Ruby’s features lit up as if she’d remembered something. “Ooh, Nova, you have to come to the next artist salon. We’ve been hosting them every month. They’re for any type of artist to come be in community and discuss creativity, philosophy, and craft.”
Sienna nodded. “Yes, please come. We want to bring this style of dialogue back—inspired by the literary salons of the 17th and 18th centuries.”
“I’d love to,” I said. “That sounds amazing.”
Everything they talked about sounded amazing. The warmth of the people gathered and the space itself was palpable. Being here felt safe and familiar, like Ruby had built a sanctuary nestled between townhouses and small businesses. I was in awe that I’d lived in North Brooklyn for nearly three years now and had never even heard of this place.
“Is Third House an astrology reference?”
“Yes. I have a third house stellium—three planets all in Leo. My Sun, Venus, and Mercury. The third house rules neighborhood, communication, writing, surroundings, and intellect. Hence, all of this,” Ruby explained, gesturing to the packed space of laughing, talking, dancing patrons.
“Do the stars explain Wes?” I asked teasingly.
“Oh, they sure fucking do,” Sienna said. “He has a twelfth house Scorpio stellium. It’s horrifying.”
Wes chuckled. “I already warned her I was a Scorpio.”
“It gets worse. His Moon and Venus are in there too,” Sienna said. “Now that we know him, it’s cool. But those are the placements of an intense, broody, secretive man. We had to force him to tell us about you the other day. Once he cracked, he wouldn’t shut up about you, of course. Then his Sag rising? Lord help us; talk about hot and cold.”
“This all tracks with me.” I eyed him suspiciously. “Though I’m a Gemini, so I should probably stop talking so much shit.”
Wes gave my waist a playful squeeze. We locked eyes, and the room quieted and stilled.
For a moment, we were Just Wes and Just Nova, brought together by algorithms and stars.
36
NOVA
We had reached mid-September. I was almost done writing, and The Circle’s next party was in less than two weeks. Lorelei’s PicWave account had gone radio silent, which worried me deeply. Wes and I both avoided the topic, just as I’d been avoiding everyone from The Circle.
Instead, I’d attended Third House’s artist salon and a pay-what-you-can meditation night, both of which felt infinitely more genuine and relatable than The Circle’s offerings. Wes hadn’t been able to make it to either event, but I’d made a few new friends who were writers or ran creative small businesses.
Wes and I had gone on four more dates, speaking on the phone most days between. As he taught me more about kink, he teased me mercilessly with make out sessions and soft domming that never fully satisfied the inferno of need between us.
I was starting to get in my head, worrying I was failing some unspoken test or misreading what I thought were clear signals. Everything else about our growing connection reinforced mutuality, and yet, he didn’t feel strongly enough to take things to the next level.
As I got ready to see him, I tried to quiet my jumbled mental landscape. Not only was I feeling raw and confused about Wes, I was also still struggling financially. I didn’t feel comfortable discussing this with Wes, so I dealt with it alone. I squeezed in dates whenever I wasn’t writing, marketing, editing, or trying to keep my clothes washed and apartment clean and myself and Inara fed and cared for—orwhenever I wasn’t mentally exhausted and on the verge of tears from doing all these things all at once.
And worst of all, I was haunted by the email in my inbox I’d left unanswered from an agent at a major literary agency, and I was absolutelytormentedby the open invitation from my dream publisher to submit my next book directly to her.
Roman had bypassed the level of agents entirely. I could get any agent in the world with an offer from this imprint.
I was living inside my own personal brand of hell. The one thing that meant everything to me had just been tossed in my lap like it meant nothing at all.
What crueler torture than to be given exactly what I’d always wanted in theonlyform in which I could never accept it?
IhatedRoman fucking Graves.
With my look complete, I laced up my Doc Martins by the door. I smoothed out the slight wrinkles in my flirty, rose-printed, long-sleeved dress, all my attempts to relax unrealized.
By the time I made it to our rendezvous point at a bookstore between our apartments, my chest was in a tight squeeze from background anxiety. Nothing felt certain. Nothing felt safe.
“Woah, hey,” Wes said, scanning my face. “What’s wrong, baby?”
We were just inside the store, a few books in my old genre and even more in my new genre prominently showcased. Almost every single one was an indie who’d been picked up by a traditional publisher.
“I’m sorry. I’m just tired,” I said. I forced my lips into a smile, but I wasn’t sure it was convincing. “I love this place.” I cleared my throat, but the lump lodged there wouldn’t budge.
