When the manager is finished with her introduction, she instructs, “If you’ll just raise your hand if you have a question, Francis will get the microphone to you.”
People immediately begin to raise their hands. Francis rushes the microphone over to one of them. It’s a woman who looks to be around my age, and she’s wearing a shirt with a stack of books on the front of it. Other women in her row are whispering to her, so it looks like she’s here with a group.
She finally makes eye contact with me, and she looks just as nervous as I feel. “This might be an uncomfortable question,” she says. “But this is the first time you’ve done a Q&A in two years. Since the adaptation.”
“Oh boy,” I say, laughing awkwardly.
The woman continues. “I know, it’s the elephant in the room. But you’ve never once spoken on it, and we’re all dying to know why you agreed with the choice to remove Caleb from the movie. Could you talk about that?”
There’s a quiet murmur in the room, but surprisingly, I don’t mind it. I don’t mind this. It’s an inevitable question if I plan on writing more books, and it’s better to get it out of the way first.
“Yes. I mean, not that I necessarilywantto, but I do think readers deserve an explanation.”
More murmurs rush through the room. A few excited claps.
“The truth is, I’m a writer. I write books. And when those books get adapted, it takes years, and dozens of people. And the movie side of this is a different world from what I’m used to. I don’t even look at that world as part of my career, because I’m not a director or a produceror even a screenwriter. I feel like they’re the experts in their field, so when their idea for their adaptation differed from what I wanted to see on-screen, and what I knew you all wanted to see on-screen, I ultimately trusted them to know what would make the better movie. Because that wasn’t my area of expertise. Of course I gave my opinion, but every time I fought to keep Caleb, my words were met with resistance.”
A few groans come from the audience.
“Hold on,” I say. “I’m not blaming anyone. Yes, the producer, Allister, had a different vision than I did. It was his project at that point, and he chose to change the storyline, along with many other people. That’s the risk you take as an author when you sell your film rights.”
Someone else already has the microphone, and she immediately piles on to the previous question. “But why did you deny having a part in it? We all saw the text exchange.”
I can feel heat crawling up my neck. But I knew this was inevitable, so I face it with complete honesty. “Honestly? I made the post saying it wasn’t up to me because, honestly, it wasn’t. If I had it my way, I would have been faithful to the book. But I lost confidence. I gave up and gave in when I should have fought harder for Caleb. And that’s no one’s fault but my own. For that, I’m sorry. Because for what it’s worth, I am team fucking Caleb.”
The audience erupts into immediate applause. I feel instant relief at the reaction, despite knowing once this Q&A hits the internet, there will be a myriad of opinions on what I just said. But finally saying my piece without throwing anyone under the bus while doing it feels good. The same can’t be said for Allister, but for all I care, he can continue parading around on podcasts and calling me difficult all he wants. Because the truth is, Iamgoing to be difficult if another adaptation happens. I’m going to fight tooth and nail for the story the readers supported, and I don’t mind having the reputation Allister is out there giving me. It’s probably better that I do. I’d rather have adaptations I’m proud of than adaptations that don’t even resemble their original forms.
The woman who asked that question thanks me, but then pauses before handing the microphone off to someone else. She brings it back to her mouth and says, “You used to be more active online, but then disappeared for a while. We thought you gave up. I just wanted to say thank you for not giving up.”
“Ididgive up,” I say quickly, cutting off the applause. People’s reactions are mixed. There’s confusion on some of their faces. “I mean, I know that wasn’t a question, and thank you for saying that, but I do want to clarify that I did give up.”
I straighten up in my chair, preparing to continue answering the nonquestion. I don’t know how to put what I want to say into words, or if I even should. It almost feels too vulnerable to be sharing with a room full of strangers, but without this room full of strangers, I wouldn’t be here. So I speak honestly.
“I wish I could say I’ve developed an impenetrable skin being in this industry, but I haven’t. Sometimes the negativity can be too overwhelming, and all I can do is hide from it. And yes, I’ve read the self-help books, I’ve tried just ignoring it, I’ve tried therapy, I’ve tried it all. But I find myself still reacting to things I read, and sometimes I need a break from those reactions. I think it’s okay if you aren’t someone who can just let everything roll off without it seeping into your heart just a little bit. I don’t mind admitting I don’t have that kind of resilience. I show up when I’m mentally capable, and I’ll interact when I’m emotionally stable enough to. But my mental health is precious to me, and as much advice as people give me, nothing anyone has said to me so far has cured me of feeling the sting of a hit every now and then. And I’m sure I’ll continue to give up as I move through life. But as long as I keep starting over, I’m okay with being a fallible human.”
When I finish speaking, there’s another loud burst of applause. The woman who asked the question thanks me, and then hands the microphone to the next girl in line. I glance off to the side of the stageand see Nora standing there, watching me with a look of pride. She gives me a thumbs-up, and her reassurance puts me a little more at ease.
“I was going to ask about the movie, too, but I guess you covered that,” the next girl says. Her comment is met by a round of laughter. “First of all, I love your books. My name is Christian, big fan. My whole book club is here.” She gestures toward a group of women all wearing matching shirts.
I use the break in speaking to reach for the water bottle on the floor next to my chair. I look back at the girl just as she asks her question. “I was wondering if you have any advice for aspiring writers.”
I nod as I unscrew the lid to the water bottle. Just as I’m bringing it to my mouth for a sip, I pause. At first, it’s just a flicker of recognition, a face in the crowd that pulls me in like a gravitational force.
But then I freeze.
My eyes lock on him. On Saint. He’s sitting a few seats behind the woman with the microphone. The room around me seems to shrink in an instant, like it has just run out of air. He raises his hand with his eyes locked on mine. He wants the microphone.
The room is silent, waiting for me to answer the question I was just posed.What was the question?
“Google,” I say, my voice strained. “Google is your best friend. Every question about writing has been answered online. It’s just a matter of finding the answer that inspires you.”
I take a quick gulp of the water.Oh, God.I feel myself starting to sweat as she hands the microphone back a couple of rows. She reaches it out toward him.No.He stands up confidently as he takes it from her, his presence commanding my attention, even though every fiber of my being screams for me to look away. To run.
But I can’t.
My eyes lock onto his, and my breath catches in my throat at the sight of Saint. Cam. Eric. Whatever he’s calling himself now. It doesn’tmatter, because in this moment, he’s all of them, and he’s none of them. He’s simply the man who repaired me and then shattered me.
What is he doing here?My thoughts race, a thousand questions flooding my mind, but none of them matter as fear creeps up my spine, cold and unrelenting. I grip the armrest of my chair tighter as I fight to maintain my composure. But inside, I’m crumbling when he begins to speak.
