Emma's heart raced as Tyler unclicked his seatbelt and turned toward her. It had been doable to talk with him on the way over. Not easy, since the smell of his cologne was reminiscent of Cool Waters, which reminded her of every hot guy she’d pined after in the late nineties, but doable. 

Now he was looking straight at her, and the console of his truck didn’t seem appropriately wide enough. She pressed her back up against the passenger door and fiddled with the edge of her fingernail. “I didn’t know—I mean, we’re just going to stand there and pretend to be talking or something, right? You could put your arm around me just for a second—it can be subtle.” 

He blinked, slow like a cat and Emma’s mouth went dry. “Subtle. You think that will make your point?” 

Was it possible for her heart to explode? It happened to rabbits. They got too worked up and just died right there on the spot. She pulled at the collar of her coat, then turned to open her door. “Sorry, I think I’m getting overheated.” 

Tyler turned off the truck and opened his door, then stepped out into the parking lot and grabbed his bag, skates, and stick from the backseat. “It’s fine. We can head in and hang out in the atrium. When Sean comes in, we’ll give him a show.” He slung the bag over his shoulder, pulling his athletic-fit Henley even tighter across his broad chest. 

He nodded toward the Ice Centre and turned. Emma slammed the truck door closed and ran after him. “What kind of show, Tyler?” 

He shrugged, his legs too long for her to keep up without nearly jogging. “We’ll just see what happens.” 

See what happens? This felt like the exact wrong moment to fly by the seat of their pants. Her pulse shot up another few beats per minute. This was a terrible plan. They were going to be standing in the foyer where anyone could see them, not just Sean. She could have gone to Sunday Supper or something and forced him to talk with her after everyone left. 

But that was just it. They’d talked about this before, and he always said he’d mind his own business, but then he made comments like “keep it in your pants” at the pub after the game. 

“Emma?” Tyler stood holding the front door. She drew a deep breath and walked past him. He seemed totally fine with all this. More than fine. He was grinning at her. 

“You think this is funny?” she hissed when he stopped next to her and dropped his bag. 

Tyler tried to stifle a laugh and failed. “It is kind of funny. You look like you’re going to throw up.” 

Emma pulled off her coat and draped it over the arm of the couch against the wall. “Unlike some people, I don’t go around doing this with random guys.” 

Tyler propped up his stick and set his skates on top of his bag, then crossed his arms over his chest. Emma tried to keep her eyes from dropping to his pecs and failed. “Doing what?” 

“You know. This.” 

“No, I don’t know because it feels like you’re accusing me of going around pretending to be in relationships with people on a regular basis.” 

Emma tucked her hair behind her ears. “Not pretending to be in a relationship, but you’re with different people. Women—I’m not—” Tyler raised an eyebrow, and she groaned, turning to face the wall. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—I’m just nervous.” 

Tyler’s hand landed on her back. “In case you’ve forgotten, this was your idea. We don’t have to do this. I’m happy to help you with Sean, but if you’d rather—”

Emma whipped back around, not thinking about the fact that Tyler’s hand wouldn’t move with her. She looked down at his hand now cupped over her bra. He yanked his hand back as her skin lit on fire. 

“That probably would’ve convinced him,” Tyler muttered, holding his hand out as if it had been accidentally peed on. 

Emma ignored the sweat forming under her clothes and clenched her hands into fists. “We are going to do this. It’s five minutes of our lives, and then I can talk with Sean after the game and I’ll never text people after midnight again.” Tyler wasn’t looking at her. “Tyler—”

His arm curled around her waist like a snap bracelet and pulled her flush against his body. She’d barely processed her sudden change of location when Tyler tipped her chin up. Without a word, he slipped his fingers down the side of her neck and kissed her.

With ten minutes left before eight o'clock, Megs checked her email. She sat up straight in her chair, and the instructor narrowed his eyes at her before continuing to talk about patient charts. 

Professor Adams had already written back. She opened the message and scanned the text. Admissions to the program, blah blah blah, ah! Studios were available for students, she only needed to book a time slot at the given link. 

A brief thought flickered, suggesting she wait until class ended to click, but Megs brushed it away. Her instructor was droning on about the assignment due tomorrow, and she already had the gist of it.

