Chapter 28
Fox Caldwell is the internet’s favorite book boyfriend, and I have no one but myself to blame. I’ve created my own personal hell. The fact that I based him on an ex-boyfriend becomes a fandom fixation; I get comments every week asking who he is.
I thought Torched was popular, but the sequel exploded to a degree I couldn’t have fathomed. Book sales are in the millions. Fox fever is sweeping the nation. Multicolored contacts are flying off shelves.
I’ve never had more money or attention in my life.
I’ve also never been so creatively stuck.
My third book was due months ago. The deadline came and went.
Emails from Whitney started out gentle and understanding, but now they’ve adopted a panicked tone.
She says that I should just send her what I have, that she trusts my vision for this series.
That’s her first mistake. I don’t even trust myself anymore.
The only thing I know for sure is that the series needs a happy ending.
Millions of readers are invested in this love story, and I can’t imagine a world in which I write anything other than a happy ending.
It would be a betrayal. Fox and Juniper are supposed to end up together, but I don’t know how to get them there.
I can’t open my laptop without crumbling under the weight of reader expectation.
It was easier to write when there was the possibility that no one would ever read it.
The Torched movie premieres on a warm weekend in September.
I take photos with the absurdly beautiful cast and wave to the screaming fans who are waiting in the rain.
Every time someone tells me they can’t wait for the next book, I bite another nail down to the quick.
By the end of the evening, all of my fingers are bleeding.
It’s in this condition that I run into West for the first time in two years.
My red-eye from the premiere took me straight to Boston, and I’m standing with my luggage at Ground Transportation outside Logan Airport when I feel a tap on my shoulder.
I yelp in surprise and spin around. West Emerson is standing in front of me with a backpack slung over his shoulder, saying something I can’t hear.
“Hang on.” I take out my AirPods. “What’d you say?”
“Sorry for scaring you! I was just saying hi.”
“Hi.” I’m in shock. West leans toward me, then rethinks, and I kind of lean in but not really, and it’s awkward, and we both laugh. “Hug?” I ask. He nods and wraps his arms around me for the world’s briefest hug.
After I found out that West moved to New York, I was on edge for weeks, thinking I’d run into him on the street or in the subway. I can’t believe that when it finally happens, we’re in Boston of all places.
“What are you doing here?” I ask. He’s wearing joggers and a hoodie that he’s owned since college. His curls are brushing the tops of his ears.
“Waiting for a bus.”
“But what are you doing here? In Boston.”
He runs a hand over the back of his neck. “I’m, uh, on my way to a work thing.”
“What are you up to these days?”
He hesitates. “I’m kind of a writer now. Barely. Not like you.”
I shake my head, frustrated that he still feels this way about himself. “Don’t do that. Don’t minimize it. Your book is called Oasis, right?”
“That’s right,” he says. If he’s surprised that I already know, he doesn’t look it.
“Congratulations. I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks, Mars.”
“You live in New York now?” I confirm, and West nods. Again, he doesn’t seem surprised that I’m up to date on his life. “What are you waiting for? Tell me everything! What’s the book about? When did you write it?”
He searches for something in my expression. I hold my breath, but after a few moments, his features slide into something more neutral. “Maybe another time. It’s not that interesting.”
“It is, though! You did it, West.” Regret strikes me suddenly. I should have contacted him the day I saw his book. I wonder if he also spent his publication day waiting for a text that never came.
He exhales a hollow laugh. “I don’t know about all that. My publisher is basically three guys and a dog. I think my novel sold twelve copies total.”
“What does the dog do?”
“He’s our emotional support and mascot. Also proofreading,” he says dryly.
I laugh. “You’re here for work?”
“I might have used the term ‘work’ a little too loosely. I’m staying in a house on Martha’s Vineyard with some friends for the week; we’ll be writing.”
My eyes widen, and then I burst into nearly hysterical laughter. I blame my overtired, jet-lagged brain.
West watches with amusement. “Care to share with the class?”
“Do you want to hear something crazy?”
“Crazier than a dog who proofreads novels?”
“I’m also on my way to Martha’s Vineyard to stay in a house and write for a week.”
“Do you know Tristan Rossiter?” he asks incredulously.
“Who?”
“His parents own the house.”
