I stare at the blank document on my computer. The cursor blinks incessantly, obviously mocking me, and my bulldog's heavy breathing seems to be at least ten times as loud as it should be, as if it's been designed especially to interfere with my ability to think clearly.

When I glare at him, he cocks his head to the side and gives me what I imagine is the bulldog equivalent of an inquisitive look. I let out a heavy sigh. "You're right, Hemy. Writing just is not happening tonight. No way, no how."

There's a distinct possibility that I have the worst case of writer's block on the face of the earth. That's a fact.

Well, maybe not a fact, exactly. It's more like a slight exaggeration – but only a small one. I'm sure every writer's case of writer's block feels the worst, but mine is particularly bad.

It's been three damned years since my last book.

When does it stop being writer's block and start being something else entirely, like a permanent case of not-writing?

It's not as if I've written nothing. I've written bits and pieces of novels, scribbled them in ink on sheets of paper torn out of spiral bound notebooks, folded in half, then shoved back inside before tossing the notebooks onto the shelves in my office. I have too many documents on my computer to count, saved and filed away because I'm obsessive-compulsive about keeping the words, even though I never look at them again. I jot down drips and drabs of novels on the backs of napkins when I'm out at a restaurant or a bar, stuffing the napkins into a jacket pocket and emptying the pockets into a desk drawer – also never to be read again. The ideas are in my head, swirling around just out of reach of awareness, beyond being expressed in words.

I should see someone. My agent suggested a therapist, someone who specializes in "dealing with creative types" – my agent's words, not mine. I've never thought of myself as a "creative type", although multiple novels and teaching a class at a prestigious university apparently makes me one.

When I was eighteen years old and spending my evenings scooping popcorn and pouring sodas at the old movie theater in South Hollow, I'd never have thought of myself as anything remotely near creative. At age nineteen, when I joined the Marine Corps because I was fed up with being aimless and directionless in life, I'd have punched anyone who insinuated I might possess even an ounce of creativity. After all, creativity could be put in the same category as irrationality and emotionality and all of that touchy-feely crap.

Now, I'm spending my days trying to recapture the creative magic I seemed to have in spades several years ago, the stuff that generated more ideas than I knew what to do with and caused words to pour from my fingertips.

My brother Nate has given me the same advice as my agent: It's not writer's block if it lasts three years, Gabe. It's a terrible case of resistance. A shrink would have a field day with you.

That's not the only thing a shrink would have a field day with.

As if to emphasize that point, the image of Purity standing in front of my desk flashes in my mind's eye, wearing that white summer dress with her long hair cascading over her shoulders.

I let out a groan. The last thing in the world I need to think about is that girl. In fact, the only reason she's popping into my head at all is to distract me from writing.

That's what I tell myself. That's all there is to it.

It's just a diversion, procrastination at its finest.

My students – hell, my agent and even the university – think that my next novel is just around the corner. I'm simply marinating in a plethora of brilliant ideas, sifting through them until I select the brightest, shiniest diamond. Then, I'll return with The Novel, the one to follow the Previous Big Novel, the book that made me famous.

My last book was supposed to be that novel. It was supposed to be the next stroke of genius from the Big Deal author. But it didn't live up to the expectations and hype that surrounded it, which meant that I was branded with that dreaded label: The Has Been.

The problem is that there's a nagging voice inside me that keeps suggesting the critics are right – that perhaps I'm not a real writer, after all. A real writer is supposed to be brimming with stories, positively overflowing with tales to tell and unable to stop writing because otherwise he'd burst. A real writer shouldn't have to work at it; he'd sit down at the computer and it would flow effortlessly.

On the floor, Hemy stretches and lets out a loud grunt. Reaching down, I scratch him behind the ears before I close my laptop. There's no sense in dwelling on this negative bullshit. "How about a walk, buddy?"

* * *

“You really should drink more.” My brother Nathaniel leans back in his chair with a mimosa in his hand as he gives me his best all-knowing big brother expression.

