“It’s fine.” He moves his hand off my waist to pinch the bridge of his nose.
“It’s not, though, and it’s killing me, West. Did you know I can’t write anymore? Of course you don’t, because we don’t know each other. Isn’t that messed up? You’re wearing a suit, and your hair is all short again!”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“It surprised me!”
“And? What’s your point?”
“I don’t want to be out of the loop on your life, West! Your hair might be short again because you’re withBeth-any and that’s how she likes it, but I wouldn’t know.”
His jaw clenches, and I realize belatedly that I lost the right to talk about his love life. “I’m not.” He grinds the words out.
“I know, but only because I stalk her on the internet and she posts pictures with her new girlfriend!”
He huffs an annoyed laugh. “What do you want from me, Mars?”
“I want you to forgive me, because I want you in my life. I don’t know what to do with myself in New York. I don’t know how to be an adult. It’s awful.” My eyes well with tears. “I want this stupid nightmare of a fight to be over.”
He presses a kiss to my forehead, stopping my meltdown in its tracks. I freeze, too stunned to move. I blink up at him through wet eyelashes, and he swallows heavily, lookingshaken to his core. “It’s fine, Mars,” he says, his rough voice scrubbing away the worst layer of our history. I wonder if he downed a shot of whiskey when I wasn’t looking. “I forgive you. It’s really not that big of a deal.”
“It’s not?” How could it not be? It’s the reason we’re not together.
He shakes his head. Helaughs. “No. We’re good.”
“Oh, thank god.” I let my head fall to his shoulder and my body sag against him. His frame catches my weight; we’re touching nearly everywhere, and it feels perfect. We never should have stopped doing this.
Too soon, West straightens and brings us back to middle school–dance position. His hand stiffly on my waist, our arms held out wide, and a familiar foreboding clings to my skin like smoke. “We’re good? You’re sure?”
“Yes.” He nods decisively, but the warning bells are loud in my head.
“So, we’re friends now?”
His brows crease. His eyes full of pity. “You’re in New York; I’m here. It doesn’t make sense.”
“But you said we’re good.” I hate how small and unsure my voice sounds.
“It was college, Mars.” He shrugs. “Nothing that happened then matters anyway. I’ve moved on. You should do the same.”
It’s only later, after he’s dropped my arm and walked off the dance floor, that I realize I selfishly said all the wrong things.
Iwant you to forgive me.
Idon’t know what to do with myself in New York.
Idon’t know how to be an adult.
When what I really meant wasYou were my best friend, andhurting you is the biggest regret of my life, and you deserve to get everything you’ve ever wanted.
Even if that isn’t me.
I cry everymile from California to New York. The flight attendants exchange worried looks and silently pass me tissues as they walk by. I hoped to fix things with West so badly I didn’t even admit that I wanted it. Like if I kept it a secret from myself, it couldn’t hurt me.
By the time I return to my apartment in Brooklyn, I’m jet-lagged, dehydrated, and exhausted. I haven’t slept in twenty-four hours.
I drop my bag just inside the door and fall into bed with my laptop.
Six days later, I email my editor the sequel toTorched.