“Never heard of him, but my roommate was invited last minute and she’s dragging me along.”
“Do you think we’re going to the same place?”
“Nah, I’m sure we’re both on our way to two different writing retreats on the same island at the exact same time.”
“Really?”
I give him a look.
“Sarcasm, got it.” He rubs the back of his neck, and I want to say anything to make our conversation last.
“Do you want to hear something ridiculous?”
“You don’t have to keep asking me if I want to hear things. You can assume that I do.”
“When I was little, I thought Martha’s Vineyard was Martha Stewart’s own private island. I’ve never been able to separate the two in my mind.”
He laughs as my Uber driver pulls up to the curb and rolls the window down. “Margot?”
I look at West. If we separate now, we probably won’t meet back up until we’re under the same roof. It’s a long car ride to the ferry terminal in Woods Hole. I’m low on sleep, high on energy from the premiere, and feeling reckless.
“Do you want to ride together? It’s faster than the bus.”
West picks up the duffel bag at his feet and slings it over his shoulder. “Let’s go, Margot.”
I throw him another look as I heave my suitcase into the trunk of the car. “Who the hell is Margot?”
It’s early when West and I arrive at the house, and we’ve both been undersold by a lot. Our lodging for the week is a three-story Victorian mansion with a wraparound porch. The house is white with black shutters and a blue front door that sounds like old money when we open it.
I whistle under my breath as we walk into the quiet house. “Your friend Tristan is rich rich.”
“ ‘Friend’ might be too strong a word,” West says.
I smile at him over my shoulder as I walk into the large kitchen. “You just don’t want to admit that you’re running with rich kids and nepo babies.”
He rolls his eyes in confirmation, and my stomach turns over.
I feel like I’ve stumbled into a treasure trove of information about West. We spent the entire car and ferry rides catching each other up on our lives, but meeting his friends is another level entirely.
He was pretty quiet about what he’s been up to since college, instead asking me question after question about publishing and traveling and the movie premiere.
He wanted to know if I had any say in the cast (no) or the script (some), and he had specific notes for the actor playing Fox.
(Why does he look so pissed off in the movie trailers?
Tell him to stop scowling so much!) Through slaphappy middle-of-the-night laughter, I promised to pass his thoughts to the director.
Eventually I nodded off and was embarrassed to wake up with my head on his shoulder.
The kitchen is littered with evidence of a party, the large stone island covered in empty cups and vapes, a stack of pizza boxes piled high next to the trash can.
“When your friends say they’re getting together to write, is that an excuse to party all week?”
“They’re new friends,” West stresses.
“Take a guess.”
He runs a hand through his hair as he surveys the mess in the kitchen. “I’d guess they’ll sleep until two, hang out until six, ‘create’ until ten, and then party until five.”
I’m not loving his use of the word create. If I’m stuck in this house with a bunch of wannabe influencers, it’ll be a long week. “Drugs?” I ask.
“Some,” he confirms.
“Huh.” Maybe he’s changed more than I thought. “Well, I’m in danger of missing yet another deadline, so you don’t have to worry about me.” I grab my suitcase and head toward the stairs to find Daphne’s room. At the very least, I need a shower and a power nap before I start working.
“What does that mean?” West’s voice stops me.
As much fun as we had on the ferry, I can’t forget that the last conversation we ever had was him blowing me off. Not to mention the fact that I need to buckle down and write; if I don’t have something to send to my editor by the end of this week, my publishing date will be delayed again.
“I know you didn’t plan on me crashing your trip with your friends. I’ll stay out of your way,” I say. He blinks in surprise, and I can’t stop myself from saying the next thing. “I’ve moved on.”
It feels like shots fired. Like launching a grenade into our otherwise-peaceful conversation. Until now, neither of us has even alluded to the fact that we used to be in love or that we set fire to our entire future in a handful of hours.
West fixes me with a hard look. I make a mental note to tell the actor playing Fox that his scowl is perfect. No notes.
“I’ve said and done a lot of regrettable things in my life. I guess it’s too much to ask that you don’t keep a catalog of them all in your head,” he drawls.
I exhale the tension from my body. He’s right. If he’s not holding the past against me, I should give him the same courtesy.
“Truce?”
“Truce,” he agrees, and with an official armistice in place, I drag my suitcase up the stairs.