Between the Lines

December 31, 2009

-Sadie-

All Sadie wanted was to get off the train. Sweat trickled down her back as more passengers squeezed into the already packed Northern Line train car in London’s Underground.

The Tube’s musty dampness clashed with the floral perfume wafting from a group of women nearby, ready for a night out. She clung to the cold metal pole for balance, the books in her Foyles shopping bag digging into her hip as the carriage jolted forward. Around her, she could hear her friends' chatter, their voices a low hum beneath the train’s rumble as they headed back to their hotel to celebrate New Year’s Eve.

“This is what Tetris blocks must feel like,” Lila grumbled beside her, rolling her eyes as yet another commuter elbowed past.

Sadie smirked, adjusting her grip on the pole.

“At least Tetris blocks don’t smell,” she shot back, wrinkling her nose. Lila’s giggle was a bright spot in the chaos, and Sadie couldn’t help but join in, the sound cutting through the stuffiness of the carriage.

During the trip, the organizers had spoiled the high school group. A tour bus chauffeured them around London and its outskirts in comfort. Today, though, they had broken up into small groups to explore the city, and she wouldn’t have traded it for anything. Dickens’ house, with its faded wallpaper, the Globe Theatre’s weathered beams, and a pilgrimage to Foyles that had her inner bookworm buzzing were all worth it. Her college admission essays were writing themselves in her head, fueled by every literary landmark she’d soaked in.

“Would you mind letting the normal people through?” a smug voice snapped behind Lila. A middle-aged man in a crisp business suit shoved his way forward, his expression pinched with irritation as he surveyed the high school group.

Lila straightened, tilting her chin up in the same haughty manner. “Oh yes, do let the normal people through,” she parroted in an exaggerated British accent, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Can’t you see how utterly important I am?”

Sadie couldn’t control her laughter, earning her a playful nudge from Lila. But her mirth died on her lips as a warm hand brushed hers on the pole, and a jolt of electricity raced up her arm. Heat flashed beneath her skin, the lingering tingle refusing to fade. She jumped, startled by the touch, and spun toward the source.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to…” a warm, deep voice said, trailing off when his eyes met hers.

They were a stunning shade of blue, framed by sharp features and dark hair that fell over his forehead. He stared at her, wide-eyed, as if equally surprised, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“No, it’s fine,” Sadie blurted, trying to sound casual as she returned his smile. Her heart kicked hard in her chest, an unfamiliar feeling of fluttering in her stomach.

For a moment, the cacophony of the Tube faded, and it was just her and this stranger. As his blue eyes continued to stare into her gray, she felt an invisible thread stretching between them. It was the kind of moment she’d only ever read about, never expected to actually feel.

His gaze flicked to the Foyles bag swinging from her wrist and asked, “Fellow bookworm? Find any good bits?”

Her nerves melted with his easy grin, and the excitement of finding someone who understood her passion for classic literature.

“Poems on the Underground and London: A Literary Anthology,“ she said, returning his smile. “If it all fit in my suitcase, I would have bought one of everything…”

“Totally get that,” he said, leaning in a little, his enthusiasm matching hers. “So, who’s your favorite? Like, desert island pick?”

“Austen, hands down,” she replied, her smile turning into a bit of a smirk. “You?”

“Hardy,” he quipped. “Less ballroom, more doom—suits me.”

Sadie opened her mouth to respond when a sharp voice sliced through their bubble.

“Alessandra, come on!” Ms. Harrow’s stern tone jolted her back to reality. The train slowed, brakes screeching as Tottenham Court Road approached.

Panic flared in her chest as she turned back to the handsome stranger, realizing she didn’t even know his name. As she took a breath to ask, the crowd surged forward like a tidal wave, pulling her along. She tried to fight the pull, desperate for one more second—anything that would let her anchor this moment to something real.

“Come on, girl, move it!” Lila tugged her along as they exited the train. “We’re gonna lose the group!”

“Wait,” Sadie stumbled, twisting around to catch one last glimpse. He was still aboard the train, looking out the window, and those blue eyes locked on her. Then the train motor hummed to life as it pulled away, his face fading into the tunnel’s darkness.

Sadie’s heart sank, her hand still tingling where he’d touched her. She barely heard Lila’s voice, her friend shaking her shoulders to break her daze.

