Once Upon A Christmas Eve: A Novella by Katie Klein Read Free Book Online Page B

around his family. But his Grandma was right. There’s a calm that surrounds him. A peace I feel when he’s beside me. Like maybe everything could be okay.
    “The thing is,” he finally says, interrupting these thoughts, “I don’t just want to be an English major. Confession?”
    “I love confessions.”
    Though he’s the one who initiated the conversation, he seems to wrestle with the idea, gathering words, until I can almost see the images churning, turning over in his mind, until I begin to worry about the nature of confessions and their power to change everything.
    “God. I’ve never told anyone this before,” he says.
    “You don’t have to,” I say.
    He groans. “No. I’m just going to come out with it.”
    Another extended silence.
    “Okay,” I urge.
    “I want to write.”
    “Write?” I repeat, not understanding. That’s it? That’s his big confession?
    “Yeah. I want to be a writer. I want to write books. Tell stories. I’m working on the student newspaper and just finished a creative writing class. And yes—I’ve considered teaching. It’s definitely a possibility. But I love books. And talking about them and thinking about them. And . . . writing them.” He speaks quickly, eyes lighting with possibility—almost manic—transformed by the freedom of telling. Of sending something of this magnitude out into the world, letting the universe take control.
    “Wow. What kind of books?”
    “That’s the thing. This is where I should say I want to write the next ‘Great American Novel.’ Tomes on the meaning of life. The evolution of society. Pitfalls of mass consumption. But I actually harbor a pure, unadulterated love of crime novels.”
    We step beneath another streetlamp, the muted light playing with our shadows. “You want to be a crime writer?”
    “It’s absurd, I know. Paperback pulp fiction author? They’d laugh me out of the department if they knew. The academics are so high-brow it’s nauseating. Right now I’m putting in the work, writing poetry and short stories—questioning the meaning of it all—but as soon as they turn me loose. . . .” He trails off, imagining the potential—life as a writer. On his laptop at his desk. Or at a coffee shop, maybe. Stringing words together until they make sense. Telling stories.
    “Jonathan Talbot,” I say. “I could see that on a book cover.”
    “Really?” he asks, slanting a look toward me. “You don’t think it’s a stupid pipe dream? Because my family thinks I’m insane for majoring in English. Imagine what they’d say if they learned I wanted to write for a living.”
    “I don’t think it’s stupid. What’s stupid is not chasing that dream because you’re worried about what other people think. If you want to be a writer, then an English degree is perfect. Working at the student paper is perfect. I think you’re doing everything you’re supposed to be doing.”
    “God. That has to be one of the most amazing things anyone has ever said to me.”
    I laugh. “It’s called being supportive. It’s not hard.”
    “I am a humanities major in a sea of business and finance men,” he reminds me. “This is uncharted territory for us.”
    “I think your Grandma would love the idea of you being a writer. And, out of everyone in that house back there, her opinion might be the only one that matters.”
    The night grows still again as he considers this, the streets quiet as a silvery moon slips in and out of view overhead, its pale light shining between leaves and branches.
    “So . . . when your first novel is published will you personally sign my copy?” I ask.
    “I think I’ll dedicate the whole book to you,” he replies. “To Olivia Hall, for believing.” I smile at the idea. “Even better—I’ll name a character after you.”
    “Just don’t kill me off in the first chapter,” I say. I don’t read crime novels—I lean more toward the classics (thanks, Mom)—but I know enough about them to know things