#maybe i should write a teeny thing with jake? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

letsperaltiago · 4 years

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we'll turn this better thing to the best

HAPPY MAY 15TH, EVERYONE!

Prompt #57: "This is probably a bad time, but marry me?"

This is just me not being able to resist writing something about Jake and Amy celebrating (or trying to) their 3rd anniversary as a married couple. This is also me, yet again, beating around that smut-bush, huh??:))

Jake and Amy try to have a sexy anniversary-morning, but Mac Santiago-Peralta has other plans

Read here or on ao3!

Nothing could ever come close to beating, even marginally, waking up to Jake Peralta already having his arms around middle in the lulling position that was spooning the length of her body like a perfectly fitting puzzle piece: a leg nudge in between hers while the other wrapped around them and his fingers mindlessly playing with the hem of her shirt.

The appreciation for the current state they were in was especially appreciated and heartwarming when it was taken into consideration that there’d been multiple, horrible parts of their timeline where he hadn’t been around to do so.

Everything from the sudden chaos of being sent into WitSec with Holt to him and Rosa being falsely convicted were periods they both tried to not think of and dwell on. But of course, given the powerfull impression these times in their lives had made on them, it was sometimes hard not to compare; hard not to feel that much better simply because Jake was around and not taken from her anymore. They always made sure to appreciate the other, even during eventual fights or disagreement, and if they had to say one “positive” thing about the involuntary distance WitSec and prison had forced upon them it was that it had definitely only made them grow even fonder and stronger.

So this year, another year of waking up in his arms on what she knew was an extra special day, she obviously felt crazy butterflies zooming around her belly and snuggled back closer into his hold on her with still closed eyes and a tiny content smile on her face.

This year’s anniversary had to be enjoyed for its small, tiniest moments, she knew. There was no time nor energy, they’d agreed, for grand gestures and outings when this May 15th all at once held the same special sentiment as previous year yet also a completely new range of feelings.

Today, for the past three years, May 15th had been a special date which held a dear place in both Jake and Amy’s hearts as it reminded them of the day that sealed their love for eternity. Although this year, their third anniversary, May 15th 2021 to be exact, was simply a tiny bit more special than usual: this year they weren't just the two of them - this year they had a teeny tiny son and he was as soft and sweet as he was time-craving and a tiny character of his own. Especially on a day like today, filled with an extra dash of love and reflecting upon the past, life before Mac seemed vaguely blurred: not in a bad way per se, just not as perfectly chaotic and wonderful as now that Mac Peralta was around.

Amy, still somewhat half-sleeping, quietly relished in her husband’s affectionate embrace and in the thought of having her entire world, Jake and baby-Mac, within the four walls of her home on a special day like this, but nonetheless also made sure to give some extra appreciation to the fact that Mac had been sleeping since she last fed him before bed last night. Considering the intense teething period he was currently going through that was truly a miracle she did not dare to fully believe in, but perhaps, just maybe, her little one could sense that it was mommy and daddy’s day today.

The feeling of her husband switching a bit in his spot against her back paired with a pleased sigh caught her attention hinting at the fact that he was surely somewhat awake, and though Amy wanted him to enjoy the tiny amount of sleeping in Mac they were currently offered, she also happened to crave his woken presence, deep brown eyes and loving smile.

“Happy 3 years of childish, distracting marriage…” as if on cue, having read her thoughts, Jake mumbled tiredly into the back of her head before reposition himself closer to have his head rest in the crook between her shoulder and neck nuzzling his nose tiredly into the side of her face.

Gosh, she loved him so much it still, even after 6 years together, came crashing down on her like a huge wave of giddiness and first date-feelings. She smiled to herself at his congratulations. “Dito. It’s been 3 great ones, huh?”

“It has..,” He yawned loudly, “… Especially when our son decides to sleep in like this.”

“Especially then, yes,” she huffed out a small laugh sharing the sentiment even though the fact that her baby very rarely needed night feeds anymore also meant he was growing up - too fast, if you asked her. Her barely 7-month old was wonderful and both parents had the time of their lives watching him grow up. Yet it was no lie that from time to time it’d hit Amy just how fast, almost by the day, her son grew, learned a new skill and became more of a an actual person. Sometimes even to an extent where it’d overwhelm her leaving her feeling borderline… sad? Even though it had been exhausting for the first few months, and still was from time to time, she also now kinda missed the little things like the ritual of breast-feeding. She loved sleep but loved the primal, instinctual feeling of nursing her son, even more the closeness that came with it, more.

“What time is it?”

Jake’s groggy voice snapped her out of her tumbling train of thoughts and forcing her to open her eyes to check the clock on her night stand.

“6 AM which means-“

Jake knew what his wife was about to say, but beat her to it and changed then and there somewhat narrative of their morning.

“Mac should be waking up anytime soon, I know but, babe, let him stay in bed till he asks to be picked up… Perhaps this is the morning we get lucky?”

Amy wanted to question what exactly that was supposed to mean but he beat her to it an said question was quickly answered by her husband’s warm lips sending thrills down her spine with the way they gently placed small, tender pecks to where his head had previously rested. Immediately she felt her body perk up in reaction to this and the heavy, tired feeling from before was gone within a matter of pecks. Alas, in the back of her mind, Amy knew and was still somewhat aware of three things:

One: where she wanted this to go

Two: where this could take them

Three: where her son was sleeping just 20 feet from their bed

“Jake,” the full-on whine that came out of her as provoked directly by his kisses was ascribable to two facts:

Firstly that, yes, she of course reacted by the book to her husband’s touches. But also, secondly, and if not more realistically, the fact that their sex-life had definitely simmered down for the past months - that’s what having a baby will do to you - and that it really didn’t take much for either of them, even less than before, to get foolishly, easily impassioned by the other’s intimate cues. One kiss, just a bit deeper than the casual peck, was apparently enough to throw all sense of control out the window.

If they used to be turned on by the other as effortlessly as faucets then they could now definitely be compared to gardens hoses playfully twisted by a kid’s hand as to block the water surge: bu with one move, the letting go of the hose, the water flow would pick right up where it’d been blocked within a matter of milliseconds and there was no stopping the powerful rush.

By then his hands, having previously rested on the soft remains of her baby bump that she tended to feel insecure about but he, on the other hand absolutely loved, had moved up under her night shirt only to continue to her breasts which definitely didn’t help her stay cool in the moment.

“Babe… ” she whined again even though she also definitely did not put up her strongest fight: she loved nursing her son, and although the two matters were far from comparable, she would also be the last one to complain about Jake benefiting from her breast in… other ways.

“… Mac is in the room.”

“We can be quiet,” his pecks had evolved into love bites and passionate suckles the minute his hands made their way under her shirt, and by now it seemed like they’d reached the point of no return - sleeping baby son only feet away and all.

“You know we can’t,” she breathed heavily voicing her gradual subjection to the development of the moment while simultaneously trying to stay aware of her surroundings. Alas in vain and only to come to terms with having miserably, doubtlessly failed the second Jake managed to flip her to her other side thus enabling him to push her onto her back and using his weight kiss her even more deeply than before.

“Well…” he chuckled allowing himself a short break from her lips to speak although, obsessed and addicted, making sure to pick up where he left up as soon as his talking allowed a natural pause.

“… Either that or we’ll have to explain to our baby son why mommy and daddy were making weird noises in bed.”

“Jake!” she exclaimed at this statement, the hypothetical scenarios in her head getting too real, causing Jake to react right away by pulling away using his arms to hover his weight over her thus allowing her some space and them to look get a proper look at each other.

Suddenly his before aroused expression was replaced by a note of concern in both his eyes and voice. “I’m so sorry! We can totally stop if you don’t want to go any further. I didn’t mean to cross a line.”

Amy herself paused momentarily, mostly out of surprise since their mutual consent, after having been in a relationship so long, was rarely explicitly verbalised: generally being very attentive of the other during sex and knowing the other’s body and signals so well they could easily tell when to stop and when to move forward. Unless they were straight up experimenting and treading unknown land, their intimate moments had rarely to never caused this kind of sudden halts. So seeing this extra considerate side of her husband, although she never doubted that it was there to make her feel safe, made her heart flutter momentarily reminding her of the feeling of Mac’s tiny kicks inside her womb months ago.

“Hey, don’t worry,” she reassured him by reaching up to run her fingers through his curls aka. an attribute of Jake’s which their son (to her very immense satisfaction) had inherited. “I know you meant well and I didn’t mean to proclaim like that,” she made sure to throw on her warmest smile and eyes to reassure him. “I was just being weary of Mac, but I think I need to allow myself some…not very mommy-like pleasure.”

He smiled letting her speak out.

“Also I just, like completely out of nowhere, remembered reading this article pointing out that babies this young won’t actually… ” she tried to form her point in her mind whilst her husband looked at her with an amused smile on his face “… like, they won’t be affected by it so, I guess we could…”

How come she all of the sudden, as a woman in her late 30s, suddenly felt like a silly teenager when talking about something as natural to them as sex?

“Honey,” he disrupted her internal spiralling running a hand through her hair the way she’d so lovingly done just seconds ago. He trailed and picked at it where was spread out across her pillow with his fingers as his amused grin took on a more comforting nature. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t feel comfortable with, okay? Today’s date, and the fact that your butt will forever be the bomb, just got me caught up in the moment. But I totally get it if you feel weird doing anything with Mac around and you shouldn’t have to compromise that - even for me. It’s more than okay,” he lowered himself to peck her forehead before refocusing on her face and what she was about to say.

And how she loved him even more for always taking into consideration her feelings and reactions, even after 6 years together, but something about his strong arms flexing under his weight on either side of her head, his ruffled-up curls and already saturated, glowing even, pink lips made something in the back of her mind click. She quickly did the math in her head:

Mac was still an infant lacking anything near the ability to understand the nature of the sounds his parents were making and the concept of sex. He was feet away, safe in his crib with no direct outlook on them, and all of this was not even taking into consideration that he was still fast asleep. It was now or never - or so it felt like.

“Jacob Santiago-Peralta,” her eyes suddenly switched to a shade of dark, almost black, brown Jake hadn’t seen in quite a while immediately causing more than just his eyes to bulge. “We’re definitely inaugurating our third year as a married couple and we’re doing it now.”

And seeing a more than convincing look on his wife’s face Jake didn’t have to be told twice before crashing their lips together, resuming him repositioning himself between his wife’s thighs to give her sacred body, the one that carried their son for 9 months, the love it so very much and rightfully deserved.

Within minutes the very limited pieces of clothing they slept in were discarded, thrown carelessly onto the bedroom floor as if they were discovering each other for the first time, and after a reasonable amount of foreplay (mostly timewise since Mac waking up was just a matter of minutes) Jake painted a trail of sloppy kisses along his wife’s sleek collarbone as he, after a lot of shifting and moving around during preceding sexy actives, repositioned himself one last time.

Under the weight and spell of his naked body, physically and metaphorically, Amy was desperately writhing having thrown all sense of control and modesty out the window a long time ago and grasped onto his upper back in a demand for more and an urge she’d put aside so many times these past months for the sake of dedication to being a mother.

“God, please don’t laugh at me when I definitely, ‘cause I will, finish within 5 minutes,” she finished her sentence with a moan as he bit down on the skin spurring her collar bones. Perhaps 5 minutes was even an optimistic exaggeration when her body already felt on the urge of exploding and he hadn’t even entered her yet.

She could tell her very honest comment earned her a soft chuckle, but she was too far gone and caught up in a whirlwind of pleasure to care plus, even if it would only last minutes, she just needed her husband inside of her now.

“5 minutes sound incredible, Ames,” he breathed out frankly not even minding the fact that their before very vigorous stamina had definitely gone downhill since having Mac. Instead he simply appreciated his favorite feeling in the world which, since the day he got to feel it for the first time, was the one of Amy Santiago wrapped around him.

Though he would never give it up permanently for anything in the world, even incredible sex with his incredible wife, he was just as excited as her to slip out of his father-role for what would probably end up being just a matter of 20 minutes in total or so. He was breathing heavily, growling, as he redirected his lips to hers where he hoped to, although the method had been proven faulty before, quell her upcoming sounds of pleasure.

“I love you,” she claimed out of breath bracing herself for the wonderful stretch she knew was approaching by the second.

“Love you too,” he sloppily replied between kisses. “So much,” was added in closing of the exchange of words of love as he braced and steadied himself for the initial thrust.

