The sun had shifted in the sky, its low light announcing the approach of evening by the time Elliot closed the lid of her computer. Every word she had written had felt as if she were crawling through mud and she knew she would delete it the following day. She stood, drawing Beck's attention.

"Are you done?" he asked.

"For the day."

She set her computer on the desk and collected the box of pastries. As she tossed it into the trash, Beck shut his computer and packed it away in his satchel. A troubled frown had appeared halfway through the day on Elliot's forehead and still remained there. She grabbed her purse and headed for the door, all the while Beck watching her with a concerned look. In silence, they descended the stairs and stepped into the world, the clamor of Boston's city streets descending on them. Beck turned to her.

"Want to go to the cafe?" he asked.

Elliot roused herself from her thoughts and met his gaze for a brief second.

"No, I think I'll just go home," she said.

"I'll walk with you halfway then," he said.

"Okay."

They followed their normal route shrouded in a troubled silence, as all of the conversations Beck tried to start either went unheard by Elliot, or were replied to with dead end answers. When they reached the curb halfway between the cafe and Elliot's home, she walked away, too distracted with her thoughts to answer Beck's farewell. For a long moment, Beck stared after her, frowning as he mulled over her current state.

Elliot reached the stairs to her house, but pulled up short when she heard the sound of racing footsteps. She looked back down the sidewalk and found Cece running towards her. Part of Elliot's frown lessened at the sight.

"Cece-"

Cece rushed past her and up the stairs.

"Don't care," Cece yelled, pushing the door open and hurtling inside. "Love you!"

Her voice trailed off as her footsteps hammered on the staircase. Elliot stood stunned for a moment on the sidewalk, then ascended the stone stairs, entering the now quiet house. The sound of the door shutting filled the silence for a moment, before it faded away as well. Sighing, without knowing why, she left her purse in the entryway and headed for the kitchen.

Sunlight glinted off the granite counter tops and dark wooden floor. She moved to the cupboard and pulled out a box of crackers and dug through the refrigerator, retrieving a bag of grapes. Armed with food, she kicked off her shoes and climbed onto the counter, crossing her legs.

The quiet stretched on as she stared at the opposite side of the kitchen and mindlessly ate. The sound of the front door opening brought her back to reality. Footsteps beat out an even rhythm in the hallway and the next second, Milo appeared. He surveyed Elliot sitting on the counter, but made no comment.

"Cece is writing," she said.

Milo moved over to her and jumped up on the counter, his legs dangling off the side.

"I know," he said. "She told me. She also threatened me. She told me if I came over and distracted her that I would not wake up tomorrow morning."

"Well, did you expect her to change since you started dating?"

"Not really, but the kiss before she said the threat was a nice addition."

Elliot nodded but said nothing more. Milo took a cluster of grapes and began to eat them, looking at Elliot.

"Why are we on the counter?" he asked.

"I'm trying to get perspective," she said.

Milo nodded in understanding.

"I see," he said. "Trying to get above of the problem."

"Yup."

"Is it working?"

"Not yet, but this problem isn't a normal size."

"What's the problem?"

Elliot pulled her gaze up from the floor to look at Milo, his dark brown eyes meeting hers. She dropped her gaze and played with a cracker, watching as it crumbled in her hand.

"Milo," she said, "did you ever doubt yourself?"

He popped a grape into his mouth.

"Not until I met you lot," he said.

Scowling, Elliot looked at him, the remainder of the cracker forgotten in her hands.

"What do we have to do with anything?" she asked.

Milo barked out a laugh.

"You can't be serious?" he said.

"Not in most cases, no but in this one, I am. Why would knowing us make you doubt yourself?"

Milo gave her a frank look.

"El," he said, "your family breaks every norm there is. I thought life always had one path and one way of doing things until you bunch come in and blasted my ideas to pieces."

"How? It's not like we ever argued with you about your views on life?" Elliot made a face and added, "thinking about it, we probably did."

Milo laughed, the sound pulling Elliot further from her own troubles.

"Yes, you did, but it was more than that. It was the way you lived. The whole world was saying do this, do that and here the McKenzies come along, saying you can change that. You can defy what the world says you should do." He shrugged and tossed a grape into the air, catching it in his mouth. "After hanging out with you for a while, I doubted why I was doing what I was doing and whether it was worth it."

Elliot rested elbow on her knee and propped up her chin.

"What did you discover?" she asked.

"I discovered that what I was doing was exactly what I wanted to do, but knowing you just made it more clear. And there's the fact that I fell for your sister and have been wrapped up in crazy land for the past year because of it."

"I warned you."

"You did, but that made no difference."

"It never does."

Milo reached over and pulled out a handful of crackers.

"What is it you are doubting yourself on?" he asked.

Elliot shrugged.

"Life, the universe, and everything."

"Doubt no more, the answer is 42," he said.

"Then my doubts are appeased and I can write with no more qualms."

"Ah, it's writing that you are doubting yourself on. I thought you were excited?"

