"You can't be serious?!" Elliot said.

Everything in Nina's expression and posture told Elliot she was serious. Elliot slumped back in her chair, her arms crossed.

The office, like its owner, was immaculate. Beyond the wall of glass, that looked into the rest of the office building, assistants rushed about, frazzled expressions on their young faces, and manuscripts clutched in their hands.

"Elliot," her publicist said. "You signed a contract to work with Beck. You need to stay with that contract. He has not broken any part of the agreement. If you decide to dissolve the contract he would legally have grounds to sue you."

Elliot huffed and stood up. She strode to the window, glaring out at the city. The gray clouds had slipped away with the morning. Bright afternoon sunlight smiled down on the city. Elliot felt as if she was the only one who wanted the gray to return, the color agreeing with her mood.

"Elliot," Nina said, her tone patient. "You made a decision to accept Beck as your cowriter. You had many chances to say no. Now, you have to deal with the consequences of that decision."

Elliot ran a troubled hand through her hair before she dropped her hands into her pockets.

"Do you understand?" Nina asked, trying to read the state of Elliot's thoughts through her silence and stance.

"Yes," Elliot breathed out. "I understand. I'm stuck with Beck whether I like it or not."

"I'm afraid so," Nina said.

Elliot nodded, her reflection staring back at her with a resigned expression. Turning, she found Nina watching her with a concerned look in her eye.

"Thank you for seeing me," Elliot said.

Nina gave her a small smile and nodded. Elliot picked up her satchel and left the office. The noise around her doubled as she made her way through the crowded office space.

An elevator ride later, Elliot found herself back on the street, motionless in the tide of pedestrians. Figuring she couldn't stay there forever wrapped up in her thoughts, she headed home.

From the quietness of the house, Elliot guessed Cece had found some spark of inspiration. Or she had left in search of the spark. Or to find a distraction that would lull the spark into a false sense security before she could jump on it. Tossing her satchel onto the table, she made her way into the living room. She tucked herself into the window seat and stared down onto the empty street. Time seemed to move on without her, the shadows shifting beneath her gaze.

Elliot only had a vague idea of how long she had been sitting from the ache in her muscles when the front door opened. A loud thunk echoed in the entryway as Tristan dropped his suitcase. He walked past the living room archway but paused at the sight of Elliot.

"Hey slacker," he said.

Elliot looked at him.

"That was a short trip," she said. "How was Baltimore?"

"Worse than Philly but better than Dallas."

Elliot nodded, but had no response. Tristan crossed his arms, his brown eyes studying her.

"Alright, come on," he said, nodding to the door.

Elliot slid off the seat and moved over to him.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"I don't know," he said. "I guess we'll figure it out on the way there."

Elliot followed Tristan out the door. In the presence of her current companion the sunlight didn't feel so out of place. They walked in silence, neither feeling the need to voice their thoughts or say something just to fill the air.

Tristan stopped walking and Elliot halted. She looked up at the sign.

"You understand that frozen yogurt doesn't fix all the world's problems," she said.

Tristan shrugged.

"No, but it fixes 86% of them and we simply ignore the rest. Or blame vegans."

He pulled the door open and gestured for Elliot to enter.

Supplied with cups of candy drowned in frozen yogurt, they took to the street once more and headed to the Common. They settled on the sloping grass, half the contents of their cups already eaten. Further down the Common they watched as a group of twenty or so people raced around. They held brooms between their legs and tossed three balls back and forth between them, attempting to play a grounded version of Quidditch.

"Do you think they're aware of how idiotic they look?" Elliot mused.

"No. I believe they are oblivious to their stupidity as so many other people are."

Elliot nodded and continued to watch the odd spectacle.

"How much do you want to bet that it all falls apart when one of the guys gets impaled in the crotch by a miss aimed broom handle?" Elliot asked.

"Twenty, but it will be when one of the girls takes the ball to the face. The brunette has had two narrow misses already."

They shook on it without tearing their attention away from the game. Their frozen yogurt cups where emptied and stacked beside them by the time a curly haired girl caught the ball with her face. She staggered and jabbed a passing male. They both crumbled to the ground, their groans of pain bringing the entertainment to a halt.

"Call it even?" Elliot asked.

"Sure," Tristan said.