“Are you suggesting that I imbibe more at brunch specifically, or is this general life advice?” I ask. I glance beyond him to the rolling grass behind the patio where Hemy is roaming around as he makes his typical pathetic attempts to chase the miniature goats that scamper about the lawn. My plump bulldog lumbers a few steps in pursuit of a goat that torments him by running close for a moment before darting away. In response, Hemy falls to his side in the green grass, clearly exhausted despite the fact that we've only been at the farm for thirty minutes. His legs in the air, the dog rolls around on his back before plopping down again on his belly and resting his head on his paws.

“Well, obviously that’s general life advice from your big brother,” Nate says. “But I’m also giving it to you specifically where it concerns your current predicament.”

“What predicament are we discussing?” Angelo walks out onto the patio carrying a tower of Belgian waffles. He sets them in the middle of the table beside a mountain of bacon and eggs and a plate of cheeses. Everything – even the cheese – is homemade from ingredients fresh from Nate and Angelo's farm. My stomach rumbles as the smell of waffles wafts over me. Angelo is an amazing chef, but his waffles in particular are a work of art.

"Can I help you with something?" I ask the question just to be polite, the way I reflexively do at Sunday brunch. In response, I get the same reaction as always from my brother's husband: a horrified expression that I would dare insinuate he needed assistance with anything in the kitchen.

"I'm going to ignore that question, Gabriel." He emphasizes my name in a way that makes it sound like an insult. "I'll assume you're only asking because you're trying to deflect from the issue at hand."

I laugh. "How do you know what the issue at hand is when you were inside the house? You weren't even privy to this conversation."

Angelo unties his gingham apron and hangs it on the back of the rustic farmhouse chair before lowering his large frame into the seat. At six-four and three-hundred-something well-muscled pounds, the man is gargantuan. The mountain of food on the table is mostly to feed the retired professional football player, who doesn't look any different now than he did in his heyday playing football.

He and Nate have been together for a decade and bought this farm seven years ago when Angelo retired from playing ball. When my brother informed me that he was planning to quit his job as a high-powered investment banker to buy a farm and make artisanal cheese… well, let's just say I was a wee bit skeptical.

I might have pulled a back muscle from laughing so hard.

"You're quitting your job to make cheese??" I had asked in disbelief. "You don't even know anything about cheese."

"I'm not happy at the firm. I'm stressed out all the time, and cheesemaking isn't as stressful as banking."

"How do you know?? You don't know anything about it! And a farm?? You wear two thousand dollar suits and get weekly manicures."

"Four thousand dollar suits," he corrected me. "Besides, Angelo and I already bought the place. It's in Pennsylvania."

"You hate small town life," I pointed out. "You moved away from South Hollow to get away from small town life. Small towns mean small minds, you said."

"Some things change," Nate pointed out, shrugging.

Seven years ago, I was unsupportive, to say the least. To put it more accurately, I was absolutely certain my brother had lost his mind.

As it turns out, Angelo is a fantastic cheesemaker. And my brother, the tightly-wound type-A investment banker who used to work a hundred hours a week and barely had time for his professional football player boyfriend, married said boyfriend and settled down on a farm in Pennsylvania, perfectly content to make cheese.

"I don't need a recap," Angelo tells me. "You're a creature of habit and I know exactly what you're talking about. You're discussing your case of writer's block and Nate is suggesting alcohol as a cure for your woes."

"Actually, we're discussing your delusional husband's plan to make clothes for goats," I reply as I slide a waffle onto my plate and cover it in homemade whipped cream made with milk from the farm.

Homemade. Whipped. Cream.

There's a good reason that I've had to increase my running distances since I started teaching at the university an hour away from Nate and Angelo. In the first year after I moved here, our weekly brunches were directly responsible for my immediate ten-pound weight gain.

I skewer a bite of waffle, savoring the delectable, airy pastry. "Something's different," I note.

When I open my eyes, Angelo is looking at me expectantly. "Different good or different bad?"

"Different good. Definitely good."

His expression softens. "I got a new vanilla. It's imported from Tahiti."

"Oh, God. Please don't get him distracted talking about this new vanilla," Nate interrupts. "The next thing you know, it'll be noon and you'll know everything about how the vanilla is sourced and who picks the damned vanilla beans."

I look at Angelo. "You know, now that I think about it, I realize that I don't know a thing about vanilla production. Is it really beans, like coffee? I thought it was pods?"

