“Two sides of the same coin.”
He dips his chin in silent acknowledgment. “But I worked hard to stop, because it turned me into the worst possible version of myself.”
I survey his inscrutable profile before sweeping a hand to gesture from my head to my toes. “And is this a bad version of Mars Darling?”
West pulls the truck into his driveway and cuts the engine. “I’m afraid I’m too biased to answer that question.”
“Oh?”
He shifts in his seat so we’re facing each other. His hair is mussed, the shadow on his cheeks darker every day. The top two buttons of his white shirt undone. He looks perfectly wrecked. “It’s true. I met you at the impressionable age of nineteen, when my frontal lobe was still developing, and you burned yourself into my synapses. I’d have to reroute them to change the way I see you. I’d have to tear down the very foundation of myself and rebuild, brick by brick of wishful thinking, for even the chance of ridding my psyche of you. To my mind, thereisno bad version of Mars Darling.”
“Oh.” Breath rushes from my lungs. What a liar he is, to have spent so long bemoaning his way with words.
His eyes are sharp and focused on mine. “As long as you’re happy, I’m happy.”
A warm, contented feeling brushes against sensitive skin. West’s simple statement is the sincerest thing I’ve ever heard, which makes my next thought all the more worrisome.What if the only wayIknow how to be happy is through success?
I push the notion down, burying it deep enough to avoid, at least for tonight.
“Hey, West?” I lean close.
“Hmm?”
“You’re better at the whole talking thing than you give yourself credit for.”
His half-moon eyes drag down to my lips, and my mouth goes dry. He smirks. “Does my lexical prowess turn you on, Mars?”
I can only nod. The space inside his truck shrinks, and my limbs feel suddenly heavy. I shiver.
“Are you cold?”
“A little.” Unlike West’s, my long hair is still damp.
“Do you want to come inside?”
“Where else would I go?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I do.”
We get out of the truck, and West walks around to the passenger side to take my hand. I glance down at our intertwined fingers as anarchy brews in my stomach. I’ve written so many West-and-Mars scenes in my head. The ones where we’re driven together by dramatic circumstance and the ones where I yell at him and the ones where we fall into his bed, but I imagined fewer of the in-between moments. With his sweater on my body and my hand in his, this suddenly feels very real.
He unlocks the door and lets me in first, and now that it’s not dark and I’m not flustered into oblivion, I use the moment to move slowly through his home, taking it all in. He has pictures hanging on the refrigerator and built-in shelves filled with books and succulents and knickknacks. The living room has arug.
“You like living here, don’t you?”
West hangs his keys on a hook by the door. “I do.”
Those two words crack something open in my chest.
“Was that the wrong thing to say?” he asks.
I shake my head, even though it was. I wanted him to say that he hates the desert and he’s coming back to New York with me.
West sits on the small couch in his living room and pulls me down until I’m sitting next to him. “What are you thinking about?” I ask.
He shoots me a suggestive glance.