Then, planted so horribly perfectly that they could’ve sworn they were taking part in a movie, a cry cut through the thick intimate tension without delay bursting the bubble Jake and Amy had formed around themselves in the heat of the moment.

Becoming a parent came with the incredible ability to completely switch your focus within matter of seconds and thus react to whatever need your baby called out for. Right then and there was a perfect example, and though picking up where they’d come to, which was so close, seemed dangerously tempting they both knew there was no way they were actually going there.

They were a married couple wanting to celebrate each other and their love, yes, but first and foremost, even more importantly, they were parents.

Jake carefully bent his arms not needing the leverage anymore and lowered himself onto his wife before rolling onto his back besides her. Both started blankly into the air for second, almost unknowingly recreating the scene after their first time together, not saying anything but burning with repressed lust on the inside.

Then they broke into a collective chuckle.

Amy turned onto her side to look at her husband’s profile, taking it in before he imitated her action and they were left staring into each other’s eyes with knowing, amused expressions.

This was really their life now and though not always as easy as being “just married” it was definitely the life they’d always wished for and felt blessed to have. The irony of it all which existed in the clash between their love and physical yearning for each other, and their shared responsibility and love for their son, interruptions considered, was all at once humorous and tragic. But even then they had no doubt in their minds: their love for each other was unbreakable and celebrating their three years of marriage with their so very loved son interrupting much needed sex was still collectively considered somewhat perfect.

Nothing could ever take away the melting feeling she still got whenever Jake looked at her like he did now, so calm and in love, and knowing he now also shared that look with their son still reminded her of a surreal, perfect dream. He had so much love for the both of them: so much that she was sometimes convinced of the fact that it couldn’t be real. But then times like these reminded her of the fact that it was indeed very much so and that she would marry him all over again if she was given the chance.

The fussy sounds coming from the crib increased by the second and Jake knew that the second either of them decided to get up for their son, which would be sooner than later, this tiny bubble of an amorous moment would be gone. And so he decided to just go with what felt appropriate because, really and truly, looking at her right now he felt as if he could marry her all over again.

“I know our baby is screaming for attention, and that he needs it more than me and that this is probably a bad time but… marry me?” He smiled widely running a hand through her tousled hair earning him a just as wide smile of appreciation and adoration back.

She leaned in and offered him a kiss, long and tender but controlled as she knew she’d have to get up now. Managing to not get caught up she pulled back caressing his cheek with the hand that allowed him to feel the soft stroke of her wedding band and engagement ring.

“First I’m going to go get our son, but then…” she leaned in and gave his lips a final peck, this time withdrawing just enough to look at him but still have their noses touch before finishing what she’d started, “… Yes, I will marry you all over again, as many times as you want, every day, week, month and year, for eternity and beyond, Jake Peralta.”

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princess-tiger-lily · 4 years

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Finale Thoughts and Starting the Rewatch

Has it really already been over a week since it all ended???

I’m devastated. I truly am. It’s weird not having this to look forward to anymore. But I’m grateful for what we got and I’m going to love this show long after it’s gone. I’m going to follow these actors and their careers for years. I’m going to champion Dan Levy and drool over Noah Reid until the end of time. And there’s still So. Much. Fic. to Write.

So maybe it’s not over.

I know there were lots of people who were upset about the finale, and lots more who were upset about the whole season, but I’m not one of them. I loved it all. I started making a list of my favorites bits, but I already had fifteen bullet points by the time I even got to the fourth episode. So I’ll just give you five random Season Six high lights in no particular order, just for funsies.

Patrick’s teeny tine t-shirt he wore to Jake’s and David’s reaction to it

The entirety of More Rosé, particularly David yelling “I said radish!”

Stevie’s flight attendant outfit/David’s “youth pastor” look

Ronnie and Ray during the save the wedding planning session

Johnny seeing Stevie’s apartment for the first time

We didn’t end up where I thought we would going into Season Six, but we ended up somewhere I’m satisfied with, and the journey we took to get there was nothing short of delightful.

I do think I would have done things differently, and since it’s fun to think through AUs and whatnot, I’ll tell you all what I would done.

I would have kept them all in Schitt’s Creek, but I would have made it their choice. I would have woken up the buyer from Season One and had him make his same offer. I would have had Moira be the one to turn him down. I think I like the idea of them not just learning a lesson in the value of love and community over money, but truly finding a home in Schitt’s Creek.

David’s story I would have kept virtually the same, I just would have had the wedding take place mid-season instead of the finale. The wedding is a David and Patrick story line and I think the finale should have been more focused on everyone.

I would have had Johnny and Stevie expand their motel empire, but kept it the greater Ontario (or whatever) area rather than become another national chain. I don’t think he needed to find the same kind of monetary success he had before, just pride in the work. As for Stevie, I liked what they did with her, having her step outside of her comfort zone, not so she could leave but so she could see that what she had was already what she wanted.

I think I would have had Moira’s crows experience pale in comparison to her experience directing Cabaret, leading her to find fulfillment less in the lime light and more in helping to discover and lift up the every day artistry that a small town could offer. She was the one out of everyone who never quite found something in Schitt’s Creek to ground her there like all the others, and this could have been her thing.

As for Alexis...I will say, hers is the story line that leaves me the most cold. I appreciate everything Dan Levy has said about the love story he wanted to tell with Alexis and Ted, of sometimes love not being enough and sometimes love being the knowledge that a relationship has to end. I appreciate him wanting to show Alexis able to stand on her own without a man. But I’m tired of the trope of women not being able to have it all, of having to choose between love and career. (It’s interesting to me that all three of our main young women of Schitt’s Creek end the series single.) And, as I said in another post, I wish her big career breakthrough had been because of something she meant to do, not an accident, especially since she gave up love for that career. So for her, I would have kept her and Ted together (and I will choose to head canon her and Ted reconnecting after a chance run in a few years from now) and I would have had her career been more Schitt’s Creek focused, doing more stuff like Singles Week or working with the tourism board that Roland and Ronnie mentioned, rather than becoming her mom’s publicist.

All that being said, I’m still completely satisfied with what we got and totally respect the choices Dan and the other writers made. I wept throughout the last three episodes. I howled with laughter during the happy ending scene. I’ve been listening to Simply the Best on repeat for days. I’ve talked my poor sister’s ear off, gushing about everything from the actual episodes to the EW interviews to the insta-lives. I have a queue of porn fic that needs to be written.

And now that it’s over, I think a re-watch is in order. I’m going to start from the beginning and work my way through. I’m going to take the time to write out my thoughts, remember bits I’ve forgotten, see stories through a different lens now that I know how it ends, notice things I never noticed before. If you want to read those thoughts, I’ll be posting them here, rambling away like I usually do. If you wanna keep screaming with me about this show, I’m here for it.

I mean, the world is ending so like...what else am I going to do??

#schitt's creek #reaction post #long post

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basically-i-write-shit · 5 years

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You Feel Like Home

I had to write a Danbrey wedding. Takes place in the Mama’s home universe, but could be read as a regular old human AU. Ao3 link

Aubrey fidgets with the hem of her skirt, leg bouncing nervously as Jake drives Mama’s truck out to the small botanical gardens between Kepler and Greenbank that her and Dani’s wedding is set to be. She wonders if she’s under dressed. Dani’s wearing a whole dress, she’s going to look so pretty, what if Dani wants to get a divorce because she can’t even dress nice on her wedding day?

She’d thought her wedding outfit was cute, but maybe it’s not. She didn’t even go with a full suit! Just a black button up and tucked into a black tulle skirt. The most color on her is her tie, which is a nice fiery red, and the sequined cropped jacket that’s definitely way too hot right now, she’s burning alive--

“Aubrey. You’re going to be just fine.”

Aubrey’s head whips up, eyes finding the rear view mirror, and finds Mama looking up at her. Mama’s wearing a suit. Aubrey should’ve worn a suit.

“I-- I feel so stupid, Mama. What if I-- What if I don’t look good? I know it’s stupid to think about when I’m getting married, it’s not important in the long run, but what if--”

“Aubrey Little, are you really scared right now? I don’t think I’ve seen you scared in all the years I’ve known you, even in that first year I had you.”

Mama’s stern voice is enough to calm Aubrey down, or at least get her to stop word vomiting. She takes a deep breath, actually turns in her seat so she can face Mama. Jake makes a distressed noise, and she feels bad a moment because she knows how paranoid he gets while driving, but he doesn’t argue with her any.

“I just love her so much, Mama. I don’t want to mess anything up on the first day of the rest of our lives.” She says, and her voice cracks, and no she can’t start crying now, her makeup is already done--

The car pulls to a stop, and Aubrey lifts her head again, confused. They still have a couple miles to go. Jake places a hand on her shoulder, smiling softly.

“I think you need a bear hug right now. Get in the back, and I’ll start the car up again.”

“Thanks, Jake.” Aubrey kisses his cheek, leaving a bright red lipstick stain, and clambers in the back of the car without getting out. Mama doesn’t complain, only hugs her tight and tucks her hair back in place.

“Aubrey, you and Dani are the first I’ve ever been able to see get married. Y’know that?”

“Yeah?”

The car starts to move, and Aubrey takes a few deep breaths. They’ll be there in a couple of minutes.

“You’re the only ones who’ve even made it close. That’s how in love you are. I’ve seen my kids have flings and hookups, but no one -- and I mean no one, not even Barclay -- has stayed together long enough with someone. You and Dani are meant to be, and I mean that with every fiber of my being. Jake and Barclay and I, we all watched you two from the beginning. There ain’t no doubt in my mind that you’re gonna make it through the first day, the next day, and every other day after that.”

And just like that, Aubrey thinks she might cry again. She sniffles, hugging Mama closer and hiding her face against Mama’s shoulder. “You really mean that?”

“Of course I do. But this stress ain’t about you lookin’ good, is it?” Mama asks. Aubrey stiffens a bit, before shaking her head. “If you think it’s better for your daddy to walk you down the aisle instead of Ned, that’s fine. I’m sure it won’t cause Ned no hard feelin’s and if it’ll keep your dad from causin’ a fuss...”

“No, I want it to be Ned. Ned’s been more of a dad in the last few years than my dad has. I just...will you be there with me when I tell him, Mama?”

Mama smiles, rubbing her back soothingly. “Of course I will. Then I’ll go check up on Dani, and give her the same talk because I’m sure she’s panicking just as much as you. Mama’s gotta take care of her girls today.”

“Thanks, Mama.” Aubrey laughs a bit, smiling. She sits normally for the last minute of the car ride, and once the car is stopped she hops out and makes a beeline for Ned, who’s standing near the altar talking to the officiant. She knows Jake’ll help Mama out of the car, right now she just needs to talk to Ned.

“You’re going to be just fine, Dani,” Moira’s almost done curling Dani’s hair, so she can’t do much to comfort Dani but make eye contact through the mirror and use her free hand to pat her shoulder. “Aubrey’s been snapping me all day, and she’s so excited she won’t stop asking about you.”

“Yeah?”

“She looks gorgeous, too. Oh, you’re a lucky one.”

“Hey, that’s my wife,” Dani laughs, tilting her head back, and Moira laughs along as the pushes her head gently back in place. She sighs happily as they settle down. “I’m so lucky. How do you think she’s doing?”

“Probably equally as nervous. That’s how I know you guys are going to be the best gay wives.”

“Aubrey!”

Aubrey smiles as her father engulfs her in a hug, hugging back stiffly. “Dad, hi, how are--”

“I waved when you got out of the car, but you must not have seen it, you ran straight to Edmund over there.”

“Right. I must not’ve seen.” Aubrey says. Things are still awkward between them, and they don’t see each other often, so of course Aubrey would run to Ned. Right? It’s not weird.

Aubrey’s father smiles at her, pats her shoulder. “I’m so happy to get to see you get married, baby girl. After-- After everything, I thought you’d never let me back in your life, let alone invite me to your wedding...”

“We’re doing really great, dad. I wanted you here. Dani makes me really happy.”

“Good. Good!” Her father pulls her in for another hug, laughing a bit. When he pulls away he has tears in his eyes. “Gosh, you look beautiful Aubrey. I always thought you’d wear a tux. Your mother wanted you to wear a dress. I guess we both got what we wanted, huh?”

“Yeah, I, uh-- Neither of those felt right, but a little bit of both just...fit.”