With a rush of adrenaline, Megs clicked on the link and navigated through the school's website, and for a moment, she felt like Alice, tumbling headfirst into Wonderland. 

Red flag. 

Megs loved and hated that feeling. She paused, her finger hovering over the Recording Studio Booking button as an empty void expanded within her. She could not press it. She could set her phone down and listen to her instructor for the last few minutes of class. The emptiness would fade, at least she had enough life experience to know that. 

But was this irresponsible? It wasn't costing her anything besides the gas to drive up here, and she could try to book it when she was coming up for class anyway. Maybe they'd have a slot tomorrow, which would give her enough time to submit an audition for the competition. 

Theoretically. 

If she were entering. 

She clicked, and relief flooded her system as the screen changed. A calendar opened up. Tomorrow. They had openings on Saturday, but only . . . Megs' heart dropped. Only starting at five o'clock? Who opened up recording sessions on a Saturday night? 

Megs scanned the time slots and realized they opened at 1 p.m., but the other slots had already been booked. There was a single opening. Five to six o’clock. Her certification class started at five-thirty. 

She slumped in her chair and rested her head on her hand, idly drawing circles around the button with her mouse. How long did it take to record a short audition? Did she even know what the audition was? 

Megs sat up and searched for the Oscar Calloway audiobook competition. The first hit was the author's website. She clicked and stared at the man beaming back at her in the banner at the top of the site. Was this guy real? His dirty blond hair was thick and wavy, his skin tanned, and his eyes a striking pale blue. He looked like he'd just walked out of a surfing magazine, donned a linen suit, and was caught mid-very intriguing conversation. This was Oscar Calloway? 

She scrolled down until she found the PDF of the audition scene from the female main character's perspective and clicked. 

Elena's heart pounded as she confronted Nathan in the dimly lit room. She stared into his piercing eyes, her voice trembling with pent-up anger and hurt. "How could you do this, Nathan? I trusted you!"

Nathan's face contorted with guilt, but there was still that flicker of defiance dancing in his eyes. That fire was what kept her in his orbit even when she should be clawing to break free. 

He took a step closer, his voice laced with regret. "Elena, I never meant to hurt you. I made a mistake, and I'm sorry. But you have to understand—”

"Understand? Understand what, Nathan? That you can just waltz back into my life, leaving chaos in your wake?"

Her voice caught on the last word as their eyes locked. Yes. That's exactly what he would do. What he'd always done. 

The air crackled between them, and as Nathan inched forward, Elena knew that no matter what came out of his mouth, she'd already lost.

"It's because I love you, Elena. I've always loved you. But I thought I had to protect you, keep you safe."

"From what?" 

"From me!" he exploded. "From who I am! Who I've become." 

"I don't need a protector, Nathan."

"Don't you?" He took another step. 

"Not from you." Her words were barely more than a whisper. Nathan stopped so close, Elena could feel his hot breath on her cheek. Heat from his body washed over her, eroding the walls she'd built around her heart. 

"But what if I want to protect you? What if I want . . . " Nathan's eyes softened, his gaze filled with longing and a touch of desperation. He reached out, his hand trembling as it caressed her cheek.

Elena caught his hand in hers. "You left me, Nathan. You left and didn't say a word." 

Nathan dropped his head and pressed his forehead to hers. "Because there was too much to say." 

Elena tilted her head, and as Nathan's mouth pressed closer, the room seemed to fade away, leaving only the pulsating energy between them. His lips pressed against hers in a searing kiss, obliterating the dam of pent-up desire she’d built brick by brick and sending fire through her veins. 

Elena's fingers tangled in Nathan's hair, pulling him closer. Their tongues danced with—

"Miss?" 

Megs jolted in her seat and stared up into her instructor's face. Her cheeks flamed, and she slammed her laptop closed. 

"Yes, I'm sorry." She shifted in her seat and swallowed hard. "I was very into the . . . charts."

His eyes lit up. "The example patient charts? I spent a lot of time on those. I'm glad you found them helpful."

Megs smiled a little too brightly and glanced around the room. She was the only one still seated. "Is class over?" 

He nodded, and Megs hopped up, nearly tripping over her chair as she crammed her belongings into her backpack. "I'm so sorry I kept you, Mr.--"

"Fletcher."

