Chapter 11
Present Day
Not all book signings are created equal.
Some are filled with what I call BDE, or Big Debut Energy, a term I’ve coined for new authors who are so optimistic about their book signings that they go all in on props for their table.
Giant banners, bookmarks, costumes, stickers, character art, and table games.
And when all that fails, candy to lure in unsuspecting passersby.
(As someone who is too anxious to eat actual meals before events, I love sitting next to a candy table.) I sigh wistfully as I observe the hopeful setup in front of me.
I miss who I was before this job made me cynical.
West’s signing tent is two-thirds BDE, one-third MIA.
The table on the far left is holding the most intricate model pirate ship I’ve ever seen, next to a bowl of candy, and the table in the middle is occupied by a woman in a black velvet cloak with a crystal ball and tarot cards.
She promises a free reading for anyone who buys a copy of her book.
And then there’s West’s table on the right, empty except for a stack of books and a picture of his face.
His author photo looks exactly like I would expect from a pretentious literary upstart: dark and moody, with a Chris Evans cable-knit sweater wrapped around his unfairly broad shoulders.
I pretend to browse photoprints from a local artist while I keep an eye on West’s lonely stack of books.
I wonder if he’s sitting alone in an empty classroom right this minute.
When he eventually realizes that I’ve set him up, he’ll curse, sprint down five flights of stairs, trip in his haste, and tumble ass over teakettle all the way to the bottom.
He’ll lie on his back and stare up at the ceiling, tears running off his whiskered jaw, and rue the day he agreed to join my panel.
Realizing his mistake, he’ll withdraw from all festival events.
I hope he goes home to lick his wounds and think of me.
I smile at my farfetched little daydream.
If even a fraction of it comes true, I’ll go to bed a happy woman tonight.
But I won’t know for sure until I see what kind of mood he’s in, which is why I’m waiting around for him to show up instead of downing margaritas at a campus bar with Daphne at this exact moment.
My eyes wander again to his empty table, and curiosity draws me toward the stack of untouched hardcovers.
I edge my way toward them and have just opened to the dedication page when a hand reaches out and snaps the book shut.
I wrench back and look up to find a pissed-off West towering over me, his fingers steepled on the cover of his novel.
“That’ll be twenty-eight dollars. Should I make it out to you? ”
I blink up at him, my brain trying to process his words. Something about I and make out and you in the same sentence has me seeing spots. “What did you say?”
He drops his bag at his feet. “Has it really been so long that you’ve forgotten how it’s done?” he asks drolly.
“Excuse me?”
He flips the book open to the title page. “I write my name here”—he points and speaks slowly—“and your name here. Or I can save you the time and make it out directly to the garbage can of your choice.”
My brain catches up, and I’m annoyed at the way my tongue feels too big for my mouth. Am I really in such a dry spell that the words make out are enough to send me into a tailspin?
“I’m good,” I say before letting my eyes drop to his shoes. Time to regain the upper hand. He’s the one who should be flop-sweating his way through this conversation.
I gesture to the swaths of empty space in front of his table. “It’s a shame you couldn’t even be bothered to show up to your busy signing line on time. It seems like someone in charge should know how unreliable you are before they trust you with the keynote.”
His eyes narrow. “You did this on purpose, then,” he says flatly.
“Did what?” I bat my eyes innocently and am assaulted with a memory of him from a lifetime ago, laughing and calling me Bambi. I kibosh the fluttering.
“You knew the location of my signing and sent me to the wrong place?” He grinds the words out, the tension between us drawing taut.
I’m surprised that he’s surprised. I thought our earlier conversations made it clear where we stood with each other. I decide to remind him. “I hadn’t planned on it, but then I saw you, and inspiration struck. What can I say, West? You’ve always made the best muse.”
He steps toward me, crowding me against his table. “What the fuck, Mars?”
I have to crane my neck to look up at him. “Drop out of my panel.”
“No.”
