Chapter 29
Emerson
Let me tell you about the first time I drove after my accident.
It was in the afternoon. The sun was shining, not a cloud in the sky.
I climbed into Winnie’s old car, buckled her urn into the passenger seat (yes, I used the actual seat belt), turned on the ignition, and let Nirvana carry me out into the street.
And then I drove to New York City.
When I finally got to New York, I definitely regretted driving through the city.
The GPS routed me seven times, I had to shut off the radio to concentrate, a cabbie flipped me off for merging (with plenty of room, thank you), and I almost ran over a cyclist (his flipping off, totally justified).
My heart rate was through the roof, I thought I might have an actual heart attack.
But I didn’t. I got through it. Just like Winnie always said: You’ll get through it, Emmy.
No matter how big the storm, you’ll find a way through.
I’m almost mad at her for being so right.
The reason for this impromptu, wildly irresponsible road trip?
Wren—or should I say, B.W. Paisley—was doing a book signing and media conference at the Strand Bookstore.
The minute I rushed from the library, I went home and decided I would stalk her Instagram for any sign of life.
Brooklyn may have had a ton of questions to answer, but so did Wren.
And my plan was to go get her, beg for forgiveness, and bring her back to Everston.
She needed to be there for the poetry evening, to stop everyone from freaking out.
Plus, Olivia was, like, heartbroken. She sent me one text—a heartbreak emoji—before all my messages went undelivered and calls silenced.
I felt so bad, because it wasn’t her fault, and she was too stubborn to let me explain.
This was my fault. So, I was going to tell Wren this.
I was fully aware that she was a super-famous author who just bounced out on a bunch of commitments, fans, and a whole team of people, but Wren was also my friend and I just wanted to make sure she was okay.
Because that was what we did in Misery Loves Company, we looked out for each other.
The last time I was in New York was for a gymnastics competition at Willow High School, about an hour outside the city.
The only “sightseeing” we did was Times Square.
Overrated to be honest, although the singing cowboy was funny.
But you don’t forget the smell of New York City, or its pizza slices.
I furiously inhaled a margherita slice as I power walked toward the Strand on Broadway and 12th.
The event started in half an hour, and I had no idea what to expect.
Would there be a line around the block? Did I need to pay?
Was security going to stop me? I’d never been to a book signing before.
As it turned out, the event was free, and the line wasn’t outside because everyone was already packed in on the second floor.
The room was filled with at least a hundred people, squished in like sardines.
I squeezed through to the back wall and found a spot with a decent view.
There was a small stage at the front with a table and two chairs.
A moderator—Charlie, according to his name tag—thanked everyone for coming on short notice.
If this was the scale of a last-minute event, I couldn’t imagine the chaos of something planned in advance.
Charlie announced Brooklyn, and the crowd erupted into applause.
Some people hooted and hollered, one girl in front of me looked like she might pass out.
Brooklyn stepped onto the stage, and everything went quiet.
She looked…polished. Like, super polished.
The kind of polished you only see in magazine spreads or on movie stars.
She had on a tailored Chanel blazer with a blouse tucked neatly underneath, and sleek black pants that fit her perfectly.
Her shiny, pointed heels clicked softly against the stage floor as she walked.
“She cut her hair,” someone murmured next to me.
“Yeah, it’s so much lighter now,” another added.
“Where are her glasses?” the first person asked, more of an accusation than a question.
I bit the inside of my cheek; for a moment, it felt surreal.
I mean sure, she looked different, more like the author who belonged up there under the lights.
Like she was the person the world expected her to be.
But they didn’t know her. They didn’t know the Wren who had worn baggy overalls nearly every day and spent weeks sanding furniture in Gill’s front yard, or the Wren who had offered me driving lessons in her super-expensive car.
They didn’t know the Wren who baked a lemon meringue pie for our first meeting after Winnie was gone, or the Wren who leaned in close as I ugly cried over a slice and whispered that Winnie would always be with us.
They didn’t know the Wren who went bird-watching with me or spent hours helping Bobby sew rhinestones onto his denim jacket.
They didn’t know the Wren who had all the time in the world for people like me—people who were lost and sad and just trying to find their way back. It was weird seeing her like this.
At this point, I didn’t have a plan. My original plan—the one I ran over and over again in my head on the longest, most exhausting drive of my life—was just to get to New York.
To find Wren. Also, not to crash. But that was it.
Turns out, twenty-seven hours on the road, give or take, isn’t nearly enough time to figure out what to say to someone whose hiding spot you just accidentally exposed to the entire world.
Watching her onstage, with the entire room staring up at her and hanging off her every word, I felt completely out of my depth.
Like, standing-on-the-edge-of-a-diving-board-with-no-clue-how-to-swim levels of out of my depth.
But I had to do something. I just had no idea what.
The event started with Wren pulling Thinking of You from her tote bag.
I recognized the cover, the same one I had posted all over my social media.
She explained that the book was special, something she had started a long time ago but hadn’t been able to finish until just recently.
There was a man off to the side filming everything, whispering with someone in an expensive-looking suit.
He had a weasellike air about him; he was squinting at the book as though perplexed by it. I immediately did not like him.
Wren opened the book and began to read.
“You remind me what it feels like to live again, to breathe and believe. You make me want to stay when all I’ve ever known is how to leave.” Her voice faltered, just briefly, before she cleared her throat and carried on.
After Wren finished reading—to rapturous applause—Charlie told the crowd that she would be taking questions, and I saw her take a long, deep breath. The first two were softballs about her inspiration and writing process, but it didn’t take long for the mood to shift.
“Why were you in Colorado?” someone asked, his tone sharper than it needed to be.
Wren hesitated for a moment. “I was taking a break,” she said, her voice steady but guarded. “But I am healed and ready to get back to writing and talking about the next book.”
Healed and ready? I snorted so loudly that five people in the row in front turned to glare at me.
Wren didn’t seem to notice the disruption.
“Are you worried about what the media is saying?” another person asked. “About the accident?”
Wren shifted in her seat. “There are certain tabloids that will write whatever stories help sell their publication. I cannot stop this from happening, but I can tell you that what was reported wasn’t the truth.”
There was a slight murmur throughout the crowd.
Another hand shot up, and Charlie pointed to them.
“What were you doing in Colorado all that time?”
She hesitated again. “I…I was actually helping to plan a special event,” she said. “But they don’t need me anymore, so I returned to New York, where I belong.”
“That’s not true!” I blurted, before I could stop myself, tears springing to my eyes. “Winnie would’ve wanted us to see it through, together. We were counting on you.”
The room went dead silent. Wren’s head snapped up, her eyes scanning the crowd.
“Emerson?” she said, her voice mixed with urgency and disbelief.
“You need to wait your turn,” Weasel Guy snapped.
“No, she doesn’t,” Wren shot back. She left the stage, weaved her way through the crowd, past all the curious onlookers, until she found me. And then, contrary to all the ways I thought she would react to me being there, she pulled me into her arms.
“Oh, Emmy,” she whispered, exhaling a long, relieved breath. “I’m so glad to see you.”
I didn’t even care that everyone was staring, that I was a sweaty, tear-streaked mess, or that my hair probably looked like I’d been through a tornado from power walking to the event. Wren was happy to see me, and that made every mile of the drive worth it.