As they watched the group gather the last remains of their dignity off the grass and leave, Tristan spoke.

"Are we going to discuss why at this time you usually inhabit the realm of imagination?"

Elliot picked at a clump of grass, tearing away a few strands.

"No, I figured I would run from the topic as long as I could and eventually leave you a letter explaining it all on my deathbed," she said. "Besides, the imagination realm has been too crowded lately with everyone writing fanfictions."

Tristan nodded as if this last fact was something he was well aware of.

"We both know you're going to out live me," he said. "So you might as well tell me now."

"No, I'm not. Cece and I have a bet you'll out last me. You stay inside more and so have less of a chance of being randomly murdered or struck by lightening."

"True. Okay then," he said. "I'm going to leave the house at least three times more than my normal amount. That raises my chance of an early death, in return you should tell me."

"Dang! I can't argue with that logic. Fine."

Elliot tossed aside the pieces of grass and wrapped her arms around her legs. She said nothing, her tangled thoughts battling with her stubborn mouth.

"What do you do when you've made a huge mistake that you have to live with?" she finally asked.

"I find all the photos and delete them before they can hit the internet."

"I have bad news for you, Cece posted them before you could. Orange pants are not your best look."

"I was trying something new. That cured me of that notion."

"My mistake is a little more difficult than a deplorable fashion decision. And I can't delete this, as much as I wish I could."

Tristan glanced at Elliot then away.

"I'm going to take a wild guess then and say it has something to do with your cowriter," he said.

"Am I that transparent?"

"Only because you stay indoors too much. A bit of sun should fix that problem. So what happened?"

Elliot sighed and flopped back onto the grass.

"He called my books shallow fluff stuff and in return I called him out for not writing anything himself." Elliot scowled. "He said if I wanted to be a real writer I would write something more mature. Real."

Tristan nodded and didn't reply right away, letting the words hung in the air between them. He looked back at her.

"How are you feeling about it?" he asked.

"Like I want to change my name, hire Pacho and send flowers to Beck's family with my condolences."

"I know that feeling well," Tristan said.

Elliot lifted herself up and rested her arms on her knees.

"I was really pissed at first," she said. "I still am but now the anger is mixed with annoyance because Nina told me today that I can't get out of the contract. I'm stuck with Beck."

Tristan nodded and gazed around. Below them a group of kids attempted a game of soccer that resembled a boxing match more than anything.

"El, do you remember why you hired Beck?" he asked.

"Because I was blind to his personalty faults because of his good looks and swayed by the beauty of his writing."

Tristan held his silence, waiting for the barrier of Elliot's sarcasm to fall.

"I don't know," she said. "I liked his writing. I thought he could help me write a good book."

"Do you think that's still true?"

Elliot dropped her gaze to the grass.

"I don't know. He's just so difficult to work with. No amount of writing talent can make up the fact that he was out of line and a jerk."

Tristan nodded, but made no reply. Elliot looked at him and frowned.

"I'm not sure I like where your thoughts are taking you," she said.

"They tend to take me the most bizarre places."

Elliot turned away and placed her chin on her knees.

"Just say it," she said.

Tristan shifted as if gearing himself up for what he was about to say.

"El, I think you hired Beck for a reason."

"Besides the reason of him helping me write a book?"

"Yes, because every other guy you interviewed could have done that. I think you hired Beck because you knew he would challenge you. He was the one who called your books out for being a bit repetitive, correct?"

Elliot tossed her hands up.

"I should have known it then and strangled him with his stupid bow tie!"

Tristan gave her a flat look and Elliot went back to hugging her knees.

"What are you trying to say?" she said.

"That, although he poorly expressed his thoughts, he might not have been that far off."

"You think my books are shallow fluff stuff?" Elliot asked in small voice.

Tristan turned to Elliot and placed his hands on her shoulders, his face serious.

"Listen clearly to this El," he said. "Your books are shallow fluff stuff." Elliot tensed, but Tristan gripped her shoulders tighter. "But that doesn't mean that they aren't good. The world needs fun shallow fluff stuff books. Do you love your books any less than before?"

"No," Elliot said.

"Will people stop buying your books because Beck has brought it to your attention that they are not the next great American novel?"

