I’ve never had more money or attention in my life. I’ve also never been so creatively stuck. My third book was due months ago. The deadline came and went. Emails from Whitney started out gentle and understanding, but now they’ve adopted a panicked tone. She says that I should just send her what I have, that she trusts my vision for this series. That’s her first mistake.I don’t even trust myself anymore.
The only thing I know for sure is that the series needs a happy ending. Millions of readers are invested in this lovestory, and I can’t imagine a world in which I write anythingotherthan a happy ending. It would be a betrayal. Fox and Juniper are supposed to end up together, but I don’t know how to get them there. I can’t open my laptop without crumbling under the weight of reader expectation. It was easier to write when there was the possibility that no one would ever read it.
TheTorchedmovie premieres on a warm weekend in September. I take photos with the absurdly beautiful cast and wave to the screaming fans who are waiting in the rain. Every time someone tells me they can’t wait for the next book, I bite another nail down to the quick. By the end of the evening, all of my fingers are bleeding.
It’s in this condition that I run into West for the first time in two years.
My red-eye from the premiere took me straight to Boston, and I’m standing with my luggage at Ground Transportation outside Logan Airport when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I yelp in surprise and spin around. West Emerson is standing in front of me with a backpack slung over his shoulder, saying something I can’t hear.
“Hang on.” I take out my AirPods. “What’d you say?”
“Sorry for scaring you! I was just saying hi.”
“Hi.” I’m in shock. West leans toward me, then rethinks, and I kind of lean in but not really, and it’s awkward, and we both laugh. “Hug?” I ask. He nods and wraps his arms around me for the world’s briefest hug.
After I found out that West moved to New York, I was on edge for weeks, thinking I’d run into him on the street or in the subway. I can’t believe that when it finally happens, we’re in Boston of all places.
“What are you doing here?” I ask. He’s wearing joggers and a hoodie that he’s owned since college. His curls are brushing the tops of his ears.
“Waiting for a bus.”
“But what are you doinghere? In Boston.”
He runs a hand over the back of his neck. “I’m, uh, on my way to a work thing.”
“What are you up to these days?”
He hesitates. “I’m kind of a writer now.Barely. Not like you.”
I shake my head, frustrated that he still feels this way about himself. “Don’t do that. Don’t minimize it. Your book is calledOasis, right?”
“That’s right,” he says. If he’s surprised that I already know, he doesn’t look it.
“Congratulations. I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks, Mars.”
“You live in New York now?” I confirm, and West nods. Again, he doesn’t seem surprised that I’m up to date on his life. “What are you waiting for? Tell me everything! What’s the book about? When did you write it?”
He searches for something in my expression. I hold my breath, but after a few moments, his features slide into something more neutral. “Maybe another time. It’s not that interesting.”
“Itis, though! You did it, West.” Regret strikes me suddenly. I should have contacted him the day I saw his book. I wonder if he also spent his publication day waiting for a text that never came.
He exhales a hollow laugh. “I don’t know about all that. My publisher is basically three guys and a dog. I think my novel sold twelve copies total.”
“What does the dog do?”
“He’s our emotional support and mascot. Also proofreading,” he says dryly.
I laugh. “You’re here for work?”
“I might have used the term ‘work’ a little too loosely. I’m staying in a house on Martha’s Vineyard with some friends for the week; we’ll be writing.”
My eyes widen, and then I burst into nearly hysterical laughter. I blame my overtired, jet-lagged brain.
West watches with amusement. “Care to share with the class?”
“Do you want to hear something crazy?”
