Page 35 of Postmarked December

“A Tail Wagger?” She giggled.

“Basically, an overpriced paper cup of whipped cream sprinkled with ground dog treats from the local coffee shop. But it’s her favorite thing to do and the only way she’ll get over me leaving her for two days. She’s such a diva.”

Heather laughed.

“What about you?” he asked.

“I’ll probably call my best friend, Marion. I’ve been giving her a play-by-play of the trip, and I’ll want to fill her in on the plane ride home.”

That interest flickered. “What will you tell her?”

“Maybe something about the really awesome guy who sat next to me.”

The corners of his mouth twitched upward. “Awesome?”

“Hopefully. I’m setting the stage for you to entertain me for the next hour and fifteen minutes.”

He chuckled. “No pressure.”

Their banter made her want to know more about him. “So you went to Belmont and then got a job as a researcher?” she asked.

“Pretty much.” He shifted slightly toward her, making eye contact. “I graduated with an MFA in creative writing and a minor in sociology, which without an added degree or concentration, greatly narrowed my corporate choices.”

She nodded. Having spent time in the creative world with Toby, she could understand the struggle. Most of the songwriters in their circles had made ends meet with other jobs before they’d hit it big with their writing.

“I worked for a while as a copywriter, and I wrote a few grants for another company—freelance, but I struggled to get my foot in the door anywhere. After quite the struggle to find where I fit in the industry, I finally found my current job as a research writer.”

That glimmer surfaced, making her stomach flip.

“Sometimes, I get to create presentations and marketing copy, which can be entertaining. It definitely isn’t the wide-open, inspired endeavor I was hoping for when I’d gotten a creative writing degree, but when I’m between projects, it allows me the evening hours to do what I really love, which is write creatively.”

She swallowed her surprise. Under all that research, he was a creative. Toby’s writing came to mind. He loved nothing more than to sit in their bay window with his guitar, scratching away on his notepad.

“What do you write in your off time?” She was almost afraid to ask for fear that he’d say songwriting. A part of her liked the fact that Nick was so different from Toby—more talkative, animated, ready to share so much of himself.

“I’ve dabbled in fiction and a few nonfiction projects, but I haven’t published anything.”

Her shoulders relaxed. “So books?”

“Yeah. But lately, I haven’t been able to do as much writing as I want to. Maybe I will when I get home.” He smiled at her.

Had she inspired him in the same way he’d impacted her?

The flight attendants announced the beverage and snack service, and he put his tray down.

“How about you?” he asked. “Is being a librarian what you’ve always wanted to do?”

An answer bubbled up, marking this moment as the time when she could tell him about Toby. It was the perfect segue. Should she? After so many years being closed up, she struggled to know the answer. Eventually, she’d have to if they went any further, so it might make sense to do it now, rip off the Band-Aid.

Summoning all her courage, she cleared her throat. “Actually, no. I was married and didn’t work before.”

He blinked.

Keep going. Tell him.

“My husband was a songwriter,” she said quietly, her words only loud enough to fill the small space between them. “He died of cancer, and I had to go back to work. Maybe you know him? Toby Hart.”

He blinked again. His breathing seemed shallow.