“You’re in creative writing?”
It’s a question, but he obviously expects me to agree.
“Business, with a minor in psychology,” I argue.
“Why not creative writing? I heard it’s amazing here.”
“It is,” I agree without elaborating.
“Did you apply?” he asks, before I’m guessing he realizes what an affirmative answer would mean, and he changes his mind. “Shit, don’t answer that, I’m sorry, it’s none of my business…”
“I didn’t,” I assure him. “No need to worry about the sting of my rejection.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I thought it was none of your business?”
“It isn’t…but I also don’t understand why someone who dreams of being a writer would rather study Business instead of what they’re actually passionate about, unless…” He trails off, possibly realizing that he sounds pretty judgy right now.
“Writing is my NHL, but realistically, I’ll probably take over my family’s car dealership, which is where a degree in business would come in handy. I could have tried for a minor in creative writing, but I didn’t want it to become work. I know writing books will be that if I do it as a career, but someone giving me topics and parameters, grading me on it…I was worried I would resent it,” I say, though I was more afraid of finding out I wasn’t good enough than of not loving writing anymore. I’m still afraid. Terrified even.
“So, this book isn’t for school.”
“It’s just a hobby,” I agree, way too embarrassed to mention the submission form currently open on my laptop, mocking me. It came up while I was researching hockey romance (and buying a bunch to figure out the tropes and reader expectations), because sports romance is one of the top genres they’re looking for right now.
“Not just,” Noah argues, then sighs. “I think that’s really awesome.”
“You can say that again once I actually finish something.” I don’t mean to share that, or any of it. I can’t even bring myself to fill out the application form to see if they have anything I should submit to. The most they ask for is a series outline, and I’m a master at plotting out twelve-book series whenever I want to procrastinate from actually writing something. But that’s where I fall short. They’ll expect a complete manuscript, and I’ve never even finished a draft, especially not within a few months.
“You haven’t done that yet?” I appreciate how Noah tries to hide his surprise and act like that’s completely normal.
“Nope.”
“How long have you been writing?”
“Forever.” I don’t usually talk about it with strangers. I hardly talk to people at all, but I give him even more. “My first book was half drawings with misspelled sentences about how much I wanted a baby sister. It ended when she asks her parents, with no conclusion, because my parents told me no, and I didn’t like that ending, but didn’t think I could change it, either.”
“I’m sorry you never got your sister.” There’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“It’s fine. I think my brothers were so awesome with me that I wanted to be a big sibling too, and I wanted someone who’d watch princess movies with me, but I found out that if I cry, my brothers let me choose the movie.”
“Sneaky.”
“Sometimes you gotta play dirty. Though I haven’t pulled that in years.”
“Uh-huh.” He pretends to not believe me. “I guess they’re older?” I nod. “How many?”
“Two. Eighteen months and three years older. My parents were busy.”
I wish I could sink into the floor and never be seen again after that comment, but he laughs.
“Built-in best friends.”
“Sometimes.” I’m nervous we’re getting close to me accidentally saying something, but I also feel guilty for not agreeing that my brothers are my best friends. “You just have Izzie?”
“And Tatum. He hit seven months on the first.”
“Full siblings?” I ask before I can stop myself. “I’m sorry, that’s none of my business.”
