Chapter 9
Present Day
Never underestimate how far in life you can get on determination and spite.
When I march away from Daphne, I don’t have even a hint of a plan vis-à-vis West’s continued efforts to ruin my life, but I’m fueled by righteous indignation.
That need for retaliation propels my feet forward.
My destination is currently unknown, but I’ll pace this campus until either West expires under the weight of his own self-importance, like a dying star collapsing in on itself, or I figure out how to deal with him. Whichever comes first. I’m not picky.
I keep to the fringes of the festival, waiting for inspiration to strike.
Since I started living in New York City, walking has become my best method for brainstorming.
During the drafting of Shattered, I walked a lot.
Every day. Sometimes for hours. Then, when I felt ready, I returned home to write.
No, the trick is to stop trying so damn hard and let my mind wander down unexplored paths. I’ve filled many a plot hole aimlessly trawling the streets of New York, and I expect today’s walk to give the same results. A brilliant flash of inspiration, if you will.
It has to.
Except it doesn’t.
I’m on my fourth lap when I begin to worry.
Relaxing is an issue. My shoulders are tense, my chest is tight, and my mind is loud with the grating sound of West’s voice scraping over bone.
Likewise, Darling.
As if he has the right to be angry with me.
Staying focused is another issue.
Instead of exploring creative ways to exile West from my life or send him to his knees, groveling for forgiveness that I will not grant, my brain is stuck on the same story as always.
West and me, how we nearly got it right and then imploded in spectacular fashion.
(Perhaps this is where the dying-star metaphor belongs.)
Sometimes, when I’m feeling particularly vulnerable, I wonder if there’s a part of my brain that thinks it can outsmart the past. As if history is a plot hole I can rewrite.
Backing away from the dangerous edge of that thought, I pull open a door and step inside, goose bumps pebbling across my skin.
I inhale the scent of the library, which is really just an unidentified mustiness that refuses to be romanticized by nostalgia.
Independent of a conscious decision, my feet carry me to the third floor.
I close my eyes and let my weight sag against the stacks that West once pressed me up against while my mind is hard at work turning worry to despair.
What am I going to do?
No brilliant answers appear. And sometimes brainstorming is like that.
Sometimes my first idea is the only one that will really work, and there’s nothing to be done but grit my teeth and force the story into submission through sheer will.
It’s not my favorite way to write, but not every chapter can be driven by mad flashes of inspiration. In fact, most of them aren’t.
I need to get West kicked off my panel.
I retrace my steps down the library stairs and back out into the festival. I’m heading toward the admin building when I’m nearly bowled over by a harried-looking woman in business casual. “Oh! Sorry!” she gasps as she stops short two seconds before collision.
“No worries.”
She looks up at me then, her face alight with recognition.
“Margot! I’m Kate Marsh, one of the directors of events!
It’s so good to have you with us this year!
” We shake hands. “I’m glad I caught you.
” She gives me a conference schedule from a large stack in her arms. “Have you seen the new schedule? The old one was a mess. Tents were double-booked, and if that wasn’t a big enough nightmare, they had to rope some off on the west end because of a bee problem, and now we’re scrambling to get the new schedule into everyone’s hands.
The changes are highlighted in yellow. We’re making announcements, and emails have gone out to the mailing list, but I’m worried about the signing event that starts in fifteen minutes.
It was moved all the way to the other end of the lawn. ”
She points to a small list of highlighted names. At the top is West Emerson.
My expression must betray my interest, because she frowns curiously. “You know West, don’t you?”
“I actually wanted to talk to you about that. About my panel with him on Sunday.”
“We’re excited about it, and we appreciate your flexibility.
We’d hate to have to cancel.” She looks up with a smile, and then back at the schedules.
In one hand is a phone from which she’s been firing off texts or emails for our entire conversation.
“Have you seen him today?” Her question hangs in the breezy, sunny, floral-scented air.
We’d hate to have to cancel.
“I don’t know where he is.”
She frowns back at her phone. “Well, if you do see him in the next few minutes, will you let him know about the change?”
I blanch. Not only has she booked me on a stage with West, but now I’m expected to run errands for him?
She’s waiting for my response. I want to refuse, but we’d hate to have to cancel is ringing in my ears. I promised myself that I wouldn’t be “difficult” this release cycle.
I sigh. It’s only fifteen minutes. It won’t even matter. “Sure. If I see him.”
“Perfect. See you Sunday!” She nods and hurries off, leaving me once again alone with too many thoughts. Maybe Daphne has the right idea with her endless audiobooks. I could use something to drown out my worries.
I don’t make it ten feet before I hear a low voice call my name. “Darling.”
Something heavy, and not half as unpleasant as I’d like, drops in my stomach.
“Why are you everywhere today?” I grouse, speeding up to make it harder for him to catch up with me. It doesn’t help, and he’s at my side in three long strides.
“Am I?”
“Yes,” I snap, thinking of the library stacks and the orange blossoms in the wind and the schedule in my hand. I can’t escape him.
“It’s not my face on a banner in the bookstore,” he says.
I risk a sideways glance to find him staring down at me. “What do you want?”
“I wanted to let you know that I’ll save you a spot in my signing line.”
“How magnanimous of you.”
“There’s always space for my biggest fangirls.
” He winks, and I loathe the way his eyes glitter almost as much as I hate the way my skin itches in response.
I will not survive an entire weekend of this, but after my failed attempt to speak with Kate, I’m starting to worry that my original plan will not work.
If the conference won’t kick West off the panel, one of us will have to drop out.
And it’s not going to be me.
I notice then that we’re walking toward Old Main, though his signing has been moved to the opposite end of the lawn. Something that feels suspiciously like inspiration flickers to life in my veins. It buzzes, growing, refusing to be ignored.
“Did you see the new schedule? I think your event was moved.”
“No.” West looks at me sharply. “Is that it?” He motions to the paper in my hand.
“There’s a bee problem. Very unfortunate. Can’t exterminate them without the utter collapse of our food production and ecosystem. And I know how much you like guacamole,” I say as I tilt the paper away from his face and pretend to read. “Your signing was moved to Modern Languages. Room 545.”
“Inside?”
“Several of the events are in classrooms.” Technically, this is true. Just not his.
He glances at the time, and his eyes widen as he realizes he only has a couple of minutes before his signing starts. “Thanks for letting me know.” He nods goodbye and jogs north toward the Modern Languages building.
I bite my lip as I watch him go. It’s not the cleverest idea I’ve ever had, but I didn’t have much time. With a few hours of planning, maybe I can figure out a way to make his weekend so miserable that he quits.
I remember my conversation with Daphne and grin.
Revenge arc, indeed.