In my own little version of Pavlov's classical conditioning experiment, I was both Pavlov and the dog.

I had taught myself to get off my bed as soon as my alarm beeped the awful toad-like shrill it did every morning instead of snoozing it like I always wanted to do.

I had to wake up extra early to keep up with the unnecessary stack of commitments I had lovingly crafted and piled up for myself.

To trick my sleep-deprived brain into thinking this was fun, I made a little challenge out of trying to get as many things done as possible before 6:00 a.m.

Those tasks included reviewing parts of manuscripts for Alec with the aid of a rubric he had been thoughtful enough to provide because he wasn't as ridiculous as Mr. Crawford.

Besides job-related tasks, my homework assignments' deadlines filled up every blank spot of my planner.

I had also added to consider hanging out with Mom as a goal for this week, especially since she had been on her best behavior the week she moved in, but there was simply not enough time to also care for socialization.

Some things would have to suffer so that I could remove some of the pressure on my brain.

In my free time--more wishful thinking than anything--I devoted my mind to detective work.

I still hadn't pieced together my mother's motives for wanting a better relationship with me all of a sudden. She had not made any snarky comment about my cooking or my studies.

Her actions and words, dipped in honey and all sorts of other sweet things I couldn't stand, didn't match what I could remember before moving.

She was a stranger that I was just now meeting—brand new, unpredictable. She also refrained from taking over like I had expected her to—rearranging my pantry, adjusting the center table on the rug.

Miles Whitman was another mystery my mind enjoyed contemplating when it ignored that it was already drowning with work.

I hadn't seen him since the park, and I had half a mind to email him and annoy the creativity out of him. But sometimes, I did listen to the better quarter of my brain telling me not to be an idiot. Rarely, but it still counted.

Mom certainly seemed to think I should reach out last week when I told her about him. The prior polite interest on her face had morphed into genuine curiosity when I mentioned that Miles was something of a local celebrity.

If anything was the same about her, it was that her face still came alive at the prospect of networking.

"And he's asking you for help?" She had leaned forward across the kitchen counter, expecting every detail.

"I guess I sort of offered it." My head drooped to the side. "I'm actually blanking on the exact conversation. I can't remember who said what," I lied.

Somehow, things weren't happening to me. I was making them happen. At least, I could expect the trophy for master of self-sabotage any day now.

"Well, if my opinion counts for anything, I think he could teach you a thing or two," Mom said. The comment was galaxies away from being helpful at all despite what she seemed to think.

"The guy's a Mr. Crawford in the making. He wouldn't be teaching me anything new. He would lecture me on my insensitive writing."

"You don't know that. Besides, you could help him out too. And he sounds interesting."

She glanced at my laptop's screen where I had placed it on the edge of the counter, threatening to spring forward and fall. Bluff.

"Oh, is that him?" she asked, pointing to one of the two windows that shared my screen.

"That's the guy." I focused on the other window where a cooking blog was teaching me how to fix my pasta recipe.

"He looks young. What is he, 20?"

Mom overestimated my ability to influence people. I had a feeling Miles wouldn't be able to write a word until he realized how much he wanted to. Until then, there was nothing I could do to help him.

I pulled up my laptop on my work desk that morning to start working towards my 6:00 a.m. goals. Before I could write a word, my phone blared louder than necessary about an incoming call.

Mom shifted under her sheets and groaned.

My hand patted the table surface, trying to locate the heartless culprit. I tiptoed out of the room, then picked up Ace's call.

"I don't think I need to tell you that it's five in the morning. What could possibly be so urgent that it couldn't wait until normal people wake up?"

"I knew you'd be up." His voice didn't sound as sleepy as I expected it to.

"What is it?" I asked, whispering loud enough for him to hear me, but also without waking Mom.

"I think I've found my calling," Ace said.

That sentence had lost all its value as he had repeated it over a dozen times through our senior year and the first two years of high school. He initially thought it was the funniest joke ever—calling me to talk about callings.

There was something very wrong with that guy's sense of humor.

"What, did it come to you in a dream or something?"

"No. I'm done literally following my dreams. Remember my competitive horseback riding phase?" he asked. I shuddered at the memory of his horse attacking a vertical jump on an obstacle course and leaving Ace behind in literal mud.

"This time, it's safer. This specific challenge just involves being up early. Insert the quote about art and suffering since I can't remember it."

"So, what is it?" I sat on top of the counter, staring at the stoves and chasing away a vague memory of Thomas in an apron cooking and dancing.

"Photography. Anyway, I wanted to capture the sunrise today. But it's quite a long drive from my house."

"Does the sun not rise on your side of town, Ace?"

"Hilarious. You know what I mean. It looks gorgeous around the water. The closest lake is a bit of a drive away and I wanted to make it in time."

"Whatever happened to "easing into things"? Couldn't you start with, oh, I don't know, a vase?"

