“Some people would say writing and publishing a book is reason enough to celebrate,” West muses.
“Those people have never received death threats for writing ‘cringey teen romance novels.’ ”
His face pales. “Did you—” He clears his throat. “Did you really?”
“Don’t look so appalled. It’s not like it wasyourfault.”
I head toward the Old Main building and am aghast when West follows. I glance up in time to see a muscle in his jaw jump. “Did you tell the police?” he asks.
I roll my eyes. “They cared about as much as they care about the dick pics in my inbox.” He looks so disturbed by that, I almost feel bad for him. “My editor doesn’t think there will be backlash this time.”
“I’m sure there won’t be,” he says, and I bristle at his unwarranted confidence. It’s obnoxious the way he thinks he knows my career better than I do.
“You don’t know that.”
“You could write anything, and people would eat it up.”
“You would think that,” I reply, monotone. Leave it to him to say the worst possible thing.
“Howarethe early reviews?”
I bite my lip, unsure of what to say. I should have invented a million little lies to tell him about all the reading lists I’ve made and awards that I’ve won since we last talked. One book? Child’s play. I’ll tell him that I’ve written twelve and sold them all at auction. He’ll never bother to double-check.
At the very least, I should have mentally prepared myself to see him again. The first time after a break is always disorienting. It makes me feel like I need to book a physical ASAP, because why should a thirty-two-year-old feel like there’s an ice cube in her chest that won’t melt? If I’d known he’d be here, I’d have looked at his picture every night before bed to desensitize myself.
“The book’s been embargoed. There won’t be any early reviews,” I hear myself admitting out loud. It was one of the requests (read: demands) I had for my publisher. They would’ve had to pry that manuscript out of my cold, dead hands if they hadn’t agreed to this stipulation. My mental health wouldn’t have survived otherwise.
The sun is beating down on my neck as we round Old Main and stop short in front of the large fountain. He exhales a soft huff of air that telegraphs shared memories. His and mine.
“Do you remember—”
“Don’t,” I say before his words unleash a dam of counterfeit nostalgia.
He stuffs his hands in his pockets and rocks on his feet. “There was a time when you would have killed to be in this position: a published author and festival headliner.”
Resentment slices red-hot through my chest. “And therewas a time when you weren’t a pretentious asshole, but people change.” I sidestep him with purpose.
My name doesn’t carry the gravitas it once did, but on this campus, I still have some sway, and I’m going to use every ounce of it to get West Emerson kicked off my panel.
4
13 Years Ago
Freshman Year, Second Semester
I guess Ishouldn’t have been surprised by the way everything went down, because West was a surprise from the very beginning. I didn’t know he had any intention of entering the writing competition, had no idea the Chia Pet story was his until he smirked at me on that last day of class and I realized too late that the train was about to hit.
When second semester starts, I keep an eye out for West on campus, but our schedules don’t match up, and eventually I stop thinking about him. Mostly. And every time I sit in Grammar 101 and am forced through the hell that is mapping sentence trees, I definitely don’t wonder what’s going on in Dr.B’s workshop. More or less. And on a Saturday night in February when my roommate, Amber, insists that I go to a basketball game with her and some friends, I agree, because I don’t expect her friends to include West.
But like I said, he’s always been a surprise.
My breath clouds in front of me in the fading sunlight as Amber and I wait outside the boys’ dorm. It’s cold for Tucson;the air has an unfamiliar bite. I breathe into my hands to warm them up.
“It’s about time you came out with us. You study too much,” Amber says. She likes to grumble that I never hang out, but because she’s with her boyfriend ninety percent of the time, I doubt I’m hindering her social lifethatmuch.
“I’m failing math,” I say instead of explaining that most of my time is spent writing fantasy worlds that have nothing to do with school. Iamfailing math, but that has very little to do with anything. Going out is just…harder than staying in. Always has been.
“Have you seen a tutor?”
