I blink open-mouthed at my phone.What am I supposed to say tothat?
I put the screen to sleep and drop it on my chest, trying to make sense of this information. I lie in darkness, save for the faint glow of his phone slipping through the crack in my door, until mine chimes with a new message.
Too much?
Yes.
No.
When I saw West at Amber’s wedding, he made it crystal clear that he’d moved on. And later, it became painfully obvious that he wanted nothing to do with me. But now he wants to pretend that he’s been pining for me or some bullshit?
I just don’t believe you.
Even after last night?
Was it the bickering in the bar that was supposed to convince me or the fury in his eyes when I read his book onstage? Clearly, he means the kiss, but I’m not a lovesick undergrad anymore. One nostalgia-and-hormone-fueled moment is not enough to rewrite our history.
Especially after last night.
Across the hall, West’s phone blinks off.
26
8 Years Ago
Two and ahalf years in the city, and I still don’t know how to dress for cold weather. I have boots, gloves, and a coat that doubles as a sleeping bag, but when I duck into a bookstore fourteen blocks from home, I’ve lost all feeling in my nose. My cheeks are windburned and stiff. My eyelashes are chipping off like icicles. When I get home, I’m buying the biggest Lenny Kravitz scarf I can find and wrapping my face like a mummy. I’ll be nothing but a pair of eyeballs until spring.
As I enter the shop, the bookseller tells me that they’re closing early because of the storm, but I can stay inside and warm up for a few minutes while they close out the register and clean up. I visitTorchedfirst and sign stock while the bookseller tags the covers with cute littleSigned by the Authorstickers. After that, I browse the rest of the YA section like I’m visiting my friends, and then I check historical fiction for Daphne’s novel.
Daphne did tag me in that horrible photo on Instagram; IDMed her to tell her that unfortunately, my vanity would not allow me to remain tagged. She came to look at my apartment the next day, and a few weeks later, she moved into the spare bedroom. And then one day, without realizing it, I had a new best friend. She’s a nanny for a wealthy Upper East Side family, but she moves through the world like she has spare hours stuffed up her sleeves. She writes, gets an agent, sells her novel. Every time I blink, she has a new tattoo. She starts an herb garden in our kitchen before quickly abandoning it. Her resolution for the New Year is to learn to crochet; she’s already stockpiling yarn on every flat surface available. When I’m in town, she walks with me to the coffee shop on her mornings off, and when her historical fiction novel is released, we celebrate together.
I amsomuch happier at her book launch than I was at mine.
Her book isn’t selling well, and she’s bummed about it. I look for it in the store, hoping to snap a picture and send it to her to cheer her up, but it’s not in stock. Almost no store has it in stock, which is half the problem. How is anyone supposed to read a book they don’t know about?
“I’ll be finished in about five minutes,” the bookseller calls. I weave my way through tight shelves toward the front of the store, stopping at an endcap labeledLocal Authors. I scan the dozen titles; once again, Daphne’s is nowhere to be seen. I make a mental note to ask the bookseller to order a copy to add to their display on my way out. I’m walking away when I stop and do a double take. Sitting on the bottom row, only inches off the floor, is one copy of a little black paperback with a white title.Oasis.Small letters under the title spellWest Emerson.
I blink several times.
I slowly pick up the book. There’s no author photo, but there is a short bio on the back cover.
West Emersonwas born and raised in the Southwest but now lives in Manhattan.Oasisis his first novel.
The store lights turn off. “Are you ready to leave?”
“Coming!” I yell. My heart is pounding feverishly. I hear the front door open and a whoosh of cold air and snow flurries swirls into the store. “Can I buy this book?”
“Sorry, the register is closed.”
I open my bag and dig for cash, but come up empty-handed.
“I can hold it behind the counter for you,” she offers. I’m disappointed, but she tucks the book under the front counter and locks the door behind us.
The city is blanketed in snow for the rest of the week. After that, I’m preparing for tour, and then it’s the holidays, and I’m unable to make it back to the bookstore for a few weeks. By the time I do, the sidewalks are covered in a completely different layer of ice and snow. I was paranoid that an employee would reshelve West’s book, but they assured me over several phone calls that they wouldn’t.
I pay for the book with jittery hands and walk home in record time. Inside my apartment, I stand frozen for a solid minute, my fingers wrapped around the spine. I’m momentarily paralyzed by indecision, but then my fingers thaw, and reality comes into focus.
I’m about to go on tour for my second book, and I can’t get wrapped up in the idea of West again. I’m finally emotionally disentangled. I have a third date tonight with a cute guy I met on an app. His messages are a little dull, and when I caught aglimpse of his apartment last weekend, it was filthy, but he’s nice to me. He always messages first. I have a good feeling about him.
