I feel a warm little glow in my chest when he says this, an instant, involuntary reaction to any kind of praise, but especially that kind, the words you’re a writer said in any context. But I don’t really believe it. I don’t believe he’s being sincere, I’m not sure he has the level of expertise required to make this pronouncement anyway, and the whole situation is giving me flashbacks to the last time he said this, and how I can’t truly trust him.

‘But?’ I press.

‘But nothing.’

‘Come on. There’s a reason why my teacher wants me to write something else.’

‘Well, it’s about a married couple in their thirties, right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And you’re eighteen.’

‘Almost nineteen.’

‘So, you could, like, take most of that plot, the essence of the story and characters and the relationship stuff, but make them younger? Maybe draw on your own experiences?’

‘Maybe,’ I say. My brain instantly scoffs. He’s wrong. What does he know? That would never work. How many books has he even read this year? But that’s just my instinctive defensive reaction to any feedback, I need to let that chatter run its course, and then dig down underneath it, where, maybe, yes, he’s a tiny bit right. I thought the story would matter more if the characters were older, with kids and houses and finances at stake, but maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it doesn’t need any of that.

‘And—’ he starts to say.

I hold up my hand.

‘Stop. I need to just sit and think about that. I need about ten minutes between every bit of feedback—to emotionally process.’

‘Okay, so we sit in silence?’

‘No, it’s your turn now. Tell me about your fight with your Dad.’

‘Nah.’

‘You’ve read my story. You tell me a story now. A real one.’

‘It’s not a good story.’

‘That’s okay. Mine wasn’t either.’

‘It’s not even a story.’

‘Just talk,’ I say, gently.

‘You really want to hear about it?’

‘I want you to tell me every detail.’