“No,” he said as he handed me my coffee and opened the door for me. He trailed alongside me as we drifted down the street to the library, and his voice lowered in mock outrage, “No. Wedon’tthink it’s sweet, Serenity.”
The warm light and smell of old books greeted us. I soaked in the easy familiarity of the large space as I went straight for the romance section. Dante was right behind me, and he pulled books off the shelf at my side, looking at their covers.
“You don’t want your friend to be in a relationship?” I asked.
“No,” he answered, the seriousness back in his voice. “It’s inconvenient.”
I paused and thought about it. Sinners Do It Better was extremely popular with billions of fans worldwide. The demand for their music, their presence on TV shows and interviews, and their consistent concerts was high. Being in New York, they were closer to those gigs and had access to plenty of recording and filming options. Here in Tennessee, those things were farther away, and the atmosphere as a whole was completely different. It was true—suddenly moving here had surely turned their professional world on its axis.
Dante sat the book he held back on the shelf and held up the capybara-shaped note I’d written him. I bit my lip to hide my grin. Watching him find my book suggestions to build a quickly growing stack was doing something electric to my insides. He didn’t have to actually get the books I’d recommended, but hewas. He listened to andwantedmy opinion, a fact that squeezed my heart in a precious hug.
But that feeling was nothing compared to the wave of euphoria I got when he reached for a book, only to produce one that I recognized instantly. I’d know that purple, black, and silver dragon’s scales cover anywhere. The author’s name, SC Draven, seared into my eyes.
I held my breath and tried not to watch him too hard as he read the blurb. His dark eyes skimmed the synopsis, interest immediately raising a brow. He wordlessly added that book to his hefty stack.
There werethousandsof books on these shelves. Books written by reputable authors, books with big publisher names tied to them, books with prettier covers, books thateveryonerecommended.
Yet Dante chosemine.
Among the thousand, he chose mine.
I’d been writing stories for as long as I could remember. I’d found my home—I’d foundmyself—in books and words. Reading and writing was often what made existing worth the struggle of living. I could be anyone, go anywhere, and experience a thousand lives between those pages.
I wasn’t Serenity, the weirdo. I was Serenity, the queen.
I wasn’t invisible. I was wanted.
I wasn’t the girl with monsters in her head. I was the girl with monsters fighting at her command.
I’d always known I wanted to be an author. I wanted to create tales that reached inside of people and held on tightly. Stories where magic was real, people of every kind found love, and happiness was abundant for all.
When I’d graduated high school and announced to my dad that I was going to pursue my dream of being an author, he was devastated. He’d hoped I’d be a doctor, a scientist studying forthe cure of some disease, or even a business owner like him. The miniscule puff of pride he’d managed to carry in his chest for his “genius” daughter disappeared that day. Now when he looked at me, there was no missing the trace of disappointment in his eyes.
Dad didn’t care that writing still made me a genius. I came up with entire worlds, characters, and stories before crafting them into a whole assbook. But it didn’t matter. In his eyes, being an author wasn’t a real, successful job.
And since I wasn’t going to have a “real” job, I got to become one of his many employees at his construction and real estate company. I appreciated his willingness to give me a job, but that reality also made my spirit deflate. Working there meant I wasn’t where I wanted to be, yet—I hadn’t made it as an author. I had about three-hundred sales for the total lifespan of my author career thus far, and there were days when I silently felt like my dream was impossible.
And what then? If I couldn’t spend my life writing and doing what I loved, what was the point of it all? It was a question I’d been struggling with a lot over the years.
Why bother fighting for the impossible?
Why keep trying when you aren’t good enough?
Why push on when no one cares about you?
I glanced at Dante’s stack of books again—atmybook. A pinprick of warmth blossomed inside of me.
Maybe hope wasn’t lost, because therewassomeone who saw my potential. He saw that fantasy romance book on the shelf and chose it. Something on that cover or in the blurb spoke to him, and, just maybe, my words would, too.
He was just one person, and it wasn’t even an actual sale to put money in my pocket. But it was a baby step toward becoming a full-time author. And these days, those steps felt like leaps toward my future.
We made our way to the check-out counter, and as the librarian got his library membership set up, Dante turned to me. “So what does the rest of the day have in store for you?”
“From here, I always go to the zoo.”
His eyebrow shot up while the hint of a smirk teased his lips. “The zoo?”
Heat bloomed across my face as I stammered, “A-Adults can go to the zoo, too. I love animals, so going there to read—”or write“—is my little happy time.”
