Page 24

Milo lets out a gruff sigh before shaking his shoulders, as if it were enough to purge all the negative emotions he’s feeling. If only it were that simple.

“I could’ve used a hand, you know?” he says, looking directly at me this time.

“It looked like you had it handled.” I grin.

Milo lets out half a chuckle, his focus falling from my face to the notebook in my hand.

“What’s that?” he asks, eyeing it.

“Nothing.” I push the notebook behind my back.

“Doesn’t seem like nothing,” he jokes with a smile.

Hmm. I wonder if Milo knows that when he smiles, he looks so much like his mom. And just like hers, his smiles are disarming. They aren’t the kind people force. He means them. They light up his whole face and make you feel… seen. It’s like his superpower. A beautiful, frustrating, confusing superpower.

“Fine,” I gruff out, desperate for him to stop smiling at me like that. “It’s a notebook. Happy?”

He chuckles. “That depends. Are you going to tell me what’s inside? Is it… a diary?”

“Do I look ten to you?” I scoff.

“No.” He nervously brushes a hand over the back of his neck. “You definitely don’t look like a kid anymore.”

The way his cheeks flush crimson when he sneaks another glance at me leaves me even more confused.

What’s that supposed to mean?

“I… um… it’s where I write,” I explain, needing him to stop looking at me like that.

First the big smiles and now the shy glances. I’d rather deal with a sad or angry Milo than try to decipher what that’s all about.

“You write?” He perks up immediately. “For real?”

“Yes. People write, you know. And not that drivel people post on social media.”

Again, he laughs, and I suddenly can’t seem to sit still.

“What do you write?”

I bite the corner of my lip, wondering if I should tell him. But this is Milo—the nicest, most genuine person I know. Perhaps the only good person I’ve ever known. I can trust Milo. I think.

“You really want to know?” I arch a brow.

“Yeah. I really do.” He nods, the golden flecks in his chestnut irises practically shimmering.

Fuck my life. How am I supposed to say no now when he looks so… damn happy?

“I write short stories.” There. I said it.

“What kind of short stories?”

Jesus Christ. Now there’s follow-up questions? Argh!

“Mostly ghost stories. Sometimes the odd vampire or werewolf one.”

“So… paranormal?”

“Yes and no. They’re more like horror stories,” I try to explain. “Like the ones we used to hear around the campfire when we were eight.”