Fangirl

Chapter 27

AMY

He chose Everything That Follows.

My heart hammers in my chest as I read the headline again. I don’t know why I keep rereading it. Maybe because it doesn’t feel real. Maybe because it feels too real.

Jake turned down a franchise for an indie film with heart.

And he did it on his own. For himself. Not for optics, not for applause. Just… because it mattered.

And I’m proud of him. So damn proud.

Not because he walked away from the money, though, yes, that’s huge, but because he finally chose what was right for him. He stopped trying to be what everyone expected. He followed his heart instead of the paycheck.

And that matters more than anything else.

But if I’m honest… it also hurts. Because while he’s out there figuring out who he is, I’m still here wondering if the distance I created was a mistake.

I said we needed space to grow, to breathe, to become whole on our own.

But maybe I was just scared.

I wrote Backstage Heart thinking it was fiction.

But somewhere along the way, the characters became us. A chronically ill woman learning to love herself. A man trying to outrun his shadow.

A story where they didn’t fall apart… where they healed together instead of alone.

A version of us without the fear. Without the baggage. Without the mistakes I couldn’t unmake.

Now I don’t know if the door is still open or if it’s too late.

So I do the unthinkable. I call someone I never thought I would.

Will Winters.

He picks up on the second ring.

“I knew you loved me.”

I blink. “How did you know it was me?”

“Oh hey, grumpy Brit! I didn’t. I just like to answer my phone like that. Manifestation, you know?” He doesn’t skip a beat. “But I do know why you’re calling. You’re obviously in love with me, but I can’t betray my man like that.”

“I need your help.”

“Wow. No ‘Hi Will, how are you, Will? How’s life, Will?’” he deadpans. “You really do know how to make a guy feel special.”

I don’t take the bait. We both know better.

He sighs like I’ve personally ruined his afternoon. “You’re no fun. What can I do for you?”

“Is Jake already in Hungary?”

There’s a pause just long enough to make my heart climb straight into my throat.

“Yes. Got there yesterday.”

It stings. I don’t even know why. Maybe because he’s in Europe, closer than he’s been in weeks, and still, nothing. No call. No text. Just space.

“Could—” I clear my throat. “Could you get me on set?”

“Why don’t you ask him? He’s your peen pal, not mine.”

I look toward the ceiling, praying for patience. “I want it to be a surprise.”

“You think he’d say no?”

“No.” I hesitate. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

Will exhales loudly, like I’m personally exhausting him. “You two are so emotionally constipated it’s almost poetic.”

I rub my temple. “Will. Can you help or not?”

“Of course I can. I’m charming, beloved, and ridiculously well-connected. But if I pull this off, I get naming rights to your firstborn.”

“We’re not having kids,” I say. Not yet. Not now. I don’t know.

“Fine. Your next dog.”

“I’m a cat person.”

“You’re driving a hard bargain, Sinclair. But I can deal with a cat. Do we have a deal?”

“Joke’s on you. I’m naming it Lord Ruppert Meowington the Third.” Pause. “And yes, I will call him by his full title every time.”

I wait, and for once, Will softens.

“I’ll call you in an hour with details. But Amy…” His tone dips low and serious. No jokes. No snark.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t fuck it up this time.”

I blink, surprised at the edge in his voice. My stomach twists, guilt blooming.

“You broke his heart when you left. I get it, you had reasons, you needed space. But it wasn’t fair. And it wasn’t right. He loved you, and you ran.”

A beat of silence.

“I may be a mess, but I hold a damn good grudge. If you hurt him again? I won’t be on your side next time.”

The line goes dead before I can respond.

And I stand there, the phone still to my ear, my pulse racing.

Because he’s right. And this time… I don’t plan to run.

Okay, maybe I lied.

I’m sitting in his trailer now, hands trembling so hard the pages in my lap are crumpling.

I’ve been here for over two hours, trying to figure out what the hell I’m going to say. How I’m supposed to look him in the eye and make sense of everything I broke.

What if he doesn’t want to hear it?

No. I can’t let myself spiral. I have to believe in us. Not just hope, but know that what we had, what we still have, is real. I can’t let the doubt creep in again. Not this time, not after what it cost us.

Still, I smooth my palm over the wrinkled top page on my lap.

Backstage Heart. The first-ever printed copy, fresh off Maya’s office printer.

Maya.

Just thinking of her makes me smile a little and calms my nerves. She was all in the second I told her my crazy plan to fly to Hungary and surprise Jake. She called it “my turn for a grand gesture.”

She’s basically my version of Will but with fewer questionable choices and significantly less chaos.

I glance at the digital clock on the wall, the sun already sinking beyond the set lot. I’ve been sitting here too long, second-guessing things—not coming here, no, never that… but this, now waiting to corner him at the end of a long day.

What if it’s the wrong time? He’s probably exhausted, running on caffeine and retakes. Maybe I should come back in the morning. Let him rest. Let us start clean.

