My eyebrows shoot up despite myself. Ninety-eight is no joke.
“Fine,” I mutter, sliding my assignment across the table. “But if you tell me to ‘feel the story’ or some crap like that, I’m out.”
My story is basic. We're supposed to outline a short story about somebody being stuck and how they get out. I wrote about a young girl lost in a theme park because she wandered off alone.
“Deal. No feeling required. Just good old-fashioned story magic.” He starts reading, and I watch his face change as he processes my work—focused, thoughtful, occasionally making these little humming sounds.
It’s... oddly endearing.
“Okay,” he says finally. “You’ve got all the pieces. Beginning, middle, end. Conflict. Stakes. But”—he looks up at me—“why should I care about this kid?”
“Because she’s eight and alone in a theme park?”
“That’s circumstance, not character.” He taps the page. “What makes her special? What does she want more than anything?”
“To not be lost?”
“Deeper than that. What did you care about when you were eight?”
The question catches me off guard. When I was eight, I cared about...
“Flopsy,” I blurt out, then immediately want to die.
“What’s a Flopsy?”
Kill me now. “My... stuffed bunny. White, velvet ears. I took him everywhere.”
His whole face lights up like I just handed him gold. “Perfect! That’s what your character needs. Something personal, something that matters beyond just surviving.”
Ethan’s grin sparks and he stands up, stretching his arms overhead. His t-shirt rides up, exposing a strip of tanned abs that absolutely should not be that distracting. I force my eyes back to my notebook.
“Perfect. Act I”—he holds up one finger—“Flopsy safe in backpack.” His second finger shoots up “Act II: maybe the pirate-ship ride snags him—boom, headless bunny.” He motions to decapitate himself and I gasp. He smiles wider—damn that dimple—and holds up three fingers. “Act III: the girl chooses between escape and stitching Flopsy back together.” He gestures, carving arcs in the air, completely absorbed in the story.
“You want to decapitate my bunny?”
He drops back into his chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. The position makes his shoulders look broader, and I hate that I notice. “Why are you upset?”
“Because I love Flopsy.”
He claps, victorious, green-gold eyes lighting up. “Exactly. Emotional attachment. If you feel that gut-twist, so will the reader.”
Annoyingly, he’s right. I shove my glasses up. “Fine. Flopsy’s head can dangle, but we are sewing it back on in Act III. That’s non-negotiable.”
“Deal.” He pops the cap off a pen with his teeth and begins annotating my grid. His handwriting is a relaxed scrawl, looping arrows between columns, adding a sticky note labeledBUNNY DEATHwith an exclamation mark that looks suspiciously like a carrot.
We workshop beat by beat, the girl’s flaw (fear of the dark), her secret superpower (map-making), the moment she nearly trades Flopsy for a free fast-pass bracelet.
Ethan’s questions come fast, each one prying the storyopen without making me feel stupid. When he gets excited about an idea, he gestures wildly, nearly knocking over my coffee. I catch it just in time, and our hands brush. His are warm and larger than mine, and I yank back like I’ve been shocked.
“Sorry.” He grins, not looking sorry at all. “I get carried away. What if we give her quirks? Like…a strawberry allergy?”
I shut it down, but the idea percolates.
Half an hour blinks past. When he finally caps the pen, ink fully decorates the once-sterile page.
“Homework,” he says, tapping the sticky note. His fingers are stained with blue ink, and somehow even that looks good on him. This is ridiculous. “Integrate Flopsy, rewrite midpoint, add a beat where she hesitates at the exit gate. Send me the new grid by Thursday. Meet again then? Long said we’ve got to email him twice a week after each session for me to get my credit. Cool?”
“Thursday,” I echo, surprised I’m not dreading the next session.