"I am. I was. I still am, I think. I don't know."

Elliot dropped the cracker and laid her head in her hands. The front door opened and Elliot looked up, expecting to see Tristan enter the kitchen. But instead, her mother walked through the doorway, dressed in trim slacks and a loose shirt.

"Mom?"

"Marilyn!" Milo said.

Marilyn beamed at Milo as he jumped off the counter and hugged her.

"Hello darling," she said.

She pulled back, put her hands on his arms and studied him.

"You're in one piece and you have been with Cece for a few days. I'm impressed!"

Milo laughed. Marilyn turned her attention to Elliot on the counter and smiled.

"Trying to get on top of a problem?" she asked.

Elliot nodded.

"I've taught you well," her mother said.

She stepped over to Elliot and kissed her forehead.

"How is it going?" she asked.

"Not as well as I had hoped," Elliot said. She frowned and shook her head. "Wait. What are you doing here?"

Marilyn waved her hand carelessly.

"A meeting and a delayed plane. I will be gone in the next two hours. I have just enough time to hear your problem and help you with it." She gestured to Milo. "Be a love and grab me a stool."

Milo carried a stool from around the counter and set it before Marilyn before hopping back up on the counter. Marilyn grabbed a couple of crackers and sat, her soft hazel eyes appraising her daughter.

"What is it, darling?" she asked.

"I started writing today but it went horribly and now I have no idea what to do and feel completely at a lose how to fix it," Elliot said. "I know exactly where the story needs to go but have no drive to put it on paper. It's like every word I put down I second guess the minute I write it out."

Marilyn nodded.

"Do you like the story?" she asked.

"Yes," Elliot said. "I was really excited about writing it yesterday and now it's like I have this voice in my head saying it will be no good."

She dropped her gaze away from her mother, breaking off pieces of cracker, dusting the counter with crumbs.

"I see," Marilyn said.

Elliot looked at her.

"You do?"

"Of course," her mother said, smiling. A smile that seemed to ease all of Elliot's knotted thoughts. "The solution is simple. Move on."

Elliot frowned.

"What?" she asked.

"Move on. Find something new to write and write it. Right now, nothing good will come of you doubting yourself and trying to write this book. You need to find the spark again. That love of writing that made you pick up a pen in the first place and write a very repetitious story about animals."

Elliot tossed up her hands, sending crumbs flying about.

"You're bringing that up? I was eight, what did you expect from me?"

"A larger vocabulary," her mother said, "but it had it's charms."

Her mother's smile widened and Elliot felt her face lighten, her own lips curling up.

"El, something I have learned over the years is that you can't fight with art. It will show up, that is something I can promise you, if you are patient and wait for it. But while you're waiting, find something new to do. You'd be surprised how fast that old project comes back."

"What about Beck?"

"Is he struggling with writing?"

Elliot scowled and rolled her eyes.

"No," she muttered.

"Then he doesn't need to move on. You do. His writing will keep."

Elliot nodded.

"So I just start something new?"

"You start something that will not make you doubt yourself. Because with doubt, nothing will ever be good."

"Thanks."

Her mother stood, replacing the uneaten crackers on the counter.

"Of course," she said.

She turned to Milo and gave him a hard look.

"Milo, I want to make myself very clear on something," she said.

Milo straightened under her gaze and swallowed hard.

"I don't want you eloping with my daughter without telling me," she said.

Milo laughed and relaxed.

"I would never do that to you, Marilyn," he said.

"You wouldn't, but Cece would. Stop her before that happens."

Milo nodded and smiled. Marilyn smiled and looked between them.

"Now, before I leave," she said, "what are the bets for how long Tristan can go without telling us who his new girl is?"

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

The lights of the city brightened the dark night sky. The day's heat was nestled in the air, content to sleep there for the rest of the summer. Clenching a brown bag, Elliot walked down the sidewalk to a tall theater.

Bypassing the main doors, she rounded the building and entered through a side entrance. From far off she could hear the faint strains of music and a male voice overlapping the classical piece. She made her way through the lavish theater. Gold painted carvings lined the edges of the ceiling and spotless red carpets covered the floors and run up the stair case. The music grew louder as she found her way to the auditorium.

On stage, Tristan stood facing a group of twelve dancers, all wearing tights and looking haggard. Elliot noiselessly slipped into one of the rows and sat down on the furtherest seat. She placed the bag down on the ground and slouched down in the chair, resting her feet on the back of the chair in front of her.

With a wave of Tristan's hand, the music stopped and the dancers halted, trying to mask their heavy breathing. For a long moment Tristan said nothing and a tension grew, spreading through the theater until even Elliot felt its effects.

"Lauren," Tristan said, gesturing to a blonde on the edge of the group. "Tell me what is happening in three days."

His voice wasn't harsh, but there was a detached quality that made it seem like a trick question.

"We're performing," Lauren said.

Her eyes darted from left to right as if to gain confidence in her answer from her fellow dancers. Tristan nodded, one hand holding his chin, the other resting on his hip.