“That meant to be a bi joke there, Little?”

Aubrey laughs as Duck’s hand finds the place behind her shoulder blades, the park ranger finding her side as Mama stands off to her other side. “Yeah, just a teeny one. Was it that obvious?”

Aubrey’s father looks a bit uncomfortable-- they never really talked much about Aubrey’s sexuality, let alone joked about it, and so it’s quite odd for him to hear it happen. He smiles nonetheless, offering out a hand to Duck. “I don’t think we’ve met yet. I’m Aubrey’s father.”

“Duck Newton, it’s a nickname,” Duck says, and Aubrey snorts. He’s sticking with that introduction, alright. “I was here Aubrey’s first night in Kepler, and I gotta say, she’s grown some even in the last few years. You must be very proud of her.”

“Oh, the proudest. I can’t believe I’m walking my baby down the aisle tonight.”

Aubrey sucks air through her teeth, cringing, and her father looks at her confused.

“Aubrey?..What-- What was that?..”

Aubrey looks at Duck for help. He squeezes her shoulder. She takes a deep breath. Duck’s right there. Mama’s right there. Jake’s nearby. Dani’s nearby. She can do this. Like a-- Like a bandaid.

“Dad, you’re...not walking me down the aisle. Ned is.”

“I’m sorry, wha-- Who’s doing what?”

“...Ned is wa--”

“I heard that. I just-- You-- Aubrey, I am your father!” Her father says sternly, and Aubrey flinches. Almost immediately Mama wraps a protective arm around Aubrey’s shoulder and Aubrey leans into her thankfully, tearing up a bit. Fuck, this is so stupid. Maybe she shouldn’t have invited him. “I am your father, Aubrey, and fathers walk their daughters down the aisle--”

“Now Mr. Little, you ain’t gotta cause a scene.”

“I quite think I do, Miss Cobb. My own daughter has decided that I’m not enough for her!”

“That-- That’s not it at all, dad! I just-- Ned-- he--”

“After everything I’ve done to get you back, Aubrey--”

“That’s enough,” Duck’s deep drawl calls out over the shouting, and silences them all. Jake had come running up, and now leans against his legs panting. He reaches a hand out and Aubrey takes it, squeezing as she tries to figure out the right words to make him not so angry. Luckily, Duck and Mama have their own words ready apparently. “Mama? Got anythin’ to say to Mr. Little here, or should I?”

“Oh, boy do I.” Mama hands off her cane to Jake and steps up to Aubrey’s father and for a moment Aubrey thinks she might punch him. “Mr. Little, I highly advise you don’t use any guilt trippin’ on my kids, and yes she’s my kid. You ain’t earned that right back yet. You say you fought to get her back in your life, well you’re fixin’ to lose her again you keep talkin’ like that. I’ve got four ‘r five big fellows around this venue who’d just love to throw you out, myself included, but Aubrey wanted you here. So be grateful you even got the invite.”

Aubrey and her father both look at Mama in shock, though for two completely different reasons-- Aubrey’s father because no one’s ever spoken to him like that before, and Aubrey because Mama defended her so vehemently. Sure, Mama loves her like her own kid and has said it enough times, but hearing is different than witnessing.

“Aubrey Little is one of the best people out there, and you’ve caused her a helluva lot of pain. I’d suggest apologizing to her and sittin’ pretty until the reception.”

Mama returns to Aubrey’s side as Aubrey’s father processes her threat. He clears his throat and swallows thickly.

“I...I’m sorry, Aubrey. It’s your decision, and I’m sure you have your reasons. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go...find my seat.”

“Knock knock,”

“Aubrey Little, don’t you dare, it’s bad luck!”

“Well I’m sure glad I still sound young to you gals,” Mama teases as she peeks into the storm shelter Dani and Moira have set up shop in. She has a warm smile on her face as she steps all the way in, and she looks like she may cry again. “My, don’t you two look gorgeous. You especially, Dani.”

“Thanks, Mama.”

“Y’know, it seems like just yesterday I was lettin’ this scared little eighteen year old into my home, and now here she is at twenty-three and getting married.”

The look on Mama’s face alone has Dani tearing up, and she fans at her eyes so her mascara doesn’t start to run. “Mama, don’t go making me cry like that! I’m already on an emotional roller coaster right now! How’s Aubrey doing?”

“She’s just fine. A bit shaken up after tellin’ her father he ain’t walkin’ her down the aisle, but she’s just fine. With Jake and Duck and Ned right now.”

“I wish I could’ve been there for her when she did that, I know she’s been worried about it...” Dani sighs. “But she’s alright now?”

“She’s gettin’ taken care of, don’t you worry.” Mama says, moving to sit down, and only then does Dani realize something.

“Mama, where’s your cane? You know the doctor says you need to use it,”

“Must’ve left it with Jake after chattin’ with Mr. Little. I’ll get it in a minute.”

Dani turns to Moira, and she nods, kissing Dani and Mama on the cheek before disappearing to go grab Mama’s cane. That leaves them alone.

“Is Aubrey really alright? If her dad made her cry, I swear I’ll go out there in my dress and--”

“Dani, she’s just fine, sunshine. I promise.” Mama says exasperatedly, reaching over and grabbing Dani’s hand. She has the most fond look on her face, and Dani can’t help but smile. “How you doin’? Really?”

“I’m good. Nervous. But that’s normal for your wedding day, right?”

“Well, I don’t know from experience, but I think so,” Mama laughs.

“I’m so happy, Mama. I love Aubrey so much.”

Mama squeezes Dani’s hand with a soft smile. “Trust me, the feeling’s mutual. You two are one of the most well-rounded couple I’ve seen in a while, and it’s clear you’re crazy about each other. You’re gonna go far, and if you ever feel like you don’t like livin’ in your own place, Mama’s always got room for her favorite girls.”

Dani laughs brightly, tossing her head back. “I think we wanna live on our own for at least the first year, but we’re both gonna miss you guys.”

“Well I’m expectin’ you two to come over for dinner at least once a month. It’s gettin’ lonely with Jake spendin’ more time at Hollis and Keith’s.”

Dani hums and nods. “Definitely. No need to worry about that, Mama.”

Moira comes back in with Mama’s cane and Mama stands, taking it.

“I’ll be back in a little while to walk you down the aisle, kiddo. You look gorgeous, you’re gonna do great. Now, I’m off to check on Barclay and make sure he gets here on time.”

Dani stands, follows Mama to the door. “Thank you, Mama. It means a lot that you’re here.”

Mama smiles. He puts a hand on Dani’s shoulder, squeezing.

“You’re gonna do great, kid.”

Oh god. Oh god, oh god. Aubrey’s heart is beating so fast. Dani looks so fucking beautiful. Oh god.

One of Moira’s compositions plays from a speaker, and Aubrey bounces nervously at the altar, Jake on her side and Moira on the side Dani’ll be standing on; Ned, from his seat, gives her a quick thumbs up, but she doesn’t see it, she can’t take her eyes off of Dani.

It looks as if they both decided on nontraditional outfits, because Dani’s dress is a light blush pink and reaches just below her knees, sweetheart neckline, a tasteful amount of sparkle. Her hair is down, long blonde hair pinned away from her face by some sparkly pins that Aubrey is for sure stealing after this, her makeup is impeccable.

It feels like Dani will never reach her-- Aubrey almost runs down the aisle to meet her in the middle, but she does’t, she sits patiently until Dani is in front of her, Mama giving them both a kiss on the cheek before she finds her seat in the front row next to Ned. Aubrey tears up a bit, and she eagerly takes Dani’s hand.

“You look beautiful,” She whispers, and Dani giggles.

“You too, babe. Love the jacket.”

Aubrey grins as the officiant clears his throat and begins the ceremony.

It’s officially the start of the beginning of the rest of their lives.

#the adventure zone: amnesty #taz amnesty #the adventure zone amnesty #danbrey #taz dani #aubrey little #taz aubrey #taz mama #fluff #wedding

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darley1101 · 5 years

Text

July 15 Friendship (Jake x Bailey/MC ES)

Title: Shut Up And Kiss Me

Book: Endless Summer

Pairing: Jake x Bailey/F!MC with mention of others

Rating: PG-13

Warning/Triggers: Teasing from friend, kiss that happens because of a bet

Summary: 'We could die tomorrow.' The severity of what they're about to face has Bailey stepping out of her comfort zone.

Request: July 15 Friendship from @endlessly-searching-for-you , “Just shut up and kiss me already” from @endlessly-searching-for-you's February challenge, and 'Kissing because of a bet.' Both made by @brightpinkpeppercorn

A/N: I know this isn't exactly the whole gang but this is what I've got. I hope you enjoy! Tags are at the end of the story. If you would like to be added, moved, or removed please let me know. If you enjoyed the story please consider giving it a like, comment, or a re-blog so others might enjoy it as well.

Less Talk, More Action

Curling her body into one of the mod patterned club chairs that dotted The Celestial lobby, Bailey laid her head in the crook of her arm and tried to focus on anything but the turmoil brewing outside the hotel's gates. She'd let Diego talk her into this trip because it was supposed to be a 'once in a lifetime experience in paradise'. He'd been right about the once in a lifetime experience but she was still waiting for paradise. The image of a shaggy haired pilot with laughing blue eyes and a dimpled grin flashed before her but quickly faded. Guys like Jake Mackenzie, who coined nicknames at the drop of a hat and drank like a proverbial sailor, were seldom interested in girls like her; smart girls who were more comfortable coding a new app or researching the best way to build an eco friendly tiny house than they were with flirting. He was a good time guy looking for a good time girl, which Bailey was decidedly not.

“We could die tomorrow,” Diego announced before dropping into the chair adjacent to hers. “Bailey...” She looked up when he nudged her with his knee, her blue eyes meeting his brown ones. “Did you hear what I said?”

“We could die tomorrow,” she parroted, her voice void of emotion.

“Exactly. We could die tomorrow. Which means...this could be our last night on earth.”

Bailey sat up, her long hair spilling over her shoulder like liquid sunshine. “You're not going to confess your secret love are you because...no offense...you're not my type.” She tried to smile, to keep things light despite the heaviness that hung in the air. It didn't work. The smile twisted into a grimace that fell flat and then faded.

“What?” Diego's eyes widened in horror. “Ew! No! You're sporting a few things that are kind of a big turn off for me.” He leaned forward, his elbows resting lightly on his knees while he worried his lower lips between his teeth. “No, I was thinking...this could be our last night on earth and maybe you should, I don't know, live a little...just in case.”

“I've lived.” Bailey scowled, her mind scrambling for at least one example that would knock the knowing smirk off her best friend's face. “I helped that football player write his paper last week,” she reminded him. “And I bought that purple bikini for this trip...which I wore to the pool last night thank you very much.”

“You're a tutor Bai, it's sort of in your job description to help other students with their homework.”

“Yes, but I wrote most of the report for him,” Bailey interjected.

“Doesn't count.” Diego rolled his eyes and held up his hand when she started to push the matter of that teeny, tiny purple bikini she'd bought on a whim. “And...the bikini doesn't really count either because you wore a t shirt over it.”

“It was cold.” Dropping her feet to the floor, Bailey let out a shaky breath before letting her gaze sweep across the spacious lobby. Quinn sat on the floor, her back propped against the front desk, while Estela and Sean engaged in what looked to be a heated discussion, and Jake slumped in one of the chairs nursing a bottle of rum. The rest of their group was no where to be found. 'They're just hanging out elsewhere,' she reminded herself before any sort of panic could set in. Before she could stop herself, her gaze wandered back to Jake. Stubble covered his chiseled jaw and his sandy colored hair kept flopping in his eyes, making her fingers itch with the need to brush it off his face.

“The pool is heated.”

Jerking her attention back to Diego, Bailey opened her mouth to counter his remark only to snap her lips into a thin line when she realized he was right. “You don't always have to be right, you know, it's not attractive.”

“Being right is one of the few things I have going for me Bai, let me have it.”

“Don't say that,” Bailey scowled. “You have a lot going for you Diego. Anyone would be lucky to call you theirs.”

“You're my best friend, you have to say that.” Diego glanced in the direction of the others, his gaze lingering on Jake. “He keeps looking over here you know.”

