“Wait, West.”
“Not here.”
“Give me my phone.” I tug on his arm as cold dread crawls up my throat, making it difficult to breathe.
He faces me in the crowded hall and places his hand on the side of my neck, his thumb brushing across my jaw. “Please, Mars,” he says softly. “Come with me to the truck, and I will relinquish my possession of your phone.”
I nod and let him lead me through campus. True to his word, he hands my phone over the moment I fasten my seat belt. It feels heavy in my palm, and my fingers tremble with an old, familiar feeling. West frowns when he sees the tremor. “I don’t suppose you’ll listen to me if I tell you that this is a bad idea.”
I clear my throat. “I can’t avoid it forever.”
He exhales a sharp laugh. “Youcould, though. It’s just the internet. Nothing that happens on social media is real.”
“I don’t know, it felt pretty real when I was getting death threats and my fans were calling for book boycotts,” I say sharply.
West winces, memories of last night’s conversation still painfully fresh. After I answered all his questions, he asked me to tell him about my life after the article was published. The color drained from his face as I recounted the shitty aftermathof my book’s release and the period of depression that followed. He tried to shoulder all the blame, as if he’d personally opened my Word document and torn it to shreds.
I scroll silently for several minutes before turning to West. “The internet has decided that we’re together.”
His brows furrow as he studies my face. “Based on what?”
“A picture of us from the panel. It’s fairly obvious that I’m wearing your sweater. And we’re looking at each other.”
He scoffs. “We’re not allowed tolookat each other?”
I sigh and scrub my hands over my face. “It’s thewaywe’re looking at each other.”
Like we’re in love.He stares at me like he’s holding vigil. I gaze at him like I’m falling into the sun.
It started with the picture, which led to comments linking to the old article about West, which led to posts and videos and more comments. They all boil down to the same thing: West is problematic, therefore I’m problematic by proximity. Doing the panel with him is implicit support. I’m platforming a misogynist. I’mdatinga misogynist. I’m disappointing. I’m disrespectful to my fans.
Everyone has a take; everyone wants a pat on the head for joining the conversation. For calling out the bad guy. There’s nothing the internet loves more than a dogpile. I read DMs from readers I’ve known for years. Profile pictures and names I recognize and interact with regularly. They beg me to make a statement.
About what?I think.I didn’t even do anything wrong.
“Mars?” West touches my shoulder.
I startle. “What?”
“I asked if you’re okay. I don’t think you’ve taken a breath in the last two minutes.”
“Yeah.” I shake my head, trying to clear it. “I’m fine,” I say more to myself than him.It’s fine. I’m fine. Not everyone has to like me.
“Do you want to go inside?” he asks, and I realize we’re back at his house. From the look on his face, we’ve been sitting in the car for a while.
That night, heholds me in bed and whispers apologies into the dark.
“It’s not your fault,” I say.
His arms tighten, crushing me to his chest. “It’s explicitly my fault, and true to form, the internet is blaming the woman. You should say something.”
“Likewhat?”
“Who cares? Say that you were forced to work with me this weekend. That you hate me. That I deserve every name they’ve called me.”
“No.”
“Please, Darling, throw me under the bus,” he begs. He’s tried to take the blame already, but his statement and apology went unnoticed. With his book recently released, the timing of it is too convenient. No one trusts him.
