Even when I hate West, I can’t help but react to his touch. It’s been imprinted on my DNA since the very first night we kissed, and not even a decade and a World War III–size grudge can make me forget. Of all the things he’s ever done, makingme fall in love with him when I was nineteen might have been the worst.
West’s eyes search my face. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s an open mic downstairs!” Jo drains what’s left in her glass and stands. “Prepare yourselves for some slam poetry.”
I nudge West off the bench and step out of his orbit. Now that I don’t have to smell him or touch him or even look directly at him, my brain sharpens. “Congratulations, et cetera. You won this round, but I’ll beat you next time.”
“A bit of a cliché, don’t you think?”
“I’m serious.”
He motions to his shirt. “We each got a shot in, and now we can drop it. We’re even.”
“Nice try, but it’s not even close.”
Downstairs, a crowd of mostly drunk writers gathers in front of a small stage. West leans against a wall in the back and quietly fumes. I’m sure I’d be able to ignore him if not for that infuriating shirt. My eyes are drawn to it every twenty seconds, my heart tripping over itself.
Jo performs a poetry slam that both is technically goodandgives me secondhand embarrassment. When another author gets onstage to recite a (mercifully non-slammable) passage from his book, a perfect idea drops fully formed into my half-drunk lap.
I take my place at center stage and reach for the microphone. “This one is for Fox Caldwell’s number one fan.” The audience hoots and hollers, plastered but supportive. I’m surprised. I spare a quick glance at the statue formerly known as West. His stare is heavy and blatant. It feels like hot water down my spine, and my fingers tremble slightly as I flip West’sbook open to a random page. I clear my throat. “I’ll be reading a passage from West Emerson’s new novel,Drought.”
West and I haven’t been close in years, not in any way that really matters, but the part of me that’s always been connected to him pulls tight across my ribs. Anger radiates off him in nuclear waves, and I feel it blistering in my veins. There’s nothing West finds more excruciating than listening to his own writing, and now he has to do it in a packed house full of colleagues.
I don’t want to look at West again, but I can’t stop myself. His face is half in shadows, but his expression is undeniable.
Don’t.
Please.
His eyes beg me not to, but I forced myself to stop caring about what West Emerson wants a long time ago.
My throat tightens. I thought this moment would feel like winning, but instead it feels like holding a match to something precious.
Well, that’s stupid.I shake off the thought and clear my throat again, buying myself a few extra seconds before doing the thing I swore I never would—reading a West Emerson novel.
It goes like this:
The main character’s car breaks down as he’s trying to leave Arizona in the middle of a scorching heat wave. West’s writing paints a vivid picture, as always. The character gets lost in the desert. Dehydrated and desperate, he stumbles onto a fairy garden.
I pause—something about the scene feels familiar.
My eyes track back over the last few sentences. It’s unclear whether the man is hallucinating; it’s left ambiguous by design.Someone in the audience coughs. Voices murmur. I look up just in time to see the door swing shut behind West’s retreating figure, which can only mean one thing.
I won this round.
The victory doesn’t feel quite like I thought it would.
14
11 Years Ago
Junior Year, Second Semester
The first signof trouble between West and Bethany came at a bonfire in the desert. A guy I’d just met had his hand on my knee when their fight started, and by the time he leaned in for a kiss, the ice coming off both of them was enough to douse the fire.
The second sign was at a game night in January. I watched the couple have an entire silent fight with their eyes over a game of Cards Against Humanity because West wasn’t picking her cards to win.
The third time is when I’m sitting on the floor in West’s room, scrolling through Facebook instead of writing, and I see that Bethany has posted an old picture of them with a long caption about how much she loves him—aka the relationship death rattle.