“Earth to Sadie. You look like you’ve seen a ghost. You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she murmured, allowing Lila to pull her toward the rest of the group.

As Ms. Harrow herded them toward the escalators, Sadie’s mind raced. Logic told her that she would never see him again. Her heart, however, insisted this was different, and the ache in her chest insisted she’d just let something important slip away.

Looking over her shoulder, she felt like she was leaving a part of herself behind with the man with those beautiful blue eyes.

February 4, 2025

-Sadie-

Sadie jolted awake, the relentless buzz of her phone pulling her from her slumber. She burrowed into the blanket, groaning as a spring from the pullout mattress dug into her side. Outside she could hear the familiar honking and rumble of early-morning traffic bleeding through the thin apartment windows.

“At least I’m not sleeping in a cardboard box,” she muttered when her phone buzzed again.

Forcing herself to sit up, she reached for the phone as it vibrated with a third text message. Her stomach churned as she saw the name on the screen. Her ex-fiancé, Nate, was nothing if not persistent. There were a half-dozen unread messages, and she had to fight the urge to toss her phone out the window.

She had ended things with Nate last month after nearly a decade. Their relationship had never been perfect, but in the last few years, any love she might have felt for him had shriveled and died as he started to reveal who he was beneath the fake charm. When he smashed her laptop in a fit of rage, she had packed her bags and sought refuge at her best friend’s apartment.

Preparing herself for the inevitable, she unlocked her phone and opened the messaging app. Her brows drew together while she read Nate’s latest barrage of texts.

I miss you, Sades. Too quiet here without your nagging.

Found some of those romance novels you love. Meet me later? Enzo’s? Back where it all began?

Even with the way things had ended, she still felt a smile tug faintly at her lips. Enzo’s had been the restaurant where he took her for their first date. Where he’d gushed about her writing and how perfectly they would complement each other with their styles.

That smile faded the moment she read the last two texts.

Ignoring me again?

Whatever, Sades, I’ll torch the fucking trashy books.

“Well, that escalated quickly,” she mumbled. Her tired, puffy eyes stung. This was her reality, and she wasn’t quite sure how she had managed to miss so many red flags over the years.

“I don’t need this first thing in the morning,” she muttered under her breath, putting the phone face down on the table.

Slumping back on the pillows, she covered her eyes with her arm. Jess had been a saint for taking her in. Of course, having a front row for the entirety of the relationship helped her best friend understand just how toxic it had become.

The shuffle of slippered feet snapped Sadie upright. Jess breezed in, chestnut waves teetering in a messy bun, two steaming mugs of coffee in hand. The rich aroma cut through the room, and it felt like a lifeline Sadie couldn’t resist.

“Morning, sunshine,” Jess said, her voice carrying a forced cheeriness. There were dark circles under Jess’s eyes, too. Sadie knew she had been up half the night preparing for a board meeting. In addition to being her best friend, Jess was also Sadie’s boss, and the board of the publishing house was getting ready to hold their quarterly meeting.

Jess placed one mug on the cluttered side table, and added, “How’s my favorite houseguest doing?”

Sadie tried to muster a smile, her voice croaking when she replied, “Oh, you know, living the dream. Not that I’m not grateful. You ready for today?”

“As I can be with the board breathing down my neck,” Jess said, taking a sip of her coffee. The phone buzzed again, and Jess’s eyebrows knitted together as she perched on the edge of the couch. “Let me guess,” she said with a quirked eyebrow, “Captain Douchebag?”

Sadie shook her head in exasperation, looking at the phone on the table.

“Isn’t it always?” she whispered, hating how weak she sounded. “I didn’t answer him, so I’m sure he’s now in a full rage spiral.”

“That vile asshole doesn’t get to win.” Jess’s expression hardened. “Not after everything he’s put you through.”

Sadie’s stomach churned as she remembered the last time she had tried to share something she wrote with him.

Stick to editing, Sades, Nate had said, your little stories don’t exactly scream genius. After years of hearing the same message from him time and time again, she had started to honestly believe it.

“Ignore him,” Jess continued, gently turning Sadie’s chin so she would look at her. “I have something far more worthy of your time to discuss.”

Before Sadie could respond, Jess was in motion, disappearing into the living room. She returned with her sleek work laptop, unceremoniously plopping on the mattress next to Sadie.

