Page 54 of Where the Little Birds Are (Little Bird Duet 2)

“Six months?”

“There are limits as to how many times we can submit the same book to a company,” she explains, typing again. “They have a six-month waiting period. That gives you time to focus on revisions without being stressed. Just follow what she commented on in the manuscript and replot certain elements. I know you can do it. Plus, you’re in your senior year now. Don’t think I’ve forgotten about your upcoming graduation that I’m sure your parents want you to focus on more.”

I make a face in the empty room I wallow in. School started last week, and everything is different. I expected to be met by pitied stares because everyone knew that my only two friends graduated. I mentally prepared myself to eat in the library instead of the cafeteria because I have nobody to sit with.

But people talked to me.

Complimented me.

It’s … foreign.

“Do we have a deal?”

I want to grumble under my breath, but showing my age isn’t exactly the reminder I want to give Jamie as to what she got herself into. I want to prove that age isn’t a limit—that there are no boundaries with me. So, I agree.

“We’ll plan another day for you to come up here when it fits into your schedule,” she adds, whatever work ceasing as a voice speaks in the background. “We can discuss the notes more another day. The new interns have arrived, and I have feeling half of them will wish they found a different agency to assist.”

My lips waver in an almost-smile.

I can hear shuffling on her end. “Maybe you’ll meet some of them when you come here next. Until then, please keep an open mind when you go through the notes.”

I want to tell her that’s unlikely but say goodbye instead and stare at the email. Rather than opening it, I walk out of the room and down the hall. Changing into something warmer for the cooler weather, I slip into my shin-high boots and walk downstairs.

Mom and Dad look up from the papers they read at the kitchen table, their eyebrows raised. It’s Dad who glances at the large silver watch that always rests on his tan wrist and asks, “Where are you off to?”

“Meeting with Zach?” Mom guesses.

I nudge the floor with my foot. “I was actually wondering if I can get another driving lesson. It’ll be good for me to practice more.”

Dad folds up the paper and sets it down on the table. “We can go down to the old Game Club and drive around.”

I smile. “Okay.”

I try to ignore Mom’s growing smile as she goes back to her paper. She’s been hinting at me getting out more all summer. Then Zach would magically appear within hours like they have some code word.

But I always go.

For Mom, not for me like I should.

Dad drives us down the street, turning onto a dirt road that leads to a cabin and pond where the town used to host a lot of events. There is still quite a bit of hunters that use the land during the season, but the cabin is run down and the pond doesn’t offer more than tiny sunfish and litter these days.

Once we’re far enough up the road, he pulls over and switches spots with me. When we’re both buckled in, he gives me some initial instructions before I begin the lesson.

It’s a few minutes into me just driving around and getting a feel for everything when he asks, “What made you want to do this?”

I glance at him for a moment before maneuvering a three-point turn like he told me to. The last time I did this I almost landed us in a ditch. Gavin would have had a field day if we called him asking to tow us out.

Freedom, I answer silently.

“It’s time,” is what I say aloud. “Gavin got his license when he was sixteen. I’ve barely driven anywhere, and I suck at it.”

Dad laughs. “Your brother has also been driving a tractor since he was ten. Don’t give yourself a hard time.”

He doesn’t need to remind me about how much Gavin’s done. When I turned sixteen, Gavin gave me his driving manual to read over so I could take the written test for my permit. I didn’t have interest then and got lectured about how he’s been driving for years on the farm.

“Yeah, I know he did.”

We drive around in silence for a few minutes. “How’s the writing thing going?”

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