“Wha...no....who...” Blood rushed to Bailey's cheeks, staining them the same crimson shade as the spaghetti strapped tank top she wore. She'd been so careful not to let anyone see or know about the ridiculous little crush she'd developed on their pilot. If Jake had somehow figured it out...well it was for the best they were all probably going to die tomorrow because she didn't think she could stomach him looking at her with pity or outright rejecting her.

“The hottie pilot, that's who...” Diego narrowed his eyes, a telling smirk tweaking the corners of his lips. “Which I think you already know because you keep looking at him too.”

“I do not!”

A snort past Diego's lips. “Sell that lie to someone who doesn't know you so well.”

Bailey opened her mouth to defend her actions only to snap it shut again. What was the point in arguing the details? Diego wasn't blind and Bailey wasn't subtle. “What does it matter, guys like that never notice girls like me.”

“Please,” Diego scoffed. “If you were to walk over there right now and lay one on him I seriously doubt he'd complain. In fact,” he paused, a suspicious glimmer brightening his dark eyes, “I dare you to go over there and kiss him.”

Sucking in her breathe, Bailey stared at her best friend in horror. “You're insane!” There was no way in hell she was going to walk over there and try to kiss a guy who had zero interest in her. They might die tomorrow but damn it she would die with her pride in tact. 'Your virginity too,' an inner voice teased. It sounded oddly like Diego, damn it. “That would be like me daring you to...to...” her mind reeled, trying to think of some off the wall dare for Diego but nothing came to mind. “No. Just...no.”

“Chicken.”

Bailey narrowed her eyes. “I am not a chicken.”

The teasing dimmed in Diego's eyes and his face grew serious. “All kidding aside...you kind of are. You never take any risks. You always play it safe. I know you're scared of getting hurt but being cautious all the time...you're not really living. You're just existing. This could be our last night on earth. You like the guy. I'm serving up a reason to kiss him on a silver platter. If he freaks you can laugh it off as a dare. If he doesn't...well...there are worse ways of spending your potentially last night on earth than making out with a hot pilot. You never know,” he winked, “you might finally cash in that v card.”

Was Diego right? Was she merely existing and not really living? The fact that she couldn't answer the question left her a bit unsettled. That wasn't how she meant to be. She couldn't even explain why she was that way. Inhaling deeply, she darted her gaze between Diego and Jake. “You've only got one life to live,” she muttered, rising from her chair. “And by golly if it ends tomorrow you're going to be able to say you took a chance.” Heart pounding like a bass drum she slowly walked across the lobby. Her palms felt clammy and sweat was starting to bead across her upper lip. Shit. Fuck. What was she doing? Her feet faltered. She should turn around; just turn around and high tail it back to the semi-comfortable chair she'd left. “No,” she whispered furiously. “You're going to do this.” Squaring her shoulders, chin raised high, she forced herself to close the distance between herself and Jake. “Uh..hi.”

Jake glanced up, one eye squinted. “Hey Princess.”

Princess. The silly nickname sent shivers of warmth and excitement through her body. “So...we could die tomorrow and...well...Diego...he...well...he dared me to kiss you...he called me a chicken, see...and if we really are going to die tomorrow I don't want to die a chicken...so-” Her words cut off in a squeak when Jake tugged her down on to his lap.

“Anyone tell you that you talk too much, Princess?” Wide eyed, Bailey shook her head and then nodded. She parted her lips, ready to launch into an explanation of why when he rubbed his thumb across her lower lip. “So how about you shut up and kiss me.”

#choices #choices endless summer #jake x mc #mc x jake #darley1101 writes

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1dffsummerexchange · 7 years

Text

Look At Me

Written For: @mancerelle

Written By: @wokeuptired

Pairing: Niall/OFC

Word Count: 13,000

Warnings: language

Summary:

Minna moves to LA to remake her name, the way she wants it. But writing an album isn’t as easy as it sounds. When she finds Niall Horan’s songwriting journal in a recording studio, she thinks her luck might finally be turning around.

Track #1: Your Eyes

The first time I had my heart broken, it was a lie.

It aired in high-definition, and everyone was watching. I was wearing red fishnets under denim cutoff shorts and black Converse, and after he dumped me, I dumped a pitcher of lemonade over his head. The episode was called “Minna and the End of the Boy Next Door.” Not a month later, Target reproduced my entire outfit in their kids’ line.

The second time I had my heart broken, nobody was meant to see it, but it was on the cover of US Weekly anyway.

I was 17 years old and went to prom at the high school that I would’ve attended had I not been starring in my own television show for most of my adolescence. I wore a navy blue dress, strapless but still modest, and my corsage was a pale blue that matched my date’s boutonniere. He was my mom’s best friend’s son, and I’d had a crush on him since I was 10. I’d met dozens of celebrities, even shared my first kiss with one on camera, but I knew Jake was the one for me.

Like any other teenage girl, I imagined that prom would be perfect. I would dance with the boy of my dreams, he’d kiss me on the dance floor underneath a spinning disco ball, and I’d lose my virginity to him in a hotel room that night. That last bit was a fantasy I knew wouldn’t come true, of course, since I had a reputation to uphold. I was expecting a PG night—but a lovely night, nonetheless.

What I wasn’t expecting was for Jake to ditch me as soon as we arrived at prom so that he could spend the evening with the girl he was actually interested in. I wasn’t expecting a group of girls I once thought were my friends to gather around me and tease me to the point of tears. I wasn’t expect to flee the venue with mascara streaking down my cheeks, and I certainly wasn’t expecting paparazzi to catch the moment on camera.

Now, the power’s in my hand. I’m the one calling the shots, deciding what the public gets to see and what gets to remain mine.

And it’s much harder than I thought.

“Let’s take it from the top,” Candice says for what has to be the fourth time in the past half an hour. She taps her pencil against her notepad and smiles at me kindly. It doesn’t help quell the anxiety bubbling up in my stomach.

I set my guitar down on the floor and shake my head. “Let’s just call it a day. Start fresh with something else tomorrow.”

She raises her eyebrows, but doesn’t say anything. I know what she’s thinking: do you have something else? Anything else? Something that isn’t an absolute piece of shit?

I’ve been at this for three weeks now, paying for a studio that I can’t afford and playing the same notes over and over again in the hopes that they’ll suddenly start sounding like something that labels will want to distribute and radio stations will want to play. It isn’t getting any easier.

Who knew songwriting would be so difficult? Who knew that it would be this hard to find some bit of myself that’s interesting enough, relatable enough, to set to music and share with the world? Who knew I’d be so terrible at this that not even award-winning songwriter and my best friend, Candice Willard, would be able to help me?

Candice glances at her watch. “Let’s take a break, half an hour? Get some food, some air, Min. That’ll help. Get out of your head for a minute. Get out of this room.”

“Sure,” I say, forcing a smile for her benefit. I keep it on my face until she leaves the room, the door clicking shut behind her.

Alone in the room, I sink down into my chair and put my head in my hands. This is everything my mother was afraid of: that I would fail. That my history with Wombat, my reputation as a teeny bopper child star, would make people wary to work with me. That I wouldn’t be able to get where I wanted to be quickly, that I’d become dejected and give up. I can already imagine what my mom will say when I tell her what’s happened: You gave it your best shot, honey, but maybe it’s time to pursue other avenues.

Just when I’m about to text Candice and tell her that we’ve got to pack up and head back to LA, something jabs me in the back. Grateful for the momentary distraction, I reach behind the couch cushion and pull it out.

It’s a leather-bound book, worn but not old. I flip through it briefly, and when I don’t recognize the scrawl inside as Candice’s, I turn to the inside cover.

Property of Niall Horan Don’t steal, ya wanker.

Shit. My first instinct is to stuff the journal back in the couch and pretend I never saw it. There’s something about the worn edges that tells me that this book means something. Whatever’s inside it is important. I don’t deserve to be holding it in my hands.

It’s not that Niall Horan is a genius or anything—his music is good, sells well, but isn’t anything particularly original. But Niall has what I don’t: he has the secret something that’s gotten him success in this industry. He sells records and plays nighttime talk shows and doesn’t seem miserable as he does it.

When I first told my mom I was coming to LA after graduation to make a record, she told me I was crazy. She told me she didn’t send me to college so that I could end up right where I was headed if I never left Wombat. If she had things her way, I would still be living in Los Angeles, playing a version of myself on tv and dodging paparazzi on street corners in my free time. Back then, when “Minna and the…” was the highest-rated show on the Wombat Channel and I had extensions in my hair, the tabloids printed a story every other week about my mother and me:

Minna Locke’s mother is the puppetmaster!

Minna and the… stage mom from hell!!!

From West Virginia to West LA: Minna and Marla Locke, the Biggest Divas in town!

And so on and so forth. The tabloids weren’t completely incorrect: it was my mother’s pushing and shoving that got me an audition at Wombat in the first place, and it was pressure from her that kept me doing the show every time I wanted to quit.

Those times were plentiful. Having your adolescence broadcast in high-definition for all cable subscribers to see is no walk in the park. By age 16, I was tired of playing a fictionalized version of myself in a world where the worst thing that ever happened was when I didn’t make the cheerleading team and had to be the school mascot instead. I was tired of singing trite, contrived, meaningless songs that played on endless loop on Wombat Radio but never gleaned me any actual notoriety as a singer. I was ready to be done with “Minna and the…” and never look back.

Which is why, as soon as I got my GED, I told the producers we were on our last season, I applied for college, and I got the hell out of dodge.

Here’s what my mother doesn’t understand: this time, I’m doing things on my own terms. I’m making the record I want to make, the way I want to make it…

…which would be easier if I knew what kind of record I wanted to make. If I knew what I wanted to say. If I knew, after all these years playing television Minna and running away from her when I wasn’t playing her, who Minna Locke actually was.

But Niall Horan—he knows who he is. He’s a golf-loving, folk-singing ex-boybander who doesn’t know how to use punctuation, and he’s all of those things unabashedly. So maybe, I think, looking at Niall’s journal, maybe this is an opportunity.

But that thought doesn’t stop me from stuffing it back in the couch cushion when Candice comes back in the room.

Track #2: Evidence of Me

That night, I sit in my rented studio apartment in Studio City, the one that I can’t afford, and stare at the cover of Niall’s journal.

It didn’t take me long to figure out that Niall is recording at the same studio as me. I use the studio in the mornings, so he must use it in the late afternoons and into the evening. I didn’t check with reception to confirm because I didn’t want to seem creepy, but that has to be how his journal ended up in the couch. He must’ve left it behind last night. And now it’s in my hands.

When I first found the thing, I thought I’d leave it right where I found it. Niall would come back, find it in the couch cushion, and never think that anyone else had touched it. But then, just before leaving the studio, in a moment of impulse, a moment I’ll never be able to take back, I snuck it into my bag.

Now I don’t know what to do with it. I trace my finger over the cracked leather and consider my options: I could take it back to the studio tomorrow and pretend I never had it. I could drop it at the reception desk and tell them I found it in an elevator. I could mail it back anonymously.

Or I could open it.

That’s what Candice thinks I should do. She voices her thoughts to me in no uncertain terms when I finally break down and call to catch her up.

“You need to open it,” she says for the twelfth time since our conversation began.

By now I’m sitting on my bed, as far away from the journal as I can get. It sits on the small kitchen table across the room, taunting me. Candice went through a full spectrum of emotions as I told her about finding Niall’s journal in the couch but now she’s stuck on one line, like a scratched record: I have to open the journal.

“You could blackmail him with this,” she continues. When I met Candice, we were both 15. She was a burgeoning popstar, and I was starring on a television show playing a character named after myself. Back then, we loved to imagine all the scheming we could do if we weren’t so closely watched. “Maybe there’s something embarrassing inside it. Or you could be like, I’m not giving your book back unless you agree to co-write with me on my album.”

“I can’t do that.” I lean back on the bed and close my eyes. Like everything else in this flat, the bed smells like cats, but I can’t be bothered to care about that right now. “I shouldn’t have even taken it. I should take it back to the studio and drop it through the mail slot or something. I should throw it away and pretend I never had it.”

“Yeah, shred the evidence,” Candice says. Even over the phone, I can tell she’s rolling her eyes. “That’s really the best choice here. He’ll never be able to trace it back to you. When he goes public with the story, the publicity will be great. I can see it now: Minna Locke steals Niall Horan’s songwriting notebook and destroys the evidence. Minna Locke, thief. You’ll be the next Winona Ryder. Child star gone wild.”

I groan. “I get it, thanks.” I open my eyes and stare at the notebook. It’s so small and unassuming, so unaware of the trouble it’s caused.

