Devon shrugged. She’d had to shut it down, at least temporarily. If she were to check in, it could show her location, and she didn’t want to accidentally make a mistake. It wasn’t like she could rig Facebook into saying she was in both Paris and St. Louis at the same time. She was no genius with computers, and even if she were, she was pretty sure it was illegal.
“I’m living in the present,” she told Garrett, which was true. She didn’t even want to think about the past.
“It’s the best place to live.” Garrett just stared at her with the same curious expression on his face.
The whole conversation had triggered something within her. She felt like if she didn’t get her feelings out right then and there, she would lose it. Digging into her purse, Devon pulled out her notebook. She grabbed her favorite pen, stalked over to a park bench, and immediately started writing down bits and pieces of whatever came to her mind.
Garrett followed and sat down next to her, peering over her shoulder. “What are you writing?”
Moving the notebook out of his view, she murmured, “Nothing.”
“Looks like something. I don’t know many people who carry notebooks around with them.”
“Me neither.” She continued to jot down ideas as they flowed through her.
“Is it like a journal?” he asked, trying to read what she was writing.
She scooted down the bench. “Just give me a second.”
She wrote one last line and then shut the notebook. Garrett was staring at her intently, and she made a point of not looking at him.
“So, not to pry or anything,” he said, obviously prying, “but who just whips out a book in public and starts writing?”
He laughed at her, and she couldn’t hold it in as she laughed softly with him. He had a point.
“I can’t help it sometimes. The words are just there.” She stuffed the notebook back into her bag and stood.
“Are you going to tell me what you wrote?”
“Nope,” Devon said, turning away from The Bean.
“Is it like a journal or a diary? Is that why I can’t read it?”
“No. I don’t talk about my writing. Sorry,” she said. “Is that a garden? Can we walk through?”
“Sure,” Garrett said, “but don’t think you can change the subject so easily.”
“It’s not a big deal. Just forget about it.” She walked briskly in the direction of the garden.
She hated when people asked questions about her writing. It was deeply personal. She kind of hated herself for the compulsive habit, but she had been doing it since she was a kid. She was good at it, but she didn’t share well with others.
“It’s kind of a big deal to you, isn’t it?” Garrett asked as they walked into the garden.
“Not really,” she said, biting her lip.
“Then, you can tell me about it,” he said smoothly.
Devon stopped and shook her head. She knew he was just being nice, but he was meddling into things she didn’t want him near. She needed to change the course of the conversation. Any question he asked about her was going to be one question too many.
Bending down, she took a series of photos of a purple flower in bloom. It was better than answering Garrett’s questions. He might be trying to get to know her, but she wasn’t ready to open up to anyone anytime soon.
“Hey, sorry,” he muttered.
She glanced up at him as his hand brushed through his dark brown hair. He actually looked sheepish.
“I didn’t mean to get in your business. I didn’t know it would be so private.”
Devon slowly stood. “It’s alright. Don’t worry about it.”
“Afraid your writing sucks? I know that’s why I don’t show anyone anything I’ve ever written,” he told her.
“No, it’s not that,” she said. Writing came very natural to her. “I just don’t like to show people.”
“I hope you’re not an English major or anything. It would be pretty bad if you never showed your professors your work,” Garrett said with a smile.
“Oh god, no! I’m a social work major.” Devon walked next to him as they left the gardens and headed toward the lakefront.
“Social work?” he asked, wrinkling his nose. “What do you want to do work with inner-city kids in gangs or handle abuse cases? Either sounds awful.”
Devon swallowed hard and bit down on her lip until it hurt. “No,” she answered sharply.
Everyone always looked down on social work as if it wasn’t a legitimate degree, but Wash U had the number one program in the country. Social work majors dealt with all sorts of issues, and were very prominent in the lobbying world. A friend of hers was currently working on protection of women’s rights in D.C., and she didn’t have any complaints about her social work background.
“Social work benefits a normal productive life span. Just because you were raised with a well-to-do family does not mean that the rest of society is so fortunate. People should receive the same care and help,” Devon answered vehemently. “Besides, social work can be used everywhere—government, counseling, nursing homes, community planning. I could go on and on.”
“I do believe you could,” Garrett said with a smile. “Didn’t mean to come off as condescending.”
“We can’t all be business majors,” Devon said curtly.
“Sounds like you really want to be, too.”
“Is that sarcasm?” she asked.
“I would never be sarcastic.”
Devon rolled her eyes as the traffic light changed. They walked across the street and down a set of stairs to the lake. The water was choppy from the wind and the boats out in the harbor. Off in the distance, the Navy Pier looked crowded, and the Ferris wheel turned slowly, stopping every few feet to let passengers on and off. Runners crisscrossed the path, and a couple was rollerblading hand-in-hand. It was a rather picturesque day.
“Stay here a minute,” Garrett said before rushing away.
Devon sighed and pulled out her notebook again. Now that he was gone, she reread what she had written by The Bean. She studied the words and the tone that they had taken. Everything seemed to drift back to the moment that had pushed her over the edge.
Thumbing back to the day after it had happened, she saw the faint bumps in the paper that signified where her teardrops had fallen onto the page. They marred half the page, and as she skimmed the words, she felt a lump form in her throat. The memories and emotions were as all too much. Why was she actively reliving it? She couldn’t seem to get away, and half the time, she didn’t think she wanted to.