But then the door opens.

And there he is.

He stops short when he sees me, caught mid-step, and the breath punches out of me.

For a second, all I see is Anlon. Tall. Commanding. Long dark hair and a leather tunic. His eyes, icy blue from the contacts, make him look otherworldly. Untouchable.

I miss the green. I miss him.

Because the man in front of me is real. Not Anlon. Not Eli. Not the perfect character fans worship from pages or screens.

Jake. My Jake. Flawed and funny and overwhelming in all the ways that made me fall in love with him.

He sets a takeaway coffee cup on the table, his movements carefully measured. His face stays neutral, unreadable, but his hand trembles just slightly.

“They told me I got a package.”

His voice is steady, but something about it sounds… distant.

I force a smile. “Surprise.”

His gaze softens but only slightly. There’s warmth in it, yes, even longing, maybe. But it’s tangled with something else. Caution. Hurt. That flicker of wariness in his shoulders like he’s bracing for impact and I feel myself deflate, just a little.

Because I put that tension there. I know I did.

I left him to grieve a love that never stopped existing.

We stand there, the silence thick and stretching, charged with everything unsaid.

Finally, I gesture toward him, smiling even though my chest is tight.

“The costume is perfect. You look exactly like I imagined Anlon would.”

His lips twitch, but it’s not quite a smile.

“Yeah… they had to put in some extensions. Hoping the hair will grow out more by film two.”

It’s awkward. Too formal. And I hate it.

I hate that I did this. That we feel like strangers fumbling to remember how to be us.

But I’m here. He’s here, and I’m sure we can fix this.

“I came to see you,” I say quietly.

He doesn’t move. “I see that.”

It’s not exactly welcoming. And even though it stings, I get it. I can still hear his voice, raw and cracked, that day I left. Stay. Please.

And I didn’t.

He glances at the clock on the wall and then gestures vaguely toward the door. “Do you want to see the set? Some of the actors are still around. It’s getting late, but—”

“I don’t care about the set.”

That gets his attention. His brow lifts slightly, and his eyes narrow in confusion.

“That’s not why I’m here,” I add, firmer now.

He leans back against the side of the trailer, arms crossed loosely. I wish he’d come to me. Take the three steps it would take to pull me into his arms and say it’s all okay.

But he doesn’t.

“Then why are you here, Fangirl?”

The nickname softens something in me. Just enough to speak.

“You picked Everything That Follows.”

He nods once. “I did. You were right,” he says simply. “I kept choosing based on what I thought I should want. Not what I actually do want. And that’s… not working for me anymore.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. I’m proud of him. So damn proud.

But now, the question lodges in my chest like a splinter:

Where does that leave us? Was I something he wanted or just another thing he thought he should?

“I’ve been working on myself too,” I offer, even though he hasn’t asked. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe I have to say it anyway. “I know that running was wrong. It wasn’t fair to you. And it wasn’t even fair to me.”

My throat burns with unshed tears, the silence between us heavier than ever, a quiet rejection I didn’t prepare for.

I stand, my heart thudding, knowing I’m only minutes away from falling apart—and I don’t want to do that here. Not like this. Not if he doesn’t want me.

I place the manuscript on the table like it weighs more than paper and ink.

“My agent sold it last week,” I murmur. “But I want you to be the first.”

“The first?” His words are soft, caught somewhere between confusion and something else. Hope, maybe.

I smile, small, sad, but real. “You’ll understand.”

I straighten, brushing my hands down the sides of my coat. “I’m staying a few days. There’s… a few things I want to see.”

I force the smile wider. “I’ll see you around.”

But when I turn toward the door, he moves. Fast.

He’s there, standing in front of it, blocking the way.

“This is all you’re going to do?” he says, low and intense. “Fly nine hundred miles, leave your book on my table, and walk away? No, I love you. No, I missed you. No kiss me now, damn it?”

I blink, my heart catching fire in my chest. I want to say it. God, I want to scream it. I love you. I missed you. I was wrong. But I’ve done enough running. This time, I need him to see it first. To feel it in the pages.

He steps closer, his eyes locked on mine. “Because that’s what I wanted. That’s what I’ve wanted since the second you walked in. Maybe this time… I need you to fight for us too.”

My hand finds his cheek before I even realize I’ve moved, my fingers grazing the stubble there like I’m memorizing him all over again.

“I did,” I whisper. “I am fighting. It’s all in the pages.”

He blinks, and I point to the manuscript on the table. “Read the book,” I say, trembling, “and call me.”

I hope he sees it on every single page that this book is an ode to us. To the way we burned and broke and kept finding each other in the ashes.

From the dedication: To the one who made the Fangirl believe in real love. Even when she didn’t want to.

To the very last line of the epilogue.

I hope he gets there. I hope he reads it. I hope he knows it’s for him.

The only thing I ever wanted was you.