I look out the window, watching the amber leaves skitter along the brick walkway. The campus stretches out below, red bricks and orderly paths steady and predictable—much like the way I’ve approached my life.
“And what about your writing?”
I tear my gaze from mindlessly staring out the window back to Mrs. Lawson, who’s now looking at me with those pursed lips that always make me feel like she knows what I’m thinking.
“My writing?”
“Yes.” She picks up a pen with a gold bird perched at the end and taps it against her desk. “You mentioned once before that you dabbled in writing.”
“Yeah, one time like three years ago…”
She shrugs her shoulders, sticking her pen into the wild bun atop her head.
“I haven’t written anything in a while.”
“Chloe, have you thought about taking a creative writing class? Or maybe a?—”
“No,” I interrupt her. “Sorry,” I say, running my fingers through my hair. “No. I’ve tried it, but I’m not very good at it, so I think it’s best to stick to the things I am good at.”
“You know.” She leans forward, cupping her bracelet covered hands and resting her chin on them. “Just because you don’t excel at something the first time, doesn’t mean you can’t do it. So long as you have the passion, I think it might be something worth looking into.”
I swallow, letting her words sit uncomfortably in my chest. The only thing I’ve ever really given my all to, and still failed at, is my relationship with Nathan. I’ve spent so much time avoiding risk that I don’t think I realized I’m been settling in other areas of my life too.
“Thank you, Mrs. Lawson. I’ll think about it.”
I stand, grabbing my bag, but the confidence I usually carry out of here is missing.
My phone buzzes once I’m halfway down the hall, and I stop, fishing it out before I get outside.
Maverick: My favorite conspiracy is that our phones are always listening to us. That’s the only excuse for why these suddenly started popping up on my feed.
Maverick: Cancer: You care too much, hold grudges like trophies, and will cut someone with your words if they deserve it. Lucky you're cute as hell...when you're plotting your revenge.
I cover my smile with my hand.
Chloe: Unfortunately, that’s kinda accurate.
Maverick: Fortunately, I kinda like it.
27
maverick
“Happy birthday to you,happy birthday dear, Rosie, happy birthday to you.”
I lift the cake from the coffee table, holding it out to the birthday girl. Chloe leans back from where she’s sitting on the floor, angling her Polaroid at us with a big smile on her face.
“Make a wish,” she says.
Rosie steadies the paper crown on her head, and her painted pink nails catch my attention. I glance over at the woman I know is responsible for them and the sunlight is pouring through the window of the common room, dousing her in its glow. She smiles, lifting her camera again, and I look back at Rosie just in time to see her lean toward the deep pink frosting piled high on her chocolate cake. A flash goes off as she blows out the candles and another one just as soon as she looks up at me with all the joy in the world in her eyes.
The soft claps aren’t nearly enough applause for what Rosie deserves for turning eighty-five years old today, but I fear this crowd wouldn’t respond well to my hootin’ and hollerin’. I carry the cake over to the table Chloe had set up with plates, napkins, and pointy pom-pom hats. As I searchthe table for a knife, I realize the table cloth isn’t the usual solid color cloth ones that Creekside typically has out. The flowers printed on the fabric are deep shades of purple, pink, and red, and they just so happen to match the ones filling the three vases along the table as well. Along with painting Rosie’s nails, and now that I’m looking at her, curling her hair as well, Chloe has gone out of her way to set up this party for her friend, knowing that if she didn't, no one else would have.
Sometimes, it actually takes my breath away when I think about how fucking good she is.
“Where you headed, handsome?”
“I’m just going to go ask Monica for a knife,” I say, putting a hand on Rosie’s shoulder as I walk past.
