“Do you like my writing?” I ask.
“I never said I didn’t like your writing,” he says immediately, as if he knew this question would eventually come up.
“I’m pretty sure you did. In fact, if I recall correctly, you said you hated that I took what was yours and made it mine. You hate my fanfiction,” I argue playfully as we continue walking.
“But I didn’t say I hated your writing,” he counters.
“So, you think I’m a good writer?”
The question sounds hopeful leaving my lips, and I can feel the quickening of my heartbeat humming in my chest.
“You’re an incredible writer, Rachel,” he says.
And well…I know it’s true by the way he’s saying the words, by the way they are soft and low, inking themselves on my skin, like something I don’t want to forget. I have to blink quickly before the tears fall.
Evan’s gaze flickers over to me and he laughs. “So does your crying work like a built-in lie detector?”
“I mean, I guess it could,” I reply. “I’ve cried plenty when moments weren’t sincere though.”
I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard. “Whoever you talked about on stage?”
I nod. “Something like that, but back to books. You said you‘think I’m an incredible writer.’” I say the words like he’s in trouble.
“I did,” he says. His voice is softer now. “And I meant it. You’re going to sell more books than I ever have.”
I laugh at this. Evan Michaels, the bestselling author of thirteen, almost fourteen, novels just told me I would sell more books than him.
“You don’t believe me?” he asks, his eyebrows raised.
“I don’t think I’m quite like Evan Michaels,” I mumble.
“You’re right,” he says. “You’re Rachel Perry.”
I bite at my bottom lip as I use my free hand to tuck a strand of loose hair behind my ear. “BarrettBeyondTheBadge is a lot more popular than Rachel Perry ever was.”
“That’s because the world doesn’t know Rachel, yet. You write like you see people. Not just how they are, but who they want to be. That’s rare,” he says.
And I don’t know what to do with his words because it’s not just about what he said; it’s about how he said it. It doesn’t feel like he’s trying to flatter me. It feels like he’s just telling me how it is…like he just knows, and he’s surprised I don’t.
“Why…Evan Michaels!” I feign a gasp. “It sounds like you’re a big fan!”
His lips spread into a wide grin. “Becoming one.”
I smile back, but then we stop walking, and I realize we are stopped in front of…a taco stand!
My eyes widen.
“Something wrong?” he asks.
He unlinks arms with me to get in line. People are shuffling through quickly. The smell of chili powder is thick in the air, taunting me.
“I can’t do this,” I squeak out, not wanting to reveal the ridiculous reason why.
“You don’t like tacos? I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who doesn’t love tacos. It’s just a corn tortilla with meat and cheese,” he details out annoyingly.
“I know what a taco is.”I pinch my nose.
“Then what is it?” He crosses his arms, his left eyebrow raised in curiosity. “Why are you pinching your nose? Are you allergic to something?”