"That's correct," he said. "Now I would like to try the dance again with that thought in mind. Again."

The dancers got back into position and the music started up. Elliot watched fascinated as Tristan called out corrections and paced back and forth in command of the stage. After the dancers had run through the number multiple times, Tristan cut the music. For a long moment, he surveyed them. Then he nodded. The simple gestured brought a wave of relief and half smiles to the dancers.

"That's all for today," he said. "Well done."

The smiles widened on the dancers' faces and the fatigue they had been feeling was momentarily forgotten. Elliot pulled out her phone and texted Tristan.

"You should watch your back," she wrote.

On stage, Tristan took out his phone and read the message. A second later Elliot's screen brightened.

"Why would I do that when you are watching it for me?"

Elliot looked up to find Tristan staring at her. She laughed and he jogged down a set of stairs, by the side of the stage, and made his way towards her.

"I brought you food," she said.

"Which is the only reason I'm even okay seeing your face right now," he said.

Elliot looked around the theater.

"You want to eat here or find some other location to inhabit for the duration of our meal?"

"Dennis is already mad at me for making a mess the other day, best to find an alternative spot."

Elliot bent down and grabbed the brown bag before following Tristan. He led her through a maze of corridors and up a few flights of stairs, pushing out onto the theater roof.

A humid breeze rushed past them as the door clanged shut. They stood gazing out on the city, inhaling the smell of discarded cigarettes, conflicting aromas from restaurants and the scent of car fumes. Tristan disappear around the corner and came back with two rusted looking folding chairs.

"Are they safe?" Elliot asked, gingerly sitting on one.

"Nothing's safe in this world," Tristan said.

"Oh, we're in one of those moods, are we?"

"What moods?"

"The mood where every question has a deep meaning and every answer can be said in a deep philosophical voice."

"I'm always in that mood, I can just turn it on and off."

"Fine, it's always your mood. Do you want a sandwich? If you say anything beyond yes or no, I'll hurl it over the roof."

Tristan held out his hand as his response. Elliot put a sandwich in it and took the other for herself. They ate in silence, studying the apartment windows and the vague outlines of people, catching glimpses into different lives.

"Do you ever feel less than around other choreographers, when you have only had a year of community college and they have learned at the top ballet schools?"

Tristan looked at her.

"Look who is being philosophical now?"

"I'm matching your mood. Just answer the question."

Tristan turned away from her and continued eating.

"I did for a time," he said. "My knowledge of dance is not on the levels of others."

Elliot studied Tristan's profile, her sandwich forgotten on her lap.

"How did you get over it?"

"I realized feeling inferior wasn't going to change where I went to school or help me get to where I wanted to be, so I dropped it. I decided to have confidence in my talent and let that lead me. While others were bound by the techniques they had been taught, I was free to explore a new way of choreographing."

Elliot stared down at her sandwich, taring off bits at a time.

"That's easy for you to say," she muttered. "You were born with so much confidence you were wearing sunglasses and the doctors asked to take a selfie with you."

"Well, that's true."

Elliot tossed a piece of bread at him and it bounced off his forehead. Tristan smiled and Elliot scowled, shaking her head. Tristan's expression went serious and he put a hand on Elliot's shoulder.

"El," he said, solemnly. "There is something you need to know."

Elliot gave him a flat look, seeming to already know where he was going.

"I am better than you, that will never change," he said. "But that doesn't mean you still can't have confidence. I'm sure there is enough to go around. But just within the McKenzies. No one else can have it or the world would be crowded with too many men wearing cardigans tied around their shoulders and smug looks."

"You say this like I don't know it already," Elliot said. "You walked up the slide when you were nine months old. I was never under any illusion that I was on your level."

Tristan gave her a single nod.

"I'm glad you are not as dumb as you look."

"Its a defense mechanism. The government always comes for the smart looking ones. So when you get caught, I'll break you out."

"You're a good sister. Always remember to use the ventilation shaft."

"Obviously."

They shifted back in their chairs, returning their attention to the landscape of buildings. Elliot put her sandwich away and rested her elbow on the chair's arm rest. Tristan stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles, seeming content to never move. The sound of the city floated around them, disturbing their peaceful silence.

"The book will be fine," he said.

Elliot made no reply, the image of the blank page popping up in her mind and a crease appearing between her eyebrows.

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

Gazpacho! (It's so much fun to say!)

Sometimes I find it difficult to come up with things to say for my author's notes. Yeah, I know it seems like I could talk forever, but when it comes down to it my life is pretty simple. The only time I have something to really talk about is with my many story ideas. Haha but that should come as no surprise if you've read my Chapter One(s) book, there are 22 plus (I plan on adding first chapters for a Steampunk, Werewolf and Dystopian book soon) book ideas in there! That is a little crazy! Sometimes I wonder if I will ever be able to write them all. I truly hope I will! One chapter at a time I guess!

Support, scribble a note, turn the page!