Page 59 of Since Always

"No need to worry. I am good, I promise."

It appears she is not the only friend worried; the next day when I get home from the library, Becca Nicks is sitting in my living room. Her long legs are curled under her on my couch and she is reading lines from a script out loud.

"Well, make yourself at home."

"You gave me a key," she says, rolling her eyes. “Clearly, it was implied I could make myself at home."

"I mean, I gave you a key in case someday I choke on a pretzel and no one has heard from me in three days, but sure, okay."

She laughs and moves her feet and I sit opposite her on the couch.

"Running lines?"

"Yeah, and I need your help later."

"Yessss," I say, and she smiles. I love running lines with her because it's as close as I will ever get to being an actress, and I throw myself completely into the part every time. Becca always reminds me I don't have to act out the scene, but I ignore her and do my best to imitate all her co-stars.

"Do you have homework?"

"Yeah. I have to write a paper for my journalism class."

She crinkles her perfect little button nose. "Gross."

"I'm looking forward to it. I have to write a paper defining an abstract idea. So, I'm going to write about patriotism and how it doesn't mean agreeing with whatever you are told. I'm going to get into the history of why patriotism is, at its roots, protesting and questioning your country. Why it's not about blindingly loving it, but instead loving it enough to want better for it. I have a whole thing planned out."

"Man, you are such a nerd," she says, and I kick at her, laughing.

"I take that as a compliment."

"I mean it. Remember when we were little, and you used to write research papers for fun?"

"I didn't—" I start to object, but then I remember doing that very thing. I groan. "I think it was just one time."

"I don't think it was. You knew you wanted to be a writer, the way I knew I wanted to be an actress," she says, chuckling and turning back to her script.

"You want to hear something crazy?" I ask her.

"Oh, always," she says. She looks up at me, but sees something in my face that makes her set down the script on my coffee table.

"I still want that. To be a writer. I want to be a journalist," It feels strange even saying it, so I quickly qualify my statement. "I mean, that's what I would want to do, if I wasn't going to work for the company."

"Is there a job you could do for the company where you get to write?" She suggests.

"Yeah. That's part of the reason I'm looking to go into our PR or marketing departments."

"You don't sound super excited about that."

I shrug. "It's just not exactly what I...I mean, yeah, I guess it will be fine."

"Well, 'fine' isn't really what we're aiming for, is it? Do you not want to work for Sloane?"

I take a deep breath. "You know what, I have been thinking about this a lot lately, and I talked about it some with Owen, but...No." The answer is simple, and yet not at all. "I don't. It's just not the life I would have chosen for myself. But it's the one my family expects. It's the one my dad expected."

"Ah. Got it. So, because he's gone, you can't sit him down and have a conversation with him about not wanting to become a part of Sloane."

"Well, yeah, kinda."

"Yeah," she nods. "That sucks."

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