"Right. Thank you so much for the class, Mr. Fletcher." She slung her backpack over her shoulders. "I'll see you tomorrow evening."

He nodded and watched her curiously as she exited the classroom. 

Megs chewed on her lower lip as she drove the thirty minutes home, her excitement at booking the studio unraveling like the bag she'd knitted for herself in ninth grade. The audition wasn't long, but she knew nothing about recording. A flurry of questions bombarded her mind. 

Would she be able to figure out the equipment? Would it plug into her computer to record there or would she need a separate device? Would her voice sound good through the mic? The scene couldn't take longer than ten minutes to record, so if she studied ahead of time and knew exactly what to do, she wouldn’t even have to be late to class. 

Megs pulled into the driveway and locked her car, then took her backpack inside and flicked on the living room light. It was dark in the house, which meant her mom was either at the theater or already in bed. It was only nine, but stranger things had happened.

She set her bag down and grabbed an apple from the fridge, then the jar of peanut butter from the cabinet. She sliced the fruit and dipped it straight into the jar. When she was halfway through her snack, she pulled her laptop from the bag and set it on the counter. The screen lit up, and she stared at the 'book now' button under the five o'clock slot. 

Megs' heart thumped wildly in her chest. Zero risk. She could do this. With a deep breath, she clicked the button, almost expecting a triumphant fanfare to ring through the air. Instead, a message blinked onto her screen: 

Booking not allowed. You are not a currently enrolled student.

Megs looked at the top right corner and saw her avatar symbol. She was logged in, and she was enrolled. In the certification program. 

She flipped back to her email and scrolled through Gideon's message. She hadn't misread it. Any enrolled student was supposedly allowed to book a recording studio even if they weren't enrolled in an audio class. 

Megs clicked back and tried again, only to get the same message. She exhaled in frustration and dipped another slice of apple into the peanut butter jar as she glanced at the clock. Nine-thirty. She couldn't call the registration office, and they'd likely be closed all weekend. But the audition was due Sunday night.

Flipping back to her email, she composed a new message to Gideon. He was a professor, which meant he likely wouldn't see this until Monday either, but since he had studio time available over the weekend, maybe there was a chance? 

Megs hit send, then ate another slice of apple. She stared at the screen and refreshed it twice before spinning around and searching for a distraction. 

The dishes. She would unload the dishes and clean the frying pan that was still soaking from breakfast. She thought about turning on an audiobook or podcast, but couldn't handle more input above the clanging of her own thoughts. She’d thought she didn't care about this audition, but the idea of missing it made her feel like someone was scooping out her insides. 

Megs stacked the plates and lifted them into the cupboard, then went back for the silverware. It was stupid. She would be going up against actual voice actors, and Calloway, or whatever staff he'd hired to judge the auditions, would be able to tell the difference. 

Still, her fingers trembled, and she sent a silent prayer up into the universe that Professor Adams would see her message and respond with a fix for her problem. 

When the dishwasher was empty, she turned to the sink and saw it. A new email at the top of her inbox. Re: Booking a recording slot. 

Megs almost choked on her own spit as she lunged for her laptop and opened the message. 

Dear Megs,

I apologize for the inconvenience you've encountered. Unfortunately, the recording studio is reserved for currently enrolled students only. 

I took the liberty of taking a look at your student ID and saw that you are enrolled for our medical coding certification course. However, this is not a semester course (it's considered a community class that happens to be taught here at Champlain). 

My hands are tied in this matter. Next semester, if you'd like to enroll in a semester course, you'll be able to use the link provided.

Best,

Prof. Adams

Megs stared at the screen and ground her teeth. Not a semester course? Stupid. So stupid. She was taking the class on campus and she'd paid her tuition for the certification through her student portal. 

My hands are tied in this matter? Were they, though? How hard would it be for him to let her record a ten-minute audition when no students were using the recording studio anyway? 

Megs slammed her laptop closed, cleaned up her peanut butter and apple core, then stomped to her bedroom. 

* * *

The next evening, Megs strode purposefully toward the arts building, her curls bouncing around her face with every step. The autumn leaves crunched underfoot as Megs mentally rehearsed everything she’d learned after going down a narration rabbit hole on the internet last night. 

