I should’ve said when she brushed me off after Ben’s death or, hell,anyyear previously—but she played the damsel in distress card and brought out the tears—fiancé troubles. I didn’t want to be her safety net, but maybe I wanted to test myself. If her kryptonite didn’t weaken me, I’m better than Superman at this love thing with Rowan. And I am—I didn’t touch her, even when she tried.

It just looked bad.

The shocked and relieved look on Rowan’s face assures me that showing up here, despite what she said earlier, has worked in my favor.

Always chase.

She practically melts. And my love for her swells like a universe expanding. She is brainy and complicated and fucking gorgeous, no matter what she thinks. I can’t let her think the worst of me.

But I get it. She’s been hurt so many times, in so many atrocious ways—it’s no wonder she expects it.

I approach her desk, set down the cardboard cup holder I’m carrying, and take out the contents. Two coffees, a water, and a bottle of ibuprofen. I tried to think of everything she might need, like she did for me after the party. I tried with my appearance, too—dark skinny jeans, Adidas, a white polo, and a black blazer create a fitted, author-y look, and for the first time since she’s known me, I’m clean-shaven.

With my back to my awaiting audience, I crouch beside her elevated leg, resisting the urge to touch her. Instead, I grab the medicine and tap pills in her hand.

We lock eyes, and I whisper, “Rowan, I swear on Devin’s memory and everything I love, nothing happened.”

She softens, her distrust vanishing like a tide being pulled to sea. “I know,” she mouths. “I’m sorry.”

My hand tops hers, to hell with the kids, and my grip tightens. “Sorry for putting you through that. It won’t happen again.”

The tension in her shoulders releases with a smile.

I rise, grabbing the second coffee. “Sorry, I’m late. Parking’s a bitch around here.” I turn to the crowd. “I’m Jack Graham, by the way, and… holy shit. This is the coolest classroom I’ve ever seen.”

They practically hop from their seats to introduce themselves and give me a tour, explaining the books represented on the walls and their plans to add to the mural this year. It’s clear—Rowan has made thistheirclassroom, and they’re damn proud of it.

A blonde with a valley twang—Ashley—offers me water and food from a stocked pantry. “Ms. Mackey says we learn better with calories.”

“I know I do. Who keeps this stocked?” They motion to Rowan. “No surprise there. She thinks of everything.”

When the tour ends, Julio leads me to the winged-back chair to the right of Rowan, and a Q&A begins.

Mia timidly asks, “Why romance?”

I launch into my usual spiel about journalism and chasing human interest stories. “I’m surrounded by beautiful, tragic, messy, complicated, and daring love stories. So, I started writing them down and asking myselfwhat if. That’s a writer’s best tool—asking what if.What if this had been different? What if they’d met then? Or later? Or what if she’d married someone else?But even though I loved stories like these, it took me a while to call myself a romance writer.”

I chuckle. “Guys are supposed to write about spies or cops or murderers or sports legends. How could I tell my basketball buddies I’m writing romance without it becoming a joke?”

The class laughs with me.

“Did they tease you?” Ashley asks, already offended.

“Of course, they did. But they also helped convince me to do it, indirectly.”

“How?” Benny asks.

“One night, after too many beers, my friends were complaining about their girlfriends making them watch romantic movies all the time. That got me thinking—whydowomen love rom-coms? My drunk self concluded, with the help of my idiot friends, that romances offer a bit of everything. That’s what I wanted for my books. Most genres are one-note when it comes to emotion. Horror books are scary. Thrillers are… thrilling. Mysteries are mysterious, and, well, you get the idea. A good romance is everything—scary, thrilling, mysterious, happy, sad, funny, dark. I wanted a genre with an emotional depth that could be anything I wanted it to be. Romance fits me best.”

I smirk deviously. “And it has the highest readership of any other genre, so now my friends come over and drinkmybeers, swim inmypool, and ask me how to romance their wives, so they don’t tease me much anymore.”

Laughter fills the room again.

“Where do you get your ideas?” Julio asks.

“Everywhere.” My eyes return to Rowan’s. “My neighbors feature in my stories often.”

“Oh, does that mean Ms. Mackey will be in your next book?” Eddie asks.

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