“Then I’m not sorry for what I do next.”
“Do you have someone else to antagonize right now, or is it only me?” He smirks like he knows something I don’t as he helps himself to my personal space.
He angles his mouth close to my ear, hot breath misting over my neck.
“Don’t tell me that you’re still obsessed with me after all this time.
You don’t still sleep in that Fox Caldwell shirt, do you? ”
I’m suddenly aware of my heartbeat in places very far from my heart.
I push him away, unable to make eye contact.
He’s infuriating, but I only have myself to blame for bringing up the word muse.
“I’ll leave, but only because you have so many adoring fans waiting to have their books signed.
” I direct my attention to his still-empty signing line. “Oh wait.”
His knuckles turn white on the edge of the table, and I know I’ve won this round.
I spend the next half hour pretending to browse photography in the adjacent tent, watching West’s spirits fall further and further into hell.
The author next to him has pulled at least a dozen tarot cards, and try as he might to entice people to his table, West’s dark glower is chasing everyone away.
A mom with two kids stops by the pirate ship table, and the children both have candy clutched in their fists as they approach West. He forces himself to smile—terrifying the boy with his wolfish expression.
I don’t blame the child one bit when he hides behind his mom’s legs.
She rushes them away as West shouts miserable apologies in her wake.
I snort, and West’s head whips toward me.
We lock eyes, and damn it, I’m hit with an unwanted flash of survivor’s guilt.
If I ignore the years that I spent writing books alone in my bedroom, I’m the closest thing publishing has to an overnight success.
Torched hit bestseller lists the week it was published, and because of that, I never had to wonder if anyone cared about my story.
I’m haunted by other insecurities—whether I deserve my success, whether I’m a bad writer who got lucky, whether I’ll ever redeem myself in the eyes of my readers—but I never had to sit in an empty signing line, wondering if anyone cared.
I regret what I’m doing before I even do it. I order my feet to stop walking. To pivot and buy a book from Tarot Card Lady, just to make steam come out West’s ears. I should do anything other than what I’m about to do, but I’m propelled by a feeling I can’t quite name.
“I’ll take a book,” I tell West in a bored voice.
He rubs a hand over his tired eyes. “Please go away.”
“Just give me one,” I snap.
His expression turns wary. “What are you going to do with it?”
I sigh, irritated that he’s dragging this out. “I don’t know, West, what do people do with books?”
He cocks an eyebrow. “Read it again?”
“Definitely not.” I bristle at the suggestion. “Do you take credit cards?”
He shakes his head. “You’ll have to buy it from the bookstore.”
“Fine.” I grab the book and stomp to the bookstore, my entire body flushed with annoyance. Only after I’ve paid for it do I let myself look at the cover.
Drought.
Set in the Southwest, then. His stuff always is.
Was, I remind myself. I don’t know anything about who he is or what he writes anymore.
Familiar curiosity flickers to life behind my rib cage, but I’m back within eyesight of West’s tent, and I don’t want him to see me flipping through the pages or even reading the back-cover synopsis, so I hold the book loosely in my grip, forcing my eyes not to focus on the orange blossoms on the spine.
I wait in line as West signs books for two outrageously pretty girls, both of them way too young for him, and I’m annoyed all over again.
I didn’t even need to buy this stupid book; he sold two on his own.
The girls leave, and I step up to the table. I slap the book down hard enough that everyone within twenty feet looks at us. West swears under his breath and quickly signs the title page. He closes the cover and pushes it toward me.
“I hope you find it illuminating,” he says, which strikes me as a stupid thing to say. But I can’t fault him too much, as I say stupid stuff at my events all the time.
“I can assure you I won’t,” I say with an acid smile. I turn to leave, but West calls me back.
“Oh, and, Darling?”
Hearing my name on his tongue is like hot lava flowing down my spine. “Don’t call me that.”
He stands up and leans his weight on his hands. His gaze is a wrecking ball of intention. “I will get you back for this, Darling.”