“On second thought,” Candice says, “you should definitely not read it. You might get sued, and if you get sued, we’ll never finish this record.”

“At the rate I’m going, we’re never going to finish the record anyway.” I roll over, burying my head in my pillow. When I emerge, Candice is giving me a pep talk, which I cut off. “I’ll figure it out. See you tomorrow.”

“Sure,” she says with a skepticism that I choose to ignore. “See you tomorrow.”

I toss my phone aside and get to my feet. Outside, a horn honks, brakes squeal. Los Angeles is so much louder now than I ever remember it being. When I was a kid, LA never felt unsafe, never felt anything but homely, but now I see darkness lurking around every corner. Is that because I’m now an outsider here?

Maybe it’s that fear, that desperate sense of hopelessness, that has me reaching for Niall’s journal and turning back the cover, flipping back the page that says, Don’t steal, ya wanker, and beginning to read the scrawled handwriting inside. It’s that part of me that wants so badly to make it here, to prove my mother wrong, to prove to the world that I’m just as talented that I once was.

But it’s something in my heart that keeps me turning the pages.

Some of the things Niall has written are diary entries: Today I recorded the first song. I worked with Jamie on it and he says it’s going to be big. That’s what I want, right?

Other pages have lists, names of books and songs by other musicians, observations: Sitting in a restaurant in NYC. The place is lit with candles and my date’s gone to the toilet. Julian set us up. Not sure I ought to see her again if she can’t make it through dinner with me without constantly looking at her mobile and dashing off to the loo twice before dessert.

That makes me smile, but it’s the bits of poetry, unfinished songs, that stand out to me. The words in the journal are nothing like the songs Niall has released. They’re just as smart, with phrases I can already imagine as earworms, but they’re so much more.

They’re honest. Organic. Real.

They’re a side of Niall that I’ve never seen on stage or in interviews. They’re so raw that I wonder if he’s holding them back for that reason: because they don’t fit with how everyone sees him. I can relate to that, to that fear that people won’t accept who you really are because they’ve always understood you to be someone else.

Reading his words, I almost feel as if I know him. As if I could go to a bookstore and select something for him to read and not be wrong about it. I feel like I could choose a meaningful birthday present for him. I feel like I could look at him and sense what he’s feeling.

That’s why I shouldn’t be reading it. But I can’t put it down.

On one page, Niall describes a coffee mug shattering in the sink, spilling its contents across the basin—easily cleaned up, unlike a breakup, when you have to disentangle your life from someone else’s without leaving—or taking—too many scars. The metaphor is so vivid, the imagery so tangible, that I can picture it all in my mind like a memory. Like I’m the one who dropped the mug in the sink and bloodied my fingers on its shards during the cleaning process.

It seems only natural, then, that when I find a stanza unfinished, I pick up my own journal and complete it. My brain finishes Niall’s lines as easily as if it had begun them.

Objectively, I know that it’s wrong. It’s a complete invasion of privacy to read someone’s work without their permission, much less add onto it, and I’d never want someone to do it to me. But I can’t stop. It feels like a missing piece of something—maybe even a missing piece of me—has fallen into place.

And once I’ve started, I can’t stop. I keep at it until my words fit seamlessly with the ones that Niall’s written, almost like we composed them together.

Track #3: Too Many Times

After finally crawling into bed around two in the morning, I lie awake, tossing and turning. There’s no way around it: I have to return the journal immediately, and I can’t use any of the bits that I wrote. I could face all manner of lawsuits: copyright infringement, plagiarism, intellectual property theft. Not to mention a feeling of guilt so strong it might eventually kill me.

So my only choice is to return the journal and pretend I never read it.

Unless I can convince Niall to co-write with me. Then these songs won’t be for nothing. Then I won’t have poured myself onto paper only to throw the words away.

By the time I leave for the studio, I’ve decided: this afternoon, I’m going to return the journal. It’s tucked away in my bag, next to my own writing journal, which is now several pages fuller than it was yesterday. And maybe when I hand the journal back to Niall, I’ll be able to work up the courage to tell him that I read one of his songs, finished it, and think we should record it together.

I meet Candice in the lobby and immediately spot the question on her lips. She wants to know what’s inside the journal. But I shake my head at her; we can’t talk about it here, not where someone might overhear us.

“So,” Candice says as soon as the studio door shuts behind us. “What happened to you last night? You look hungover. Are you hungover?”

I shake my head and reach into my bag. Instead of pulling out Niall’s journal, I pull out my own. Wordlessly, I open it to what I wrote last night and hand it to Candice.

She sits down on the couch and begins to read. I hover by the door and watch. I wonder if, in the silent room, Candice can hear how fast my heart is beating. Even though these words aren’t all my own, even though they go with something that someone else—a stranger, nonetheless—wrote, I’ve never been this afraid to share my work before. I’m afraid of how I’ll feel if Candice doesn’t like it. It’ll be like she doesn’t like a part of me.

Finally, after what feels like hours, she lowers the book to her lap and looks at me. Just looks at me for a minute, looks at me like she never has before, not in all our years our friendship.

“Damn, Minna,” she says when she breaks the silence. I let out a deep breath. “This is great,” she continues. “Seriously, Minna. This is great. Really fucking great.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” I say drily.

“Sorry, it’s just…” She shakes her head and glances down at my journal again, like she’s searching for the words. “This stuff is so romantic. It’s so different for you. I never would’ve expected it. Do you have melodies?”

Because it’s not mine, I want to say. Except, that’s not entirely true, is it? They weren’t mine at first, these lines, these songs. But I put so much of myself into them—they contain only shadows now of what they were when I first found them.

“In my head, but it doesn’t matter,” I say. “It’s trash, all of it.” My voice cracks. I swallow, forcing myself to keep it together. “It’s not mine.”

Candice frowns. “What do you mean, it’s not yours? This is your handwriting, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but…” I shake my head. “It’s Niall’s. His journal. I finished some of his songs, and I just got into it and—”

Candice cuts me off with a shake of her head. “That doesn’t make it not yours. People write stuff based on other things all the time, don’t they? It’s derivative.”

I let myself fall onto the couch next to her. “I don’t think it works like that if the person’s alive and hasn’t used the material.”

The room falls silent as Candice thinks. This is a role reversal in our friendship. Usually she’s the one pulling crazy schemes, making unexpected decisions, and I’m the quiet one, the one observing, the one figuring out where to go from here. But now that job has fallen on Candice.

“Okay,” she says eventually. “Here’s what you’re going to do.”

I hug my knees to my chest and listen to her plan.

Track #4: Tripping

I should’ve worn something else.

Throughout my entire life, I’ve been looked at. As a child, my mom auditioned me for commercials, dressed me up in frills and lace and paraded me in front of agents and casting directors in order to supplement her cigarettes-and-shoes habit. When I got older, I played kidnapped daughters on “Criminal Minds” and daughters of senators on “The West Wing.” Then Wombat found me.

The day we signed the contracts for “Minna and the…” my mother bought herself a pair of Louboutins at the Bloomingdale’s in Hollywood and then took me out to dinner, where she didn’t object when I ordered an ice cream sundae instead of an entree.

“You’ve earned it,” she told me, smiling at me like she was proud of me.

I knew the truth, though. My mom wasn’t proud of anyone besides herself. She took credit for my success, and continued to do so long after it was over. When I decided to quit acting to go to college, she told everyone I was “just taking a break.”

“You know Minna,” she’d tell people—her friends, her friends’ friends, people in the checkout line at the supermarket—“she always wants to set a good example for her fans.”

That wasn’t untrue—I understood from a young age what it meant to always have eyes on you. I’ve always understood what it means to be watched. When I was 17, though, all I wanted was for that to stop. I didn’t want to set a good example for my fans. I didn’t want to have fans. I just wanted to be normal.

I wanted to wear sweatpants to class and not worry about being thought a slob. I wanted to stay out late drinking without the risk of someone trying to profit off of a compromising picture of me. I wanted to kiss a boy and not fear that he only wanted some version of me that he’d seen on tv.

I wanted to turn back time.

But I couldn’t. I had to adjust. I had to accept that I’d never be just Minna Locke. There would always be something in the way.

I’ve never been more worried about how someone is going to see me than I am now. When Niall looks at me, will he see Minna Locke, teen queen? Will he remember my tragic prom night splashed across the cover of US Weekly? Will he recall paparazzi photos of me rushing to class with my shirt on backwards?

Will he know that when I look at him, all I see is his heart?

I’ll see so much more than the boyband underdog. More than the sweet one or the goofy one. More than the cute blonde with the nice smile. I’ll see his mum, the most important person in his life, and his nephew, and all the dreams he has for his future: a Grammy and a family and a house back home in Ireland. I’ll see it all because I read it in his journal, on the pages where he poured out his heart.

I’ll see all of that, and I’ll have to pretend that I don’t, because when he looks at me, all he’ll see is Minna Locke—or some version of me based on what he’s seen on gossip rags or on the Wombat channel. He won’t see who I really am.

I twist my fingers through the lanyard that hangs from my neck and turn the final corner towards the studio where I know Niall’s working today. It’s bad form to interrupt an artist when they’re working, but this can’t wait any longer.

Maybe just another minute, though. I come to a stop outside the door and shift back and forth on my feet. I should’ve worn something else. These jeans may be my lucky pair, but they make me look kind of schlubby, and this t-shirt, a free one I got at college orientation, does not speak volumes of my songwriting abilities. I thought it silly to change my clothes just to come here this afternoon, but now I’m regretting that. I know about ethos, how somebody commands the space around them in a way that makes you want to trust them, befriend them, follow them. I’ve got no ethos in this outfit.

But it’s too late now to fix it. Which means how this conversation is going to go depends completely on what I say, and how well Niall hears me.

And, dear God, I need him to hear me.

I take a deep breath and knock on the door. Just when I’m considering knocking again—was I too quiet the first time?—the door opens. Immediately, I take a step backward into the hallway, my heartbeat pounding in my ears.

A guy with dark hair and a tattoo of a swan on his neck stands in the doorway. There are headphones over his ears, and he pulls them down and raises his eyebrow at me. “You need something?”

“I—” Unable to say anything, I reach into my bag and hold Niall’s journal under my arm, tucked against my chest.

The guy opens the door wider, allowing me to see inside the room. While Candice and I haven’t ventured into the recording booth yet, instead keeping to the table and couch outside of it, I can see Niall through the glass, headphones on as he leans toward the microphone.

There’s another guy manning the controls at the recording booth. Distracted by the open door, he swivels on his stool and looks at me. I feel it, the way he looks at me, his eyes traveling down my torso and legs and then back up, barely focusing on my face before his eyes catch on what I’m holding.

“Oh my God, is that—” He turns to the dash and hits a couple of buttons. “Niall, this girl’s found your book.”

I watch through the glass as Niall turns to face us. His eyes meet mine, a glimpse of recognition passing over them, and then he slips his headphones off his ears and crosses the few feet to the door. He steps out of the recording booth and then continues toward me.

“Hey,” he says, smiling at me. “Minna, right? I heard you were recording here.”

I nod dumbly as he holds out his hand. I’m not sure if he wants a handshake or if he’s expecting me to hand over his journal, but since the book is in my right hand, I hold it out.

“Thank God you found it,” he says, ruffling the pages and then sticking the whole thing in his back pocket. “Who knows what could’ve happened if it’d fallen into the wrong hands, ya know?” He laughs, looking not at all bothered by the possibilities.

Meanwhile, I haven’t said a word. The guy with the neck tattoo is still staring at me, either because he thinks I’m crazy or because he can’t figure out where he recognizes me from. That happens a lot these days; it’s all part of life as a has-been television star. And acting crazy: that’s something I’ve mastered all on my own.

“You didn’t read it, did ya?” Niall jokes, running a hand through his hair. I know he’s kidding, but my blood freezes in my veins anyway. I must look like I’m about to pass out, because suddenly Niall has his hand on my shoulder. “You alright? Come on, sit down.”

He ushers me through the doorway and pushes me into a seat at the table. “Let’s take a break, guys,” he says, gesturing to the other guys until they file out of the room. Suddenly, we’re alone, me and Niall Horan, and I’m trying not to hyperventilate.

“Lemme get you some water,” Niall says, and before I can move, there’s a bottle of Arrowhead in front of me. I twist off the cap and take a sip.

