Free Do Anything by Wendy Owens Page A

things don’t mean I would have any talent as a writer, no matter how much I’d love to be one.”
    “It seems to me you’re the only one standing in the way of you being a writer.”
    I laugh at his analysis, and he flashes me a glance as though he’s hurt by my response. I grab his arm, still giggling. “All right Dr. Blackburn, how about we quit analyzing me and talk about something else.”
    “You’re just laughing because you know I’m right,” Holden scoffs, pulling my arm until it’s around his elbow.
    We walk through the museum, arm-in-arm. I admire jewelry once worn by her and the history splayed out in front of us. A family quilt made with love, milestones marked throughout her life.
    “Having fun?” he asks as we make our way through the final room.
    I rest my head on his arm. “I am.”
    “Hungry?”
    My ears perk up. “Is this when I get to discover what’s inside the basket?”
    “Maybe,” he chimes playfully.
    We thank the museum worker and make our way back to the truck. I soon realize I am blathering on about Jane and all the useless facts I know about her. We fall silent.
    “You okay?” he asks, noticing the shift.
    “I just realized I must have been boring you.”
    He shakes his head. “I love hearing you talk, especially about stuff that excites you. So I take it Jane is your favorite author?”
    “Oh God, no!” I exclaim.
    “What?” He gasps, and I realize how absurd I must sound.
    “It’s kind of hard to name a favorite. I’m into the classics, but I also love authors like Anne Rice, John Green, and Veronica Roth.” I rattle off another half dozen authors who have inspired me, and he listens closely as he drives.
    He inquires about names he doesn’t recognize, and I describe what they’ve written. I promise his life will never be the same once he reads them. Before I finish my last explanation, he’s pulling off onto the side of the road, the truck hopping as it pulls into the grass.
    “What are we doing?” I ask, realizing we are in the middle of nowhere.
    He grins at me. “You’ll see.”
    We exit the truck, the basket now firmly in his grasp, and my fingers intertwined with his other hand. This doesn’t feel real. The natural connection I have with him, the instantaneous comfort level between us. I don’t want to ruin this; it’s an amazing feeling so I keep my mouth shut and go with it.
    We walk over the hillside; a huge tree comes into sight. Walking about another twenty yards, he stops and opens the basket. I watch, intrigued, as he pulls out a blanket first, spreading it across the ground.
    “Oh my, are we going to have a picnic?” I ask, excited.
    “Depends, do you like picnics?” he asks, his hands hovering over the open basket, waiting for my answer.
    “I love them.”
    “Then yes,” he confirms, reaching in and pulling out several containers.
    I sit down on the blanket, exploring the contents. “What did you make us?”
    “Yeah, I made it, sure, that sounds good,” he jokes.
    “I see … what did Bea make us?” I laugh.
    “Some fried chicken, a pasta salad, and I think she put some bread and butter in here—” he says, still pulling items from the basket. “Yeah, here it is. And of course, a bottle of wine.”
    “Nice, very impressive.”
    “I try,” he says, taking a seat and twisting off the wine cap.
    “Screw top, fancy,” I tease.
    “Nothing but the best.”
    A moment later we’re devouring the food; my stomach thrilled with the selections. Holden swallows his mouthful. “Can I ask you a question?”
    I smile, then answer, “I don’t know, will I not like the question?”
    “I don’t think it’s bad.”
    “Okay,” I answer, hesitant.
    “Have you ever tried to write anything?”
    I flinch at his question, surprised at the seriousness with which he asked. “I guess, in college, for assignments.”
    “No—like a book. Have you ever tried to write a book?”
    I shake my head. “I’ve thought about it, but I don’t