Around us, the crowd breaks into a massive round of applause. The director walks onto the stage alongside the actors who play Fox and Juniper as they prepare for a Q&A.
“You didn’t like the end of the movie?” he whispers.
I’m dumbstruck, both by seeing him in a black suit for only the second time in my life and by the fact that he’s here at all. “What are you doing here?”
“I had a promise to keep.” He offers me a box of Red Vines with steady hands that match the stability in his voice and the set of his shoulders. It’s a complete contradiction to the chaos in my body. I’m little more than a racing heart, twisting nerves,and a kaleidoscope of butterflies. “Sorry I’m late. LA traffic,” he says. The soft regret in his expression tells me that he’s talking about more than just today.
I knock my knee against his. He holds steady, trapping me in a gaze that lasts an eternity. “You called.”
“I love your letter. Sorry it took me so long to read it.”
“Your timing is perfect.” His mouth tips toward mine.
“Can you two shut up?” a voice down the row hisses. West freezes.
“That’s Margot Darling!” someone else responds.
A dozen people turn to look at once.
“Is that—?”
“Is he—?”
“What’s he doing here?”
West looks sideways at me, his expression indecipherable as the whispers around us catch and spread, until suddenly the lights in the auditorium are up and people are craning their necks to get a better look. “Do you want me to leave?”
“No.” I grab his hand. He squeezes tightly, then drops my hands as he stands. My heart sinks, assuming he’s on his way out, when he straightens the sleeves of his jacket.
Everyone is staring now, including the director. West motions to the microphone hanging limply at his side. “Mind if I borrow that for a minute?”
My entire body flushes hot. I’ve never seen West purposely ask for attention, least of all in a room full of strangers. “What are you doing?” I whisper.
He glances down at me with a small shrug and a crooked smile. “Why depend on some journalist I hate to issue my public apology when I could just do it here?”
The director offers the microphone and motions to half a dozen cameras waiting in the wings. They all train on West as he accepts the proffered microphone and turns to face not only me but also the audience.
“Hi, uh—” He pulls it away as feedback screeches through the auditorium. “Sorry, is this better?”
“Who are you?” The shout comes from the audience.
West laughs nervously as he scans the crowded room. “I’m, um, I’m the guy that—I did that interview—” He cuts himself off and looks down at me with wide eyes as the reality of the moment catches up with him. I shrug helplessly. I’m dying to know where he’s going with this. West takes a deep breath and pushes his hands through his curls. “Raise a hand if you’re chronically online.”
I cover a laugh with the back of my hand.
The actress who plays Juniper speaks into her own microphone. “This is West Emerson; he’s the asshole who inspired Fox and insulted a bunch of fans. Said they needed to get a life and that no one cares about teenage love stories.” She raises an eyebrow at West. “Boom. Easy.”
“Yes. Succinct. Thank you.” He clears his throat and straightens his jacket again. I’m overwhelmed by the urge to take his hand and drag him away from the eyes that are judging, scrutinizing, and categorizing. My biggest fans will decide right now if he’sGoodor if he’sBad. Nuance and context need not apply. For many, that label will stick forever, and if that label is bad, he’ll be a common enemy to rally against. His career will truly be over.
“I don’t need you to do this,” I tell West quickly. “Let’s just get out of here.”
“Not yet.” He addresses the confused crowd again. “I said some things that I regret deeply. I’m sorry. To everyone my words hurt, and especially to Mars.”
Someone to my left whispers, “Who’s Mars?”
“Margot!”
They’re immediately shushed.
