“Can we take a picture with the book?” Daphne asks.
“Sure! Of course!”
Her friend holds the cell phone and snaps a picture, and when she turns it to us for posting approval, I lay eyes on the ugliest picture of myself I’ve ever seen. “Looks great!”
“I’ll tag you!” she promises before she turns to leave.
“Wait!” I cry. When she looks at me over her shoulder, I take a chance. “Do you want a new roommate?”
The store locksits doors behind me. I go home alone, where I drink a glass of wine and watch a rerun ofGrey’s Anatomy. Same thing I did last night. Same thing I’ll do tomorrow night.
When I close my eyes, I think of a man with dark curls ducking into the bookstore. This time, he has multicolored eyes.
Just over aweek afterTorched’s release, Whitney calls to tell me that I’ve hit theNew York TimesBest Seller list.
Again, I wait for tears that don’t come, and this time I wish they would, because I don’t know how to process this information.
The predominant feeling is a free fall of relief.
I can finally relax. I can stop worrying.
As it turnsout, publishing a bestselling book series is pretty fun.
Everyone wants to be friends with me. My inbox is filled with messages from authors I’ve been obsessed with for years. I’m booked to appear at conferences that require an exclusive invitation. I’m added to group chats with names that make me blink twice when I see them. My follower count increases every day. Unbelievably, I’m in the Cool Kids of Publishing club.
The crowds at my signings are getting a little bigger at every stop, and girls are showing up in homemade Fox Caldwell T-shirts. They beg for the sequel. The bookstore near me can’t keepTorchedin stock for more than a few days at a time. Oh, and did I mention the movie? A production company in Hollywood snapped up the film rights, attached a director, and started production in record time.
I’ve moved on from West. I joined the apps, I swipe right, and I send flirty messages to my matches. It hasn’t led anywhere yet. It’s hard when I’m traveling so much. When I told one guy that I’d be out of town for the next few months, he hitme up for nudes to keep him busy while I was gone.Blocked. Another guy accused me of lying about my job after he googled me. His bio said he was a writer and musician. I’d told him I was a writer, too, but he took that to mean I was a work-from-home SEO content machine. When he saw a feature on me inSlate, he blockedme. After he called me a bitch.
I don’t think about West anymore, except when I do. When it’s one of those nights, I can’t help but wonder what he thinks of all this. If he sees my name online. If he walks around with a smug expression, knowing he inspired an “instant cultural phenomenon” (Slate’s words, not mine). I get asked all the time where I got the idea for the book and who inspired Fox. I always give some dumb, vague answer about “the power of imagination.” I feel ridiculous every time I say it.
The second timeI hallucinate West in the audience, it’s at my hometown bookstore in San Diego. My parents seized the opportunity to show me off and invited every person they’ve ever met. The mailman? Yes. Their local Trader Joe’s cashier? Yes. (Hecame. I’m mortified.) They invited their old college roommates and the parents of all my high school acquaintances and the HOA board members my mom has been feuding with for a decade.
It’s standing room only, and I’m melting under the scrutiny of fluorescent lighting and people who’ve known me since I was a baby. I’m jet-lagged, and I’m hungry. It’s probably the hunger that does it. I really should have eaten something. I see a flash of dark hair, the collar of a jacket pulled up against scruffy cheeks. I blink and he’s gone. My face is hotter than ever, and this Q&A session feels never-ending.
“How did you come up with Fox?” asks a girl in the audience. She has braces, a fox-ear headband, and hearts in her eyes.
I snap my focus back to the crowd. “I’m sorry, can you repeat your question?”
“Was he inspired by anyone you know in real life?” she asks as my eyes stray to the back of the store. I squint against the bright lights.
“And how can I meet him?” another voice asks. Everyone laughs.
I could have sworn it was West.
“Margot?” The moderator prompts my response, and I drag my attention back to the Q&A, searching for the answer I’ve given at least a dozen times.
I can’t find it.
They’re staring at me, and I can feel myself bombing. My mom is sitting rigidly in her chair, hands clenched. Her eyes slide around to her friends, and I realize I have to say something or risk embarrassing her in front of the people whose approval she needs the most.
“Yeah, yes. West—I mean Fox—he was inspired by the boy I was in love with when I was in college.”
“Oooh,” my moderator croons, sounding excited. “What happened to him?”
I turn to her, wondering how I got myself into this situation. I can’t tell a room of my mom’s friends that I got drunk and had sex with someone else.
I swallow heavily, searching for the simplest truth. “He’s the one that got away.”
