Page 20 of The Story Between Us

She’d made up that story years ago during her first hospital stay. He’d been sitting in that same plastic chair, not knowing what to say, and she’d looked at him with those dark eyes, and when she asked him for a story, he had nothing.

So she’d told him one, rescuing him, as always.

In his memory, he took the notebook and pen from her and started to transcribe as she talked.

“You should publish it, Nate. Make a real story out of it.” Her smile was tired but sincere.

“It’s just a daydream.”

“They’re all just daydreams until someone writes them.” She reached for his hand, her grip weaker than it used to be. “You’re good at the words. Do it for me.”

The cursor was still blinking when he surfaced from the grip of the memory.

The office quiet settled around him. The coffee had gone cold beside him—he didn’t remember setting it down. Outside the window, the afternoon light had shifted, become golden and long, which meant he’d been sitting here for…he didn’t know how long. Long enough for Finn to give up waiting and curl up under the desk. Long enough for the memory to leave a hollow ache.

Four

He closed the laptop.

Finn lifted his head, ears perking at the sound. Huck appeared in the doorway a moment later, tail wagging hopefully, and something loosened in Nate’s chest. The dogs didn’t care about deadlines or writer’s block or the ways he kept failing everyone, including himself. They just wanted a walk.

He could do that. One thing he could actually do.

The afternoon sun slanted through the trees as they headed for the shore, warm despite the September chill. A few leaves drifted down, early casualties of the coming autumn, spinning lazy circles before they hit the water.

He walked the familiar path—dock to shoreline, shoreline to the old oak, old oak to the property line. The dogs ranged ahead, sniffing at interesting rocks, living their best uncomplicated lives.

From here, Lila’s cottage glowed through the trees.

He pulled out his phone. There was a second text from Livvie—one he hadn’t seen because he’d been ignoring his phone since reading her first text.

Livvie

Nate, it’s Livvie. I’m coming to Maple Lake tomorrow to discuss the manuscript. Please don’t ignore this.

Tomorrow.

And she’d sent this yesterday.

Which meant⁠—

His stomach dropped.

Today. She’d said tomorrow. But that had been yesterday. Which meant she was coming today. Right now.

He checked the time. 11:12 a.m. If she’d taken a red-eye flight, she could already be in Maple Lake.

And he had nothing—no pages, no progress, no explanation that wasn’t pathetic.

He stared at the screen.

Please don’t ignore this.

His thumb hovered over the keyboard. He should respond. He should say something. He should be the kind of person who answered messages, who faced problems, who didn’t hide in his grief like it was a blanket fort.

He should be a lot of things he wasn’t.

He deleted both texts.