“Do you want me to drive you home?”
“No!” I yelp, my voice tinged with hysteria. “I’ll walk.” I straighten my dress and bolt out of the room, one shoe in hand, the other left behind. Connor half-heartedly calls out for me to wait, but I let the front door slam behind me without another word. I wince as I sprint through the rocky front yard, sobbing giant tears as I rush home under a periwinkle sky.
I don’t have my house key or my cell phone, but Amber left the back door unlocked for me, so I let myself in and trudge through the quiet house. I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror as I walk through the hall; mascara is smudged down my cheeks, my eyes are puffy and red, and my curls are flat and snarled at the same time. I drop my sandal and trudge to my room.
My eyes widen at the sight of West asleep in my bed.
I blink, shuffling through a mixture of shock and joy and devastation so quickly it leaves me nauseous. I sprint to the bathroom and puke into the toilet. Even when I’m sure there’s nothing left to come up, I stay hunched on the tile floor, unable to face what I’ve done. When soft fingers pull my hair out of my face and hold it behind my head, I want to die.
I slowly push myself up, turning to rest my back against the side of the tub. West lets my hair slip through his fingers and sits on the floor across from me, his arms resting on his knees.
He takes a deep breath, and I wince in anticipation of his anger. “I’m sorry,” he says, like they’re the only two words in the world. “I never wanted to break up with you.”
“West—” My voice cracks on his name. I never thought it’d be painful to say, but I never thought we’d end up here.
He holds his hands up to stop me. “Let me get through this. I can’t follow you to New York. Not until—” He rakes a hand through his hair. It’s as long as I’ve ever seen it. It’s the best he’s ever looked. “I have some stuff I need to get sorted first. But we can make this work, Mars.” He scooches closer until our knees are touching. He puts his hands on my thighs, and I want them to stay there forever. “I need you. I don’t know who I am without you. I’ve never loved anything or anyone the way I love you.”
“I had sex with Connor last night.” I wipe tears off my cheeks, but it doesn’t stop them from coming. I wrap my arms around my knees and squeeze to keep myself from splintering apart, shocked at how this has become my reality, when twelve hours ago, West and I were about to start our lives together. His hands drop away from my thighs.
A coil of dread tightens in my chest, binding my lungs until I can’t breathe. “I’m so sorry and I love you, too. It meant nothing, less than nothing. I hate that I did it. I feel sick. I never would have done it if you hadn’t—if we hadn’t—I was drunk, West,” I say desperately.
The light in his eyes flickers out, a torch snuffed. In that moment, I become a stranger to him.
“That was always my dad’s excuse, too.”
My stomach pitches.A fresh wave of nausea hits. “I’ll stop drinking. I’ll never do it again.”
He pushes himself to his feet and walks out of the bathroom. I follow after him, crying and pleading and making promises as he walks out of my house and my life without another word.
One hour later, with all my shit thrown in the trunk of my car, I leave Tucson.
21
Present Day
West is sittingon a makeshift stage under a big tent in dark jeans and a thin forest-green sweater. I frown at him from behind my giant undercover sunglasses. Why does he need so many sweaters? It’s not like he still lives in New York. Between this and the photo on his book jacket, he’s practically drowning in wool. When I knew him, he didn’t own anything but short-sleeve band T-shirts and skinny jeans. I feel vaguely provoked by the sight of him up on a stage, in front of a crowd, looking exactly like the man I imagined he would become. His hair is unruly, his jaw sharp, his shoulders squared.
My eyes sweep impatiently over his body, looking for evidence of nerves. But unfortunately for me, his feet are still, and his ink-stained fingers are clasped on the table in front of him. He is completely unruffled. I bet he got a great night of sleep.
Ugh.
My stomach dips when I realize how little my schemes have affected him. I wish he were sitting up there stewing in misery, thinking of me in my short dress, but instead he’s sayingsomething under his breath to the author sitting next to him. She’s laughing, and he’s smiling.
I’ve been trying to ruin his weekend, but he is unmoved.
Well.
Good thing I’m here to make him move.
Almost every chair under the tent is filled. It’s perfect. One hundred people are about to watch West have the most frustrating hour of his professional career.
My stomach tightens with anticipation.
I take a seat in the last row of the audience as the moderator is introducing the two people onstage with West—Ayesha and Rowan, both literary writers who, I do admit, I feel a little sorry for. Hopefully when they receive invitations to present at theLos Angeles TimesFestival of Books in their inboxes next week, it’ll make up for today. (I still have enough connections to make that happen, at least.)
“—and finally, we have West Emerson, whose debut novel,Oasis, was nominated for a Young Lions Fiction Award and whose highly anticipated novelDroughtwas released last month. Thanks for being here, West.”
“Thanks for having me, and for not telling the audience that I’m the one who slipped the words ‘highly anticipated’ into my bio.”
