Page 72 of Lennox Lane

Her eyes narrowed. “Why are we at The Ink Well?”

“Because it’s open mic night.”

Lane blinked. Then her gaze dropped to his jacket pocket, where something folded had shifted when he turned off the car.

Her stomach did something stupid. It fluttered with anticipation at his next words.

“No.”

His smile deepened. “Yes.”

“You’re not.”

“I am.”

“Lennox Jackson, if you brought me here to watch you make light of the beautiful nature that is poetry in a room full of poets who work tirelessly at their craft, I’ll personally unplug you.”

“I’m performing.”

Lane stared at him.

He looked calm. Too calm. Suspiciously calm for a man who dared to say something that ridiculous with a straight face.

“You’re serious.”

“Yes.”

“You? On a stage? With feelings?”

“I have feelings.”

“You have encrypted errors.”

He laughed and opened his door. “Come on.”

Lane stayed seated for another second as she watched the small crowd moving toward the stairs. The Ink Well had always felt sacred to her. Not because the venue was famous. Not because every poet who touched the mic was beyond good. They were otherworldly. Some of them were there to heal. Some were there to be perceived. Some were there because nobody in their group chat had told them they spun words into beauty.

So it was here where they could be heard and loved for the rhythm they intertwined with words.

The room mattered.

Places like The Ink Well gave people permission to tell the truth in public and survive the telling.

Lane had performed there twice as Lavender Haze. Both times, in dim light, with her heart thudding and her palms damp. She managed to keep her voice steady only because poetry had always been braver than she was. The idea of Lennox walking into that kind of room with a poem in his pocket made her feel off balance in a way she didn’t know how to process or insult yet.

He came around and opened her door.

She looked up at him. “If this is terrible, I’m leaving you here.”

“You’re not leaving me.”

“If you rhyme heart with start, I’m calling an Uber.”

“Noted.”

“And if you perform something with finger snaps and hacker metaphors every three lines, I’m reporting you to the poets’ union.”

“There’s a poets’ union?”