"It depends on how many social media followers he has and whether he posts it."

Tristan raised his eyebrows in a question.

"No," she said.

"Then there is nothing you need to worry about. You are still a writer. You will continue to write no matter what Beck says and you will write books that will make people happy."

Tristan shifted back and they sat in silence for a long time, the world continuing to buzz around them. Nothing about them seemed to make an impression on Elliot as she let Tristan's words sink in.

"What did you mean when you said that he would challenge me?" she asked.

"I'm saying of all the writers you could have hired, you hired the one that was blunt about your work. You hired Beck because you knew he would push you to improve. You're a writer, no writer likes being stuck in the same thing. They want to grow and expand. Beck is the catalyst to help you grow in your writing."

Elliot frowned.

"What if I change my mind and I don't want to grow anymore? What if I want to write a shallow fluff stuff book?"

"Then tell Beck to shove his thoughts where the sun don't shine."

Elliot turned to Tristan, with a look of approval.

"That is the first wise thing you have said in this entire conversation."

Tristan stood and brushed off his pants.

"I know, my wisdom is slow to appear. Sometimes it doesn't show up at all and I have to walk away from people instead."

"A struggle we have all faced."

Tristan held out his hands and pulled Elliot up. They collected their discarded cups and slowly made their way home.

"So I can never change and be fine with life?" Elliot asked.

"Oh no, you would be extremely bored and hate life but it would be easier."

Elliot glared at him.

"I wish you had just walked away instead of saying anything."

**************

The house was silent when they entered. Tristan nudged his suitcase to one side and followed Elliot into the kitchen. They grabbed random piles of food and settled onto the table. There was a loud clatter from the second story then stomping footsteps on the stairs. A minute later Cece appeared in the kitchen, waving her hands.

"That's it!" she said. "I'm going to become a nun!"

Tristan and Elliot shared a look.

"Why?" Elliot asked.

"Because they accept anyone and wear all black," Cece said. "Who doesn't look good in all black?"

Tristan leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed and looked at Elliot.

"What does that make this?" he asked.

"Her fifth occupation change in the last week," Elliot said.

He pulled out a ten and handed it to her.

"You mock," Cece said, pacing back and forth, pointing at them. "But this time it's for real. They sing, mock other nuns and hide suspected criminals."

"Cece," Elliot said, leaning on the table, "are you basing all your information on nuns on The Sound of Music?"

Cece stopped pacing and looked at Elliot with a frank expression.

"Yeah, why?"

Elliot shook her head.

"No reason" she said. "Are you going to mock me in song now?"

"I'm still working on the second verse."

"Let me know when it's done. I'll invite Milo over and we can be insulted together."

Cece waved her hand in a dismissive gesture and took a seat.

"Don't worry," she said. "I wrote Milo his own personal song. But I'm afraid I can't sing it without bleeping myself out."

"Might not want to sing that one at the Abbey," Tristan said.

"Smart thinking," Cece said. "Now that my career choice is settled, what are we talking about?"

"My future with Beck," Elliot said.

"Oh! Fun. What have you decided?"

"So far, all I got is not killing him."

Cece gave her a doubtful look.

"Is that option completely off the table?"

**********************************************************************

Potato Patch! (Yeah, not sure that works. Moving on!)

Alright alright! Time to face the greatest ordeal we have-

*Everyone groans*

(Yes, Joy we get it you're starting out with some dramatic thing and in the end you will talk about a very trivial matter. Can we please skip your intro and just jump to the topic?)

Wow! 😒 Well, if you insist. What does it matter if I was going to to talk about the great trials we have faced together or the challenges we have over come-

(Just get on with it!)

Sheesh! 😳 Tough crowd. Fine I'll get on with it.

Topic today is obviously male related. Occupation because I'm flustered by your harsh words and can't come up with something better. Pick one over the other out of each set.

Writer or poet?

Musician or singer?

Banker or architect?

Violinist or street artist?

Taxi driver or boxer?

Model or actor? (That's really a tough one)

Photographer or Journalist?

*Steps back and cringes* Yeah, not my best list, I'll work on it for next time.

Vote, comment, follow. Be honest with me, have I gone to a bad place with the conversation vibe? I meant it to be funny and now I just don't know any more. 😔🙈