We all have chapters we wish we could rewrite. The Side Project by Laurel Osterkamp asks what might happen if you’re handed that chance—only to realize that confronting the truth is the hardest story to tell.

Still living in the shadows of her father’s literary legacy, Rylee is stuck—emotionally, professionally, geographically. Her late father’s half-finished novel sits on a shelf like an accusation, and her own creative ambitions have long been sidelined by caretaking and loss. Meanwhile, Carson—the boy she loved and lost—has returned to Bemidji not as a dreamer, but as a father with little room for nostalgia. When their lives intersect again in a graduate fiction seminar, they’re pushed into partnership, revisiting wounds they never properly closed. Their private “side project” begins as a casual, rules-bound affair, but as their writing turns intimate, so do their conversations. The story they’re crafting on the page becomes a catalyst for unearthing everything they’ve buried—grief, guilt, longing, and the hope that maybe this time, they’ll get it right.

Excerpt

I steel myself and step out of my car, determined to keep things businesslike today. The sight of Carson outside raking leaves, ruggedly adorable with Ferris running circles around his feet, does nothing to break my resolve. I tell myself: You’re here to work. Nothing more, nothing less.

“Hey, Rylee.” He grins, pushing up his sleeves. “You’re right in time to hold the leaf bag.”

I don’t have time to respond before a happy splash of black fur races past us, yipping and barking. I laugh, and Carson shakes his head, smiling as well.

“Ferris loves chasing leaves,” Carson says.

Ferris circles us. Running in the autumn wind, his mouth is full of fluttering colors and twigs.

I contemplate Carson’s leaf bag. “The hardest part is always getting in the first few handfuls of leaves. Did you know they have these cardboard insert thingies that keep the bag open?”

Carson holds his rake with one hand. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. My dad was excited when he discovered them at the hardware store. It used to be our thing, my dad and I, bagging leaves together.”

“Oh.” Carson’s mouth goes slack, and his eyes pool with sympathy. It’s like he backed over a bunny rabbit by accident. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up old memories.”

I wave off the awkwardness as if I’m shooing away bugs. “No worries. It won’t break me to hold the bag open, and I’ll even push down the leaves as you put them in.” My words come out in a rush. “Where should I put my computer?”

“I’ll put it inside. Do you also want me to take your purse?”

“Sure, thanks.” I hand him both.

He takes them through his front door as a gust of wind threatens to upend Carson’s carefully constructed leaf pile. I snatch up the rake, ready for battle. “You won’t escape me, bitches!” I yell at the flying leaves.

I look over to see Carson on his front stoop, watching my wild efforts like I’m a vaudeville spectacle he can’t quite believe. Embarrassed, I kick at the ground. “I didn’t want all your hard work ruined.”

His expression is serious. “Have you tried positive reinforcement? I’ve found that fallen leaves don’t respond well to punitive measures.”

“Right,” I reply, “because they have nothing to lose. Their fate is inside a garbage bag or being trapped by an uncaring tire. Snow will cover the lucky ones until after the thaw.” I run the rake through the grass at my feet. “Then they’ll get scooped up—along with all the dog poop and candy wrappers the trick-or-treaters leave behind.”

Using his index finger to rub his chin, Carson considers this. “Trick-or-treaters leave behind dog poop?”

“Some of the angry ones do.”

He laughs—and darn if he isn’t cute when he smiles—before saying, “Guess I’d better buy good candy this year.”

“No black licorice or breath mints.” I let out a low groan. “But the worst are those peanut butter-flavored taffies wrapped in orange or black wrappers.”

“Those are the worst. I never ate them.”

“Me neither.”

I hold open the bag, and Carson bends down, scoops up the leaves, and stands very close as he shoves them inside. I’m painfully aware of how his Levis-clad butt looks oh-so-good when he bends over. After the bag is full, he glances up at his tree and down at his yard, thanking me for my help. Then he sort of stands there, gazing at me, and I can’t help but ask. “What?”

“Nothing. Sorry. You’d lose all respect for me if I told you,” he mumbles.

“Now you have to tell me.”

He brushes a leaf from his sleeve. “No, really,” he stammers, “it's ridiculous.”

I nudge his ankle with my sneaker’s rubber toe. “Try me.”

Rolling his eyes skyward, he asks, “Did you ever read The Majestic Seven? That fantasy about the seven heroes who must save their kingdom?”

“No,” I reply. “But I’ve heard of it. Why?”

Carson’s cheeks turn the slightest bit pink. “I was thinking how you’re like Lady Seraphina.”

My hands fly to either side of my face. “It’s because of my pointy ears, right?”

“What? No.” He blinks in confusion. “Why would you make that connection?”

“Because I saw the trailer for the movie adaptation, and the only female character is an elf. The tips of her ears are like razors.”

“No!” Carson swallows a laugh. “God, no, that’s not what I meant.”

I look him up and down. “Well, what did you mean?”

His voice sounds like a worn vinyl record, smooth in the center but scratched at the edges. “You’re the type of girl who could save the world.”

“You mean ‘woman’ and not ‘girl,’ right?”

“Of course. Sorry.” He releases a self-conscious chuckle. “You’re the kind of woman who could save the world. One hundred percent.”

“Thank you.” Then, feeling that magnetic pull, I drop my gaze to the ground.

He hits his forehead. “God. I’m such an idiot. I promised I’d be professional today, and I’ve already blown it, haven’t I?”

I search for a response. Thankfully, Ferris runs up to me, and I busy myself with petting him. “It’s fine. But I don’t understand. Why would I lose all respect for you?”

“Because you’ll realize I like fantasy novels.”

Kneeling down, I let Ferris nuzzle my shoulder. “Please. As if I didn’t already know? Remember how in high school, you’d check out The Prince of Saturn and slide it into your backpack before anyone could see?”

Carson raises an eyebrow. “Except for you.”

I notice a renegade leaf on my shoulder and brush it off. “That’s right. Because I was also always in the media center after lunch, most likely checking out some gothic romance, which is way more looked down upon than science fiction or fantasy.”

“Yeah, but you weren’t on the hockey team.” He smirks. “If the other players knew about my reading habits, they’d have kicked my ass.”

“So, you tried to pretend you weren’t smart? How’d that work out for you, college boy?”

He opens his mouth to respond but laughs instead. “Hey, you mentioned gothic romance, and that reminds me. I dug your story. A contemporary Charlotte Brontë! It was so original. I don’t have very many revision notes for you, because the story flowed. And I’m worried that if you rework it a lot, you’ll lose that.”

“Thanks, I’m glad you liked it. I liked your story too, and not just because you liked mine.” Shifting my weight, I say, “Should we go inside and get to work?”

He nods. “Yeah. Let’s do that. Follow me.”

At this moment, I’d be happy to follow him anywhere.

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About the Author

With each novel, Laurel Osterkamp proves her gift for capturing emotional realism and crafting characters whose strength lies in their vulnerability. A bestselling author whose work appeals to fans of Katherine Center and Annabel Monaghan, Laurel writes women’s fiction that’s unafraid of mess—of contradictions, of relationships that don’t tie up neatly, of women who are still figuring themselves out. She brings her lived experience into the mix as a teacher, mother, and pop culture enthusiast, and she never shies away from letting her characters stumble as they grow. Her work is honest, engaging, and quietly brave. Visit laurellit.com or follow her on Instagram at @laurel_osterkamp.