“I emailed you notes an hour ago. It’s your best one so far,” he says, opting to forcefully change the subject.
“You always say that.” I roll my eyes, though I’m secretly pleased. A West Emerson compliment is like a good hair day; there’s no such thing as too many.
West started freshman year as a history major, switched to psych halfway through second semester, and is now flirting with the idea of coming over to the English Department. Every day, he gets a little bit closer to admitting that he loves words almost as much as I do.
After that surprising, snowy night during freshman year, I started to wonder if my growing crush on West made him my muse. Thank god that’s not the case. West’s impact on my writing is entirely separate from the brief period of time when I wanted to kiss him. He hasn’t even looked at me since he got back together with Bethany, but he’s always first in line to read whatever fantasy worlds my brain conjures up.
“It’s always true,” he says casually, and my stomach flutters to life with the familiar praise. “When you’re famous, I get to say I was your first fan.”
I pick up the pad of blue sticky notes next to my laptop and writeMargot Darling’s #1 Fan. I sign my name at the bottom with the signature I’ve been practicing since I was thirteen years old and stick it to his forehead. “When I’m famous, that’ll be worth money.” I grab the strap of his backpack and tug it toward me. “Do you have anything for me to read this time?”
He snatches the bag to his chest.
“C’mon! It’s only fair.”
He throws his head back with a groan. I know he’s working on something new because of the way he shielded me from seeing what he was writing last week at the library. He almost failed Dr.B’s final because he was so reluctant to turn in his short story. “I’m new to this,” he grumbles.
“So?”
“It’s not as good as yours.”
“Bullshit.”
He grimaces. “Mars—”
“Please!” I beg, pouting my lips and batting my eyelashes.
He mutters something that sounds like “Bambi” under his breath and turns to a dog-eared page near the back of his notebook. A rush of satisfaction zips through me.
He rolls his eyes as he hands it over. “Don’t look so smug. It’s basically fifteen hundred words onrain.”
“I love it already,” I tell him seriously as my eyes fall to the first sentence.
“I can’t be here while you read that,” he says.
“I know.” My nose is already buried in the pages, my attention slipping from West to his writing. “I’ll give it back at the party tonight.”
“And leave you with my notebook? Not a chance. I’ll wait outside.”
“Do you want to watch TV?”
“I can’t even be in the same house with you while you’re reading that.” He shudders and nearly trips over his own feet as he leaves the room. When the screen door swings shut behind him, I take it as permission to dive back in.
The thing about West’s writing is that it always makes me feel something, even if it is fifteen hundred words about a summer storm and even if he has run-on sentences or fragments or whatever. For some reason, he gets away with breaking the rules that I can’t, and damn if it doesn’t hit me square in the chest every time. His writing transports me right out of Amber’s parents’ off-campus house to the inside of West’s brain.
I don’t ask myself why I like it there so much.
13
Present Day
The high ofmy sabotage mission has worn off by the time I arrive at Gentle Ben’s a few hours after West’s signing, the buzz in my veins giving way to apprehension. All I managed to do was slightly annoy him and part with twenty-eight bucks—a percentage of which will go toward paying off his advance. It’s not the first time I’ve spent money on a book of his that I’ll never read, but I don’t plan to make a habit of it.
“Here are your drink tickets.” The hostess hands me two paper tickets. With West’s warning hanging over my head and an author mixer in my immediate future, I have a feeling I’m going to need them. “You can order at the bar upstairs or down; rooftop access is that way.”
I follow her direction and take the stairs to the rooftop bar, where a gust of wind almost blows off my hat. I clamp my hand down on it and scan the crowd for Daphne’s red hair in the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd.
I circle the rooftop three times, growing steadily more desperate with each loop. I text Daphne and grab us the last emptytable while I wait for her to arrive, one hand still glued to my stupid hat. My nerves about this evening led to a wardrobe crisis in my hotel room, which led to this influencer-core wide-brim hat perched precariously on my head. Despite packing more than enough outfits for the weekend, when I dumped it all on my hotel bed, I hated everything. It was all too…bookish. Cardigans and funny T-shirts and jeans at least three years out of style. The next time West sees me, I want to make him sweat. Not because I care what he thinks of me but because making him uncomfortable is my current drug of choice. After years of daydreaming about revenge, it starts here. With this little vintage sundress that I purchased on Fourth.
