“Drive safely, Honey,” he says, setting the bag down by the porch.
“I will.”
When I get in the car, I sit there for a moment before turning the key. My hands rest on the steering wheel as I look back at the house—at the warm yellow lights spilling out of the kitchen window, at the life Mike and Olivia have built inside it.
One week until workshop wraps. One story I still have to finish.
I’m not running anymore, but I’m not going to him empty-handed either.
I pull out of the driveway, glance in the rearview mirror, and pass the exit for the airport without even slowing down. He's waited this long. He can wait until I'm done.
The next time I show up at his door, I want to be the person I've been trying to become—not for him, but because I owe it to myself.
I press the accelerator and let the highway pull me forward, my heart beating fast for everything that comes next.
Honey Sanderson: Creative Writing Workshop Final Submission: A+
Miss Sanderson. The chapter at the lake is the best thing you’ve written in this class all semester. You have real talent. Send me the rest of the novel when you're ready.
-Professor Stephenson
Tears well in my eyes as I reread his message.
A+
For three years I’ve been trying to figure out where I fit in this world, and who I’m supposed to be. Finally, I feel like I’m getting somewhere.
Keep going.
I lean back against the headboard, feeling absolutely ecstatic that something so close and raw to my heart could be considered the best thing I’ve written in class.
That chapter wasn’t just a description of a girl growing up by a lake; it was based on my experience, and how the only place I ever felt truly alone was when I’d row a little white boat to the center of it.
Back then, it felt like when I was on that lake; I had everything ahead of me. My life was wide open and glittering, just like the water.
I see it differently now, though.
That lake didn't represent the future I wanted. It represented the only escape I had. I wasn't floating toward something better. I was just trying not to drown in the family name. The quiet wasn't peace. It was loneliness, and the glitter wasn't hope—it was something pretty enough to make me ignore how trapped I felt.
I don't think I'll see that lake again anytime soon, and I'm okay with that.
I pick up my phone, take a photo of the page, and center the grade so it’s clear. Professor Stephenson's comment is visible, albeit a little blurry. I bite my bottom lip, holding back a smile, and send the picture to Zach with no caption.
Then I put the phone face-down on the bed and go back to reading the note for the eighth or eleventh time.
Not even thirty seconds later does my phone ring.
I already know it's him before I pick it up. The photo of us from his first St. Michael's game is the only thing that confirms it—meon his back in a piggyback ride, both of us beaming because we didn’t know what was ahead.
“Hey—”
“An A plus?!” His voice is warm, and I close my eyes for a second because I've missed the sound of it. We haven't spoken or texted much since Harris was born, mainly because we've both been busy, so I'm glad we're talking now. “Honeycomb, what the hell?! That's awesome!”
I laugh. “I know.”
“What does the bottom part say?” I swear I hear him zooming in. “The scene at the lake is the best thing written in this class this semester. He's not wrong, by the way.”
“How would you know? You haven't read it.”
