Page 56 of Yes No Maybe

“But Dean knows, right?” I edge closer, peering through her hair curtain with skepticism. “Surely the guy you let into your heart and bed knows these fundamental pieces of your history?”

Holy shit, he doesn’t.Her irritation gives her away.

“That’s exactly how we’ve gotten this far—keeping the past out of it. Dean doesn’t care about my scars—”

“He meets the minimum requirements—I get it.”

Her eyes narrow. “It’s more than that. He doesn’t see me as a victim. He’s a fresh start… or he was. I don’t know anymore. I don’t want to talk about him, either.”

“Fair enough. But I’m here… if you everwantto talk about it. Might make you feel better. Talking about Trent did, I think. I promise—I won’t use it.”

I hold up my fingers in a Scout’s honor gesture, making her laugh, and it’s a relief to hear it.

Her eyes roll. “You can’t make that promise.”

“Seriously—I do. Trust me. We’re friends, right?”

“Ha! Friends? Friends don’t steal each other’s annotated books. Besides, our conversations wouldn’t be so one-sided if we were really friends.Enoughabout me.”

“Ah, are you suggesting aquid pro quoarrangement for conversation?”

“You realize you’re Hannibal Lecter in this scenario, right?”

I smirk deviously. “I’m okay with that. Instead of being on a cell block, I have writer’s block.”

“And instead of catching a serial killer, you’re hunting for killer ideas.”

“It’s theSilence of the Keys.” My embarrassing snort-laugh makes her giggle even more.

“Oh, damn,” she laughs. “If the cheesy jokes have started, we’ve definitely had too much wine.”

“No, this is good… What do you want to know, Rowan?” I stare over the tops of my eyes, drawing out her name to make it sound like Lecter saying,“Clarice.”

After a wine-induced giggle, she shrugs. “What upset you the other night?”

I’m not the only one with good people perception. Given what she did to my book, I shouldn’t be surprised. I pour more wine. “Damn, you’re making it tough on me.”

“Well, you made me talk about Trent, so…”

She says it like she’s kidding, but I feel bad for putting her through it. “Yeah, that was hard for you… Fine. I was jealous.”

“Jealous? Of what?”

“I don’t know. Jealous of…” My frustration returns with the subject. “Of the idea that when you give yourself to someone, you mean it—heart, mind, and body. I’ve never had that.”

“Sure, you have. What about your muse?”

I laugh. “I don’t have a muse.”

“That’s not what everyone else says.”

“I stopped writing. They needed theories to explain it. I didn’t argue. Letting them think I’ve lost my muse felt easier than the alternative.”

“Which is?”

I shake my head, gnawing at my bottom lip in debate. I don’t want to talk about my shit either. But she’s been so honest—every time I give, she’s given something back. And for once, I don’t want to be emotionally stingy, not with her.

My answer spills out in a belabored breath. “I’m abysmally unqualified to write love stories. I cared about Evie. Still do. But I never loved her—not the way I once wanted, not the way Iwriteabout. She inspired my heroines, loosely, and she’s exactly what you might picture a muse to be. Beautiful in an ethereal way, accomplished, intelligent. Perfect. She came into my life when I needed someone most. Losing Devin devastated me, and if not for Evie… I don’t know that I could’ve gotten through it.”

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