Page 21 of Rewriting the Story

“Grant, I told you it was too short notice. We would need an answer by September 7th,” Oliver tells him. “If you can’t make it, it’s okay. We would understand.”

“And the other reason he’s inviting you is because Oliver has no friends and Grant won’t stop making fun of him for it.” Leo smirks. “Which is valid, because I’m pretty sure Grant and I are his only friends.”

“Really? I could end this call right now,” Oliver snaps. “Just think about it, okay? Let us know your answer. Festivities—or whatever Grant called them—start two weeks before the wedding.”

Well, I guess it can’t hurt to think about, right? “Okay. I appreciate the invite, you guys. I don’t really leave my little bubble unless I’m going on a book tour or something. It might be good to get out of my apartment for a bit.”

“See?” Grant says, raising his eyebrow at the rest of them. “I told you he’d at least be open to it.”

“Just let us know, Hen. Take this as confirmation that you’re always welcome in our circle—or square, if there’s four of us,” Oliver tells me.

“And I look forward to learning more about you, mate,” Leo tells me, a genuine look on his face.

“Thanks,” I say, trying to get the weird feeling in my gut to settle. “I’ll give you an answer soon, but I have to get back to writing.”

“Sounds good,” Oliver says before he exits.

“See you at game night, Grant,” Leo says before he also leaves the call.

“You didn't feel bombarded, did you?” Grant asks me.

I shrug my shoulders. “No. A little caught off guard, but I did miss you guys. It’s nice hearing from you again.”

“Good.” Grant smiles. “And seriously, consider our proposal. A lot has changed, and if you do decide to come, I’ll update you on all of it to get you back in the loop.”

“Thanks, Grant. I would appreciate that,” I say with a smile. I can’t help all the questions floating around in my brain. What does he mean, things have changed? What could he mean? Am I curious enough to go on this trip to find out? I don’t know, and I guess that’s what I have to figure out.

“She’s going to be there.”

She. My stomach plummets at the mention of her. “I have to go.”

“Of course,” he says with a wink. “Have a great rest of your day, Hen.”

“You too, G.”

For the rest of the afternoon and all throughout my walk, the only thing I can think about is this very vague proposal that’s landed in front of me. By the time I sit back down at my desk, the words still aren't coming, so I close my laptop and decide to wallow in a reread of one of my favorite books.

Now — September 2025

Grant: Have you made a decision yet?

Grant: Not to pressure you or anything, but I made a pretty killer PowerPoint full of all the stuff you missed. It has cool transitions and everything.

Oliver: If you block our numbers and never speak to us again, I wouldn't blame you.

Leo: Maybe just give him a little more time.

“Henry!”Mysistershoutingat me has me dropping my phone. It slams against my desk, the notepad I’m scratching on breaking most of the fall.

“What the hell, Luce?”

“Did you forget I was here or something? Mom dropped me off twenty minutes ago, and all I’ve been doing is rummaging around your pantry—which is empty, by the way.”

“I didn't even hear you,” I say, clearly still distracted by the decision hanging over my head. I wish I was using my brain for productive things like writing, but I can’t seem to figure out how to do that anymore. “I’m sorry, sis. I know we were supposed to hang out while Mom goes to the studio.”

Our mother is not only one of the best artists in Virginia, but she has a showcase coming up. Since my sister just started school, I told my mom I could watch her while she gets in some time at the studio. Plus, this way, I can spend time with my little sister, who I love more than myself most days. Not only is she more extroverted than I am, but she’s grown into someone I admire.

She tells it how it is, and I’ve never been able to do that. I’m always so worried about what other people think of me. I think it’s the artist part of me. Yes, I write books for me and because I love it, but the other part of me secretly craves the validation I get when someone tells me they liked what I wrote. I’m sure my mom can understand that side of being an artist.

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