He gestures to the book. “It’s all in there.”
“When?” I demand.
He looks at me sideways, brow furrowed. “Always?”
I scowl at his nonanswer. “When did you write this?”
“I worked on it for a while,” he hedges.
“For fuck’s sake, West. Before or after Martha’s Vineyard?”
“Does it matter?”
Maybe not. It’s infuriating either way. I latch on to that feeling and sink in, because it’s right at the surface, and it’s easy to understand. “Yes.”
His teeth clench around the answer. “After.”
I close the book slowly and lean toward West. When he finally looks at me, apprehension bleeds around all his exposed edges. I press the book into his chest. “You know what, West?Fuck you.”
32
7 Years Ago
West does call,but New York is five hours behind London, and by then it’s too late. Fox Caldwell’s European fans have already read the article.
I sleep in. Between jet lag and the string of movie events I’ve attended over the last seventy-two hours, I barely know what time it is. The story I dreamed up in college is the biggest movie in the world, and it’s a surreal feeling that I don’t have words for. My brain wasn’t built to process something on this scale.
I finished writing my third book on the flight here. I’ll email it to Whitney next week, but for now I’m lying groggy and happy in a hotel bed. When my phone buzzes, I wonder if it’s a text from West. I haven’t heard from him yet. I’m not sure why, but it feels like we’re waiting to be on the same continent. I won’t believe this past week really happened until we’re together again.
It’s a text from Daphne, asking if I’ve been online.
I tell her no, and ask why she’s awake.
Pulling an all-nighter revising this book. You need to go online. And then call me.
I start with Instagram, and I have so many notifications that the app crashes. I scroll and quickly realize that something is off. I sit up in the hotel bed, no longer groggy. A spike of acidic adrenaline has perked me right up.
I’ve been tagged in dozens of comments, but most of them seem to be talkingaboutme instead of talkingtome. They’re defensive and angry and written in all caps.
FUCK YOU @WestEmerson. @MargotDarling deserves better than this.
I’m tagged in another post with a link to an opinion piece inTheNew York Times.
The article starts as an explainer about the emerging scene at Dimes Square and introduces the online debate about whether or not this microneighborhood is worth caring about. There seems to be no love lost between the author and Tristan’s band of wannabe misfits, although she stops short of outright roasting them for claiming to be at the forefront of New York’s art scene from the kitchen table of a Martha’s Vineyard mansion. West isn’t mentioned at all until the last third of the article, in which the interviewer describes him as “charmingly bookish and distractingly handsome.”
I bite my lip, anticipating West’s cocky grin when I returnto New York. It’ll inflate his ego worse than the first time he readTorched. He’ll suffocate under his own cloak of arrogance.
I keep reading.
It’s Emerson’s kaleidoscope eyes that draw my attention, as heterochromia is having a pop culture moment thanks to the popular fantasy novel (and movie by the same name)Torched. This runaway hit series has captivated readers around the world, and eagle-eyed fans have discovered that the book’s heartthrob, Fox Caldwell, is inspired by none other than West Emerson, the ex-boyfriend of the novel’s author, Margot Darling. Fans claim that at an early book signing, Darling admitted that her ex had sparked the creation of the character Fox, who is beloved for his captivating charm and fierce loyalty.
If you’re willing to go far enough down theTorchedfandom rabbit hole, you’ll find old photos of Emerson and Darling together during their time as students at the University of Arizona, as well as theories that the book’s heroine, Juniper, is based on the author herself. A source close to the pair states that they were “very serious” and “madly in love” before their sudden split. They did not confirm where Emerson and Darling stand now, although online sleuths have deduced that the two do not seem to be in contact. For fans of the book, the revelation has added an extra layer of intrigue as they try to unravel which parts of Fox and Juniper’s story could be inspired by real-life events.
Interestingly, Emerson himself is an author. His debut novel,Oasis, was published last year throughUnderlight Press, one of the many creative endeavors to come out of Dimes Square. While Emerson has yet to replicate his ex-girlfriend’s commercial success,Oasishas received critical praise, and Emerson appears poised on the cusp of making a name for himself in the literary fiction scene. Today, he is eager to discuss his work, but when I bring up his connection to Darling’sTorched, he does his best to redirect the conversation.
Rossiter does not let that happen. He begs on hands and knees for the backstory, so I give it to him. By the time I finish, Emerson’s friends are volleying insults across the kitchen with alarming ease. When I ask how it feels to have his name connected to the biggest YA fantasy series of the year, Emerson is visibly irritated. “I’d rather be kept out of it.”
“Why?” I can’t help but press the issue. “A connection toTorchedcould only help your career.”
