Page 107 of Yes No Maybe

Talking about him to Rowan feels even better.

Her last-period class fills beyond capacity, but no one seems to mind being shoulder-to-shoulder. It goes by fast with questions. The final bell rings, bringing on applause and thanks from students as they leave.

Parents flood the room next in a not-so-subtle ploy to combine pick-up with a book signing. Teachers show up, too, hugging my books like treasures. It’s been so long since I bothered with a book signing, but now I wonder why I stopped—it’s damn cool that people resonate with what I write, and definitely more of an ego boost than a hassle. Rowan jumps to the rescue, ready to shoo them out, but I tell her it’s okay. I sign every book, pose for a thousand selfies, and even get on a FaceTime call with a fan’s mom in another state.

When Julio is the only one left, we call his grandfather and get permission to share his work. Then, Julio hands me a thick-tipped Sharpie. “Sign our wall?”

I glance at the homage to timeless classics, unsure. “Really? I’m not—”

“Yes, you are,” Rowan counters sternly.

I pick a space on the sandy beach near the black cat that looks like Edgar. I bookend my signature with an off-centered heart, like the one scratched into the closet door by Corey and Devin.

When Julio leaves, we stand alone by the mark I’ve left, me bracing her with my arm. She looks as exhilarated as I feel. We latch on to each other, and I whisper, “Thank you for today. I’ve never been happier to call myself a writer.”

This sudden truth makes me realize how closed-off I’ve been, pumping out manuscripts while limiting my life to one small block for inspiration—no wonder I had writer’s block. I need more. Not just more of Rowan—though, yes, her, too. But more purpose. More…lifein my life.

And now that my head is finally out of my ass, I plan to keep it that way.

Thirty-Six

Jack

“Sureyou’reupforthis?” I ask, eyeing her wrapped ankle as she hobbles out her front door.

“Yes, as long as we aren’t taking a walking tour of Wilmington. Or going anywhere fancy. Flip-flop casual?”

“Like urgent care?” I grin.

“I promise, it’s only a sprain.”

“Fine. A casual dinner, and I’ll do my best to keep you off your feet.”

Blushing, she drops her keys while locking the door. Both bending over, we bump heads and then blurt out laughing like teenagers in a rom-com.

“Never put this moment in your books, Jack,” she warns as I retrieve her keys. “Too cheesy.”

“Oh, a classic head-bump situation is too simplistic for my books. I prefer my meet-cutes in rehab or along roadside ditches.”

“I believe those are called meet-rough-and-toughs.” She giggles. “Or meet-streets? Meet-mean-streets? Meet-creeps?”

“You’re a dork,” I say, though I’m laughing.

“Oh, a meet-dork is what’s happening right now. I’m an expert at those.”

I extend my elbow for her to latch onto. “Come on. I promise you can be as dorky as you want. I’ll even encourage it.”

“Oh, I never hold back when it comes to dorkiness.”

I open the passenger door, holding her hand as she lowers into the seat. “You look gorgeous for a dork, though. If it helps.”

She eyes her outfit—a breezy little skirt, revealing enough of her legs to make me happy, a teal top that brings out her sea-blue eyes, and flip-flops. It’s nothing like the dressy get-up with heels she sported on that first date I witnessed years ago, but softer and sexier. It’s what she picked for me, unguarded and easy.

“Thanks. Oh, you could grab your book. We could talk about it over dinner if you want.”

“No, that’s okay. Tonight’s about you and me. No book talk.”

“Nobook talk?” She repeats, wide-eyed. “That might be hard, but I’m game.”

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