“Right,” Jess announced, rubbing her hands together eagerly. “I think I have the perfect distraction for you, courtesy of my favorite literary hermit.”

“What?” Sadie blinked, momentarily thrown by the abrupt change of subject.

“Corbyn Pearce,” Jess said, her fingers flying across the keyboard. “He’s run off another developmental editor. I’ve been trying to buy him time to finish his latest manuscript, but the board is losing patience.”

Despite herself, Sadie felt a flicker of curiosity.

“Wait… Corbyn Pearce? The Corbyn Pearce? As in the man whose last murder mystery sold a million copies on the first day?”

“You’re the only one I trust to handle this, Sadie,” Jess said, her tone serious though she avoided meeting Sadie’s eyes directly. “Pearce is a handful, but you’ve got a saint’s patience. I still remember how you saved Stella Adkins’ book last year when everyone else was ready to toss it.”

“You’re not telling me something,” Sadie said, recognizing the avoidance and the attempt at flattery. “How many editors has he gone through?”

Jess winced, her tone sheepish when she replied, “You’re the fourth since New Year’s. But I genuinely think you can reach him where the others couldn’t.”

“Jess, please tell me you’re not asking what I think you’re asking,” Sadie groaned, knowing her friend too well.

“You, my dear couch surfer, are my editing ace,” Jess said with a smirk. “You’ve tamed worse than Pearce. Plus, the board is convinced that his comeback novel could be the title of the decade. You are the only one who can drag this project across the finish line.”

Sadie couldn’t help but snort at that.

“Plus,” Jess continued, “here’s your shot to wrangle someone who actually gets things done, instead of just whining about it.”

She meant Nate. Sadie had spent years trying to help him find the inspiration to finish a project… any project. It had never ended well.

“I…” Sadie started to protest, but stopped when she saw the hopeful look on Jess’s face. “So, how do I do this? Call him up? Or does he only do smoke signals and carrier pigeons?”

Jess’s expression turned sheepish, and she replied, “I thought it might be better if you took a little all-expense paid working vacation. You know, Great Missenden’s supposedly very quaint.”

The words cut through Sadie’s mental fog, and she blinked, trying desperately to process what Jess had said.

“Great… Missenden?”

“Yep,” Jess said, popping the ‘p’ with relish. “Cute little town in Buckinghamshire. Roald Dahl country. Just imagine the inspiration!”

Sadie’s mind whirled, and she stammered, “But… Corbyn Pearce? There?”

“He’s holed up in some rickety cottage, probably scribbling with quills by candlelight,” Jess chuckled, typing something on her computer. “Your job is to drag him, kicking and screaming if necessary, into the 21st century and finish his book. You would be saving me from an early grave, and who knows? Maybe you’ll find your own muse while you’re at it.”

“I don’t know, Jess, this is pretty sudden,” Sadie began, doubt gnawing away at her gut. Nate’s voice rang through her mind again, her confidence faltering. “I have a pile of manuscripts on my desk…”

“Which I am currently working on reassigning to the rest of our team,” Jess interrupted as Sadie’s phone buzzed with an email notification. “Surprise! Your chariot to Heathrow awaits. You leave tonight.”

Sadie’s eyes widened as she looked at her phone. The email was from British Airways confirming her travel plans.

“Tonight? But…”

“Your lease with Nate doesn’t end for another two months,” Jess interrupted, her voice gentle but firm. “And as your best friend, I think you need to get off this sofa before you sprout couch potatoes.”

Sadie glanced around the cluttered space, over the stacks of books and half-unpacked boxes. She had tried to settle in and wait out the lease, but the truth was that being surrounded by the mess had kept her in a spiral of self-doubt for the last month.

“I need you on this project, Sadie,” Jess’s uncharacteristically serious tone pulled her from her thoughts, “and you need to do something other than mope on my sofa bed.”

A watery chuckle escaped Sadie’s lips. “Gee, thanks.”

“I mean it,” Jess insisted. “This isn’t just about Pearce and his book. It’s about you, too. It’ll give you a chance to heal, without having to worry that Nate might be lurking around the next corner.”

“Not to mention I’d be saving your ass with the board,” Sadie replied before exhaling sharply.

