Page 4 of Playing With Fire

My suitcase is occupied by a twenty-pound cat. My duffle bag is filled with cat toys.

“You leave tomorrow.”

“I am aware.”

“Are you?”

I glance around. Calling this packing is a tad generous. It’s definitely a work in progress.

“I’m in the plotting stage,” I admit.

“The plotting stage of packing?” Her mouth twitches as she folds her arms across her chest.

I gesture toward the boxes like the chaos somehow proves my point. “Mom, you can’t rush the creative process.”

“Uh-hmm.” Her eyes narrow on the box where I buried my notebook. So, I casually nudge the lid closed with my foot.

Mom knows I love books. Everyone knows I love books. What they don’t know–or at least what I’ve worked very hard to make sure they don’t know–is exactly how much time I spend trying to write them.

Because reading romance novels is a hobby, and scribbling stories in composition books is a hobby. But wanting one of those stories to have my name printed across the cover someday?

That’s a dream.

And dreams are considerably more terrifying when other people know about them—especially people you can’t bear to disappoint.

“I’m proud of you, you know.” As if reading my mind, she steps farther into the room and starts putting the empty hangers back in my closet before pulling out a second suitcase.

My chest squeezes.

“You’ve mentioned it once or twice.” I pick at the edge of a cardboard box. This is turning into less of a check on my packing status and more into a Hallmark commercial moment. I do not have time for tears today.

“I mean it. Your bachelor’s, your master’s. And now an editorial job in Chicago.” She sets the extra suitcase on the bed and turns to face me.

“An editorial fellowship in Chicago.” I correct softly.

“Don’t do that. Don’t sell yourself short.” She smiles, but it wobbles around the edges.

“Who’s selling themselves?” My dad’s voice teases from the doorway, lightening the mood.

I look up, surprised.

“You’re home.”

Dad leans one shoulder against the frame, still wearing his North Pines hockey quarter-zip. “You think I’m missing my last dinner with my baby girl before she flies the nest? Not a chance.”

“What about practice?” I swivel my chair toward him.

“Ended a little early.” He shrugs like it’s not a big deal. But the sting behind my eyes betrays just how much I needed this.

Hockey has always come first in our house. Not because my parents ever made me feel unimportant. Not really. But when your dad is a hockey coach, and your brother is good enough to make a career out of it, the sport has a way of taking up all the oxygen in the room.

Tonight, Dad left the rink early for me.

He grins, “Had to make sure you got a proper steak before you move to Chicago and start living on deep-dish pizza and Chinese takeout.”

“That sounds like a perfectly balanced diet,” I say, earning a look from Mom.

“Your mother disagrees.”