But when she sees it’s me, something in her expression relaxes, just barely, like seeing me here made this whole nightmare fractionally more bearable. That look does something to my chest. Makes me want to pull her into my arms and promise her everything will be okay, even though I have no idea if that’s true.
“You saw,” she says flatly.
“Isabel showed me.”
She laughs, a hollow, broken sound. “Of course. Everyone’s seen it by now. The whole town knows. The whole damn internet knows.”
“Can I come in?”
She hesitates, then steps back, opening the door wider.
Her apartment is dark, curtains drawn so not even the moonlight can shine in. Only the dim light from her kitchen spills into the living room. There are boxes in the corner—half-packed. A suitcase is open on the couch, clothes spilling out of it.
No.
“You’re leaving?” The words come out harsher than I intend.
“What else am I supposed to do?” She crosses her arms, defensive. “Stay here and let them tear me apart? Let Judith Ashford organize a boycott of my shop? Let Owen—“
She cuts herself off, shaking her head.
“What about Owen?”
“Let Owen do what Owen does best. Manipulate and leech.” She grabs a shirt that sits on the arm of her couch and haphazardly tosses it into the suitcase. “It doesn’t matter.”
I step closer, and she backs up.
“Has he contacted you since the other night?” I ask.
Her expression darkens. “He’s been texting nonstop. Messages about how I should ‘prepare for the fallout’ and ‘think about damage control.’” Her voice shakes. “He’s probably loving this. Watching me burn.”
Rage floods through me. “Is he the one who told Macy?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Probably not. Owen is more calculating, and honestly, I think Macy just figured it out on her own.” The pain in her voice when she says Macy’s name guts me. “Being excited can cause you not to consider the consequences.” Her voice cracks. “She thought she was celebrating me. She had no idea what she was doing.”
“You’re not angry at her,” I realize.
“How can I be?” Sadie’s eyes are wet. “She loves the book. She’sproudof me. She thinks it’s cool that I wrote it.“ Sadie plops onto her couch. “She’s twenty-two years old and doesn’t understand why anyone would hide the fact that they write romance novels.” She wipes at her eyes. “She doesn’t know what it’s like to have your family call your work pornography. To be told you should be ashamed of the thing you love doing most. My mother sent me an ‘I told you so’ text an hour ago.”
Something hot and protective flares through me. Her mother can’t even let her have a crisis in peace. She has to twist the knife in while Sadie is down.
“I don’t even know how the word got to her so quickly. It couldn’t just stay contained in the Sierra Rose Ridge Facebook group. Nope. It had to explode over the internet, and now any comfort I had in hiding behind a pseudonym has been completely washed away.Woosh!“ She swipes her hand through the air. “I don’t know how I can continue writing under Sienna Saguaro after this, and starting a new pen name would mean starting over. I can’t believe I was so stupid and careless.”
She’s spiraling. I can see it in her eyes, hear it in the way her words are tumbling out faster and faster.
“You’re not stupid or careless, Sadie,” I say quietly.
“Aren’t I?” She laughs again, that same broken sound. “I wrote a book about this place. Used real details. Real landmarks. Renaming them didn’t hide them. I set the story in a town that’s clearly recognizable to anyone who lives here. And I thought what? That I could hide forever? That no one would ever connect Sadie Pierce to Sienna Saguaro?”
“You wrote a book that people are obsessed with,” I tell her. “People literally can’t stop talking about it. Readers on the internet are losing their minds over it, Sadie.”
I sit next to her. Without warning, she leans her head on my shoulder. For five years, I’ve wanted to be the person she turns to. Just not like this. Not when she’s breaking.
I wrap my arm around her and kiss the top of her head before I can stop myself. She doesn’t pull away. She just leans in closer, and I can feel the moment she stops trying to hold it together. The way her shoulders shake with silent tears.
“Writing romance isn’t something to be ashamed of,” I murmur into her hair.
She lets out a half-hearted laugh. “Tell that to my mother. Or Judith. Or the hundred people commenting on that Facebook post calling me a liar, an exploiter, and a slut.”
