“No. Um, not yet.”
“What about the first one?”
I wish he hadn’t asked.It’s a unique kind of embarrassment to find out in real time that a person you thought has read your book hasn’t bothered. “I mean, I kind of hated you.” The past tense slips out.
He laughs harshly. “Believe me,I know. But you met me at our spot, Mars. And when I tried to tell you aboutDrought, you seemed like you already knew.”
I blink in surprise at the way he characterizes that chance encounter when I first got to campus for the festival. “Iran into youat our spot. I needed privacy for a phone call, and it was the first quiet place that came to mind.”
As West’s eyes flicker in comprehension, I can’t recall a time I’ve ever regretted the truth more. His crestfallen expression presses on an old bruise in my chest, one that never quite healed. “Yeah. Of course.” He opens the door, and rain whooshes inside the car. “That makes sense. I’ll change the tire now.”
I watch him duck out of the car, and I’m more confused than ever—about his book and our spot and what one has to do with the other.
I glance at the clock. The day is half-gone, our panel starting impossibly soon. The weekend is nearly over, and for reasons I don’t understand, my throat swells around tears I don’t want to shed. With nothing else to do and no excuse not to, I open the cover ofDrought.
I exhale a soft sigh as my fingers absent-mindedly trace the pages. It’s a beautiful book, with endpapers the color of rust and a tiny fairy illustration hanging from theg. It strikes me as unusually whimsical.
I turn to the dedication page.
If you’re reading this, you know who you are
Thank you for changing my life
I’m sorry
Every nerve ending in my body heightens, and I mentally scold myself. There’s no need to freak out over an anonymous dedication. It could mean anything. It could be directedtowardanyone.
The sharp twinge behind my ribs calls me a liar.
I swallow my fear and turn to the first page.
A career in books has made me a speed-reader, but I don’t think I’ve ever read anything as quickly as I tear through the pages ofDrought. I read with my heart in my throat, and I can’t deny the truth for long.
This book isn’t just dedicated to me. It’saboutme.
It’s a love story. For some reason, I didn’t think it would be. I’ve been writing the same type of story for more than a decade now, and I assumed that West’s book would be a continuation of his college work. Stories about coming of age and complicated families. Feelings of resentment and fear. Life in a small town. And to be fair, this book has all of that. But mostly, it’s a love story.
The main character is a young man who has spent nearly his whole life trying to leave his small desert town, only to end up back there over and over again through some inexplicable combination of fate or magic or despair, each time coming face-to-face with the woman he’s been in love with for years.
Every time, they meet at the same spot.Their spot.
Her name is Luna, and she’s me in all the ways that FoxCaldwell is West. We have similar features: brown eyes, honey-blond hair, a smattering of freckles across our nose. We’re not identical, though, and I have to wonder if West thought the similarities were too obvious and tweaked a feature or two at the last minute.
I imagine him sitting in his chair at two a.m. the night before copy edits were due, frantically trying to scrub me from the page. Inserting comments that would annoy everyone on the editorial team.Make her hair longer! Add a tooth gap! Grant me plausible deniability!
It’s an easy scene to sketch, because I did the same thing. After I turned in my final edits forTorched, I called Whitney in a panic and told her I simply had to remove the excessive references to Fox being tall. (That’ll fool ’em!)
I choke on my own laughter when I find out that Luna’s arms are covered in fairy tattoos. (Fairies because I wrote a fae book. I suppose he wasn’t aiming for subtlety after all.)
My shock increases with every page. It’s like reading West’s and my history, our memories and inside jokes splashed on the page, cloaked in beautiful prose and disguised as fiction. It’s overwhelming. My skin overheats. I pull off West’s sweater.
When he returns to the car more than an hour later, hair dripping like a black labradoodle, my heart is pounding likeI’mthe one who changed the tires in the pouring rain. “No luck finding a second spare. I think our best option is calling for backup. The rain’s slowed down a lot. Should be safe to drive again.”
His attention snags on the open book on my lap. I’ve nearly reached the midpoint ofDrought, and my thoughts run unchecked. I feel everything all at once. I don’t know how to reconcile the discordant emotions in my body. I’m stunned andconfused and heartsick all over again. My fingers curl around the edges of the book. “What did you do?” I whisper, gazing up at his profile.
He stares out the windshield, his numb expression completely at odds with the bubbling outrage I’m trying to contain. He sighs heavily and pinches the bridge of his nose. “What do you want me to say, Mars?”
“I don’t know. Try something and see what happens.”
