“What’s the laptop for?”
“I’m going to email River some of my writing.”
Micah is quiet for a moment then asks, “Like what? That book you’re working on?”
“Yes, I’m sending him a few chapters.” I plop down on my bed.
He’s standing awkwardly in my doorway, shoulders hunched. “You’ve never let me read any of your writing.”
I pause in opening my laptop and look at him. “You’ve never asked.”
“I… what do you mean I’ve never asked?”
“I mean exactly that. In all the years I’ve been writing, you’ve never once asked to read anything I’ve written. You’ve never shown any interest in it at all.”
Micah’s face falls. “That’s not… I mean, I knew you liked to write, but…”
“But you never cared enough to ask about it.” The words come out sharper than I intended, but they’re true. “River spent half the evening asking me about my stories and what inspires me and about all my favorite authors. You’ve known me for years, and you’ve never asked me any of those things.”
“I care,” Micah says quietly. “About your writing.”
Emotion rises in my throat. “Then why have you never asked to read it?”
He runs his hand through his hair, making it stick up even more. “I don’t know. I guess I thought… I mean, if you wanted me to read it, you would have offered.”
I blink back tears, which surprises me. I didn’t realize how much it hurt me that Micah’s never paid attention to my work. “I was waiting for you to show some interest. To ask. To care enough to be curious about this huge part of my life. Whenever you write a song, I always ask to hear it.”
The hurt in my voice seems to hit him, because his expression changes to something almost stricken.
“Cricket, I…” He takes a step closer. “I would love to read your work. I’ve always wanted to, I just didn’t know how to ask. I was worried you’d think I was being nosey or something.”
I study his face, trying to determine if he’s sincere or just saying what he thinks I want to hear.
“Really?”
“Really. Can I? Read something, I mean?”
I look down at my laptop then back at him. “Which would you rather read, some of my short stories or part of my novel?”
“What’s your novel about?”
“It’s…” I hesitate, realizing how this is going to sound. “It’s a romance novel. Friends to lovers. Kind of a silly trope, really. You might not want to read it.”
Micah goes very still. “Oh.”
“The short stories might be better,” I say quickly.
“No,” he says, his voice soft. “I want to read the novel. If you’re comfortable sharing it.”
I stare at him, surprised by the intensity in his voice. He’s reaching out, and I can’t say no. “Okay. I’ll email the first few chapters to you.”
“Thank you.” He moves toward the door then pauses. “Cricket? I’m sorry I never asked before. That was… that was really thoughtless of me.”
My throat gets tight, and I have a hard time looking at him. I can’t say anything for fear it will sound funny.
“Your writing is important to you, which means it should be important to me too.” He meets my eyes. “I promise to do better.”
After he leaves, I sit on my bed with my laptop, staring at the document that contains my novel. The story of a woman hopelessly in love with her oblivious best friend.
