Today Tonight Tomorrow
“I… don’t know.”
I’ve always been able to be honest with my parents. I even told my mom when I lost my virginity. Romance novels made me so eager to talk about it.
The thing is, I’m afraid.
Afraid of saying I want what they have.
Afraid they’ll dismiss it as a hobby.
Afraid that if they read my work, they’ll tell me I’m not good enough.
Afraid they’ll tell me I’ll never make it.
Her hand brushes my cheek. “Endings are so hard,” she says, and then laughs at the double meaning. “I should know. We spent all day trying to get ours just right.”
“Yours are always perfect.” And I mean it. I was my parents’ first reader, their first fan. “Did you ever—” I break off, wondering how to phrase this. “Did you ever have people who looked down on you and Dad for writing children’s books?”
She gives me this look over her glasses, as if to say, obviously. “All the time. We told you what his parents said when the third Riley book hit the New York Times list, right?” When I shake my head, she continues: “His father asked when we were going to start writing real books.”
“Grandpa does only read World War II novels.”
“And that’s fine. Not my cup of tea, but I understand why he enjoys them. We’ve always loved writing for kids. They’re so full of hope and wonder, and everything feels big and new and exciting. And we love meeting the kids who read our books. Even if they’re not kids anymore,” she says with a nod toward the dining room.
“Have you ever thought…?” I chew the inside of my cheek. “What Grandpa said about your books. That’s—that’s sort of how I feel sometimes.”
“About romance novels? I’d never argue that they’re not real books, Rowan. We each have our preferences. We can agree to disagree.”
I try to keep my heart from sinking. It’s not progress, not exactly, but at least it doesn’t feel like a step backward. It’s going to have to be enough until I meet Delilah.
“Speaking of romance,” my mom says. “Is there something going on between you and Neil?”
My hands fly to my mouth, and I’m sure there’s an expression of abject horror on my face. “Oh my God, Mom, no, no, no, no, no. No.”
“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.”
I roll my eyes. “No. We teamed up for the game. Completely platonically.”
But my mind trips over the way he said the kiddush, the sound of those words I knew so well in a voice I thought I did. My fingers tingle at the memory of sitting on his bed, touching his shoulder. An unusual moment of physical contact between us. Then the pointillism of freckles across his face and down his neck, the dots that wrap around his fingers and crawl up his arms. And his arms—the way they look in that T-shirt.
It’s probably just that I’m really into arms.
“Well. I hope you enjoy the rest of your game,” my mom says with a smirk before she heads back into the dining room.
HOWL CLUES
A place you can buy Nirvana’s first album
A place that’s red from floor to ceiling
A place you can find Chiroptera
A rainbow crosswalk
Ice cream fit for Sasquatch
The big guy at the center of the universe
Something local, organic, and sustainable