"You're easy to talk to," I said. "I don't know why."
"Probably because I'm a stranger who you'll never see again after this month." His voice was light, but there was something underneath it—a brittleness that didn't quite match the casual words.
"Is that what you think?"
"Isn't it true?"
I didn't answer, because I didn't know how.
"Your turn," I said instead. "Why are you here?"
His hands tightened on the wheel again. For a moment, I thought he wasn't going to answer.
"I walked in on my boyfriend of three years making out with my personal assistant in a coat closet at my author's book launch party."
"Jesus."
"Savannah Flores. Romance author, absolute sweetheart, had just hit the New York Times list for the first time. I'd planned the whole event—the venue, the catering, the photographer." Farley's voice was flat, controlled, like he'd rehearsed this recitation until it couldn't hurt him anymore. "I found Ollie with his tongue down Roger's throat, and thought I would die."
"Roger being..."
"My PA." His grip on the steering wheel tightened. "So I didn't just lose a boyfriend. I lost my professional judgment, my sense of trust, and my dignity—all in front of half of New York publishing."
"Farley—"
"I had a meltdown. A public, humiliating meltdown in the middle of Savannah's party. She felt terrible, which made me feel worse, because it wasn't her fault my life was imploding on her big night." He exhaled slowly. "My boss told me to take a few weeks off before I had a complete nervous breakdown. So. Here I am. Hiding in the mountains like a wounded animal."
"That's not hiding. That's survival."
He glanced at me, something flickering in his expression. "Is there a difference?"
"Yeah." I turned to look out the window at the rolling farmland, the outskirts of Charlottesville appearing in thedistance. "Hiding is pretending nothing happened. Survival is doing whatever you need to do to get through it."
We drove in silence for another moment.
"For what it's worth," I said finally, "Ollie sounds like an idiot."
Farley's mouth quirked. "He is. Was. Is."
"And Roger sounds worse. That's not just cheating, that's also professional betrayal."
"Roger is exactly the kind of person who thrives in publishing—pretty, ambitious, and completely devoid of loyalty." The bitterness in his voice was sharp enough to cut. "He's probably already working for Ollie's publishing house now. They deserve each other."
I thought about Sabrina, about the calculated way she'd weaponized my identity for engagement metrics. "That's entertainment, too, apparently. People using you for what you can give them."
"Aren't we a pair." Farley pulled into a parking lot outside a strip mall. "Two refugees from toxic industries, hiding in the mountains and making terrible life decisions."
"My terrible life decisions are worse. I made a mustache out of my own hair."
"That's true. You win." Farley turned off the engine and looked at me, and for a moment, neither of us moved. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you made that mustache."
"Because it gave you material to mock me for the next several weeks?"
"Because it made me laugh." His voice was softer now, the sharpness fading into something more vulnerable. "I haven't laughed in... I don't remember how long. And then I walked up to your cabin and saw you standing there like a deranged holiday elf, and I couldn't help it."
"Deranged holiday elf," I repeated. "That's going on my tombstone."
"I'm honored to have contributed."
