Page 12 of Trip Me Up

“Of course not.” Gabi beamed, but under the table, she kicked my shin. Hard. I gasped, and that restarted my breathing.

I gulped down the last of my water and set down the glass with a thunk. February was nine months away. I couldn’t miss a single deadline, not even by a day. I stood. “I’m going to wash up.”

“Torn” played as I passed the hostess stand. I looked longingly at the street outside, the green leaves on the stunted trees growing from the sidewalk. But I wouldn’t run away. I couldn’t. Grandpa, Mom, and the farm depended on me to finish the damned book on time.

Plus, I owed Gabi too much to fail. She’d believed in me. Even after we’d broken up, she’d come to my table in the library where I scribbled out my stories. She read them. Some, she liked; others, she made me toss in the shredder.

After we graduated, she wrote to me—actually wrote me letters because she knew I hated email—and pushed me to finish my novel. When I’d wanted to toss it in the compost pile, she’d made me mail it to her, and she’d edited it and mailed it back. Then she’d talked to some people she knew. Before I knew it, I had a three-book deal with Happy Troll and interest from Hollywood. I owed her for so much.

Including the heart attack I was about to have. “February,” I wheezed in the hallway outside the men’s room.

“Don’t freak out, Niall.” Gabi’s small hand squeezed mine. I could always count on her to check on me. “You’ve got this.”

“I—I don’t know.”

“You do. You just need inspiration. We’re going to get you back outside and rolling around in nature and shit. Whatever it takes, okay?”

“I don’t think I actually have to roll around in shit to be inspired.”

She smiled. “Whatever you need, you tell me, okay?”

Can you find me Samantha and her violet eyes?No, I couldn’t ask that. Because she would, and that’d be all kinds of awkward. She was right. I’d spend the afternoon in the park and try to channel my muse.

I had to. For Gabi. And Grandpa. And Mom. And, dammit, for myself, too. I was no one-hit wonder like Natalie Imbruglia. I had a three-book deal and a TV series that wanted a second season. I wiped my sweaty palms on my pants.

“I’ll be fine. I promise.”

Gabi’s raised eyebrow told me she didn’t believe me, either.

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