High School Visit

In the early versions of the book, I really wanted to write about Ethan visiting a high school. In elementary school, one of the girls in my class (shout out to Jessie DeHaven... I'm sure I'm spelling that wrong!) had her dad come in to talk to us one day because he was a published author. That was so cool to me, and it was one of the many reasons I originally wanted to get into writing.

The problem was that this scene kept coming out feeling a bit off to me. Ethan came across a little too Dead Poets Society. Having worked in education for the past 25 years, I really didn’t like that he seemed so effortlessly in control of a classroom setting.

This scene was also written back when I was still trying to figure out how Sarah fit into the backstory, and the idea of Allison being thrust into the public eye was still fresh. But the whole scene just felt off overall, so I ended up cutting it. That said, I do think some of the dialogue here was really fun, and I wish I'd gotten to do a bit more with it!

Ethan and Allison stood in the hall, about to enter a senior lit class at St. Jude’s Academy. Peeking through the small glass window of the door, it was exactly what Allison expected: posters of Shakespeare and Toni Morrison taped to the walls, a whiteboard covered in complex vocabulary words, and thirty teenagers who looked like a healthy mix of starstruck and desperately trying to act too cool to care.

"Just relax," Allison whispered, squeezing his arm. "They're just kids, Crump. They don't bite." It still baffled her that a man who could stand in front of thousands of screaming fans at Yankee Stadium was currently sweating through his linen shirt over thirty high school seniors.

"Kids are the harshest critics on the planet, Hart," Ethan muttered, nervously smoothing down his collar. "If a plot hole is stupid, a reviewer will write a polite essay about it. A teenager will just laugh in your face."

Before she could reassure him further, the classroom door swung open and the teacher practically dragged them into the room.

The moment Ethan stepped inside, the low murmuring stopped instantly. There was a sleek wooden podium at the front of the room, complete with a live microphone waiting for his attention. Ethan took one look at it, bypassed it entirely, and walked straight over to the teacher’s desk. He hopped up onto the edge of it, swinging his legs casually.

The illusion of "Ethan Blackwood" was fading fast. Sitting there, he just looked like a slightly older version of the kids staring back at him.

"Alright, look," Ethan said, leaning forward and resting his hands on his knees. "I was supposed to prepare some inspiring, deeply moving words about the literary arts, but I am pretty sure I left those note cards in a cab. And if we do things by the book, you guys are probably going to ask a bunch of pre-written questions that your teacher insisted on approving in advance, right?”

Several students nodded, a collective, subtle sigh of relief rippling through the rows.

“Yeah, let’s skip all that," Ethan said. "It all boils down to one thing, anyway. Writing is just professional lying. You sit in a dark room by yourself, you make up people who don't exist, and you try to convince total strangers to cry over them.”

He let out a long pause, letting the word lying hang in the air.

“Actually, I am kind of lying about that right now," he added, a mischievous grin tugging at his mouth. "Most of the time, my characters are based on people I really know in the real world. But it’s much better if I say I made them all up, mostly to prevent myself from getting sued.”

He pointed a finger at a tall ginger kid sitting in the front row. “What’s your name?”

The kid blinked, sitting up a little straighter. “Anthony.”

“What’s your favorite class, Anthony?”

“History.”

“Perfect. I can work with that," Ethan said, gesturing between them. "If I write a chapter about a tall, red-headed kid who fell asleep in history class, everyone in Ashford would turn and look at Anthony. And then Anthony would probably find me after school and shove me into a locker."

The class erupted into a wave of quiet snickers. Anthony grinned, ducking his head.

“BUT," Ethan countered, raising a finger, "if I write about a brash Viking warrior named Honey Ant, who tragically fell asleep on his shield after a bloody battle that lasted twenty-four hours... well, then my hands are clean, and the good people at Briarwood Press sleep a whole lot better at night. Same inspiration, better camouflage."

He clapped his hands together, leaning down toward them. "Okay, enough of that strained metaphor. Let's open the floor. Ask me whatever you want. But warning: if anyone asks one of the questions your teacher pre-approved, I get to give you detention!”

Allison stood at the back of the classroom, leaning against the chalkboard, watching him work. She felt a strange, tight warmth blooming in her chest. He was brilliant with them. He didn't talk down to them; he treated their ideas like they mattered. When a kid in the back row nervously pitched a sci-fi concept, Ethan didn't dismiss it, he spent five minutes helping the boy map out the emotional stakes of the story. 

Halfway through the session, the teacher frantically signaled to Allison from the doorway. “The school newspaper photographer's camera battery just died. Do you have a backup charger?”

Allison didn't even blink. She unzipped her backpack, her fingers flying through the internal pockets. Within ten seconds, she had slipped the backup battery into the grateful teacher's hands without making a sound. Moira was right. The bag was her best friend. 

Ethan went on for a lot longer than he was supposed to.  Allison started to gesture for him to “Wrap it up!”

****

When the bell finally rang, the kids didn't immediately sprint for the door. They crowded around the desk, shoving notebooks and loose-leaf paper forward for him to sign. Ethan signed every single one, his handwriting—much to Allison's surprise—actually neat and legible for the kids.

As they finally walked back out to the parking lot, the autumn air crisp and cool, Ethan let out a massive, explosive breath. "I survived. Tell me I did okay, Hart."

"You were spectacular, Crump," Allison said honestly, hoisting her backpack higher on her shoulder. "You actually made a room full of teenagers look at a writer like he was a rock star."

*****

In three seconds, every hand in the room shot up.

"Alright, we have time for one more question," Ethan said, pointing to a girl in the second row with a laptop covered in stickers and an intensely analytical stare. "Go for it."

The girl didn't look at her notebook. She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands, and pointed a blunt finger toward the back of the room. "The Yankee Stadium PR team posted a photo on Twitter last night of you hugging your assistant. Then they deleted it twenty minutes later. Internet archives kept it, obviously."

A collective, breathless oooh rippled through the classroom. The teacher looked like she was about to faint.

The girl’s eyes locked onto Ethan, entirely unbothered by the sudden tension in the room. "The internet is currently debating whether she's just keeping your schedule, or if she's the real-life inspiration behind the romance arc in Piper. So, what's the actual story there?"

The classroom went violently quiet.

Ethan froze. The easy, boyish charm vanished instantly, replaced by a sudden, rigid tension. His eyes didn't dart around the room; instead, his gaze flew straight down the center aisle, past thirty staring teenagers, to lock onto Allison at the back wall.

He didn't say a word. He didn't blink. He just looked at her, his expression a silent, heavy question. Are you okay? Do you want me to shut this down? After what happened with Sarah, he was terrified of letting the spotlight touch her without her permission. He was entirely at her mercy.

Allison felt thirty pairs of eyes slowly pivot from the front of the room to the back, tracking his gaze straight to her. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a sudden flush of heat rising up her neck.

She looked at Ethan, seeing the protective, fierce worry in his eyes. He was ready to tank his own Q&A session to shield her.

A small, defiant smile tugged at the corner of Allison's mouth. She adjusted the heavy strap of her backpack, standing up a little straighter against the chalkboard, and gave him a sharp, subtle nod of her head. Go ahead.

Ethan caught the movement. The tension instantly drained from his shoulders, and that distinctly mischievous, Topps-card smile slid back onto his face.

He turned back to the girl in the second row, leaning in close. "I'll tell you the absolute truth," Ethan said, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper that held the entire room captive. "She runs my entire existence. If I ever tried to write a romance half as brilliant, sharp, and terrifyingly organized as Allison Hart, my publishers wouldn't believe it. Next question."