He shrugs casually. “I’ll have enough money to hire someone to tailor it.
My eyes narrow. “What if one of us is dating someone else?”
He snorts in an unattractive way, making me giggle. “When will we have time to date? We’re barely going to have time for ourselves.”
I lower my candy. “You honestly think you’ll remain single? Don’t be stupid, Corbin. Nobody who amounts to anything in the acting world is ever single for long.”
When he doesn’t try to argue, I nod.
I can understand his determination not to get distracted by other people. It’s the same mindset I have. The writing world is competitive, which means your book needs to be unique in order to get a lot of attention. As a writer, you have to stand out against the rest of the crowd. If that means becoming the crazy cat lady until I make something of myself, then so be it.
“What are you writing?” Corbin asks, instead of continuing our last conversation.
My arm covers the jumbled words. “I found a website for aspiring writers online. They host contests that have pretty cool prizes.”
“Like?”
“Chances to get published.”
His brows shoot up. “So, you’re writing a story for one of the competitions?”
I nod, glancing at the words that don’t quite make sense yet.
He smiles, which makes his expression softer. I prefer it to the look he gives girls in the halls, where he winks and smirks and makes most of the female (and some male) student population swoon. I usually laugh at how easy it is for them to fall under his spell, but it gets annoying too.
“You’ll win, Little Bird.”
Not bothering to correct him on the name that he insists on calling me, I ask, “How do you know? The story could be horrible.”
He drapes his arm on the back of the chair he’s tipping back in. “Nothing you could do is horrible. Plus, you submitted a story for the English department newsletter last year, which Mrs. Bishop has in her classroom.”
My cheeks heat. “You read that?”
“It’s good, Kinley.”
Kinley, not Little Bird. “Thanks. I’m hoping to win at least one of these contests. The other prizes are talking to published authors one on one and asking them questions to understand their process.”
“Anyone I know?”
“Nicholas Sparks.”
He pauses. “The Notebook guy?”
“That’s one of his,” I confirm, tapping my pen against the paper. “Anyway, it’d be cool to know what they do to focus on their books. Some of my favorite authors have families and other responsibilities. I want to know how they balance everything.”
He hums and reaches for the notebook, but I slap his hand away. Holding it to his chest like a big baby, he frowns. “You could have hurt me, Little Bird. Is there a deadline that’s making you violent? Perhaps protein deficiency from lack of proper food?”
I keep the notebook out of his reach. “I don’t like people reading my stuff when it’s not at its best, especially people I know.”
“Why?”
“Would you want people seeing you act when your craft isn’t perfected?”
He shakes his head.
“Then you understand.”
He sighs and scrapes the chair back. “Just eat your Twizzlers so you don’t whine to me later about skipping out on lunch.”
I make a face at him. “The only decent thing they have is peanut butter and jelly. I’ll be there tomorrow. Save me a seat amidst your biggest fans.”
He chuckles as he walks away. “Still sound jealous, Little Bird.”
“Think again!”
The librarian shushes me with a single glance, causing me to sink down into my chair. When Corbin is long gone, I stare at my words and nibble my bottom lip. When my pen meets the paper, the story flows right out of me.
A month later, I’m scrambling out the door in a rush with Mom yelling after me about a jacket and a piece of paper dangling from my hand. I usually never run unless something with sharp teeth is chasing me, but today is the exception. My sneakered feet take me all the way down Alden and onto Main, where people stare at me as I weave through the Saturday Folk Festival crowd that gathers around the bank parking lot for hippie music and fruit pie.
When I see the yellow house from a distance, my grip on the now wrinkled paper tightens and a smile plasters on my face. I’d normally be nervous over what his parents thought about me showing up out of the blue, but I met them both a few weeks ago when Corbin asked me to come over and watch more movies. Not Stephen King, but a comedy he’d gotten to break up the horror fest. His dad had greeted me first, and it was obvious that Corbin was Mr. Callum’s clone right from his silver eyes and prominent straight nose, to the quirk of his lips that screamed charm. His mother was gorgeous, and her warm personality reminded me a lot of my new friend when he encouraged me to write. He was a perfect mixture of the two.
As I run up the sidewalk that leads to the walkway, I begin slowing my steps enough to catch my breath. Mrs. Callum is in the front yard raking orange and yellow leaves with her husband a few feet away. When they hear the crunch of the late fall foliage under my feet, they both turn and smile at me.
“Morning, Kinley,” Mrs. Callum says first, her eyes bright as she rests the rake against her side. “Corbin is inside with a couple of friends. You can go in.”
My lips part as I suck in some much-needed oxygen into my tight lungs. “I didn’t know he had company.” I glance at the paper and then back at them. “I can just show him another—”
Mr. Callum walks over to me. “Don’t be silly. Come in. I was just about to put on some hot water for tea. Do you want any? We also have hot chocolate.”
Corbin’s father makes me wonder if he’ll sound the same when he’s older—gravelly and sweet, but also blunt and demanding. It wouldn’t hurt if Corbin also aged like him too, but I keep that little tidbit to myself.
Corbin never mentioned hanging out with anyone today when we talked last night, so I’m not sure if agreeing to go inside is a good idea. The cold air against my body is making my hands shake, and I know Mom will give my blue skin one good look before saying I told you so when I get back.
“I wouldn’t mind cocoa,” I admit, following him inside. He holds the door open for me like Corbin does every time I’m over, before closing it and leading me into the kitchen.
From upstairs, I hear laughter. The louder tone is undoubtedly Corbin and makes me smile. The others I don’t know though. One of them even sounds pitchy, girly, and I feel like maybe I should make up an excuse to go home and leave him to whatever is going on.
“I forgot,” I blurt, jabbing my hand toward the door. “I just remembered that I promised my mom I’d help her clean the house today.”
Internally cringing at the poor excuse, I turn toward the door and shoot Mr. Callum a quick wave before walking out. The laughter dies down as I pass the stairs, and I hear Mr. Callum call my name which causes me to walk a lot faster before anyone else can hear him.
I’m fighting the wind that’s picking up my loose hair with its brutal gusts when I hear a different voice call out after me. I stop in the middle of the sidewalk just as Corbin jogs over to where I’m standing.