"It's actually an orchid," Angelo answers.

"I didn't know that," I tell him with exaggerated amazement. My brother glares at me from across the table.

"It's fascinating," Angelo goes on, his enthusiasm infectious. "The orchid grows like a vine with pods that are picked before they're ripe. Then they're dried out for months. Of course, most of the vanilla you buy is full of synthetic crap and flavorings, but this is the good stuff."

"So I should buy Tahitian vanilla," I muse.

"Okay, that's enough, Gabe. Angelo, you realize that my brother is playing you, right?" Nate gives me a stern look. "Really, Gabriel, that's just low, taking advantage of Angelo's new vanilla to avoid talking about how you really need to get your head shrinked because you're procrastinating writing your book."

"It's not procrastination," I clarify. "It's writer's block."

"It's lazy. That's what it is," Nate argues, gesturing with a mimosa in his hand. "Pure, unadulterated laziness. You've gotten soft."

"That's just rude," I joke, rubbing my belly. "Anyway, if I've gotten soft, it's Angelo's fault. And the fault of these waffles."

"Don't blame the waffles for your nonsense," Nate chides.

"Speaking of nonsense…" I deftly maneuver the conversation away from my writer's block as I spear another bite of waffle and shovel it into my mouth. "I have two words for you: goat clothing. That right there is what we call nonsense."

"I swear there is a market for it," Angelo insists. "Did you know that Nate bought a sewing machine? He ordered it off the internet and taught himself to use it with videos online."

"My brother who used to have his tailor's number programmed into his phone is sewing clothes," I say in mock disbelief. At this point, I'll believe anything when it comes to my brother who has enthusiastically embraced his retirement from his formerly lavish lifestyle. "For goats."

"I think it's adorable," Angelo says proudly, covering my brother's smaller hand with his large palm. Nate has always been tall and muscular, but Angelo's size makes him look positively slight in comparison. "Haven't you seen the videos of goats in pajamas? Goat clothes are the new dog clothes."

"Haven't we tormented dogs enough by putting them in clothing?" I ask. "Do we really need to extend the torture to another species?"

"Some dogs love clothes," Nate protests. "I can't help that Hemy is a Neanderthal who won't wear any."

I glance behind us at my dog, who's currently rolling around in a very focused manner in the grass – which most likely means he's found a smelly pile of cow or goat poop to use as perfume. "Hemy is intellectually sophisticated," I joke. "I can't help that his hygiene habits leave something to be desired."

"It's so cute how you defend Hemy," Angelo says. "He's such a big dumb brute."

Nate gives Angelo a look. "He's kind of a kindred spirit, huh?" he teases.

"At least I'm your big dumb brute," Angelo replies, his tone soft as he kisses Nate.

"Ugh. I thought the waffle was syrupy," I groan.

Angelo looks at me, his eyes wide. "Is it too sweet? It shouldn't be. It should be light and fluffy, but the sweetness shouldn't be overwhelming."

"It's fine," I insist with a laugh. "I swear. I was only making a joke."

Angelo's hand goes over his heart. "Don't scare me like that."

"You know how he gets about his cooking," Nate scolds me.

"So how's your novel coming along again?" Angelo asks with a sly smile. "Or the dating life?"

Nate whistles under his breath, and I laugh. "You play dirty, Angelo."

"You're obviously not playing dirty enough." Angelo raises his eyebrows and gives me a long look.

"I have no idea what you mean," I lie, although I know very well what he's talking about. Nate and Angelo have been harping on me when it comes to my dating life – or more accurately, my lack of a dating life – ever since my ex-wife of seven months ran out on me five years ago. Giselle blew through half of my book advance before running off to India with her yoga instructor to "find herself".

Obviously, I know how to pick 'em.

Relationships and marriage might work for some people, like my brother and Angelo, but clearly they're not meant for me – no matter how many attempts the pair of lovebirds make to set me up with someone they insist is perfect.

"There was a cute girl at the farmer's market yesterday. She's a history professor," Angelo tells me. "You probably already know her. I mentioned your name and she knew you. I got her phone number and she told me that you should call her."

