Chapter 18 #3
“Why do you care?”
I grit my teeth in frustration. It’s not like him to be purposely obtuse. “Her opinion is important to me.”
“And she likes you. Who cares what she thinks of me?”
“I do. I vouched for your book, and you’re acting like you’re too good for her request.”
“I didn’t ask you to vouch for me!” he snaps.
I draw back, shocked by his sudden burst of uncharacteristic anger. “I don’t understand what’s happening right now,” I say. My chest is tight, and I feel the familiar, awful sensation of burning tears. I blink up at the ceiling and pray that Danielle doesn’t come back for a long time.
“I’m gonna go,” West says.
“What?”
“I’ll wait in the bookstore across the street. Come find me when you’re done.” He takes a final swig of his soda, thumps it down on the table, and stalks out of the bar.
I lie to Danielle and tell her that West had to take an important phone call outside, and even though it’s obvious I’m lying, she glosses right over it, and we chat for another thirty minutes before saying goodbye.
I text West to meet me at the nearest subway stop, and as he approaches me with his hands in his pockets and his head down (I NY announcing his arrival from a hundred yards away), I fight another wave of tears, confused about how we went from matching tattoos to utter disaster in the course of one evening.
“Hey,” West says dully as he comes to a stop in front of me.
“Hey.” If it’s possible to make a single syllable sarcastic, I’ve done it.
The glow of the streetlight illuminates his defeated posture. “I’m sorry I ruined your night.”
“What the hell happened back there?”
“I don’t need your pity,” he says.
“Good, because you don’t have it.”
He sighs, looking frustrated. “I mean it, Mars. I don’t want you to bullshit your agent and say things about my writing that you don’t mean.”
“I didn’t.”
He scoffs. “One minute, I’m destined to be your Instagram boyfriend ‘if this writing thing doesn’t work out,’ and the next, you’re acting like I’m Jonathan Safran Foer. Which is it?”
“First, that was a joke. Second, I wasn’t talking about you! I was saying if writing doesn’t work out for me.”
“It is working out for you! You’re going to sell your books and move to New York and be wildly successful, and you’ll deserve it, and I’ll be happy for you.”
“But?”
He sighs, a puff of breath appearing in the cold air. “But I don’t know if that’s in the cards for me.”
“Says who?”
“Look at my life, Mars. I’m from a small town no one’s ever heard of, I’m a college dropout, and my family has no money for me to fall back on if I go out into the world and fail.”
“Why do you think that you’re going to fail?”
He starts to speak but cuts himself off with an aggravated sigh as he scuffs the toe of his sneaker against the ground. Finally, he straightens his shoulders and looks me in the eye. “You’re moving here after graduation, aren’t you?” It’s not an accusation, exactly, but somehow it feels like one.
“I haven’t decided yet,” I say, tasting the lie for what it is. I hadn’t fully admitted it to myself yet, but I think a part of me knew that I’d be moving here ever since I booked my plane ticket.
“Yeah, you have. I can see it in your eyes.”
“Yeah, I have,” I admit.
West nods, and I suddenly understand what he meant earlier about wasted time.
He thinks moving to New York means the end of us.
I step toward him and wrap my arms around his neck.
He eyes me warily, but I hold his gaze steadily until his expression softens, and he snakes his own arm around my waist and pulls me tight against him.
He closes his eyes and presses his lips to my temple.
My heart plays a staccato rhythm in my chest. “I’m in love with you, in case you didn’t know.”
I feel his nerves as he swallows. “That’s convenient, given the tattoos. I’ve heard they’re a bitch to remove.”
I make a noise of protest and try to pull out of his arms. He cinches them tighter and tilts my chin until my eyes meet his. His expression is soft, if a little scared. “It’s also convenient because I’m wildly in love with you, and I’d rather not return to my emo phase.”
My heart explodes. I nearly laugh. I’m so happy.
He kisses me. It’s slow until it’s not, tender until the heat of our argument turns it into a deep, hard kiss that leaves us both blinking stars out of our eyes at the end of it.
I swallow, steeling myself for a moment of bravery. “I want you to move here with me.”
“What would I do in New York?” he asks wryly, a smile playing at the corner of his lips.
“Hang out with me.”
He raises his eyebrows and runs his hand down my back, tucking it into my jeans pocket, giving my ass a squeeze. “How will that pay rent?”
“I don’t know,” I say truthfully. “We’ll be baristas or servers or bartenders or whatever it takes until someone pays us to write.
We’ll be poor until we’re not, and it won’t matter, because we’ll be here together.
With proper coats, away from Times Square.
” I tug his beanie over his eyes, which makes him laugh, and then he tries blindly to kiss me again.
I laugh and squirm away as he pushes the beanie out of his eyes.
He grins at me, the planes of his face awash with affection. “Okay, Jupiter. Let’s move to New York.”