Chapter 27 #2
I rubbed my hands down my face. “So are friends who turn their back on you,” I said bitterly.
She looked at me. “Huh?”
“I was hurt that Wren didn’t tell me who she was. I thought she didn’t trust me. Selfishly I made it all about myself. But…of course, she would be hesitant to tell anyone,” I said, gesturing toward the video on Emerson’s phone. “She would have been terrified of reliving all that.”
I stood up, beginning to pace across the rug.
“I just don’t understand how the press found her.
She changed her appearance, she’s thousands of miles away, and she’s been living quietly for almost a year, in a town no one would think to look.
How does someone like that get discovered in Everston, of all places? ”
Emerson suddenly made a sound, halfway between a gasp and a groan. She was staring wide-eyed at her phone. “This is my fault,” she cried. “It was me.”
I froze mid-step and turned toward her. “What are you talking about?”
Tears sprung to her eyes. “Oh god. I posted a picture,” she explained. “When she gave me the book—the one you helped her with, Thinking of You. I recognized her writing. It felt so much like…her.”
“You recognized her as B.W. Paisley?”
Emerson nodded. “At first I looked her up on Instagram, which you know, I’ve avoided for so long, and I see this photo of Brady and he’s engaged!”
“I—what?” I stammered.
“I know!” she continued, “I was so annoyed. He’s so annoying. And I wanted to show I was okay. That my life was just as good too. So I posted photos. I shared a poem from the book, and then a photo of Wren and me outside the library.”
She looked at me, breathless. “And I hashtagged Everston, Colorado.”
My chest felt heavy. “I see,” I replied.
“I’m obsessed with her books, Henry,” Emerson continued, her words tumbling out.
“I could hardly believe Wren was…her. I just didn’t think!
I mean, I only have, like, five hundred followers.
I haven’t posted in forever. I didn’t think anyone would even care.
Okay, side note, I did kinda want Brady to see it. ”
She glanced down at her phone again, the screen’s glow lighting her face, flustered and bewildered.
I leaned closer, catching the sharp rise of her breath as her thumb scrolled. There were more than a million likes on the post. You’ve got to be kidding me.
She paled slightly.
“What is it?” I asked, dread flooding my veins.
“She wanted me to drive her car!” Emerson gasped. “Can you imagine if I had crashed it? I could have wrecked B.W. Paisley’s car!”
“Let’s focus,” I said, holding up my hands, trying to regain control of the conversation as we both spiraled into wild theories about what we did or did not say in front of Brooklyn Paisley.
My stomach churned as I tried not to think about the hour-long conversation I had with Wren about how good at editing I thought I would be.
As if she hadn’t worked with the best editors in the industry—god, what else had I said?
Did I try to explain rhyming couplets to her once?
Oh, I definitely did. I could feel my face heating at the thought.
Emerson was ranting about Rita not being able to dare question the success of contemporary poets when she had been living and breathing beside B.W. Paisley when I pulled us back into line.
“We need a plan,” I said firmly.
“Well, isn’t it obvious?” she replied. “We need to get Wren back.” She stood so quickly she nearly knocked the table lamp off again. “If Olivia isn’t answering her phone, then I’ll go to her apartment.”
“That won’t work,” I said, sighing.
Emerson appeared incredulous. “How much do I not know?”
“Wren thinks it was Olivia who told the press,” I explained. “Olivia was working on a story about Wren’s accident. As it happens, the driver truly responsible for it was an off-duty cop, it was covered up, but Wren begged her not to run it.”
Emerson looked like the roof had just caved in. “A police cover-up?” she stammered, “What kind of—”
“That’s a whole other story,” I interrupted, rubbing the back of my neck. “The point is, Wren thinks Olivia betrayed her.”
She shook her head. “But Olivia loves her. Like seriously, she looks at Wren like she’s made of poetry. How could she think Olivia would sell her out for a headline?”
I laughed bitterly. “Pain doesn’t care about logic.
It feeds on doubt. When you’ve suffered enough, you’ll believe the worst, even from the people who love you the most.” Guilt twisted in my chest. I had doubted Olivia, too, even when I should have known better.
Clearly, I wasn’t winning any awards for friend of the year.
Emerson let out a slow, shaky breath, processing everything. “So, now Wren’s gone, Olivia’s vanished, and we’re left with…this.”
“It would seem so,” I responded. “And,” I added, my stomach in knots, “our poetry evening is in just a week. Two of our most important people are gone, and Olivia’s promise of reporters?
Out the window most likely. Mayor Ashcroft is expecting a big event and I’m not sure how we’re going to pull it off. ”
“I’ll fix it, Henry,” Emerson said. “You just focus on the poetry evening. Make sure everyone else is ready.”
“Where are you going?” I called after her as she tore through the library, knocking over a stack of books in the process.
“I’ve got this, Henry!” was all I heard, as Emerson disappeared in a flurry out the front doors and onto Main Street.