“Still staring at a blank page, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Writer’s block?”
“Something like that.”
“You talk to Scott yet?”
“About what?”
“About the block. The muse thing.” She crosses her arms. “I told you he went through the same thing. He might actually have useful advice instead of you just sitting here staring at paper like it personally offended you.”
“I’ve beenbusy.”
“You’ve been avoiding.” She raises an eyebrow. She walks away before I can respond, which is probably for the best.
I pull the notebook back toward me and stare at the blank page. The right inspiration. Easy for her to say. My inspiration is currently running a flower shop and probably hoping I fall into the ocean.
The bell above the door chimes, and I look up automatically—then immediately look back down when I see it’s not Delilah.
Get it together, Cole.
It’s a woman with auburn hair and tired eyes, holding the hand of a little girl with bright red hair in two braids. The coffee shop is busier than usual—first day of spring break, and the tourists are already flooding in for the season. The woman—Hazel, I think Jo said her name was—looks like she’s been up since dawn and is already regretting every life choice that led her to this moment. She makes a beeline for a corner booth where an older woman is already sitting. The red-haired kid trails behind, looking supremely bored in the way only children trying to act older can manage.
I go back to my notebook.
She was?—
“So. Creative block, huh?”
I look up. The red-haired kid has materialized across from me, sliding into the booth like she owns the place. She’s maybe eight, wearing a shirt with a cartoon cat on it that says “Whatever” in sparkly letters.
“Excuse me?”
“Creative block.” She shrugs, examining her nails the way I’ve seen teenagers do in movies. “That’s like, a whole mood.”
“I’m sorry, do I know you?”
“I’m Ellen.” She says it like this should explain everything. “My mom is over there with Great-Grandma Hensley. They’re gonna talk forever about boring stuff.” She gestures vaguely toward the corner booth. “So I figured I’d come give you some advice.”
“Advice.”
“About your muse situation.”
I set down my pen. “My muse situation.”
“Dude, you keep repeating everything I say. That’s lowkey weird.” Ellen tilts her head, studying me with an intensity that’s slightly unnerving. “You’re the rock star, right? Dean’s brother? My sister Kira has your album. She thinks you’re mid, but whatever.”
“Mid?”
“Like, average. Not bad, not great. Mid.” Shewaves a hand dismissively. “I told her your early stuff was better. More raw, you know? More real.”
I don’t know whether to be offended or impressed. “You’re what, seven?”
“Eight. And age is just a number.” She rolls her eyes exactly like a teenager would. “Wisdom is eternal.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Birthday card. But it’s still true.”
