I blink up at him, my brain trying to process his words. Something aboutIandmake outandyouin the same sentence has me seeing spots. “What did you say?”
He drops his bag at his feet. “Has it really been so long that you’ve forgotten how it’s done?” he asks drolly.
“Excuse me?”
He flips the book open to the title page. “I write my name here”—he points and speaks slowly—“and your name here. Or I can save you the time and make it out directly to the garbage can of your choice.”
My brain catches up, and I’m annoyed at the way my tongue feels too big for my mouth.Am I really in such a dry spell that the wordsmake outare enough to send me into a tailspin?
“I’m good,” I say before letting my eyes drop to his shoes. Time to regain the upper hand. He’s the one who should be flop-sweating his way through this conversation.
I gesture to the swaths of empty space in front of his table. “It’s a shame you couldn’t even be bothered to show up to yourbusysigning line on time. It seems likesomeonein charge should know how unreliable you are before they trust you with the keynote.”
His eyes narrow. “You did this on purpose, then,” he says flatly.
“Did what?” I bat my eyes innocently and am assaulted with a memory of him from a lifetime ago, laughing and calling me Bambi. I kibosh the fluttering.
“You knew the location of my signing and sent me to the wrong place?” He grinds the words out, the tension between us drawing taut.
I’m surprised thathe’ssurprised. I thought our earlier conversations made it clear where we stood with each other. I decide to remind him. “I hadn’t planned on it, but then I saw you, and inspiration struck. What can I say, West? You’ve always made the best muse.”
He steps toward me, crowding me against his table. “What the fuck, Mars?”
I have to crane my neck to look up at him. “Drop out of my panel.”
“No.”
“Then I’m not sorry for what I do next.”
“Do you have someone else to antagonize right now, or is it only me?” He smirks like he knows something I don’t as he helps himself to my personal space. He angles his mouth close to my ear, hot breath misting over my neck. “Don’t tell me that you’re still obsessed with me after all this time. You don’t still sleep in that Fox Caldwell shirt, do you?”
I’m suddenly aware of my heartbeat in places very far from my heart. I push him away, unable to make eye contact. He’s infuriating, but I only have myself to blame for bringing up the wordmuse. “I’ll leave, but only because you have so many adoring fans waiting to have their books signed.” I direct my attention to his still-empty signing line. “Oh wait.”
His knuckles turn white on the edge of the table, and I know I’ve won this round.
I spend the next half hour pretending to browse photography in the adjacent tent, watching West’s spirits fall further and further into hell. The author next to him has pulled at least a dozen tarot cards, and try as he might to entice people to his table, West’s dark glower is chasing everyone away. A mom with two kids stops by the pirate ship table, and the children both have candy clutched in their fists as they approach West. He forces himself to smile—terrifying the boy with his wolfish expression. I don’t blame the child one bit when he hides behind his mom’s legs. She rushes them away as West shouts miserable apologies in her wake.
I snort, and West’s head whips toward me. We lock eyes, and damn it, I’m hit with an unwanted flash of survivor’s guilt.If I ignore the years that I spent writing books alone in my bedroom, I’m the closest thing publishing has to an overnight success.Torchedhit bestseller lists the week it was published, and because of that, I never had to wonder if anyone cared about my story. I’m haunted by other insecurities—whether I deserve my success, whether I’m a bad writer who got lucky, whether I’ll ever redeem myself in the eyes of my readers—but I never had to sit in an empty signing line, wondering if anyone cared.
I regret what I’m doing before I even do it. I order my feet to stop walking. To pivot and buy a book from Tarot Card Lady, just to make steam come out West’s ears. I should do anything other than what I’m about to do, but I’m propelled by a feeling I can’t quite name.
“I’ll take a book,” I tell West in a bored voice.
He rubs a hand over his tired eyes. “Please go away.”
“Just give me one,” I snap.
His expression turns wary. “What are you going to do with it?”
I sigh, irritated that he’s dragging this out. “I don’t know, West, what do people do with books?”
He cocks an eyebrow. “Read it again?”
“Definitely not.” I bristle at the suggestion. “Do you take credit cards?”
He shakes his head. “You’ll have to buy it from the bookstore.”
“Fine.” I grab the book and stomp to the bookstore, my entire body flushed with annoyance. Only after I’ve paid for it do I let myself look at the cover.
