She laughs and rolls her eyes. “Easy for you to say. Inspiration doesn’t just happen when summoned.”
I tap the center of her palm, and her hand closes around mine to squeeze back. “It does if you give yourself permission to take your own writing every bit as seriously as you take your course work. You don’t fail to turn in an essay on time just because you weren’t inspired at the right moment. Do the same thing for your poetry, or you’re doing yourself a huge disservice.”
She bites her lip, but she doesn’t protest. I can tell from the solemn look in her eye that she knows I’m right.
Then, of course, my phone starts to buzz in my pocket. Reluctantly, I slide my hand from her grasp and peek at the caller ID.
Kat.
Crap. Kat never calls. She’s a texter all the way. “I’ll be right back,” I say to Harper, who still seems off in her own dream world anyway, mulling over what I just said.
I slip out to the front of the restaurant, answering just as the now-cold night air hits me in the chest. “What’s up?” I say.
For a moment, there’s only silence. Then I hear a long sniffle, followed by a muffled sob. My heart sinks to the floor. I’ve never heard Kat cry. Never, not even when . . .
“What’s wrong, what happened?” I ask, my throat threatening to clench so tight I won’t be able to force words out.
In the background, I can hear Mum’s voice too, telling Kat something, her tone shrill and panicked. That’s when I know, even before Kat says anything else, even before she elaborates.
But some part of me still needs to hear her say it before I do anything.
On the other end, I hear my sister suck in a deep breath and clear her throat hard. “It’s Dad,” she says. “The cancer is back.”
Harper
I will never understand this man.
One minute he’s laughing, acting sweet, giving me (all too sensible) advice on my writing, tickling my wrists like he’s thinking about later tonight, too, about all the things we can do to each other when we get back to his place.
Instead, he takes one phone call outside the restaurant and comes back inside a couple minutes later asking the waiter for the check and to-go boxes. Something was clearly wrong—he wasn’t smiling anymore, and the closed-off, sharp-eyebrowed jerkface was back—but he hasn’t exactly been forthcoming about what’s going on either.
“Is everything okay?” I ask for the third time in our so far otherwise silent car ride back toward Oxford.
“I already said yes, Harper, how many times do I need to repeat myself?”
“Until I believe you maybe?” I counter, jutting my chin out. “What’s going on, Jack? Everything seemed fine until you got that phone call. You’ve been freaking out ever since.”
“How observant,” he mutters.
“Well I wouldn’t have to observe if you’d just act like a normal person and say, hey Harper, here’s why I’m suddenly being a jackass.”
“I am a jackass, Harper. By some miracle you haven’t noticed yet, but the sooner you figure that out the better. Here.”
I look up to find us parked around the corner from my dorm already. Then I glance back to him, back at the building. This just doesn’t fit, not with the guy who took me to his favorite childhood vacation spot, made me a picnic, and tried to help me find inspiration to write again.
I don’t know who this new Jack is, but I don’t like him. “Fine. Have it your way,” I mutter as I swing my legs out of the car and slam the door behind me. Part of me expects him to chase after me, to apologize. Instead, he drives off without a pause.
Safely ensconced back in my dorm, I keep running over and over the conversation leading up to his turn. I’m sure that he was fine until that phone call came in. What could it have been? Was it something with us? Did someone find out about us?
Could they make me leave if we’re caught?
What would my parents say?
I groan and squeeze my temples with one hand. Too much to worry about. I don’t even know if this is going anywhere beyond a few quick fucks.
Except that, after today, I thought I did. Walking around that village with our hands clasped, shopping in the market, making sandwiches in the grass like we were just another normal couple out on a casual Saturday date—that’s what I want our days to be like. I want us to have a chance at normal, whatever that may be.
By some miracle you haven’t noticed yet, he said. Is that it? Am I just this freaking bad at choosing guys to date?
I don’t think so. There’s more than he’s telling me.
Whatever it is, clearly he’s not talking anytime soon. So fine. I can be normal, distract myself with other things.