The cold water has me straightening in my chair. I need to shape up and remember why I came here. I was never this nervous as a kid, not at my first audition or my first live taping or my first red carpet. Maybe it’s because I knew that all of those times, it was never really me they were looking at. It was Minna Locke, Wombat star. Now I’m just Minna.

“I did read it,” I say, reaching into my bag for the second journal so that I don’t have to see Niall’s reaction. “I had to bring it back in person so I could tell you—”

“You read it?” Niall repeats. I raise my eyes to meet his and see—is that amusement? I expected horror, fear, anger, but not this. Not humor. “Find anything good in there? I’m not very scandalous, as I’m sure you noticed. Nothing tabloid-worthy.”

I shake my head. “That’s not why I’m here. I’m here to apologize because I finished some of your lyrics for you.” I put my journal, a purple Moleskine, not as worn or well-traveled as Niall’s, onto the table. I bought it when I first got to Los Angeles, thinking that a new journal would help me get a fresh start in the industry. All it did was remind me how uninspiring a blank page is.

Niall looks down at my journal, confused. “I don’t understand,” he says.

My next words come out rushed, jumbled together. “I know I shouldn’t have even looked inside, so sorry for that, but they’re amazing. You’re amazing.”

He looks at my journal and then at me, then at my journal again. “You did what?”

“I found it in the couch here yesterday.” I know I’m not doing a very good job at explaining, but I have to get the words out. “I use the studio in the mornings. I know I just should’ve sent it back without looking in it, but I couldn’t help myself.”

Niall continues to stare at me, his head cocked like I’m a math problem he’s working through, so I continue to speak. “I know it was wrong. But I really think that we’d work well together, if you’d give us a chance. I really feel connected to your songs, the ones in your journal, and I think that—”

“Show me.”

I blink. “What?”

“You said you finished some of my songs. Show me.”

He has to be kidding. “Are you serious?”

He nods, then gestures into the recording booth, where his guitar sits on a stand next to a wooden stool. “After you. You play guitar, right?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“Then go ahead.” He stands up and flips a switch, illuminating the recording booth. “I want to hear what you did.”

My gut reaction is to say no and get out of here as fast as I can, run from the studio and never look back. Screw my album, my future as a recording artist. None of that will be worth how afraid I am right now.

But then I remind myself that that’s just the fear talking. If I can’t do this, I can’t do anything. I might as well pack it up and find a job that doesn’t require me to reveal myself.

I take another swig of water and stand from the chair. “Okay,” I say, picking up my journal. “Let’s go.”

In the recording booth, I put my journal on the stool and pick up Niall’s guitar. It’s slightly bigger than mine, definitely more expensive and better made. It’s the kind of guitar I might like to buy with my first check.

“Who taught you to play guitar?” Niall asks me, staring at my hands. “You hold it weird.”

He’s not the first one to tell me that. The producers at Wombat thought it was endearing; it was one of the things that won me the part. Niall’s clearly not familiar with that, though. “I taught myself.”

He doesn’t say anything, but I read judgment in the slant of his mouth. In his eyes, nothing about me is good enough: not the way I hold my guitar or the notebook I write my lyrics in or the boulders I had to scale just to be here today.

I force my face to mirror his, and I look at him exactly the same way he’s looking at me. I dare him to challenge me. To question my lyrics or my voice or the way I wear my hair—it wouldn’t be the first time a stranger has criticized me. But instead he just stares.

I break first: his eyes are too intense, too blue to be real. I cover up my weakness by strumming a few chords on the guitar. I open to the page in my journal where I played off of Niall’s broken coffee mug metaphor. I can hear the melody in my head, but I haven’t played it aloud before. I don’t know if it will transfer. Plus, I can feel Niall’s eyes on me, sizing me up, waiting.

Just before the silence gets awkward, I begin to play. It’s strange at first, listening to my fingers stumble over the strings and my voice trip over the words in an otherwise silent room. After the first verse, though, it begins to feel natural, the way that playing always does. It begins to feel less like I’m performing and more like I’m just being.

When Niall joins in, reading the words over my shoulder and harmonizing with me, I feel the earth shift under my feet. Playing music has never felt like this before. Like I’m exposing a part of myself, and somebody else is giving a part of themselves back to me.

This is what it’s supposed to feel like.

Track #5: Hard Shake

After I play Niall what I’ve got, he pulls his producers back into the room and introduces us.

Todd is the one with the neck tattoo, and he’s been producing a track that Niall’s been working on. And, he tells me, he has fond memories of watching “Minna and the…” when he was in high school.

“I had a huge crush on you,” he says, making me want to melt into the floor as Niall laughs. “Which was awful, because I was 17 and you were, like, 12.”

“I used to wear blue eyeshadow.” I recall an episode called “Minna and the Goldfish,” where Minna forgot to feed the goldfish that her brother won at the school carnival and then had to enlist her crush to help her find a replacement. The costume designer decided that everything I wore for the episode would be ocean-themed. “I hope you have better taste in women now.”

That makes Niall laugh even harder. Todd pulls out his phone and shows me a photo of his (blue eyeshadow-free) wife.

The other guy’s name is Jorge. He has a baseball cap pulled low on his head and might have a Spanish accent—he only says a few words to me, so it’s hard to tell.

“Jorge doesn’t talk a lot, but he’s a fucking genius,” Niall tells me as we walk out of the building together a few minutes later. “They’re both great guys. It’s hard and a relief to have so much creative control over my music now, ya know? But they’re both really great to work with.”

I nod. “Candice, my producer, she’s also my best friend. I’m really lucky to be working with her.”

Niall grins. “And now you’re really lucky to be working with me too!”

Niall laughs at his joke, which makes me laugh. He laughs carelessly, like he doesn’t care who hears him. I admire that in him, his ability to ignore eyes on him.

“No promises,” Niall says just before we part ways at the corner outside the studio. We’ve decided that we’ll write together in the afternoons for the next few days and see how it goes. “We might actually be terrible together. You never know.”

I have a feeling, though, that we won’t. I could feel it when he sang with me, and afterward, when he took his guitar from me and shook my hand and said, “It’d be a pleasure to work with you, Minna Locke.”

Track #6: The Shock of Me and You

I’ve never written with anyone besides Candice, so working with Niall is, at first, like acclimating to life in a different country. He writes bits and pieces, small phrases here and there, and tries to fit them together until they make something. Until the story emerges.

Me, I start with the story, or with a feeling. With the broken coffee mug, he’s working off the description and I’m working off the image, the taste of blood in my mouth when I’m sucking a cut to stop the bleeding.

Our first day, we’re too much strangers to argue. We tiptoe around each other, afraid to object, afraid to suggest a change. We get nothing done. I go home that night afraid that I’m once again wasting my time, going nowhere, destined to fail in this industry.

The next day is different. When I step into the studio, I hand Niall my journals.

“Here,” I say to his raised eyebrow. “I read yours, so it’s only fair that you get to read mine.”

In my hands are my two journals, not only my purple journal, the one I bought in Los Angeles, but my last one too, the one from my senior year of college. Mixed in with recipes and lecture notes, there are pages about my friends and my fears and why I want to be here, doing this, making music. Exposing the private bits of myself.

In these journals are the bits of me that make me distinct from television Minna. So far, Niall’s only seen her: the way she holds her guitar and the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s nervous. But now he’ll see that the only thing television Minna and I share are those two things. While she was performing in school talent shows and stunning her friends (and enemies) with her nasally bubblegum pop songs about being late for homeroom and crushing on the boy next door, I was awkward. I was awkward around Jeff Kirsch, my costar and fictional Minna’s love interest, whenever the camera wasn’t rolling. I was awkward around Candice, who I met at the Kids’ Choice Awards, until she told me to knock it off because, she promised, she was just as uncomfortable in the spotlight as I was.

I’m no stranger to being misperceived. My first week in college, I (awkwardly) followed my roommate to a frat party, where a group of boys pushed a ukulele into my hands and insisted I play them “Lost Lipstick,” which I sung on “Minna and the…” when I was 13 years old. I’d already downed two shots of clear liquid that didn’t not taste like nail polish remover, and they’d barely finished making the request before I threw up on the floor—and the uke.

And then there was Jake, who ditched me at prom. A few months ago my mom threw me a graduation party, where he showed up, stared at my tits, expressed surprise that I’d “managed” to go to college, and then tried to flirt with Candice.

“He’s cute,” my mom had said in my ear when she spotted me watching his attempt at flirtation. “Don’t let her take him away from you.”

I rolled my eyes. “Did you forget what he did to me at prom, Mom?”

She shrugged. “People grow up, Minna.”

All I could think then was that I did, but Jake Brooks certainly didn’t.

Now, I’m not so sure. I try not to quake with fear as I hand Niall my journals. I’m not sure what’s driving me to do this, to expose myself in this way. I have no reason to trust Niall—I don’t really know him. I spent hours last night reminding myself of this in some attempt to keep away the emotional connection that I felt to him after reading my diary. Now, I tell myself, I just want to put us on even ground.

Or maybe I want him to feel as connected to me as I do to him. I know that’s selfish, so I try not to think about it. This is a huge risk, but it’s one that I need to take.

Niall takes the journals without saying a word and settles himself on the couch. Unsure what to do with myself, I sit down at the other end of the couch and close my eyes.

Before I know it, Niall wakes me up with a gentle hand on my shoulder. The journals, all three of them, are closed on the table in front of us and Niall’s guitar leans against the couch.

“Late night?” he asks me, smiling. Even though I’ve only known Niall, really known him, for a few days, I’ve begun to suspect that he always manages to smile.

“You could say that,” I say. “Do you think I stole your intellectual property?”

He smiles again. “Not at all. You don’t need to steal it, anyway. You’ve got plenty of good intellectual property of your own.”

I rub the sleep out of my eyes. “What?”

Niall gestures to my journals. “Those funny stories from uni. I never had anything like that. Reading about it was like stepping into another world.” He shakes his head and lets out a long breath. “And your mum, shit, Minna. You didn’t have to share that stuff with me.”

I pull my legs up onto the couch and hug my knees to my chest. There’s certainly nothing good about my mother in the journals. She only visited me once my first year of college, didn’t even come with me when I moved in. When she got there, all she did was complain about how unfortunate it was that I had to share my space with a roommate. “I forgot I wrote about her. I didn’t meant to dump my baggage on you.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Niall shake his head again. “Don’t apologize. I’m glad you shared it with me. Now I feel like I know you better than you know me.”

Despite my embarrassment, I find myself grinning. “Oh yeah? When’s my birthday?”

Niall taps my college journal. “March. When you turned 21 you waited to celebrate until St. Patrick’s Day and then you got raging drunk before 9 PM and had to be escorted home by campus police.”

Now I’m definitely embarrassed. “I can’t believe I documented that.”

Niall laughs, but I can tell from the way he’s grinning that he’s not laughing at my expense. “You drew pictures, too.” He picks the journal up and flips through it until he finds the page. “Here, look.”

I take it in my hand, and there, indeed, is a cartoon-esque drawing of Finally 21 Minna, head hung over the toilet bowl. “Gross,” I say, wrinkling my nose.

“I dunno,” Niall says, leaning over to study the picture. “I think you’re pretty talented. Might consider a career in comic books if I were you.”

I imagine it, a whole series of cartoons about my boring life. In the first one, Minna smiles at the bag boy at the grocery store, thinking his stare means he’s flirting. In response to her hello, he says, “Hey, you know Candice Mellon, right? Can you give me her number?

“That’d be atrocious,” I say.

“Atrocious,” Niall repeats, turning the word over on his tongue. “Uhh-troe-shissss. You have a funny accent, Minna Locke.”

I laugh at the way he crosses his eyes as he speaks. “You have a funny accent, Niall Horan.”

He grins widely. “Wouldn’t be me without it.” Then he reaches for his pencil. “I like that word. You think we can use it in the song?”

His easy transition makes me less uncomfortable, too. We spend the next few minutes determine that no, the word “atrocious” doesn’t fit in the song, and things progress naturally from there. As I watch Niall poke his tongue out of his mouth when he plays, I wonder if he’s acting extra friendly to make me more comfortable, or this is just the way he is. Something tells me it’s the latter. Even though he has baggage like everybody else, he doesn’t let his affect the way he smiles. I admire that.

I take my journals with me when I leave. The purple one has lots of blank pages left, and I have a feeling I might want to fill them tonight.

