“And what would you rhyme with ‘class’?” I give him a once-over. “Other than the obvious.”
His smirk pulls up his scruff, giving me a quick glimpse of a puckered scar beneath his jaw that almost makes me gasp. I stopmyself, shaking off my curiosity, holding back the ache in my chest.
What kind of accident could have done that?
“Let’s see,” he says, “‘tracing hearts with my eyes as the hours pass.’ Or ‘writing our names on frosted window glass.’”
“Window glass? Redundant much?”
“A window contains more than glass, Queenie. It’s specific, not redundant.”
I open my mouth to argue, but then I flap my pen against my cheek, making a soft popping sound.
“Fine. I’ll admit that ‘class’ has some potential. But this—” I point between us—“isn’t how I brainstorm. My first drafts are allowed to suck.”
His gaze looks almost studious. “That surprises me.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“It ain’t a condemnation. From what I’ve seen, you demand excellence.”
“So?”
“So you seem to have a … high bar for yourself.”
My jaw tightens. “Idohave a high bar for myself. I worked for years to get where I am without ever using a single connection. Now that people know I’m Winona Williams’ daughter, you have no idea the pressure I’m under.”
“That’s true.”
“So what does that have to do with letting myself write a crappy first draft? You can’t fix something that doesn’t exist.”
I expect Patty to argue, to come up with some clever retort. But instead, he looks down at my notepad, his jaw clenched as if he’s mulling over my words.
“Huh.”
That’s all he says: Huh.
It’s wildly unsatisfying.
“And anyway,” I say, turning back to my notebook. “I don’t co-write with anyone, so I’m gonna jot down these ideas before they’re gone.”
Patty gets up and disappears, and I spend the next five minutes staring at that first line, trying desperately to think of any way to make ‘classroom’ work.
After five minutes, I scratch out “-room.” Rhymes come freely to my mind, and I jot them all down, but none of them are as good as the two throwaway lines Patty spat out. I tear out the page, toss it in the trash, and stomp out of my suite and into the kitchenette, where Patty’s making himself a cup of coffee.
I hate coffee. I hate the smell so much, it makes my stomach roll. The only reason I even consented to have it on the bus is because my assistant and driver would mutiny if I didn’t.
I fold my arms in a huff. “You have some nerve critiquing my writing like that. I know you’re not just anyone on this tour, but you’re also not my consultant or co-writer.”
“You’re right,” he says, pouring coffee into one of the flowery teal mugs Momma stocked the cupboards with. “And you’re wrong.”
“About what?”
“Iamjust anyone on this tour.”
My eyelids flutter as I roll my eyes hard. “Oh my stars. Turn the self-deprecation down a smidge, will you?”
He pours so much vanilla creamer into his mug, it’s barely brown anymore, and then he adds five pumps of caramel syrup.