Jess grinned, laughing a bit when she responded, “Yes, that too. Come on, Sadie, you used to talk all the time about going back to England. Back in freshman year, we couldn’t get you to shut up about the trip you took in high school.” Jess’s smile turned mischievous before she added, “Do you remember that red hair you used to rock? Before Mr. Moody convinced you it was ‘too attention-seeking’?”

Despite herself, Sadie felt a smile tugging at her lips.

“God, I haven’t thought about that in ages. I looked like a deranged matchstick.”

“You looked fierce,” Jess corrected. “You were fierce, and you will be again. Great Missenden won’t know what hit it.”

“Okay, I’ll go,” Sadie told her, her voice shaky.

Her eyes stung with unshed tears, but beneath that, she felt something stirring in her chest. Something she hadn’t felt in a very long time.

Jess didn’t miss a beat, yanking her into a hug. Sadie half-collapsed into it, the smell of coffee and faded lavender shampoo grounding her.

“You’re gonna nail this,” Jess muttered, words muffled against Sadie’s rat’s nest of hair. “No one else I’d bet on, not even close.”

“What if I screw it up?” Sadie’s voice came out small, mashed against Jess’s shoulder, doubt clawing at her. “Pearce’ll probably despise me.”

Jess eased back, hazel eyes glinting with that troublemaker spark.

“Then we’ll pin it on jet lag and mail him a pigeon with an apology note. But you won’t tank it—you’re Sadie Reed, the writer-wrangler extraordinaire.”

A ghost of a smile flickered across Sadie’s face. “I think that title’s a bit much.”

“Nonsense,” Jess declared. “I’m having business cards made.”

“Thanks,” Sadie whispered, her breath unsteady.

Jess squeezed her hand. “That’s what friends are for. Now, let’s get you packed. Great Missenden awaits, and it’s your chance to show that sad excuse of an ex what Sadie Reed is really made of.”

Sadie rose and met Jess’s gaze, a spark of hope lifting the weight she had been carrying around for months, possibly even years. Jess was right; she did need this, and Corbyn Pearce was about to be beaten at his own stubborn game.

February 5, 2025

-Corbyn-

The sounds of the stationary bike’s grinding wheels and heavy breathing were the only noises bouncing off the concrete walls of the basement gym. Using a towel, Corbyn wiped away the sweat that traveled down his face only to snag on a network of rough scars that crawled up his neck to his right cheek. Annoyance had him pedaling faster as his mind drifted to the half-completed manuscript sitting on his desk, just a floor above him.

Before the accident, he would have sought to clear his mind in the steep trails around Great Missenden. His body would lean into steep descents, and wind would tear at his face as he pushed his high-end mountain bike to its limits. The burn in his muscles had meant freedom in those days. Now, though, it was just another reminder of how much had been stolen from him, of how he lived like someone much older than his thirty-six years.

His right hand clamped the handlebars, knuckles white, while his left, a mess of surgical scars, barely hung on. His fingers were cramped with pain that the February chill only made worse. The doctors had sworn he’d get movement back, but he had been left with a shaky claw that could barely grip a damn book most days. Not that he’d cracked one open lately, with his deadline breathing down his neck.

Riley, his massive Irish Wolfhound, sprawled across the rubber mat next to the bike, a mass of tan fur and lanky limbs. His soulful eyes remained fixed on Corbyn, patiently waiting for his master to finish so he could then go patrol the manor grounds. The hulking beast had become a tower of strength, only asking for a scratch behind the ear or to be taken for a walk to break up the monotony of lying on a rug watching him attempt to write.

“Almost there, boy,” Corbyn rasped, his breathing slightly labored from the pace.

When the phone on the bench, one of the few pieces of technology he allowed himself out of necessity, buzzed, and the name Jessica Harper appeared on the screen, his scowl deepened.

The New York-based editorial director had been hounding him more often lately, and he was well aware of the reason. Her patience frayed a little more with every deadline he’d blown past, and in the wake of a third failed developmental editor, she had to be at the end of her tether. The bike’s rhythm faltered as he lunged for it with his right hand, his left flopping to his thigh.

Corbyn swiped to answer, propping the phone on the bike’s book ledge and tapping the speaker as his legs slowed to a sluggish pedal.

“What is it now, Harper?” he barked as soon as the call connected.

“Good morning to you, too, sunshine,” Jess retorted, her voice too bright given how early it had to be in New York. “Tell me you’ve got something new on those revisions.”

