He laughs loud enough to indicate his agreement.
“Even so,” I continue, the words pulled out of me by the late hour and the small space, “it was petty. And it doesn’t feel right now that I know what I know. I’m sorry.”
“Now that you know I used to be a tragic, insecure loser who was scared of your success?” he asks.
I don’t know if he’s being sarcastic or serious, so I let the comment drop. It’s too late to relitigate the past tonight, and I want to stay a little longer in this bubble with him, pretending that a small but very vocal group of chronically online Torchers wouldn’t find it outrageous that I’m on my way to sleep at his house.
“I didn’t mind when you were messing with me,” he says after a long stretch of silence, and I wonder if he’s as sleep-deprived as I am. Maybe he’s delirious.
“How quickly you’ve forgotten that you showed up to the bar last night in my book merch.”
“I like knowing that you’re thinking about me.”
“What else is new?” He’s never going to let me forget that I was once so obsessed with him it inspired a half-billion-dollar franchise.
West turns off the main road into a neighborhood with charming tree-lined streets. We pass Whitman, then Elmwood, then Burns. He turns onto Poe Street and pulls into the driveway of a redbrick mid-century modern home with a black front door.
“Tell me the truth. Did you buy this house because it’s onPoeStreet?” I ask.
West turns the car off. “Welcome to Poet’s Square.”
I laugh, no longer sleepy. I haven’t pulled an all-nightersince I was on deadline for my second book, but I’m feeling the same lightness in my chest that used to hit around this time. “That’s cute. Did you come up with that?” Regrettably, I love it.
He laughs. “It’s the name of the neighborhood, but I won’t pretend it wasn’t a contributing factor toward purchasing this home. C’mon. Let’s go inside.”
“Full moon tonight?” I ask as we walk up the stone path to his door.
“I think so, why?”
I pause, hands on my hips. “Have you done the thing?”
“What thing?”
“West!” I gasp, grabbing his arms. “You have to do the thing!” I tip my head back and howl at the moon. When I lower my chin, West is watching me in awe.
“I haven’t thought about that in so long.”
“Your turn.” I squeeze his biceps, and his pupils double in size. We howl together, too loud and too silly. By the time he unlocks the door and I’m lurching inside, tears of laughter are streaming down my cheeks.
The hall is dark, illuminated only by moonlight, and the door clicking shut lands like an anvil in my ears. West crosses his arms, lifts one foot, and presses it against the door, staring at me intently.
My throat goes dry. I hear nothing but my own shallow breaths.
His soft shirt clings to his body, his sweatpants low on his hips in a way that makes it hard to look anywhere else. I want to curl his eyelashes around my finger and trace the shape of his nose. I want to run my thumb over his lips, then follow it with my tongue.
“So, this is it, huh?” I ask, breaking eye contact. “I wonder where you stash the typewriters.”
He flips on a light and leads me into the kitchen. In the bright overhead light, I remember that I’m braless, in pajamas, with smoke in my hair and clinging to my skin.
“Can I get you anything?” he asks as he pours a glass of water and sets it on the counter in front of me.
I drag my fingertip over the rim of the cup. “Just somewhere to sleep, and then you can pretend I’m not here.”
“Not possible,” he says in a low voice that stirs something inside me. “My bedroom is this way.” He points down a long hall just off the kitchen.
“Yourbedroom?” I ask sharply, my pulse jumping to wild conclusions.
He scratches the back of his neck, looking nervous. “It’s the only bed in the house. I’ll show you.” He leads me down the hall to a room that is clearly his office. It’s empty with the exception of a small desk, a laptop, an open notebook, and a handful of blue ink pens.
