Page 33 of The Story Between Us

She looked up. “What?”

“The languages. The maps. The history of the Third Age and the genealogy of the noble houses and the—” He stopped himself. Shook his head. “Emma did the plot. The characters. The story. I did the…other stuff.”

Something shifted in her expression. Her hand paused on Huck’s head, and the dog nudged her impatiently until she resumed.

“I always assumed…So, you built the world?”

“I built the set dressing.” The correction came out automatically. An old argument, one he’d had with himself more times than he could count. “The world-building doesn’t matter if there’s no story to put in it.”

“That’s—” Livvie shook her head, standing up, Huck trailing her hopefully as she returned to the counter. “That’s completely wrong. Nate, that world gives people the reason they keep coming back. They could get plot anywhere—plot comes cheap, plot runs a dime a dozen. But the experience of being in Thornwood? The sense that it’s a real place with real history? That’s what readers fall in love with.”

She now filled the sink with hot water. Steam rose and clouded the window.

“You owe it to them to finish this.” She found a dishrag and started to scrub off one of his previous soup bowls. “You owe it to Emma. You owe it to⁠—”

“I know.”

The words came out sharper than he’d intended. Louder.

Livvie’s hands stilled. She turned, holding the dripping bowl over the sink.

The kitchen went quiet. Just the hum of the old refrigerator and Finn’s claws clicking on the floor as he wandered over to investigate the soup situation—or, more likely, to see if anyone planned to drop food.

“I know I owe them.” Nate’s voice came out rough, scraped raw by the admission. He stared at the soup he hadn’t touched, the steam curling up and dissipating into nothing. “I know I owe her. That’s the whole problem. I know exactly what this final story should be, and I can’t⁠—”

He stopped. Pressed his palm flat against the table, grounding himself.

“She should have helped me figure it out. That’s always how we worked. I’d build the world and she’d find the story in it, and then she’d get stuck on how something should land emotionally and I’d find the words, and it—” He shook his head. “Like having half a brain each. Together we made a whole writer. Apart…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.

Livvie stayed quiet for a long moment. Outside, the evening light softened, painting the lake in shades of amber and rose.

Then she dried her hands and pulled out the chair across from him. Sat down. Folded her hands on the table like they’d entered a business meeting, except her eyes looked too soft for business.

An expression that he somehow knew, deep inside. He looked away.

“What if,” she said slowly, “you didn’t have to figure it out alone?”

“You’re not Emma.” He turned back to her and didn’t mean to be harsh, but—well, the words weren’t cruel. Just true.

“No.” Livvie’s eyes met his, no offense in them. “I’m not. No one could be. But you’re not the only one Emma talked out story with. And I’m pretty good at asking the right questions. At seeing what a story needs.” She leaned forward slightly, and he suddenly caught a floral scent, maybe embedded in her skin. “I’m not trying to replace her. But maybe…maybe two heads work better than one, even if they’re not the same two heads you’re used to.”

He wanted to argue. He wanted to tell her she didn’t understand, that Emma and he had built a shorthand over a lifetime, that no amount of “good questions” could replicate what he’d lost.

But she looked at him with those hazel eyes—warm and stubborn and so frustratingly hopeful—and he thought about the paragraph on his laptop. The words that had come, unbidden, while she’d been gone. The door stood never locked, only heavy.

Maybe that meant something.

Maybe she’d already started helping, just by believing he could.

Her voice softened. “Nate. Will you please let me help you finish this book?”

The question hung in the air between them.

He should say no. He should protect himself. He should⁠—

“Fine.”