Page 70 of South of The Skyway

“Did you always want to own businesses?”

“Pretty much. I mean, when we were kids, all of us boys thought we would conquer the sea like Milo and Grandpa, but…” he shook his head. “I prefer smiling faces to freezing my ass off and taking big risks. Dad got lucky with Mom, you know? When I find my person, I want to be with her full-time, not part-time.” He shut the tea drawer, moving smoothly for a spoon and golden nectar. “How about you? You always think you’d own a bookstore?”

I weighed the words briefly before admitting, “No, actually. I wanted to be an author.”

Rhyett’s abrupt halt of movement indicated a shock equivalent to telling him the sky was green. Brow furrowed, he slowly squeezed a string of honey into his cup, nodding his head.

“So, why aren’t you?” He finally asked.

“Eh,” I said on a shrug. “Who’s got the time?”

“Well, all of the names on your shelves, for starters.”

“I just…I’m a numbers girl. I don’t think I’ve got the guts to put myself out there like that. You spend months—maybe years—pouring your heart and soul, sleepless nights, and plenty of tears into your art, only for some ninny with a megaphone to bash it online from their parents’ basement, where their personal dreams went to die. I know enough authors to see how much it hurts to filet yourself open like that. I’m not sure I have the strength for that.”

“Yeah, but it’s like you said. They’re standing on bloated opinions without ever having put themselves out there for critique. What about the readers who wouldloveyour work? Who would see themselves in your characters? Is the opinion of a handful of naysayers really worth…letting your own dreams die in a basement?”

“I don’t have a basement,” I quipped beneath lowered lashes, shifting on my feet flirtatiously as my stomach did somersaults in an attempt to avoid absorbing his words.

“Literary cafes work just as well. What did you want to write about?”

As I watched him strain the French press and pass me my cup, I realized I couldn’t remember the last time someone had asked me that. I mean, Noel, but she already knew every plot line I’d thought of over the last several decades. We sometimes used the names of the fictitious friends as examples, although there wasn’t a single beat of their lives printed in ink.

“I guess I needed validation when I was younger, you know? The books I loved all had some triumphant, romanticized found family. Or a group of people brought together by circumstances—roommates, that kind of thing—likeFriendsorNew Girl. I always thought I’d tell a story about unlikely people brought together when they needed each other.” I shrugged. “But then I grew up.”

“What did growing up do?”

“Reinforced that those stories aren’t real. Neither are the princes who came in to save the heroines.”

“What about a heroine who saves herself?”

I narrowed my eyes at my machismo-loving lover but only found sincerity in those steel blue eyes. “Been done before.”

“Not by you,” he pointed out, stirring his mug absentmindedly.

“No,” I agreed. “Not by me.”

“So…what would it look like if you wanted to start writing again?”

I licked my lips to suppress the smile that threatened them. “How do you know I wrote before?”

A solitary brow arch spelled nothing but trouble.Knowingtrouble. My façade collapsed like a house of cards, a grin fighting the straight line of my lips as I admitted, “Okay, yes, I wrote before.”

“When did you stop?”

When did I stop?I gingerly sipped my coffee and ignored the surprise that flitted across his expression, long ago having developed scald calluses on my mouth.

I…hadn’t thought about that.Whenthe dream died didn't seem nearly as pivotal as the fact that it was six feet under. Or roasted into ashes that had long-since blown away to dance with the leaves of an eternal-summer breeze. Another tastebud-searing sip did absolutely nothing to pull it to the surface, but Rhyett didn’t interrupt. He slurped loudly on his tea and turned to stir the scramble as my chest constricted, my throat along with it like I’d been stung by a bee and needed a Benadryl.

When did I…stop writing? My temples began to throb, my heart picking up as my clumsy mental fingers thumbed through files buried in enough dust to knit a fucking blanket. Maybewhenwasn’t as important aswhat.What had I last written?

“Noel and I had a story about a girl struck by lightning and her journey developing powers afterwards.”

“LikeThe Flash?”

“Probably partially inspired by it. Noel is a superhero dork. But our girl had been a brainiac before, and the storm enhanced her intelligence, making her hyper-observant. And then, in the climax, she developed electrokinesis.”

Rhyett was smiling softly as he rotated to dish our plates. “How old were you?”

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