Page 4 of The Write Midlife

She snorted into her wine glass. "Oh yeah? Well, see that woman over there in the red dress? That's Vivian Graham. She writes bodice-rippers set in Victorian England, but I'm pretty sure she thinks the internet is powered by hamsters on wheels."

Nate's eyes crinkled with amusement. "And what about you? Mel, was it?" She nodded, and he kept going. "What's your secret shame?"

She leaned in conspiratorially. "Promise not to tell? Sometimes, when I'm stuck on a particularly tricky plot point, I act out scenes with my collection of stuffed animals."

He threw his head back and laughed, drawing curious glances from nearby guests. "I knew there was a reason I liked you."

As the night wore on, Nate and Melody fell into an easy rhythm of conversation. They traded stories about their worst writing experiences (hers involved a disastrous book signing where she accidentally signed a baby), their favorite books (he had surprisingly good taste for someone who claimed to be new to the industry), and their secret dreams (she confessed her desire to write a romance novel set entirely in a cheese shop).

After some time, Nate signaled the bartender for fresh drinks. “So," he started, extending a glass to her, "successful author, sharp wit, and a stuffed animal theater troupe. There has to be a family somewhere wondering where they went wrong."

She laughed, accepting the fresh glass of wine. "Only child, actually. My mother always said she got it perfect the first time, no need for encores."

"You too? And here I thought I was the only one who had to bear the crushing weight of being the sole focus of parental expectations."

"Oh God, the expectations. Did you get the 'when are you giving us grandchildren' guilt trips too?"

"Only at every family dinner until-" He caught himself, something flickering across his face. "Well, until I made it clear my career came first."

She studied him over the rim of her glass. "Funny how that works, isn't it? Everyone expects you to have this perfect timeline - career, marriage, kids. But sometimes life has other plans."

"Or sometimes you're too busy building a life to create new ones," Nate added softly. "My mother eventually stopped asking. I think she figured out that publishing empires and parenthood don't always mix."

"Tell me about it," she said, thinking of all the manuscripts that became her babies instead. “My mother was the one who understood that.”

“Sounds like a very cool woman.”

She nodded, throat tightening. “She was.”

Nate’s gaze lowered, his jaw tightening. He cleared his throat. “Seems like the kind of woman I would have liked to have met.” He straightened. “And your dad?”

“Pretty MIA since I popped out on planet Earth. He lives on a boat in the south of Spain, last time I heard. Or maybe it was France…? I dunno. Either way, my mother’s side of the family has more than made up for his absence. Try telling your distant but very nosy aunts that your characters are the only children you have time for. My Aunt Reba still sends me articles about freezing my eggs."

Nate nearly choked on his drink. "Please tell me you're joking."

"I wish. Last Christmas she gave me a fertility calendar. A fertility calendar. I used it to plot my next book's timeline out of spite."

He threw his head back laughing, and she couldn't help but join in. There was something freeing about finding someone who got it - the choices, the trade-offs, the way life sometimes took you down unexpected paths.

"You know what the worst part is?" he said, folding his much taller body towards her. "The pitying looks when you say you're single and childless. Like you're some sort of tragic cautionary tale."

"Right? Heaven forbid we're actually satisfied with our choices. Though I have to admit, some days my stuffed animal theater troupe does feel a bit like a daycare."

"At least stuffed animals don't need college funds.”

"Or throw tantrums about eating their vegetables."

"Or need you to explain why the publishing industry is slowly crushing their soul."

They shared a knowing look, and she felt that spark of connection grow stronger. It was rare to find someone who understood, who didn't try to explain away her child-free choice or convince her that she was missing out. Or that she was selfish. Or that she was defective. No. She was simply a person who made a choice to wake up every morning the way that felt best for her…as her mother would have said.

It was only when she glanced at her watch that she realized they had been talking for hours. The crowd had thinned considerably, and the bartender was giving them pointed looks.

"I can't believe it's so late," she said, feeling a pang of disappointment. "I should probably head home."

Nate nodded, but there was a glint in his eye that made her heart race. "Or," he said, his voice low and inviting, "we could continue this conversation somewhere a bit more... private."

She knew she should say no. She had a manuscript due in ninety days, and her agent would have her head if she missed another deadline. But there was something about Nate that made her want to push her own already-shaky boundaries.