A history professor at the university. Someone my age. Someone appropriate.

I should be interested. I should get her number.

Instead, I can't focus on what Angelo is telling me about the age-appropriate history professor who's interested in me.

Instead, the second he mentions her, the only thing I can think about is Purity.

There's something really messed up about that.

I gulp down half my mimosa to try to drown out the image of her face – pure and innocent, naïve and beautiful. "Shit, you're worse than Nate with the matchmaking," I grumble.

"It's my responsibility as your brother to at least try to make sure you don't wind up being a sad lonely old spinster," Nate tells me, reaching for the champagne and pouring more into my glass. "Here, have more. It'll help with your creativity. You should really try writing while drunk. I hear that's a technique."

"I've already tried that," I tell him dismissively. "It doesn't work."

"Isn't that what Hemingway did?" Angelo muses. "You know, that famous writer your dog is named after…"

"Hemingway was an alcoholic," I agree. "And I'd like to avoid having to become an alcoholic myself in order to write a novel, thank you very much. Although between this brunch and –"

I stop abruptly. I was about to blurt out something about seeing Purity and her father yesterday. I hesitate, and I tell myself that it's only because of Alan and Nate's history, but I know otherwise. I hesitate because the thought of Purity – and the heat that rushes through me at the thought of her – makes me uncomfortable.

"Between this brunch and what?" Nate presses.

"Nothing." I shrug.

Angelo laughs, crossing his arms as he leans back in his chair. "That wasn't a nothing kind of nothing. That was a loaded nothing. You met someone?"

"What?? Of course not. Don't be ridiculous." My voice cracks, and I cover it by taking another large swig of the mimosa, causing Angelo to laugh louder.

"Are you blushing?" Nate asks.

"It's the alcohol, jackass," I say abruptly, protesting as much for my benefit as for his. "I didn't meet anyone."

"Sure you didn't," Nate teases. "Your cheeks are flushed like a schoolgirl."

Schoolgirl.

The term sends a new flood of guilt through me. That's what she is. A schoolgirl. Too young. Too naïve.

Too pure.

I let out a heavy exhale. "I'm not twelve years old. It's not about a girl," I lie. "Someone showed up in my office yesterday."

I shouldn't be telling them this at all. Student registration is confidential, and I've never gossiped about students in my class before. I could just blow this off, make light of it, and tell them nothing. Except the alcohol seems to have loosened my tongue, and my guilt has made me feel compelled to spill, like I'm a parishioner confessing my sins to his priest.

Father, forgive me, for I can't seem to stop having impure thoughts about my ex-friend's barely legal daughter.

"Do tell," Nate says. "Was it someone juicy? Do you have a celebrity kid in your class? Oh, please tell me it's a good celebrity child and not some reality show star's kid."

"No celebrity children are enrolled in my class," I reply dismissively. "It was Alan."

"Alan who?" Nate asks, his brow furrowing.

"Alan," I repeat. "From South Hollow."

"That asshole?" Nate rolls his eyes. "What the hell did he want from you? More importantly, what's he doing setting foot on a college campus? Doesn't he think these places are bastions of sin and full of reprobates? Worse, what's he doing at your office? You're basically the Devil himself in his view, aren't you?"

"I'm lost," Angelo interjects. "Who's the asshole we're talking about?"

"You know Alan," Nate tells him. "He's the preacher whose church members showed up with protest signs at my mother's house on my wedding day.”

"Ohhh," Angelo breathes. "The assholes who thought a gay son and his boyfriend shouldn't have a marriage ceremony in a private backyard in a small southern town.”

"Exactly. That asshole," Nate repeats. "What did he want?"

I swig the rest of my champagne and look back and forth between Nate and Angelo. "It's not what he wanted," I tell them with a bitter laugh. "I'm sure it's the exact opposite of what he wanted, actually."

They both look at me expectantly.

"It's his daughter Purity," I elaborate. "She's going to school here – and she's attending my class."

"Shut the fuck up," Nate exclaims. "No way. Hell must have frozen over."

We're all silent for a long moment, before Angelo speaks. "Well," he adds, affecting a thick southern accent. "Bless their hearts."