Track #7: Here and There

Niall Horan doesn’t drink coffee, and I drink far too much.

I learn this a day into our second week in the studio, when I ask him to join me for coffee and he tells me he doesn’t drink it.

“I’ll join you for tea, though,” he says, smiling.

I drink too much coffee, and he smiles too much—but never so much that I wish he’d stop. He sits across from me in the cafe around the corner and bounces his leg, jostling the table.

“Sorry,” he says for the third time, steadying his cup. “My brother used to watch your show.”

Niall is good at non-sequiturs, and I don’t mind because it helps me understand how his mind works. The picture of him I began when I read his journal becomes more complete—and more confusing—with every moment that I spend with him. We’re more comfortable with each other now, acting like we’re old friends sometimes and finishing each other’s sentences when we’re writing, but there are still so many things I still have to learn about him.

“Oh yeah?” I say, steadying my own cup. Despite the cardboard sleeve, it’s hot to the touch. “But you didn’t?”

He grins, shrugs. “I’ve seen an episode or two. Here and there.”

“Right.” I raise an eyebrow. “Well, I’ve never heard of that band you used to be in. What were they called again?”

His grin turns into a laugh at that, and my stomach flutters. Making someone laugh, the joy that comes from it—that’s a feeling I could easily become addicted to. Especially when Niall’s the one laughing.

“You’re funny, Minna,” he says when he catches his breath. “It’s surprising.”

That surprises me. “Why’s that?”

He shrugs. “Because Minna on telly is so uptight, had that best mate who was always tricking her into doing fun things, right? And something tells me that you don’t need to be tricked into doing fun things.”

I swear his eyes sparkle as he looks at me. His eyes always sparkle when he looks at me—earlier today when he told me I have a beautiful voice, last week when he offered a gentle smile in response to my frustration over a broken string on my guitar, the other night when we got takeout and he told me about how all of his travels have made him appreciate being home so much more.

Niall is so much more than the person I thought he was from his journal. He’s kind and funny and smart and compassionate and creative and clever, and he fascinates me. I can’t help but what to know everything about him, and I can’t help how fast I’m falling.

I’m falling too fast, much faster than I ever would’ve dared fall in the past. Maybe it’s the vulnerability in writing together or the heat of summer or the uniqueness of the boy sitting across from me—I don’t know. All I know is that this moment, this moment in the cafe over tea and coffee, is the moment that changes everything.

“I could say the same thing about you, Niall Horan.”

That night, just before I left the studio, Niall kissed me before I had the chance to kiss him. That has me stomping my foot and demanding a do-over, which makes him laugh.

“This is strange,” he says when we break apart. His hand rests on my cheek, mine on his chest. “And it’s gonna sound stupid, but I feel like I’ve known you for so much longer than a few weeks.”

I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “You did watch me on tv when you were a kid.”

He rolls his eyes, still smiling. “You know what I mean.”

And I do. It seems that I only have to look at Niall to know what he’s thinking. I begin to think it’s all in my head, but then Niall voices what I’m thinking. We haven’t known each other long, but we’re weaving our souls together through our songwriting. We’re connecting in a way that I’ve never connected with another person before, and it’s addicting.

It’s addicting and maddening and wonderful, and I never want it to end.

Track #8: Striking Gold

“It’s gonna be a hit,” Todd proclaims, smiling widely. I hear him through my headphones, but even without them, I can tell from his expression that he likes the song. Beside him, Jorge gives us two thumbs up.

It’s Tuesday night, the sun is setting on the horizon, and we’ve just finished the song. It’s called “Your Broken Mug,” and in all my 22 years, I’ve never done anything better. It’s beautiful and melodic and resonant and heavy and light all at the same time. It makes me want to dance and scream and cry and run through a field of wheat, and I want to do it all with Niall beside me, holding my hand.

I can’t wait to play it for Candice. I can’t wait to send it to my mom and show her what I’ve done—what I’ve been able to do. I can’t wait to share it, and that’s how I know it’s good.

“It’s gonna be a hit!” Niall repeats, sliding his headphones off and hanging them up before pulling the strap of his guitar over his head. “It’s gonna be a hit, Min.”

“It’s gonna be a hit!” I echo, taking off my headphones too.

Guitar safely on the floor, Niall grabs my hand, pulling me up and sweeping me into his arms. He spins me out and pulls me back in. My arms wrap around his neck as he pulls me tight against him. Here, in the recording booth, it’s just the two of us, set afire by this moment, by this feeling. It’s just the two of us and our song, this thing we created together.

“You’re magic, Minna Locke,” he says right before he kisses me. “Bloody magic.”

He smiles as his lips meet mine, and I’m smiling right back. We don’t break apart until Jorge whistles at us through the window, and even then, Niall keeps his arms around me. He leans forward, brushing his forehead against mine, and winks.

“Pure magic,” he whispers.

No, I think as we walk from the studio hand in hand in search of dinner, it’s not me that’s magic. And it’s not him either, like I once thought. It’s both of us together, risking vulnerability so that we can make something so special. That’s the magic.

And when Niall touches me, I can feel it. That magic’s still there between us, and it’s not going away anytime soon. We’ll write another song, and another after that, and we’ll keep going until we’re exhausted. And then we’ll find some other magic in life.

That night, I can feel it. I didn’t come to Los Angeles expecting this, expecting this boy or this collaboration or these feelings, but now that I have it, I don’t know how to live without it.

Track #9: Undoing

On Thursday, everything falls apart. Niall texts me mid-morning and asks to meet me at the studio. He has news, he says.

I practically float to the studio, my worries from a few weeks ago long behind me. I can’t wait to see the shock on my mom’s face when I tell her that my first single is going to be a duet with Niall Horan. Yes, Mom, that Niall Horan.

But as soon as I see Niall’s face, all of those worries, those fears of failure, come rushing back. Niall’s perched on one of the chairs in what I’ve come to think of as our studio, looking far from relaxed. When I come in, he stands up and shuts the door behind me.

“What’s going on?” I ask him, sitting down. I set my bag on the table. Inside are my journals, which I’ve been carrying around since the day I let him read them. They’ve become such a part of me that it feels wrong to leave home without them.

“I sent the song to my guys. And I wanted to tell you myself,” he says, fidgeting in his chair. His left knee bounces, bounces, bounces, so repetitively that I have to look away. His anxiety is making me anxious. “My label wants to find somebody else to sing the song.”

“The song,” I repeat. “Our song?”

Niall nods. “They think another voice would be better—”

“They’re not going to let you sing your own song?”

Now he shakes his head. “Not me, you. They want a more, um, established, I think that’s the word he used, singer to do the duet with me.”

I want to speak, but I don’t know what to say. Half a dozen emotions are battling it out inside my head. Anger, annoyance, frustration, betrayal… Which one will be the first to show itself?

Niall leans toward me, his arm outstretched like he wants to touch me, but then he pulls back. “Listen, I know this sucks. It’s just, this is gonna be my first collaboration and it’s gonna be a big deal, you know, from a marketing perspective. Jorge really thinks this is the right way to go. And you’ll still get a songwriting credit, so when it blows up, you’ll make a lot too.”

I stare. This is not a “Minna and the…” moment. This is pure, unadulterated Minna Locke. Minna Locke, who felt too much and made assumptions and put all of her eggs in one fucking basket. All I can think as Niall parrots someone else’s words at me is that I have to get out of this room before all of my emotions burst out of me simultaneously. But Niall’s still talking, apologizing again.

“I’m so sorry, Min. I tried to fight for you, because I know how much the song means to you, but—”

“But it obviously doesn’t mean that much to you, or you wouldn’t let this happen.” The words slip out of my mouth before I can stop them. Looks like betrayal disguised as anger is the winner. I’m not being fair, and I know it. But this hurts. I thought the connection that Niall and I made through the process of writing this song was special. I thought he’d fight for that, especially knowing that tiny, nobody me won’t be able to.

But I was wrong.

“It does, Min,” he says. Now he does reach for my hand, but I pull my arm away. I stand up, crossing my arms over my chest. “There’s nothing I want more than to sing the song with you, but—”

“Stop,” I say. I don’t want to hear any more of his excuses. I grab my journal off of the table and shove it in my bag before reaching for my guitar. “I get it. Thanks for telling me. You can have the contract sent to my agent.”

I hate the way that sounds. Just hours ago Niall kissed me, and now I’m cutting off direct communication. This isn’t what I want.

“Minna, please,” Niall says, reaching for my arm again.

“Niall, let me go. Please.” Swinging my guitar over my shoulder, I push past Niall to get out of the room. My eyes water, but I don’t want to cry in front of him. When I let Niall read my journals, I gave him the tools he needed to hurt me—I just didn’t know it at the time. Or maybe I did, and I just didn’t know that he’d try.

Niall follows me out into the hallway, keeping just a few steps behind me all the way to the elevator. The doors open immediately, an act of God or karma. I step inside and jab at the “close doors” button repeatedly.

“Minna—” Niall says one more time, but the doors slide shut before he can finish his sentence.

I came to Los Angeles to make the album I wanted, not the one my mom wanted or the one Wombat wanted. I came here to tell my story the way I wanted it told. Maybe that’s where I fucked up. All along I was afraid that I wouldn’t be good enough, that I couldn’t write songs that would sell or that my voice wasn’t fit for the radio.

I never thought that what I’d actually fail at would be keeping my name on the music that I make.

I never thought I’d fail at keeping control over my own life.

Track #10: Echoes

The first time I had my heart broken, it was a lie.

The second time I had my heart broken, it was photographed in high definition.

And the third time, there is nobody around to see me cry.

Over facetime, my mom tells me that this is all my fault, that the song wasn’t good enough. I sit on Candice’s couch, my cheeks streaked with the echoes of tears, and listen to her tell me that I expect too much, I trust too easily, I feel too strongly. I don’t even tell her that I’ve developed feelings for Niall—I already know it wouldn’t do anything to make her sympathize with me.

“You know what this industry is like,” my mom says. I imagine her at home in Virginia, in the 5,000 square foot suburban house she bought when I was 14 even though we only spent a few months a year in it. Now, it’s just her there, her and all of her expensive things. “You know how cutthroat it is. Maybe your voice just isn’t top 40 material. You knew that was a possibility going in. You knew you could fail.”

Did I, though? Of course I knew that it would be tough making a record, even tougher getting it out there and making it successful. What I didn’t know was that I would meet Niall, write maybe the best song I’ll ever write with him, and then be passed over for recording it because I’m not established enough.

Then my mind starts going over all the things I could’ve done differently. Maybe if I’d returned Niall’s notebook, or if I’d never looked inside, then I wouldn’t be nursing my crushed dreams with a tub of cookie dough ice cream. Maybe if I’d brought the song to Candice before Niall brought it to his producer, then I’d be the one kicking him out of the recording booth in favor of someone with a larger audience or more cred on the indie scene or less fear about his marketability.

But if I’d made any of those choices, I never would’ve connected with Niall the way I did. Even if it was all one-sided, even if I was the only one feeling something between us, it still meant something.

He saw me. And I can’t regret that.

I don’t tell my mom that. Instead I say, “I know” and “I’ll come home soon” even though it’s maybe a lie and “please don’t worry about me” even though I know she doesn’t bother.

I’m close to tears again by the time I tell her I have to go and manage to hang up. How can she treat me like this so easily? How can I let her?

“Your mom is a raging bitch,” Candice says, coming into the room just as I drop my phone facedown on the table in front of me. “I don’t know why you even bother taking her calls.”

“She’s not a bitch,” I say, but I have to admit that my voice lacks conviction. “She’s lonely.”

“Then she should get a cat.” To punctuate her statement, Candice slams a bottle of beer on the table in front of me. “Drink this. You need it.”

“I’m fine—”

“You’re not fine, Minna. You’re staining my couch with your tears on a Thursday afternoon. Have you even eaten today?”

I shrug. “I can’t remember.”

“See! You’re not fine.” Instead of sitting down, Candice begins to pace the room, not even looking at me. “Let’s backtrack. So you move to LA to be near your amazing best friend and to make the record you’ve been dreaming of since your little brain could dream. Correct?”

Not exactly—there were definitely some years while I was working on “Minna” that I wanted to get as far away from LA as I could and never come back—but it’s not worth correcting. Silently, I nod.

