“Crazier than a dog who proofreads novels?”
“I’m also on my way to Martha’s Vineyard to stay in a house and write for a week.”
“Do you know Tristan Rossiter?” he asks incredulously.
“Who?”
“His parents own the house.”
“Never heard of him, but my roommate was invited last minute and she’s dragging me along.”
“Do you think we’re going to the same place?”
“Nah, I’m sure we’re both on our way to two different writing retreats on the same island at the exact same time.”
“Really?”
I give him a look.
“Sarcasm, got it.” He rubs the back of his neck, and I want to say anything to make our conversation last.
“Do you want to hear something ridiculous?”
“You don’t have to keep asking me if I want to hear things. You can assume that I do.”
“When I was little, I thought Martha’s Vineyard was MarthaStewart’s own private island. I’ve never been able to separate the two in my mind.”
He laughs as my Uber driver pulls up to the curb and rolls the window down. “Margot?”
I look at West. If we separate now, we probably won’t meet back up until we’re under the same roof. It’s a long car ride to the ferry terminal in Woods Hole. I’m low on sleep, high on energy from the premiere, and feeling reckless.
“Do you want to ride together? It’s faster than the bus.”
West picks up the duffel bag at his feet and slings it over his shoulder. “Let’s go, Margot.”
I throw him another look as I heave my suitcase into the trunk of the car. “Who the hell is Margot?”
It’s early whenWest and I arrive at the house, and we’ve both been undersold by a lot. Our lodging for the week is a three-story Victorian mansion with a wraparound porch. The house is white with black shutters and a blue front door that sounds like old money when we open it.
I whistle under my breath as we walk into the quiet house. “Your friend Tristan isrichrich.”
“ ‘Friend’ might be too strong a word,” West says.
I smile at him over my shoulder as I walk into the large kitchen. “You just don’t want to admit that you’re running with rich kids and nepo babies.”
He rolls his eyes in confirmation, and my stomach turns over. I feel like I’ve stumbled into a treasure trove of information about West. We spent the entire car and ferry rides catching each other up on our lives, but meeting his friends is another level entirely. He was pretty quiet about what he’s beenup to since college, instead asking me question after question about publishing and traveling and the movie premiere. He wanted to know if I had any say in the cast (no) or the script (some), and he had specific notes for the actor playing Fox. (Why does he look so pissed off in the movie trailers? Tell him to stop scowling so much!) Through slaphappy middle-of-the-night laughter, I promised to pass his thoughts to the director. Eventually I nodded off and was embarrassed to wake up with my head on his shoulder.
The kitchen is littered with evidence of a party, the large stone island covered in empty cups and vapes, a stack of pizza boxes piled high next to the trash can.
“When your friends say they’re getting together to write, is that an excuse to party all week?”
“They’renewfriends,” West stresses.
“Take a guess.”
He runs a hand through his hair as he surveys the mess in the kitchen. “I’d guess they’ll sleep until two, hang out until six, ‘create’ until ten, and then party until five.”
I’m not loving his use of the wordcreate. If I’m stuck in this house with a bunch of wannabe influencers, it’ll be a long week. “Drugs?” I ask.