Consistent distance from the mic and pacing. Sound conversational, maintain even volume. Knowing wasn’t the same as doing, and though she’d practiced the audition sides multiple times, her heart still stuttered as she opened the door and strode down the hall.

Her heart tapped a staccato rhythm as she scanned the area. This tiny act of rebellion, wanting something she knew she shouldn’t and acting on it, woke her up in ways that both thrilled and frightened her. It was like she’d been viewing the world through dirty windows, and someone had come and washed them clean. 

But that crystal clarity came at a cost. When her bid to the universe didn’t work out because it never did, she’d have to walk back behind that filmy glass. Revert to living in a world of grayscale. 

Megs shook her head. There wasn’t an information desk here like in the main building, and she hadn’t thought to look up a map. A student strode past with pants hanging so low on his hips she was sure they’d drop to his knees at any second. 

“Excuse me.” Megs put out a hand, and he pulled the earbud from his right ear. “Do you know where Professor Adams’s office is?” 

He pointed down the hall. “Just past the bathrooms.”

“Thank you.” She continued down the hall, searching the placards as soon as she passed the bathroom doors. 

Prof. Gideon Adams. 

Megs faced the door and clenched her hands into fists, then raised her arm and knocked. For a moment, she wondered if his office was empty. It was only a quarter to five, but maybe the first slot had been filled in the time it’d taken her to walk here from the parking lot. Maybe he didn’t arrive early, or maybe he wouldn’t come at all since his last appointment wasn’t booked. 

She was about to turn when the door swung open. Megs’ breath caught. Standing there in front of her, his hair mussed, his tortoiseshell glasses perched on his nose was the hot guy from the coffee shop.

Toby smooths his hair as he steps back from the door expectantly. After living here for over a week, he has yet to glimpse any of his neighbors coming or going. Yesterday, someone gained entrance to this home—the one directly next to his—first thing in the morning. A worker of some sort. He had watched as the woman had knocked and waited on the step for at least five minutes before the door was finally opened.  

This morning, as he mowed his lawn in the sunshine, he couldn’t help but notice the unkempt condition of the lawn next door. Feeling especially neighborly, he decided to mow it, too. Then, remembering that he shouldn’t make assumptions, he figured he should probably ask permission first. “What if you break a sprinkler head?” he can almost hear Clara warning.

So here he stands. When the door remains shut after his first set of knocks, Toby lifts his hand and begins hammering out a jovial rhythm on the wooden surface. No amount of waiting is going to be able to kill his mood this morning. He’s paying for his own home and doing his own yard work on a beautiful sunny day after almost a week of gloomy weather. With these thoughts racing through his brain, his random knocks begin to morph into a version of “Yellow Submarine” by the Beatles, so he goes with it. His hips swing subtly side to side as his toes lift on each beat, tapping on the concrete step as his head nods emphatically with the rhythm. 

When the door flies open leaving his fist in midair, he is surprised so thoroughly that he nearly falls over backward and down the steps into the overgrown grass. Thankfully, his opposite hand finds the metal railing, saving him from a rather embarrassing fate in front of his new neighbor.  

“Good morning!” he says cheerily, regaining his balance. Looking up, he takes in the old woman before him. The striped cat on the front of her pink sweatshirt draws his attention immediately, but then he notices her hair. White and fluffy, like clouds. Or candy floss. 

Jo stares at him across the precipice. 

“Do you like the Beatles?” he asks.

“Didn’t you see the ‘no soliciting’ sign as you entered the neighborhood?” Jo asks, her voice sour. 

“Ummm, no. I definitely did not. But I don’t think that applies to me. Or does it?”

Jo looks at him in stunned silence. “Are you selling something?” she asks finally.

“Nope.”

“Trying to get signatures for your likely terrible political agenda?”

“Nope, no clipboard here,” he answers, showing her his empty hands. 

“Do you want to check my roof?”

“Should I? Is it leaking?” he asks with concern, tilting his head and inspecting the shingles within his view.

“No, it’s not leaking!” she snaps. “Why, exactly, are you here knocking “Yellow Submarine” on my door?”

“Ah! You know it! I hoped you’d like that one.”

Jo stares at him, demanding an explanation in her steely gaze.

