“Now that’s the reaction I was looking for,” I joke.
“No, no!” She slams her laptop shut. “Sorry! I was just kind of…in the zone.”
“Oh yeah?” I say, walking towards the kitchen. “With what?”
I look back to see her crack open her screen and type out another stream of taps before shutting it again.
“It’s nothing.”
“Well, don’t let me interrupt you.” I pour myself a cup of coffee from the pot into the extra mug she left sitting on the counter, then hold it out to her.
She grabs her cup off of the coffee table and takes a sip. “No thanks! This is already my second cup.”
I look at the time. It’s still early. “How long have you been up?”
“Just an hour or so. Woke up feeling…” I join her on the couch just in time to see her cheeks flush pink. She looks at me side-eyed. “Inspired, I guess.”
I sip my coffee, the steam, and her confession both hitting me warmly. “To write?”
She leans back against the couch. “Mhmm.”
She sounds relaxed, but her stare, currently fixated on herIs It Friday Yet?coffee mug tells a different story. “Can you at least tell me what type of writing it is?”
She plays with the screen of her laptop, lifting it open just an inch, then lowering it shut, open-close, open-close, clearly uneasy.
“Well, it’s nothingyet,” She brings her mug to her mouth, presumably giving herself extra time to respond. Speaking into the cup before the liquid touches her lips she adds, “But eventually I hope it becomes my first novel.”
My eyes grow wide, impressed, but her floodgates instantly open. She begins rambling, over-explaining the whole idea.
“I know, it’s crazy. I mean I’ve never written anything before. Well, anything real. Like, for anyone besides myself. I just, I don’t know, I’ve seen the impact that books can have on kids, and I thought maybe I could write something that might make a difference to someone someday.” She takes a deep breath. “It’s silly.”
“It’s not,” I say almost instantly. Her gaze, which avoided me throughout her whole explanation, snaps to mine.
“It’s not?”
I twist my forearm so my childhood hero is on full display. “It’s not.”
Shefinally relaxes into the cushions, a soft smile spreading slowly across her mouth.
“I read a lot growing up," I say. "Still do actually. Books can help you escape, you know?”
"I do," she says tilting her head curiously. She squints her eyes like she wants to ask a question, but I lean over and press a kiss to her temple, leaving the conversation there.
“So, what’s your plan for the day?” I ask.
“I have to go to my parent’s tonight. We do dinner every Thursday.”
“It’s Sunday,” I say dryly. She smiles and carefree Claire is back.
“Correct, but they’re going away for the Fourth of July weekend, and this was the only night they could do it. Dad has to work late to get ahead before they leave and mom has a bake sale and karaoke fundraiser this week or something.”
“Wait, at the same time?” I ask.
“What?”
“The bake sale and karaoke. Is it at the same time?” I know these church groups get crazy, but the thought of someone singing off-key with a mouth full of muffin seems a little too wild, even for them.
“Oh, no, two separate nights.”
