“Some,” he confirms.
“Huh.” Maybe he’s changed more than I thought. “Well, I’m in danger of missing yet another deadline, so you don’t have to worry about me.” I grab my suitcase and head toward the stairs to find Daphne’s room. At the very least, I need a shower and a power nap before I start working.
“What does that mean?” West’s voice stops me.
As much fun as we had on the ferry, I can’t forget that the last conversation we ever had was him blowing me off. Not tomention the fact that I need to buckle down and write; if I don’t have something to send to my editor by the end of this week, my publishing date will be delayedagain.
“I know you didn’t plan on me crashing your trip with your friends. I’ll stay out of your way,” I say. He blinks in surprise, and I can’t stop myself from saying the next thing. “I’vemoved on.”
It feels like shots fired. Like launching a grenade into our otherwise-peaceful conversation. Until now, neither of us has even alluded to the fact that we used to be in love or that we set fire to our entire future in a handful of hours.
West fixes me with a hard look. I make a mental note to tell the actor playing Fox that his scowl is perfect. No notes.
“I’ve said and done a lot of regrettable things in my life. I guess it’s too much to ask that you don’t keep a catalog of them all in your head,” he drawls.
I exhale the tension from my body. He’s right. If he’s not holding the past against me, I should give him the same courtesy.
“Truce?”
“Truce,” he agrees, and with an official armistice in place, I drag my suitcase up the stairs.
29
Present Day
Karma has atwisted sense of humor. Thanks to a hotel fire, a tense breakfast, and a last-minute stop to purchase a second dress from a shop on University, I’m late to my signing. It feels like cosmic payback for making West late to his.
It’s another overcast day, the sky filled with slate clouds that promise rain. I’m worried it’ll keep people at home, but by the time I arrive on campus, the festival is buzzing. Signings and presentations and panels are in full swing for the last day of the event, and it’s a stark reminder that my joint panel with West is tonight. If this crowd holds, there will be a lot of people around to see us share a stage.
My stomach roils with anxiety. I’m starting to think this entire weekend was a mistake. I should have been one of those authors who kept my identity a secret, like Elena Ferrante. Daphne always jokes that she’ll know she’s “made it” as an author when she can delete her social media. Right now, that doesn’t sound like a bad idea.
The closer I get to my assigned tent, the more my stomachtangles up in knots. They loosen when I arrive and see that my signing line stretches to the back of the tent and snakes through the grass past several vendor tables. I spot two people in Fox shirts and one in pointed fae ears, and I can’t help but smile. It’s not the biggest line I’ve ever had, but it’s a relief. It’s good. It’s not embarrassing. That’s what this weekend was supposed to be about before West showed up and screwed with my head.
This bookwillsucceed, even if it kills me. (Sometimes it feels like it might kill me.)
I uncap a Sharpie and wave forward the first person in line. She’s wearing a Wildcats shirt and holding a stack of my books. When I see her smile, I let myself breathe.
She’s nice; the next person in line is nice; they’re all nice. They say all the things I never thought I’d hear again.
You’re my favorite author.
Your book saved my life.
I started reading again because of you.
I have to pretend your third book doesn’t exist.
So maybe they aren’t all nice, but I’ve heard worse.
I scrawl my name in black ink, my energy draining with each signature. I look up at the line, sweat forming on my brow as it grows. It’s not like me to have my social battery zapped by an event; I usually end a signing with enough energy to power a small city, but today I’m dragging, and I’m frustrated. I’ve spent too many years clinging to this career by my fingernails. I clawed myself out of a depressive valley for moments like this, and instead of feeling happy or accomplished or proud, I don’t feel anything.
I sign the last book, cap my marker, and take stock of my situation. I have a new book. I have fans who haven’t abandonedme. No one said anything openly hostile. This is the moment I fought so hard to get back—so why don’t I feel better?
A vision of West appears at the edge of my tent. I blink. I’m either hallucinating or dreaming again, because not even he is dumb enough to show up at my signing after our fight this morning. But as he walks toward me with determined strides, he doesn’t look like a hallucination. He doesn’t smell like one, either; the scent he carries with him is exactly like the soap I tried to inhale last night.
“Take your BDE and leave,” I say as I pack up my pens.
West lets out a surprised laugh. “Excuse me?”
