The sidewalks bustled outside the glass windows at the restaurant where Adam and Jordan were meeting for dinner. Inside the restaurant the sounds of clinking silverware punctuated the low buzz of conversation. The delicious aroma of grilled steak made Adam’s stomach growl.
He took a slow sip of ice water.
Jordan was droning on about movie rights and contractual obligations, and Adam resumed watching the passersby, rushing from work to home or wherever they were going after their busy days at the office.
He liked the city. It was an environment he’d always thrived in. He often wrote at a coffee shop, preferably at the bar where the blur of life continued just beyond his laptop screen.
This past week he hadn’t been writing much though. He’d mostly been ruminating. And he’d been on the phone with his grandfather and with his mom. She’d gone to meet him earlier this week, extending her stay in Knoxville to three nights. It seemed the two had bonded quickly. It was good to hear his mom so enthusiastic.
Jordan had shifted the topic to Adam’s next novel and was about to start pushing him about his deadline. He could smell it coming.
It was probably time to tell his agent what had been building inside him over the past week. He did feel inspired to write—more than he had in a long time.
Just not by the plot he’d been working on all summer. Another story was now living and breathing inside him, aching to be told. It featured a strong, cheerful innkeeper, a lost letter, and a happily-ever-after.
Well. He’d have to use his imagination on that last part.
Sure, the hero wasn’t Nathaniel Quinn’s usual type. He was flawed and rather ordinary. But he was special in his own way. The heroine would recognize that and so, he hoped, would the reader.
“And when it airs,” Jordan continued in business monotone, “it’ll premiere first on Mars, then Jupiter and Uranus and so on and so forth.”
“If we’re going in order it would be Saturn next, not Uranus. But if you’re going by size it would be Mercury, Mars, Venus, then Earth, followed by—”
“All right, all right. You can daydream and listen. But you have to admit you’ve been a little spacey lately, pardon the pun. And I have a feeling you’re still on planet Earth.” Jordan gave him a pointed look. “Just not necessarily in New York.”
“You’re right. You’re right. I’ve mostly been in Bluebell—the setting of my work-in-progress.”
Jordan gave a nod of approval. “Well at least you’ve been writing. I’ll count my blessings.”
“Yeah . . . about that.”
Jordan’s hand paused, his glass midway between table and mouth. A look of dread moved over his features. “Adam . . . please don’t tell me—”
“You can scrap the outline I sent you. I’m starting fresh.”
“Your deadline is in—”
“Eight weeks. I know. Don’t worry; I’ll make the deadline.” Having vocalized the idea that had been swelling inside for days, relief washed over him. He was suddenly more certain than ever that this was right.
“I already sent your outline to Rosewood Press, and Elaine loves it.”
“That’s unfortunate. But she’ll like this one better. And so will my readers.”
Jordan leaned in on his elbows. “There’s nothing wrong with the story you were working on. It’s good. It has all the elements readers expect in a Nathaniel Quinn story.”
“You’re right. There’s nothing wrong with it.” Adam paused pointedly. “But it’s not the story I need to write.”
Jordan slunk back in his chair, studying his friend. They’d been together a long time. No one knew Adam better.
Slowly, resignation crept over Jordan’s features. He drew in a breath and blew it out. “Fine. Send me the outline. I’ll look it over.”
“I don’t need an outline for this story. Trust me, Jordan. I’ve got this. And while you’re at it . . .”
He took a moment to reassess his decision, making certain. His grandfather’s words had played repeatedly in his mind. It had taken Ben years to realize that his worth or lack thereof wasn’t based on his job or paycheck or even his ethnicity. And Adam’s certainly wasn’t based on someone else’s expectations, not even his father’s. In fact, his father’s disappointment hadn’t been caused by a deficiency in Adam at all, but a deficiency in his father.
Adam was sufficient just the way he was, because he’d been lovingly and intentionally created by God Himself. Molly and his grandfather had helped him see that.
“And while I’m at it . . .” Jordan prodded, obviously growing impatient.
Adam leaned on his elbows. “You can tell Rosewood Press I’ll do the interview with Newsline Tonight.”
Jordan’s eyebrows popped. He gave his head a quick shake before he homed in on Adam, studying him through the eyes of a friend. “Who are you?”
He was Adam Bradford—and also bestselling author Nathaniel Quinn. The truth felt real. Good. Freeing.
He was ready for this. Adam’s lips turned up. “I think I’m ready to embrace my true identity, my friend.”
Jordan broke out into a smile. “Well, hallelujah. It’s about time.”