Tension coiled in Corbyn’s stomach, and he hoped she didn’t hear his grimace when he lied, “I’m working on it.”

“You’ve been ‘working on it’ for a month. The deadline was two weeks ago.”

“I told you I needed more time after…”

“After that train wreck that was the last draft, yeah, I haven’t forgotten,” Jess cut in, her edge softening a hair. “I know you think I’m just calling to nag you, but I do get it; you’re stuck. And that’s exactly why I’m calling. I’ve lined up some help.”

His feet stilled, the bike groaning to a halt. Riley’s head lifted when Corbyn asked suspiciously, “What help?”

“I am sending you one of our sharpest developmental minds. She landed at Heathrow this morning so she can dig into Echoes of Ash with you and push through this block of yours.”

Heat flared up in Corbyn’s neck, embarrassment at needing help causing his scarred cheek to throb red.

“No,” he snapped, climbing off the bike to pace along the length of the room he used as a gym. “I don’t need some stranger pawing through my work.”

“Her name’s Sadie Reed, and after tomorrow, she won’t be a stranger,” Jess responded, unfazed by his tone. “She dragged Malcolm Chen’s mess of a manuscript into a bestseller last year. She’s quick, quiet, as stubborn as you are, and, most importantly, exactly what you need.”

“What I need,” Corbyn snarled, left hand jerking with a stab of pain as he clenched it, “is to be left alone to finish this bloody thing.”

“Three months ago, sure, but that ship has sailed, Pearce,” Jess retorted, her tone suddenly turning to steel. “I’ve bent over backward for you. I’ve given you space, pushed deadlines, made excuses to the board. Besides, she should be arriving at The Roaring Stag any minute, so she will be at your door tomorrow morning, ready to work.”

His heart thudded hard, and this time it had nothing to do with the workout.

“Are you pulling my leg?”

“Not today,” Jess replied, and he could almost hear her smirk through the phone. “I’m giving her the rest of the day to shake off the jet lag, then you and your book are her sole focus.” Jess sped up, cutting off his growl when she added, “You’re late. Marketing’s chewing my ear off. We need this book, and you need a lifeline. Sadie’s proven she can deliver.”

His left hand balled into a fist despite the discomfort, and he stopped his pacing as he stared up at the ceiling.

“You have no right…”

“Clause sixteen, publisher’s right to call for editorial intervention,” Jess told him, and there was something in her tone that suggested she was as unhappy about this as he was. “Check your contract. I held off until now because I thought you’d claw your way out solo.”

“Send her back.”

Jess sighed, clearly exasperated with him, before she said, “She’s on an open ticket. Look, give her a week. If she hasn’t made any impact, fine, she’s gone. But try it—she’s the best I’ve got.”

Riley whined low as he pressed his nose against Corbyn’s hand, sensing his master’s agitated state. He flicked a look down, those steady hound eyes pulling him back from the edge for a second.

“Does she know about…” he trailed off, waving at his scarred cheek, even though it was pointless over the phone.

“She knows you value your privacy, and that this book is in trouble.” Jess paused, but then added, “She’s a pro, Corbyn. She’s there for the pages, not to poke into your personal life or make you uncomfortable.”

A sharp, humorless laugh escaped him when he replied, “Everyone pokes, Harper. It’s human nature.”

“Not Sadie. I’ve known her since college and she’s one of the most patient and compassionate people I know. Trust me, she is only there to help with the book.”

Trust. The word sank like lead. The last time he’d trusted someone with his work, a draft was stolen and leaked online. It had spread like wildfire through the literary world, everyone weighing in on the unedited pages. It had been the last time he had sent his work through email.

“She’s already in England,” Jess said, her voice growing softer. “Just don’t bite her head off, alright? I’ll check in next week.”

The line went dead, Jess’s voice lingering in the basement’s damp chill.

Corbyn glared at the phone and then chucked it back onto the bench. It skittered across the scratched wood, teetering near the edge. Riley nudged Corbyn’s hand again, drawing his attention away from the phone and his anger at Jess.

“You’ll probably love her, won’t you?” he grumbled at the dog as his fingers worked through his shaggy fur. “You’ll wag your tail and roll over for belly rubs when she walks in.”

Riley huffed a wet snort that might as well have been a yes.

