Page 25
“Damn. I totally forgot about that. I used to love going off to camp at Lake Alder for the week,” he says, half wistfully, his smile dimming somewhat. “Those were the days.”
Yes, they were.
His mom was still alive.
And mine… well, mine was still alive and still my mom.
“Can I read one?” I feel the blood drain from my face at the mere question. Milo picks up on it instantly. “No pressure. You don’t have to. It’s just… maybe one of your stories would take me out of my own head right now.”
Fuckity fuck fuck fuck.
How can I say no to that?
Fucking Milo Fletcher and his sad smiles and doe eyes.
“Fine,” I grit out, none too happy that he was able to tug at my heartstrings so easily. Especially since I didn’t think I had a working heart to begin with.
Milo doesn’t think twice, jumping to his feet and rushing over to sit beside me.
“Give it,” he says, looking more like his upbeat self.
“On one condition. This stays between us. I don’t want anyone to know that I write or what I write about. Deal?”
His brows furrow. “Why don’t you want anyone to know?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Just because, Milo! Damn. Take the hint, why don’t you?”
Most boys his age would get their feelings hurt when a girl spoke to them like that. But not Milo. His smile only widens like I just made his day.
“You know, you’re really cute when you scowl like that.”
“Oh, shut up. Here.” I shove the notebook into his hands before the idiot notices the flush coloring my cheeks.
“Wow! You’ve written so many,” he says, flicking through the pages. “Which one should I read? Which one do you love most?”
“You’re asking me to pick a favorite child, Milo.”
“Does that mean you don’t have a favorite?”
Of course I do. I just don’t like admitting it. Maybe that would anger the creative gods and stop me from getting new ideas. No way do I want to mess with that juju.
Instead of answering him, I flick through the pages of the notebook in his hands and point to the short story aptly named The Hitchhiker.
“Read this one.”
Milo’s eyes crinkle at the corners before lowering them to the page. For the next twenty minutes, he reads my story while I nibble at every bit of skin around my nails.
Aside from Mrs. Anderson, I’ve never shown anyone my stories. Not even my dad. Not that he’d ever be in the right frame of mind to read something I wrote. Dad sticks to his sports, fishing shows, and little else. He wouldn’t have the bandwidth to even consider picking up a book that didn’t revolve around Monday Night Football or new fishing gear.
I guess it’s only normal that letting Milo read anything I’ve written is a bit nerve-wracking.
Scratch that. This is torture.
Why did I ever let Milo read one of my stories? I’ve lost my goddamn mind.
