I grip the edge of the counter as my mind jumps back and forth over things I wrote in the book.Humiliatingthings about Fox’s lips and his body and the kissing scenes…oh my god…the scene with the knife against her neck…and the one where they have to share a bed. “Do you think he’ll notice?” I wheeze. I’m having trouble breathing. I might be dying. I’m looking at Amber through a fish-eye lens.
Her expression turns sympathetic. “The main character’s name is Juniper. West is the only person on earth who calls you Jupiter.”
Fuck. There goes my plausible deniability. “I swear I didn’t mean to. I don’t even know what I was thinking or why I did that.”
She tilts her head. “You don’t?”
“No!”It was an accident. Coincidence. Temporary insanity.
Her eyes widen in surprise. “Mars—it’s because you’re in love with him.”
Denial: googlingcan you unsend an email?
Anger: stonewalling Amber for the rest of the nightafter she had the audacity to point out something painfully obvious.
Bargaining: writing a text to West and begging him not to read my book. I delete it before pressing send, afraid that acting like a weirdo about it will only make himmorecurious.
Depression: vowing to never get out of bed again because a person as oblivious as me is a threat to themselves and society at large.
Acceptance: rereading my manuscript with a new perspective and admitting that it’s basically West-and-Mars fan fiction.
I cycle through these stages at warp speed, and by Monday morning, my life suddenly makes a lot more sense. Hearing Amber say the words out loud broke the spell I’d put myself under, and I have no choice but to admit that I’m in love with West Emerson.
It’s why I rarely feel the need to date or make out with anyone else and why West’s face appears in my head every time I sit down to write. It’s why his opinion is the one I care about most and why I’d rather spend time with him than anyone else.
It’s likely the reason that Bethany is annoyed by my mere existence.
And if West didn’t know before, he will once he reads my manuscript. My only hope of surviving this situation with my pride intact is that he gets too busy or loses interest or suddenly forgets how to read. I don’t know how I’lleverlook him in the eye again, but unfortunately, I find out sooner than expected.
West is sitting on a bench outside the languages building when I leave my afternoon Creative Nonfiction class, his elbows on his knees and his head down. The whole campus smells like orange blossoms, and when I leave Tucson aftergraduation, I’ll miss West first, and I’ll miss this smell second. It’s intoxicating, making me feel drunk on spring and sunshine.
I stop in my tracks and flash back to the first time I met West in this exact spot, with his skinny jeans, his colored nails, and his refusal to let me ignore him. He was tall, he was funny, and he didn’t know it yet, but we’d spend the next four years revolving around each other, creating worlds out of thin air.How could I not fall in love with him?And why is he sitting in front of me?
“West?”
He rises slowly to his feet, his thoughts masked behind a neutral expression.
“What are you doing here?” I glance around, looking for context that doesn’t appear. “Are you taking classes again?”
“No.”
“I thought you had work today.”
“I called out.”
A beat. “Are you going to tell me why, or make me guess?”
He lets out a ragged exhale. “I read your book last night.”
That’s—hmm. That’s less than ideal. “All of it?”
“Yes.”
I nod. Swallow. Choke on air that goes down like sandpaper. I forget how to breathe, think, move. I’m trapped between fight and flight, so I choose the thirdF: fucking lie.
I cross my arms to prove that I’m casual, that this isfine, thanks for asking. “What’d you think?” I ask calmly, as if my body isn’t malfunctioning in every capacity.
He studies me for a long moment. Judging by the pained look on his face, he’s here to let me down gently. “I think we should talk.”