“Right, so you’re in LA, and you’re having this creative block. Every song you’re writing sounds like the theme song to a different tv show.” Candice pauses, expecting me to challenge her. I’m so exhausted I don’t bother to object to her insult. “But then fate blesses you. You find Niall Horan’s songwriting notebook in a couch cushion. You follow your beautiful best friend’s advice and read it.”

“Worst advice ever,” I say.

She ignores me. “And then you go to Niall Horan and you’re like, I wrote these great songs and since I was inspired by you we should probably share them. And he’s like, okay, hot tv star from Virginia, let’s do it.”

“That’s not what happened.”

Candice rolls her eyes at me. “Yes, it is. So then you start writing with Niall Horan, making beautiful music together"—she gives me a pointed look—"and completely forgetting about your fabulous best friend, who is totally willing to produce an album full of tv theme songs if it’s the way you want to go. But then something wonderful happens.” She stops and stares at me, as if waiting for me to tell her what the something wonderful is.

“Beats me,” I tell her. “What happened next?”

“Well, a bunch of things. The first one being that, in addition to writing a kick ass duet with Niall, you also wrote your entire solo album.”

I start to shake my head. “I didn't—”

“You bet your skinny ass you did.” From behind her back she pulls my purple journal, the one I bought when I first moved to LA. “It’s all in here, Minna. If you want real, if you want stuff that matters, this is it. This is your first record.”

“What?” I jump off the couch and reach for the journal, but she holds it up in the air, out of my reach. “That stuff isn’t songs. It’s just…” I search for the word for what I’ve been writing lately. Half-poems and lists of feelings and descriptions of floors in rooms at the Getty Villa and sketches of graffiti I spotted around the city. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

“Wrong.” Now Candice lets the journal fall into my outstretched hand. “This is not nothing, Minna. This is an emotional journey, from lost and writer’s-blocked to warm, soulful, creative, in love, real Minna. This is who you are. This is your album.”

I stare at her and then down at my notebook. There’s no way it contains all of that, I’m sure of it. Candice must’ve made all of that up for effect; she’s always loved a good dramatic scene.

“I’ll leave you alone to ponder this revelation,” Candice says before exiting the room. Down the hall I hear the bathroom door shut and the shower turn on before Candice begins singing something that sounds suspiciously like “Despacito.” Suspicious because Candice met Justin Bieber a few years ago and swears he’s a terrible singer with the personality of a “weak-ass cheesecake.” Her words, not mine.

My words are the contents of the journal in my hand. I sink into the couch and let the book fall open in my lap. My handwriting is messy and the lines overlap each other, a hint that I wrote it in darkness, probably just before falling asleep.

I stayed at the studio after Niall left tonight so I could work through the second chorus. It sounded strange to me in a way that Niall couldn’t hear, like the pieces fit together almost too perfectly. Something that I like about Niall is that even though he thinks the song is fine as it is, he doesn’t mind that I want to keep chipping at it. He hasn’t told me that I’m crazy or wasting my time or fixing something that isn’t broken. He just lets me be me.

I don’t remember writing any of it. Flipping to the beginning of the book, I find an entry where I describe a memory of my mother, opening the front door for me after my disastrous prom night with a look of disappointment on her face. “There’s no such thing as bad press,” she’d said to me, “but this is pretty shitty.”

In later mentions of my mother, there’s hurt, but there’s also resignation. There’s less anger:

Today Niall told me about his mom (he calls her “mum”) and how proud she is of him. How nothing in her life has changed since he got famous. The nicest thing she owns is a bag he bought her last Christmas; his mate Hailee told him what to get. His mum doesn’t use it because she doesn’t want to get it dirty. “It’s too expensive to carry things,” she says. When he told me this, I thought about my mom and her closet full of expensive bags, so many of them bought with money that I earned. Niall’s mum shows that she loves him by remaining indifferent to his success; my mom loves me because of my success. Why do I love her? Why do I keep loving somebody who can’t seem to see me?

As I flip through the pages of the journal, I see myself progressing from someone who fears her mother to someone who realizes she doesn’t need her mother. That’s like a shock of cold water to the face: the understanding that I’m here without my mom, without her criticizing me and making my decisions for me, and I’m doing okay on my own. I’m succeeding and failing and breaking down on Candice’s couch, and I’m doing it all on my own. My mom can’t claim ownership over any of this.

When Candice returns, a towel wrapped around her head, I’ve located ice cream in her freezer and am spoon-deep in the carton.

“You’re disgusting,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “Do you see it? There’s an album in there, right?”

“Fine.” I gesture at the journal, which I’ve abandoned on the table so I can have my hands free to hold my ice cream spoon. “Maybe I have enough here for an album. But none of that changes what Niall did.”

“Good lord!” Candice stops scrunching her hair with the towel to plop down on the table in front of me and take the ice cream carton from my hands. “First of all, stop eating this. And second, this isn’t Niall’s fault.”

“Of course it’s Niall’s fault. He let the song go.”

Candice shakes her head. “No, Min. The song was taken from him. Just like it was taken from you. Just like a million decisions have been made for you, by other people, your entire life. That’s the way this industry is a lot of the time. It’s all about marketability and money and…”

Candice keeps talking, making a case for Niall as a passive innocent rather than a heart-crushing aggressor, but I stop listening. I’ve been famous longer than Niall has, but he’s been in the music industry longer. He made his name on a show where adults decided for him what songs he should sing and who he should sing them with. And now the same thing is happening to him again.

I thought I knew what it was like to have my life controlled by my image, by the judgements of other people. But clearly Niall knows about that more than I ever could.

Track #11: Limerance

I take a week off from the studio and from Candice’s pitying eyes. She texts me several times, begging me to come into the studio with her and work on my album, the one she’s so sure I’ve already written most of, but I ignore her messages. I camp out in my apartment for the first few days, cleaning everything from floor to ceiling. There isn’t much to clean, but I manage to occupy myself with the task anyway, scrubbing the grout in the shower with a toothbrush and shooing dust mites out of corners I never knew existed.

And then I walk. Los Angeles is not a very pedestrian-friendly place, with its fast drivers and vast swaths of concrete parking lot and freeways running like veins through the fabric of the city. But like with cleaning things that aren’t dirty, I manage it. I drive to parks I’ve never been to before and wander their pathways. I park my car in unfamiliar neighborhoods of the city and zig-zag through the streets. I leave my phone in my glovebox and ignore Niall’s texts and calls.

Every night I go home exhausted, thinking that tonight, finally, will be the night I don’t dream of Niall. And it never is.

Instead, I spend late nights writing, trying to make sense of why this hurts so much. Niall didn’t break up with me, didn’t tell me the things he felt for me were gone or were never really there. No, what he did is worse somehow. He didn’t fight for the song that we wrote together, that we both put pieces of ourselves into. And in choosing not to fight for the song, he failed to fight for me, too.

I pour all of that into my journal. Even though I shared this book with Niall before, I can’t imagine showing it to anyone else again. A part of me thinks that when I gave Niall access to what I’d written in it, I gave him permission—and power—to break me.

After a week has passed, I take to the studio. Candice makes sure to book a different room, not the one Niall’s using, and we spend ten-hour days writing and recording and re-recording and re-writing.

“Take that, Niall Horan,” Candice says to me one night after we play back the day’s work. “I think this is your first single.”

I can’t control the smile on my face. This is what it’s supposed to feel like. Everything I wanted to do is finally taking shape, coming together, and I did it on my own. “I think you may be right.”

I don’t pull away when Candice pulls me in for a hug.

I don’t stop writing, though. At night is when everything I’ve been ignoring all day bursts to the surface. I don’t need Niall to write music; I’ve proved that to myself. But maybe my heart needs him. Maybe it needs to be taken care of, and maybe Niall’s the one to do it.

That’s why, before I can talk myself out of it, I open up my laptop and send Niall the song. “Limerance,” it’s called, a word that refers to what it feels like to be infatuated with another person. It’s about him, but it’s also about me and the realization that I can do this on my own.

My pen’s just run out of ink when someone knocks at the door. I glance out the window, surprised to find that the sun is rising. My eyelids feel heavy, like maybe I’m finally exhausted enough to sleep.

But then the knocking sounds again.

I cross the short distance to the door and pull it open.

“What are you doing here?” I ask Niall. My surprise at his presence wears off immediately, maybe because I’d just been thinking about him, writing about him. I read once that when you dream about somebody, it’s because they’re thinking about you. Maybe Niall woke up this morning dreaming about me.

“Can I come in?” Niall asks. He holds two paper cups in his hand. He passes me one and keeps the other, no doubt tea, in his hand.

I don’t say anything as I step back to let him inside. My apartment is small and poorly decorated, no doubt a shambles compared to where he lives, but I refuse to be ashamed of it. The vulnerability I showed Niall is something I can’t take back.

If Niall’s presence isn’t a surprise, what he says next practically floors me.

“I told them I’m not recording the song if I can’t record it with you.”

I gather my shock up off the linoleum to ask, “What? Why?”

“Because after you left, I realized that the song does mean a lot to me. More than I told you. It means a lot to us, so it won’t be the same unless we sing it together.”

“Us?”

“Yes, Minna, us.” Niall takes a step into my space, crowding me into the small kitchen. “But they said no. They said the song is gone, they already sold it to Shawn Mendes—”

Despite my anger, a giggle slips out. “You’re going to sing a duet with Shawn Mendes?”

Niall catches my laugh and smiles. “God, no.” He shakes his head. “He’s gonna sing it with some girl that he knows, I’m not sure. The point is, I’m not singing the song either.”

I bite my lip, unsure. Is this the better scenario? Now Niall’s not singing our song with someone else. Now he’s not singing it at all. Neither of us are. “Is this supposed to make me feel better?”

“No.” Niall catches my hand and weaves our fingers together. He’s so close to me now that I can feel his body heat. A few more inches and he’d reach me. “But hear me out. I think we should write together again. You should keep writing your album, of course, because it’s bloody brilliant, but we should write together again.”

I don’t say anything. I just keep staring at him, tracing my eyes over the freckles on his nose and the wrinkle on his forehead and the curve of his lower lip. I see the scar on his left cheek that he got when he fell off his bike as a kid. I see the spot at the corner of his mouth that I kissed just a few weeks ago. And I feel my anger dissolving.

“Not just one song,” he continues. “All the songs. Every song. Until we run out of songs to write.”

“How long do you think that’ll take?”

Niall’s eyes wrinkle at the corners as he smiles. “Forever. I think we’ll never run out of songs to write.”

“You’re pretty confident about that,” I say. With my anger slipping, looking at him becomes too much, brings too many of my feelings to the surface. So I look away, letting my eyes drop to the floor.

“How could I not be?” he says. “This is rare, you know that? The way we work together, the way I feel about you, that doesn’t happen a lot. We need to hold onto it.”

I feel my eyes beginning to water, so I blink, trying to hold back the tears. I have a question to ask, but I still can’t bring myself to meet Niall’s eyes.

“How do you feel about me?” I barely get the words out before the tears begin to slide down my cheeks.

“Minna,” he says, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, his palm brushing against my cheek. “Minna, look at me.”

Slowly, I raise my gaze from the floor. I feel Niall’s fingers swiping against my cheekbones, brushing away my tears, and I meet his eyes.

Niall’s eyes, so bright and clear and blue, say a thousand things that his mouth doesn’t. They say that we’re good together and he’s not going to let us go easily and he can already nearly hear the beautiful, magical songs we’re going to write together. I try not to look back and think about all the songs I’m going to write about him, about the way he makes me feel.

“I was so scared when you told me you read my journal,” he says, stepping impossibly closer to me. “I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want you to know, but I was so scared. You know why I never put any of what I wrote in there into my songs?”

I shake my head slightly, reluctant to move away from Niall’s touch.

“It’s because it was so personal,” he explains. “I was afraid of being judged, afraid of what people would think if I was somebody other than who they expected.”

My breath catches in my throat. “I never judged you.”

Niall’s thumb brushes against my mouth, shushing me. “I know that. As soon as you gave me your journals to read, all that fear disappeared. Because if you could see me and then be vulnerable with me in return—” Niall shakes his head, breaking eye contact with me.

Now I’m the one pulling him back to me. I slide my hand up his neck and run my fingers through the strands of hair at the nape. “Look at me, Niall.”

When he does, when I look in his eyes, I see what I’m feeling reflected back at me.

#1dff #niall horan #1dff summer fic exchange 2017

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