Corbyn returned to his pacing, running a hand over his face. Sadie Reed. The name alone grated on his nerves. It was too bright, too American, and he would have to tolerate her presence for at least the following week. A week of some stranger crashing his solitude. A week of her tiptoeing around his scars, tossing out fixes for a book he couldn’t seem to finish. A week of this Sadie Reed, some Yankee editor, here to pick at the wreckage, thinking she could be the savior the book needed.

Like that was even possible.

The stairs creaked behind him, a slow, steady rhythm he associated only with his housekeeper, Edie. She and her husband, Paul, who served as the groundskeeper, had been more like parents to him than his own mother and father.

Corbyn caught her reflection in the dusty mirror across the way. Her diminutive but sturdy frame eased down the steps. Auburn hair, streaked with silver, hung in its usual loose bun, stray wisps brushing her face. She clutched a water bottle in her hands, her expression disapproving.

“You left your water upstairs,” Edie said, holding the bottle out to him as she raised an eyebrow in his direction. “Again.” That last word carried years of nagging in two tired syllables.

Corbyn’s jaw locked, and he blew out a rough breath as he raked his good hand through damp hair.

“Thanks,” he grunted, sharper than he meant.

Edie had always been unshakable, no matter how much he snarled or groused, and the scars that now marred his body had never once spooked her. She’d patched his scraped elbows and knees long before she’d bandaged the mess left behind by the car crash.

“You’re overdoing it,” she said, nodding at his shaky left hand. “Cold’s chewing you up, isn’t it?”

He clenched his left hand, trying to hide the shaking as he muttered, “I’m fine.”

“Hmph.” Edie’s grunt called out his lie without a word. “Damp’s in your joints. I can tell by that hunch alone.”

He didn’t argue. Winter always found his weak spots, and there was no sense in denying it. The pins in his hand, the fried nerves under grafted skin that never fit right, it was a constant this time of year. But admitting it outright would never happen, not even with Edie.

“Have you been doing those hand exercises Ellie’s friend recommended?”

Corbyn’s shoulders tensed, and the way she raised her eyebrow made him feel like he was ten years old again and caught stealing sweets before dinner. He knew his sister had meant well, asking her physical therapist friend at the hospital for more exercises that might help improve the range of motion in his useless left hand. After four years of exploring every possible option, he was simply done being disappointed when there was inevitably no improvement.

“That’s what I suspected,” she said, brushing off his silence. “I ran you a bath upstairs with that oil Ellie brought over. After, you’ll have a proper breakfast. None of your coffee-only rubbish you like to spout.”

Riley nosed his hip, backing her up like a furry nag. The dog’s knack for sniffing out pain before Corbyn admitted it to himself was eerie.

“You’re grumpier than usual,” Edie continued, eyes narrowing. “What’s going on?”

Corbyn grabbed the bottle, pinning it against his chest with his left hand to twist the cap off with his right. The hand’s uselessness pissed him off every time. He gulped half before answering.

“My publisher is sending someone to work here in person. A developmental editor.”

Edie’s brows lifted over her glasses, and she asked, “Is that so?”

“To ‘fix’ it,” he spat, the word burning his tongue. “Some Yank who turns trash into gold, supposedly.”

“Ah. Well, that explains it.” Edie nodded, calm as if he’d mentioned the weather. “When’s she showing up?”

“Tomorrow,” he told her, looking over her face and noting her lack of surprise, and his eyes narrowed. “I never said anything about it being a woman.”

A flicker of guilt crossed Edie’s face, but it was gone just as quickly as she replied, “I might have spoken to Ms. Harper about this before she called you.”

“Of course you did,” Corbyn replied, his irritation seeping into his tone. Edie had been Jess’s point of contact when he had been recovering and unable to answer for himself. “So, everyone’s plotting my rescue behind my back?”

“No one thinks you need rescuing,” Edie said, voice even, as she began fussing with the towels on a nearby rack. It was a nervous tic, the need to straighten up, and it usually meant she was about to say something he wouldn’t like. “But that book needs help. You’ve said it yourself.”

“I can do it solo.”

“Can you?” she asked, her question soft but blunt. “Months and your publisher hasn’t seen a page. Paul says you’re staring holes in your study walls more than writing.”

That stung, but it was closer to the truth than he cared to admit. Words that used to pour out had clogged up, leaving him with scraps and dead ends.

“I don’t need a stranger rooting through my...