"When has taking small steps ever worked for me?"

My hand pressed against my mouth to stop myself from pointing out that no other strategy had worked out for him in the long term. He was still as clueless about his career path as he had been the first time he "found his calling".

The most recent one had been law, and he had piled up textbooks of laws and precedence the same day he thought of it. He had no clue what "slow and steady" meant. Everything in his life followed a "crash and burn" with him.

"Is Emma coming along with you?"

"No. She went to sleep late last night after working on the choreography with Sean or whatever his name was."

"Sebastian," I said, though I knew he hadn't forgotten anything.

"Yeah, okay. Him. Anyway, I have to start driving. Just figured I'd continue the 3-year-old tradition of calling you before I fail."

"You'll do fine. Let me know how your sunrise masterpiece goes."

➷➷➷

I walked out of Triple W after work in a hurry to get to my car. But when I found Miles Whitman leaning against a classy Infiniti in the parking lot, I forgot why I wanted to go home.

"What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for you," he answered, not missing a beat as the tiniest hint of a smile considered gracing the corner of his lips.

"You know you could have gotten in, right? Alec doesn't bite." I pointed out, nodding back towards the entrance of the building.

He dismissed my point with a lazy wave of his hand. "Maybe another time."

"What can I help you with?"

At five in the afternoon, the sun was still blazing, charging with all its rays, disregarding my preferences as it always did.

Staying in this weird position also made me a little fidgety. My hands itched to find something to do, but I couldn't move.

Miles slipped his arm inside the car through the lowered window of his door and brought out two slips of paper.

He handed me the first one without a word. My fingers took the white card, shaking a little, hoping that my sweaty hands would not stain the spotless piece of paper. The aesthetic printed note in italics claimed to invite me to Rose Davis and Liam Thompson's wedding.

"What about it?" I asked, looking up from the card.

"My mom's getting remarried. Any guesses on who gets to make the first toast?" he asked, with the usual permanent note of playfulness in his tone.

"You." I didn't know why he had been waiting for me just to tell me about what he'd be doing on the 29th of this month. "What does that have to do with me?"

"Well, take a look at what I have so far."

He handed the second piece of paper, and I glanced down at the note where he had scribbled four words: "So... marriage, huh? Cool," I read the note out loud then looked back up at him. "Wow."

Even then, he didn't seem to be all that affected by his inability to write anything coherent. Instead, his dark eyes remained fixed on me, as though my reactions were his afternoon entertainment of choice.

"What can I say? I'm a romantic." He smiled—a light and carefree smile that showed way too many of his teeth and formed lines around his eyes, squinted to protect him from the sun. It stole a smile from me too.

Maybe it was because it seemed to come so easy to him that it felt like it was pulling me in with an invisible thread. It seemed a command away from breaking apart his face.

Mine took conscious effort and deliberation, and it still paled in comparison to whatever you could call what was on his face.

I browsed through the messy shelves of words in my brain, looking for something to say about the current state of his toast. "Well, that's, uh, that's a start."

He pushed himself off the car and nodded for me to walk with him.

"Can I ask you a question?" I steered us in the path where there seemed to be the most shade. He nodded, looking at me with a guarded expression on his face. "You're a successful writer already, and you're only what, 24? I don't know the first thing about professional writing. Why are you asking me for help?"

"You offered," he reminded me with a slight chuckle that stung my skin more than the heat.

I focused on the steps of the sidewalk, trying not to trip at the spots where it became uneven.

"But, as far as this afternoon goes, maybe it was because I had no other excuse to talk to you again." He stopped walking, and his gaze lingered on my face as blood rushed to display my embarrassment to the rest of the world. "Or because, in your offer to help, I heard your own cry for help."

"That's just dramatic." I scoffed. "No wonder you're a writer. But, seriously, how can I help?"

"Well, what are you doing on the 29th?" he asked as we headed back to the parking lot.

"Are you asking me out on a wedding date?" As always, it was out before I could really think it through. I was convinced that my cheeks would match the shade of my hair if I didn't leave as soon as possible.

"Do you want me to ask you out, Kelly?" The small smile that lived and died on the corners of his lips was the only indication that he was teasing me.

"How can I help you with your writing?" I specified.

"Maybe just working on it with y—with a partner—might make me take it more seriously. Besides, everything feels more important when I see you react in the dramatic way you do every time I mention writing failures."

"I guess we can plan to meet sometime on weekends."

"Hey," he said as I opened my car door, a serious expression settled on his face for a brief moment. "I know college is a busy time, but if you ever do have any free time, I'd be more than happy to turn your relaxing days into chaos."

Then the smile.

A/N: Thanks for reading!

I feel like I'm taking more creative liberties with this book than I did with "Losing Grip".

I'm really enjoying writing it (minus all the pressure of keeping up with NaNoWriMo), so I hope you're enjoying reading it too!

-D.T. ➷