“If you leave your clothes in the hall, I’ll wash them so you have something to wear in the morning.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“But I will,” he says, leaving no room for debate. I nod once.
West stands in the space between the hall and the bedroom for another minute, looking like a man desperate to confess his deepest secrets, but with a final clench of his jaw, he says, “Night, Darling,” and backs slowly away.
I watch him retreat to the room across the hall and pretend the feeling in my gut isn’t disappointment. For a few heart-stopping seconds, I thought he’d finally found the words he promised me a decade ago. Therightones, whatever that means. Logically, however, I know I’m better off with his silence. The right words no longer exist between West and me.
Showering in West’s bathroom is as weird and wonderful as I expected. I can’t help but pick up and inspect everything: his razor, his shaving cream, shampoo, conditioner, bodywash. I huff them all until I get high off the scent of him for old time’s sake, letting myself do what twenty-year-old Mars could only dream of.
I’ve been tiptoeing into dangerous territory all night, but now I fling myself in headfirst.
I wear one of his soft T-shirts, which hangs to my knees. Nounderwear. His shirt feels indecent as I slide the cotton over my skin. The hem brushes against my bare thighs, and I have a hunch that I’m going to feel the imprint of the soft stitches for a long time.
I approach West’s bed on cautious tiptoe, though I’m not sure what I’m scared of. I kneel on the floor and inspect the stack of books. I’ve only read a few of them. My heart thunders as I slowly slide open his bedside drawer. The scrape of wood is as loud as church bells. I hold my breath and wait to be caught snooping, but the house is quiet, and I resume my excavation.
The drawer is nearly empty, aside from a handful of condoms and a small stack of papers.
I make a promise to myself that I won’t read anything as I pick up the stack and thumb through it quickly. There are a few cards. A letter. West’s passport and birth certificate. What looks like the closing documents for this house. Sticking out of a corner near the bottom of the pile is a piece of bright blue paper that catches my eye. I flip to it, and there’s a brief moment of confusion as I stare at my own signature below a scrawled note that saysMargot Darling’s #1 Fan.
A joke I made in another lifetime. A throwaway moment that I haven’t thought about since.
Quiet footsteps pass the door. I dump everything back in the drawer and jump to my feet, heart pounding recklessly in my chest. By the time I slide between West’s sheets, I’m wide-awake, vibrating with sensory overload, unsure I’ll survive the night.
24
9 Years Ago
I wake upcriminally early on the dayTorchedis published. I’m an antsy little kid on Christmas morning, too excited to sleep. I lie in bed and comb through my social media comments, congratulations pouring in from my family, friends, and anyone my parents have ever met. My parents are deeply concerned about the way these “damn millennials” are buying too much avocado toast and moving back in with their parents, but now that I’ve survived a year and a half in New York without once asking for money, they’ve finally accepted that they can brag about me to their friends—without caveats that my book would be publishedeventually,someday,no really!As of today, I’m no longer a jobless menace to society. I’m an author. Even better, anovelist. They are so supportive. They are soproud.
I’m outside theBarnes & Noble in Park Slope when they open up the store, and I’m greeted by a table of my books at thefront of the YA section. I wonder if this is the part where I cry. It doesn’t happen, but that’s okay. Happy tears have never really been my thing. I take a hundred pictures, and they all look awful; bookstore lighting is a crime. I post online with captions that I drafted last week, and I check the clock.
With more than ten hours until my launch party and no other plans for the day, I walk to Trader Joe’s and carry my groceries back to my apartment. I repost every story that I’m tagged in. I writeThank you!!!!!one million times. I abuse the black heart emoji.
I sit on my bed and wait.
I check myphone again, again, again. He doesn’t contact me.
I’m signing bookson a small stage at the back of my local independent bookstore. Bookshelves have been cleared out to make room for about thirty folding chairs, only some of which are occupied. I hoped for more, but apparently no one comes out to see an author until they already know and love you, and that takes time. I invited my parents and brothers, but they couldn’t make the trip. I assume I’ll see them in San Diego on the last stop of my eight-city tour, but maybe not.
“I’ve been excited to read your book for months.”
I look up from the pen in my hand to a tall, stunning redhead. I blink in surprise. “Really?”
She nods eagerly. “I’ve seen it everywhere online. I can’t wait to read it.”
My chest prickles with a warm feeling. “Thank you. Do you want the book made out to you?”
“Please. My name is Daphne. I’m a writer, too!” she confesses as I write my name in big, swooping letters across the title page ofTorched.
I glance at her again. She looks about my age. “What do you write?”
“Everything. Lots of stuff. Historical right now, although it’s hard with my roommate. She and her boyfriend fight a lot. They’re screamers.”
A small bell chimes as the door at the front of the store opens. My eyes are drawn to the dark curls of the man entering. For one heartbeat, I stop breathing, but then I exhale—it’s not him.
“Sorry, what?” I turn my attention back to the redhead.
