Chapter 24
I wake up criminally early on the day Torched is published.
I’m an antsy little kid on Christmas morning, too excited to sleep.
I lie in bed and comb through my social media comments, congratulations pouring in from my family, friends, and anyone my parents have ever met.
My parents are deeply concerned about the way these “damn millennials” are buying too much avocado toast and moving back in with their parents, but now that I’ve survived a year and a half in New York without once asking for money, they’ve finally accepted that they can brag about me to their friends—without caveats that my book would be published eventually, someday, no really!
As of today, I’m no longer a jobless menace to society.
I’m an author. Even better, a novelist. They are so supportive. They are so proud.
I’m outside the Barnes bookstore lighting is a crime.
I post online with captions that I drafted last week, and I check the clock.
With more than ten hours until my launch party and no other plans for the day, I walk to Trader Joe’s and carry my groceries back to my apartment. I repost every story that I’m tagged in. I write Thank you!!!!! one million times. I abuse the black heart emoji.
I sit on my bed and wait.
I check my phone again, again, again. He doesn’t contact me.
I’m signing books on a small stage at the back of my local independent bookstore.
Bookshelves have been cleared out to make room for about thirty folding chairs, only some of which are occupied.
I hoped for more, but apparently no one comes out to see an author until they already know and love you, and that takes time.
I invited my parents and brothers, but they couldn’t make the trip.
I assume I’ll see them in San Diego on the last stop of my eight-city tour, but maybe not.
“I’ve been excited to read your book for months.”
I look up from the pen in my hand to a tall, stunning redhead. I blink in surprise. “Really?”
She nods eagerly. “I’ve seen it everywhere online. I can’t wait to read it.”
My chest prickles with a warm feeling. “Thank you. Do you want the book made out to you?”
“Please. My name is Daphne. I’m a writer, too!” she confesses as I write my name in big, swooping letters across the title page of Torched.
I glance at her again. She looks about my age. “What do you write?”
“Everything. Lots of stuff. Historical right now, although it’s hard with my roommate. She and her boyfriend fight a lot. They’re screamers.”
A small bell chimes as the door at the front of the store opens. My eyes are drawn to the dark curls of the man entering. For one heartbeat, I stop breathing, but then I exhale—it’s not him.
“Sorry, what?” I turn my attention back to the redhead.
“Can we take a picture with the book?” Daphne asks.
“Sure! Of course!”
Her friend holds the cell phone and snaps a picture, and when she turns it to us for posting approval, I lay eyes on the ugliest picture of myself I’ve ever seen. “Looks great!”
“I’ll tag you!” she promises before she turns to leave.
“Wait!” I cry. When she looks at me over her shoulder, I take a chance. “Do you want a new roommate?”
The store locks its doors behind me. I go home alone, where I drink a glass of wine and watch a rerun of Grey’s Anatomy. Same thing I did last night. Same thing I’ll do tomorrow night.
When I close my eyes, I think of a man with dark curls ducking into the bookstore. This time, he has multicolored eyes.
Just over a week after Torched’s release, Whitney calls to tell me that I’ve hit the New York Times Best Seller list.
Again, I wait for tears that don’t come, and this time I wish they would, because I don’t know how to process this information.
The predominant feeling is a free fall of relief.
I can finally relax. I can stop worrying.
As it turns out, publishing a bestselling book series is pretty fun.
Everyone wants to be friends with me. My inbox is filled with messages from authors I’ve been obsessed with for years.
I’m booked to appear at conferences that require an exclusive invitation.
I’m added to group chats with names that make me blink twice when I see them.
My follower count increases every day. Unbelievably, I’m in the Cool Kids of Publishing club.
The crowds at my signings are getting a little bigger at every stop, and girls are showing up in homemade Fox Caldwell T-shirts.
They beg for the sequel. The bookstore near me can’t keep Torched in stock for more than a few days at a time.
Oh, and did I mention the movie? A production company in Hollywood snapped up the film rights, attached a director, and started production in record time.
I’ve moved on from West. I joined the apps, I swipe right, and I send flirty messages to my matches.
It hasn’t led anywhere yet. It’s hard when I’m traveling so much.
When I told one guy that I’d be out of town for the next few months, he hit me up for nudes to keep him busy while I was gone.
Blocked. Another guy accused me of lying about my job after he googled me.
His bio said he was a writer and musician.
I’d told him I was a writer, too, but he took that to mean I was a work-from-home SEO content machine.
When he saw a feature on me in Slate, he blocked me. After he called me a bitch.
I don’t think about West anymore, except when I do.
When it’s one of those nights, I can’t help but wonder what he thinks of all this.
If he sees my name online. If he walks around with a smug expression, knowing he inspired an “instant cultural phenomenon” (Slate’s words, not mine).
I get asked all the time where I got the idea for the book and who inspired Fox.
I always give some dumb, vague answer about “the power of imagination.” I feel ridiculous every time I say it.
The second time I hallucinate West in the audience, it’s at my hometown bookstore in San Diego.
My parents seized the opportunity to show me off and invited every person they’ve ever met.
The mailman? Yes. Their local Trader Joe’s cashier?
Yes. (He came. I’m mortified.) They invited their old college roommates and the parents of all my high school acquaintances and the HOA board members my mom has been feuding with for a decade.
It’s standing room only, and I’m melting under the scrutiny of fluorescent lighting and people who’ve known me since I was a baby.
I’m jet-lagged, and I’m hungry. It’s probably the hunger that does it.
I really should have eaten something. I see a flash of dark hair, the collar of a jacket pulled up against scruffy cheeks.
I blink and he’s gone. My face is hotter than ever, and this Q&A session feels never-ending.
“How did you come up with Fox?” asks a girl in the audience. She has braces, a fox-ear headband, and hearts in her eyes.
I snap my focus back to the crowd. “I’m sorry, can you repeat your question?”
“Was he inspired by anyone you know in real life?” she asks as my eyes stray to the back of the store. I squint against the bright lights.
“And how can I meet him?” another voice asks. Everyone laughs.
I could have sworn it was West.
“Margot?” The moderator prompts my response, and I drag my attention back to the Q&A, searching for the answer I’ve given at least a dozen times.
I can’t find it.
They’re staring at me, and I can feel myself bombing. My mom is sitting rigidly in her chair, hands clenched. Her eyes slide around to her friends, and I realize I have to say something or risk embarrassing her in front of the people whose approval she needs the most.
“Yeah, yes. West—I mean Fox—he was inspired by the boy I was in love with when I was in college.”
“Oooh,” my moderator croons, sounding excited. “What happened to him?”
I turn to her, wondering how I got myself into this situation. I can’t tell a room of my mom’s friends that I got drunk and had sex with someone else.
I swallow heavily, searching for the simplest truth. “He’s the one that got away.”