“Right. I’m Toby, and I just moved in next door, I wondered if I could mow your lawn—”

“My lawn is fine,” Jo says, beginning to close the door.

“Wait, are you watching Days of Our Lives?” Toby asks, stepping closer as tense conversation carries through the door to the step. 

When she doesn’t shut him out immediately, he asks, “Mind if I?” and cautiously steps into the living room. “I’ve missed all the episodes this week since I don’t have a TV yet. I completely forgot it was on right now,” he shrugs and Jo, still unsure what to think of this audacious young man and his obvious ineptitude at interpreting social cues, motions him toward the sofa. 

“Is it really alright if I join you?” he asks, already taking a seat, his eyes never leaving the television set.

“As long as you don’t talk,” Jo grunts, and Toby mimics a zipper across his lips. 

Though it’s distracting at first to have someone seated next to her on the couch—and he parked it right on top of her favorite quilt, mind you—Jo becomes slightly less annoyed when he mutters, “Now that’s a terrible idea,” before she can think it. Quite validating, actually, to hear another human agree with her. Maybe it was, in fact, worth the effort to put on pants this morning.

“Can you believe she did that?” Toby exclaims, standing and folding the blanket that had been trapped underneath him and laying it on the cushion. “The nerve! And after all Brady’s done to help her,” he sighs, stretching his legs to the side of the coffee table.

“Ridiculous,” Jo agrees. “I mostly hate her character.”

“But at least it’s consistent,” Toby argues, raising his eyebrows as if daring her to disagree. Slapping his hands to his legs, he says, “Well, I’ve got to finish the lawn, I can do yours too if you want?” 

Before she can respond, Toby stands. “Oh!” he exclaims and jumps, looking down to find a fluffy Persian cat rubbing up against his leg. “And who’s this?” he asks, sitting back down and placing her on his lap. 

“Precious,” Jo answers, surprised that the cat braved the living room with a stranger present. I guess he has been here a while, she thinks, justifying the strange behavior. 

“She is absolutely precious,” he coos, scratching under her chin and listening to her purr, despite her grumpy expression. “But what’s her name?”

Jo laughs, the sound bursting out of her like a caged bird. 

Toby glances up, taken by surprise, a grin stretching from ear to ear. “What? What’s so funny?” he asks, waiting for an explanation.

Wiping a tear from her eye, Jo takes a breath. “That’s her name. Precious.”

“Ah,” Toby laughs, his shoulders still hunched over the cat, “but you can see my confusion, right?”

Jo nods, her stomach aching slightly from the unexpected exertion. “She likes you.” 

“How could she not?” Toby asks, touching his nose to the cat’s, and laughing when Precious attempts to lick him. 

“I’ll see you again next time,” he promises to Precious, placing her back on the rug. “You, too, Jo!” he calls, stepping out the door and jumping down the steps. “Can I watch again with you Monday?” he calls.

“Don’t you have a job?” she shouts through the open door.

“Not yet,” he says, returning and poking his head in. “See you then!” 

Jo, still sitting on the couch where Toby left her, stares at the clock as she strokes the cat, now occupying Toby’s empty seat. Precious mews softly, reminding her that she hasn’t served breakfast yet. At least, she didn’t think she had. Did I eat? she questions, looking around to find evidence of her own meal. Finding nothing, she hoists herself up and follows the familiar path from the sofa to the kitchen. Precious winds through her legs as usual, eagerly awaiting her food. Once the can is opened and the dish set on the floor, Jo opens the fridge and scans the shelves, finding them surprisingly empty. 

“I just went to the store last week,” she frets, pulling out the last container of yogurt. It’s not that going to the store is always unpleasant...well, yes, she thinks. It really is that. Walking there is difficult enough, but then all the people and the noise...Sighing, she decides she can probably last through today with this yogurt and the half empty box of crackers in the cupboard. Debating over opening a can of soup, she quickly realizes that she doesn’t have a slice of bread or butter to go with it and decides to leave it on the shelf. 

Resigning herself to make the dreaded trek in the morning, she carries her meager meal to the table and proceeds to inspect every inch of the kitchen. Toby seemed nice, but that’s how they get you, she thinks, meticulously checking the number of faux grapes in the fruit dish. Grapes, she thinks, stepping back. I should get some of those in the morning.