“Dr.B!” I can’t help but smile at the man walking down the hall. I hurry to meet him, impatient to shrug off the specter of West. My old professor must be in his seventies now, but from the long gray ponytail that hangs down his back to his cargoshorts to the socks-and-Birks combo on his feet, he looks exactly the same as he did when I was a freshman. “How are you?”
“Better now that my star pupil is here!” he says as he tucks a stack of file folders under his arm.
I know West can hear us from the lobby, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. “Did I ever tell you that you’re my favorite professor?”
“Don’t say that unless you’re here to fulfill the promise you made when you were my student.” He must see the confusion on my face, because he raises his hand and says, “ ‘I promise that when I’m a published author, I will come talk to Dr.B’s class—’ ”
“ ‘Forfree,’ ” we both finish at the same time. I laugh, now remembering vividly how Dr.B would extract that same promise from every student who sat in his upper-division courses.
“I’m leaving early Monday morning,” I say with real regret.
“Next time.” He waves it off. “Walk with me? I have a few minutes before I have to run.” He nods down the hall, and I can’t help but turn my eyes to West, who is scowling darkly at the desk of maps and schedules, riffling through them as if his life depends on locating the Second Street garage.
“I’d love to,” I tell Dr.B, throwing a smirk over my shoulder at West.
He clears his throat intentionally, drawing the professor’s attention. Dr.B does a double take before his eyes light with recognition and a healthy dose of delight. “West Emerson?” He walks down the hall and rounds the desk to clap West on the shoulder. “Apologies, I was blinded by our celebrity here, but I should have known that where Mars is, you wouldn’t be far behind! Mytwostar pupils!” He motions for West to join us.
He falls into step on the other side of Dr.B and returns my gloating smile with one of his own.
“I owe you an email, Mr.Emerson,” Dr.B says. “I found your novel quite moving. In fact—”
“We don’t have to talk about it.” West pinches the bridge of his nose, giving the distinct impression that he regrets drawing attention to himself.
“Ah. Some things never change,” Dr.B says. I snort, and West glares daggers at his feet as Dr.B turns his attention to me. “Andyou, Mars.” I straighten my spine instinctively. “You wouldn’t believe how proud I am of you,” he says with such sincerity that my stomach drops. “I claim credit for your success in all of my classes,” he adds with a wink. “Is the world ready for another Mars Darling adventure?”
I cringe under the pressure of his praise. “Not sureI’mready, to be honest.”
He hums thoughtfully. “Some thingsdochange. Is your new book another sequel?”
“No, thank god.” One of my favorite things aboutShatteredis that it takes place in a completely separate universe from my Fox Caldwell series. It’s as free from West’s inspiration as anything I’ve written in more than a decade.
Dr.B pulls open the door to an empty office and drops his stack of folders on the corner of the desk. “I have a meeting in a few minutes, but you both know where to find me. And really, Mars. I’m glad you’re back. I’ll be in the audience on Sunday if you need a friendly face.”
It takes everything in me to force a miserable smile.
“I’ll be there, too,” West tells him.
“In the audience?”
West nods his head at me. “On the stage. With Mars.”
“Nothing’s finalized yet,” I say quickly.
“Interesting.” Dr.B’s eyes flit between us. “It’s with sincere regret that I don’t have more time.”
Back in the hall, West glances at me as I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth; it’s a trick I’ve learned to stem the tears.
“You keep in touch?” I ask, half as a distraction from the tears building in the corners of my eyes and half in accusation. It would be unfair and, yes, immature to ask Dr.B to choose sides, but it stings that he didn’t choose mine.
“A little.” West shrugs uneasily.
Please withdraw.The plea sits too close to the edge of my lips, but I quickly swallow it down, hating the implied vulnerability in the request.
West follows as I retrace our steps to the lobby, and I can tell by the way he runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek that he wants to say something. My phone saves me from having to listen. He’ll have to inflict his unwelcome presence on someone else.
I close the door in his face as I step outside and answer the call. “Hi, Amina. Sorry I snapped at you earlier,” I say as I lean against sun-drenched brick. The warmth seeps into my shoulder blades and slows my heart rate. I pinch the bridge of my nose for half a second before I realize it’s a West mannerism and drop my hand.
“No, no, no, not at all. Please don’t worry about it,” Amina says a little too quickly, and I feel a sense of guilt for once again being a “difficult” author. I’ve dug in my heels with my publishing team before, and I’m still paying for it. And just like last time, this is all West’s fault.
