Page 39 of Fighting Words

I laugh, but I don’t promise to see her again, because frankly I’m not sure what’s about to happen. With Nate’s mood so hard to discern, there’s a chance I’ll never see this lovely group of people again. What a shame that’d be. I can’t remember the last time I had such a nice dinner, Nate’s sulking aside…

Outside, he walks a few yards in front of me, heading for his car like he’s on a mission to leave me behind. I clench my jaw and pick up my pace. I’m forced to rush after him even though the sidewalk is slick with ice and snow. My boots slip out from underneath me once, but I recover. Now he’s even farther ahead, and if only he’d slow down—

The second time my boots lose traction, I’m not so lucky. I land on the ground with a graceless “Oomph,” splayed out like a starfish. If there’s pain—blood, guts, those sorts of things—it takes a back seat to my embarrassment.

I tilt my head to the left to see my bags have spilled open. The book I bought at Alice’s shop today is now soaked through and ruined. My bottom lip wobbles.

Nate rushes back, his face coming over mine. He’s nice again, the Nate underneath the hard exterior, all that concealed emotion evident in his blue eyes. “Are you okay?”

I can’t look at him. I squeeze my eyes closed. “Uh-huh.”

“How did you land? On your elbow?”

On my butt. It will bruise, as will my ego, but everything else is fine. Unfortunately. How nice would a mild concussion be right now? Amnesia, even!

“Can you get up?” he asks gently.

I don’t want to. I want to lie on these cold uneven cobblestones until I freeze into a solid block of ice.

Nate bends down to take hold of my upper arms, hoisting me up until I’m standing and dripping. Melted snow covers the back half of my body. My hair is soaked.

He keeps his hands on my arms, steadying me like he’s worried I’ll topple over again. He leans down, his eyes level with mine. He’s wincing now. “Sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. I should have helped you to the car.”

My embarrassment morphs into indignation in the blink of an eye. I yank my arms out of his hold and scowl at him. “Yes, you should have, instead of acting like a jerk huffing and puffing all night. Is it that big of a deal that I ate dinner with your friends? I was perfectly good company. You were the one sulking all night!”

The apology in his eyes disappears in an instant. Suddenly, we’re adversaries again.

He bends to collect my things and shoves it all back into my bags. I want him to go away, but when we start to walk, he stays right by me, making sure if I go down, he’ll be close enough to catch me. Little does he know, if I’m going down, I’m taking him down with me. Oh, and those chocolate bars I bought earlier, yeah…he’s not getting any of them!

We ride home in tense silence. My arms stay crossed over my chest. My left butt cheek throbs with a dull ache. I think we’ll continue on like this the whole night, stomping around upstairs in the cottage while we brush our teeth, trying to outdo the other person in this childish game of anger.

I’m prepared to continue, raring to go even, except when we walk into his home, Nate yanks off his jacket, turns to me, and points to the kitchen table.

“Sit down,” he demands.

CHAPTER 12

NATE

Summer searsme with her eyes as she rounds the table and takes a seat as far away from me as she can get. Still, her arms are crossed. Her eyebrows are furrowed. Her hair is as wild and untamed as I’ve ever seen it, damp from the snow, cascading down around her. I look at her, she looks back at me, and I feel a tug in my chest.

Before I know it, I’m talking. “I told you about my old editor, that she left InkWell after the release ofEcho of Hope…”

Summer doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t soften her expression or make this any easier, and why should she? I’ve been an asshole all evening.

I consider taking the seat across from her, leveling the playing field, but I’m scared if I move or change course, this confession will dry up and disappear.

“She is the only reason I could publishEcho of Hope. She was influential in helping me plot and write, and she was by my side through the entire thing, more so than a normal editor would be. I’m terrified my ability to create is intrinsically tied to her. I haven’t written at all since she left.”

There.I’ve said it.

This heavy truth has sat like a boulder on my chest for years.

Summer’s frown deepens, not with sympathy but with disbelief. And maybe because I’ve already started, or maybe because none of this feels real anyway, I keep going.

“If I start and fail, I’ll knowshehad the magic. If I fail to start, I get to live out the rest of my days never testing that theory. It’s Schrödinger’s cat.”

“What?” She shakes her head impatiently.

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