“When you are, it’s a standing offer,” Danielle says. I squeeze his hand under the table. He takes another long drink. Danielle flashes me a hesitant smile, and I force one in return. This is not going at all how I thought it would.
“How are you liking New York?” she asks West, trying again to make friendly conversation.
“I don’t think it’s for me,” he says bluntly.
“It’s not for everyone,” she says diplomatically. “Fortunately, you can be a writer from anywhere. I have a client who lives in Noorvik, Alaska. We’ve sold three books together, but she’s never once stepped foot in New York.”
“Lucky her,” West says flatly.
Danielle raises her eyebrows at me, and my stomach squirms in embarrassment. She excuses herself to use the restroom. When she’s out of earshot, I turn to West.
“What is your problem?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re being rude to Danielle!”
“Why do you care?”
I grit my teeth in frustration. It’s not like him to be purposely obtuse. “Her opinion is important to me.”
“And she likesyou. Who cares what she thinks of me?”
“I do. I vouched for your book, and you’re acting like you’re too good for her request.”
“I didn’t ask you to vouch for me!” he snaps.
I draw back, shocked by his sudden burst of uncharacteristic anger. “I don’t understand what’s happening right now,” I say. My chest is tight, and I feel the familiar, awful sensation of burning tears. I blink up at the ceiling and pray that Danielle doesn’t come back for a long time.
“I’m gonna go,” West says.
“What?”
“I’ll wait in the bookstore across the street. Come find me when you’re done.” He takes a final swig of his soda, thumps it down on the table, and stalks out of the bar.
I lie to Danielle and tell her that West had to take an important phone call outside, and even though it’s obvious I’m lying, she glosses right over it, and we chat for another thirty minutes before saying goodbye. I text West to meet me at the nearest subway stop, and as he approaches me with his hands in his pockets and his head down (INYannouncing his arrival from a hundred yards away), I fight another wave of tears, confused about how we went from matching tattoos to utter disaster in the course of one evening.
“Hey,” West says dully as he comes to a stop in front of me.
“Hey.” If it’s possible to make a single syllable sarcastic, I’ve done it.
The glow of the streetlight illuminates his defeated posture. “I’m sorry I ruined your night.”
“What the hell happened back there?”
“I don’t need your pity,” he says.
“Good, because you don’t have it.”
He sighs, looking frustrated. “I mean it, Mars. I don’t want you to bullshit your agent and say things about my writing that you don’t mean.”
“I didn’t.”
He scoffs. “One minute, I’m destined to be your Instagram boyfriend ‘if this writing thing doesn’t work out,’ and the next, you’re acting like I’m Jonathan Safran Foer. Which is it?”
“First, that was a joke. Second, I wasn’t talking about you! I was saying if writing doesn’t work outfor me.”
“Itisworking out for you! You’re going to sell your books and move to New York and be wildly successful, and you’ll deserve it, and I’ll be happy for you.”
