Page 88 of Trust Again

“You see! And you’re always telling me to shut up about my sex life. I’m actually the inspiration for a writer, Allie.”

That’s not how I would have put it, but it was definitely good to hear that Scott approved.

“I want to read all of them. Every single one. I don’t even know where to begin,” Allie cried. “I like this cover,” she said, pointing toHot for You. “I’ve always wanted to get an e-reader. Which is the best one? Are your books available on all models, or do I need a specific one? Where should I start, Dawn? Can they be read in any order?”

Allie’s flood of questions came so fast and furious that it was hard to follow them.

“I…” My voice still sounded husky. I cleared my throat, but the lump in there didn’t go away.

“Dawn?” Scott’s voice was soft.

I looked between my friends and then stared at the floor, trying to hold back my tears. “I was so afraid to tell you about it,” I finally blurted out, blinking hard.

“But why?” Allie asked and slid closer to me.

“Because… I thought you might be embarrassed for me. I love writing so much and people gave me so much grief about reading these kinds of stories that I panicked. After we all met, things changed: the way you guys treated me felt good, and I didn’t want to spoil that by letting my secret out.”

Allie hugged me close. “I can totally understand your fear. That’s how it was for me, too, before I told you about what had happened with… Anderson. But you don’t have to be afraid anymore. I think Scott would agree with me that it’s pretty damn cool to have a real author as a friend.”

The first tears finally escaped out of the corners of my eyes.

Scott slid over to us and put an arm around my other shoulder. “What Allie said.”

Laughing, I clasped Allie’s arms and lay my head on Scott’s shoulder. And we stayed that way, closely entwined, until our bottoms were sore and my tears were gone.

Then Allie grabbed my laptop again.

“You once told me that you’d like to earn a living from writing, but you didn’t say you’d already been doing it for a long time,” she said, shaking her head. “Dawn, this is amazing.”

“I earn a little from it, but it’s far from enough to pay for college. Without Dad, I’d be screwed.”

“Why are you writing under a pseudonym?” Scott asked.

“Nate didn’t want my real name to be associated with stories like that.” Scott stiffened and Allie looked up from the laptop. “Yeah, I know. But in the meantime I’m actually glad I have a pseudonym. It lets me feel free as a writer, and gives me the chance to use my real name in another genre.”

“That makes sense. Are you going to keep self-publishing, or do you want to apply to an agency or publisher?” Scott asked.

The very idea of having a real publisher seemed like an impossible dream.

“I don’t know,” I admitted.

“You shouldn’t hide. It’s absolutely unnecessary.”

“Thanks, Scott.”

“Don’t thank me yet. If you really want to do this professionally and have a career in this field, we can help you. Kaden is an expert in programming and graphic design; he can put together a professional homepage and help you with marketing. And I can help you with writing applications to publishers, if you want.”

Trying to imagine walking through a store and seeing books with my name on them, I felt a tingling sensation run through me, along with a wave of nausea. To show my name and face in public, on the Internet, would make me a potential target. After my last bad review, Spencer had had to boost my ego.

“I’m not ready to go that far yet. It already took a lot out of me just to tell you about it,” I answered hesitantly.

“That’s understandable. I just wanted to offer. You’re not alone, know what I mean?” Scott poked me in the ribs.

I breathed in. More bindings had been removed.

“So, I just ordered an e-reader,” Allie announced festively. “Which one should I read first?”

After Scott and Allie had gone, I went shopping, returning with a huge bag whose contents I spread out on the floor. Sawyer had come home and put one of her LPs on a record player, filling our room with loud rock music. Neither of us spoke as we concentrated on our individual tasks. She sat at her rickety table and sorted through photos of, from what I could see, piles of clothes, while I spread out my craft supplies on the floor.

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