Page 32 of Plotting Summer

“I really don’t think I am.”

She sighs. “Fine. Have you thought out how you’re going to go about telling him?”

My brow lowers, not exactly sure what she’s asking. “Besides just saying it, what other way is there?”

Tala’s lips purse. “How would you get a character out of this situation?”

“A fictional character?”

She nods as if my emphasis on the fictional aspect isn’t important.

I consider her question. If I had my heroine get herself into a similarly stupid situation, how would I have her get out of it? Lying obviously won’t work, readers hate that. And a solid relationship can’t be built on a lie. Hmmm … Honestly, if I were writing this story, there’s a good chance I’d have the hero discover the truth before she tells him to up the angst. He’d likely be disappointed and upset that she didn’t trust him enough to tell him sooner, but in the end, after some time apart and a cathartic moment, he’d come to realize her reasons for it. Because how could he not? They’d be so in love by that point, there’s no way he’d let this one long-ago offense come between them. “I’ve got nothing,” I say, well aware that my fictional solution doesn’t echo my and Tristan’s real-life story in the least.

“I have an idea,” Tala says. “What if you were to start hinting at the truth? Drop little clues that will make your big confession seem not so entirely massive.”

“Like what?”

“Start hinting at your crush,” Jane says with an unhelpful smile.

I shake my head. “That’s not happening. Any other ideas?”

“Heath already told him you write, didn’t he?” Tala asks.

I cross my arms in a reactive motion to the memory. “He did.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing. What if you let Tristan see small glimpses of the author side of you—the plotting, story-driven part that makes up backstories for strangers or tucks away an interesting fact or piece of information for later? The side of you that’s always jotting ideas down in your notebook. The side of you that you’re way too good at hiding from everyone but us.”

“Ease Tristan into it,” Jane says, nodding. “It’s brilliant.”

It actually does make sense. Giving him bits and pieces along the way instead of unloading it all on him in one fell swoop will hopefully mitigate both my concerns: a floodgate crying situation from too many pent-up emotions and the restraining order. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

Sprawled out on the bed in Tala’s jammies, with teal blue nails that match the new flair pen sitting on my open notebook, I’m staring at my phone, wishing Tristan would have texted. But he hasn’t, so I’m trying to garner the courage to text him before he decides to write me off completely after today.

I draw in a long, slow inhale.

I can do this.

Hey! It’s Capri.

Obviously, he has my number. I erase the last part.

Hey! I wanted to reach out to you

Reach out to you? What am I, a secretary? I delete again.

Hey! You up for another outing?

That’s acceptable. I read it aloud to make sure it actually sounds okay and that I didn’t miss any blatant errors, and I press send.

CAPRI

Hey! You up for another outing?

My heart is beating with an intensity that causes my eardrums to thud as I wait for his reply. Then I begin to wonder if mentioning this on the same day as our last outing makes me look desperate. Maybe I should have sent it tomorrow. Is there a way to recall a text? Before I have time to look into it, three dots appear. I hold my breath, waiting.

TRISTAN

Perfect timing. I was just about to text you to get something on the books.