bad expectations | jfg

67

A/N I'm going to be on YouNow right after you read this long chapter so please go to my twitter(@90ina55) so we can talk about sex:), jk.

"What do you write about?" Jack asks me as he leans his arms on the hood of his car. He tilts his head in innocent curiosity as my head swarms. He didn't want to go in the field, and I didn't want to stay in the car- so, we decided that we'd sit on the roof. It was a pretty good idea, actually. "I mean, lately." He elaborates.

It takes me moments to think of a simple one word answer because, Jesus, I write a lot.

"Everything." I tell him.

"Like, what though?" He pushes.

"Just everything."

"Be specific." He demands before scolding himself, "Please."

I smile and fold my hands before setting them in my lap, he watches me. He doesn't understand, I literally write about everything. It's actually kind of stupid. It could be about something I saw and I wanted to relate it to something else or just how I feel in the moment to get my mind off of things.

"I don't know. Not about brown being my favorite color, though." I slowly raise my gaze to meet his.

His eyebrows go up before they slouch again and his face goes red faster than I expected. I grin.

"How did you see that?" He groans and looks down at his legs.

"Mr. Sander's gave me manuscripts because I visited his office. It was good, really good."

He shakes his head and looks away from me, "That is way too cheesy. I know I like being cliche with you but writing paragraphs about your stupid eyes is embarrassing."

He huffs a breath and for a moment, he actually seems annoyed, but his grin goes against the possibility.

"Off of me and back to you," He announces, obviously hating me calling him out. He should be happy with what he wrote, it's not like it was for me, it was just about me. And yes, that's sweet, but it's also talent. A vague talent, but a talent. "I'm asking what you write about because I don't know what'd it be. Like, do you write about things in New York? I feel like writers need to travel." He says and picks his drink up, sucking from the straw.

I slowly shrug, taking his words in. I would like to travel but the signings that I have had and have coming up aren't that far from New York, I just use my imagination when I write. That's it.

"I think that experimentation is just an excuse for people to act like they know more than a regular being." I say and he stares at me.

He raises an eyebrow as if he's considering my statement, "Okay. Maybe. But, if you wanted to write a story that was based in Venice, wouldn't you want to go there instead of just looking it up online?" He questions.

I roll my head back in smile, "Venice is so pretty." I move off the topic a little bit.

He doesn't speak for a few moments as I look at the dark sky, "I know." He says.

"But, I guess you're right." I sigh and look at his skinny legs next to mine, "I don't have enough money to just travel wherever I want, though." I lightly laugh.

"Not yet." He says.

I ignore his statement and we begin to talk for hours. Too much about why he all of a sudden has this interest in writing whatever he wants, he said that he doesn't want to be "seriously" published, he just wanted to see what would happen if someone liked it. He said that Sam's lack of participation in his class makes him want to try harder so he can get a better grade, which is... interesting?