Chapter 32
West does call, but New York is five hours behind London, and by then it’s too late. Fox Caldwell’s European fans have already read the article.
I sleep in. Between jet lag and the string of movie events I’ve attended over the last seventy-two hours, I barely know what time it is.
The story I dreamed up in college is the biggest movie in the world, and it’s a surreal feeling that I don’t have words for.
My brain wasn’t built to process something on this scale.
I finished writing my third book on the flight here.
I’ll email it to Whitney next week, but for now I’m lying groggy and happy in a hotel bed.
When my phone buzzes, I wonder if it’s a text from West. I haven’t heard from him yet.
I’m not sure why, but it feels like we’re waiting to be on the same continent.
I won’t believe this past week really happened until we’re together again.
It’s a text from Daphne, asking if I’ve been online.
I tell her no, and ask why she’s awake.
Pulling an all-nighter revising this book. You need to go online. And then call me.
I start with Instagram, and I have so many notifications that the app crashes. I scroll and quickly realize that something is off. I sit up in the hotel bed, no longer groggy. A spike of acidic adrenaline has perked me right up.
I’ve been tagged in dozens of comments, but most of them seem to be talking about me instead of talking to me. They’re defensive and angry and written in all caps.
FUCK YOU @WestEmerson. @MargotDarling deserves better than this.
I’m tagged in another post with a link to an opinion piece in The New York Times.
The article starts as an explainer about the emerging scene at Dimes Square and introduces the online debate about whether or not this microneighborhood is worth caring about.
There seems to be no love lost between the author and Tristan’s band of wannabe misfits, although she stops short of outright roasting them for claiming to be at the forefront of New York’s art scene from the kitchen table of a Martha’s Vineyard mansion.
West isn’t mentioned at all until the last third of the article, in which the interviewer describes him as “charmingly bookish and distractingly handsome.”
I bite my lip, anticipating West’s cocky grin when I return to New York. It’ll inflate his ego worse than the first time he read Torched. He’ll suffocate under his own cloak of arrogance.
I keep reading.
It’s Emerson’s kaleidoscope eyes that draw my attention, as heterochromia is having a pop culture moment thanks to the popular fantasy novel (and movie by the same name) Torched.
This runaway hit series has captivated readers around the world, and eagle-eyed fans have discovered that the book’s heartthrob, Fox Caldwell, is inspired by none other than West Emerson, the ex-boyfriend of the novel’s author, Margot Darling.
Fans claim that at an early book signing, Darling admitted that her ex had sparked the creation of the character Fox, who is beloved for his captivating charm and fierce loyalty.
If you’re willing to go far enough down the Torched fandom rabbit hole, you’ll find old photos of Emerson and Darling together during their time as students at the University of Arizona, as well as theories that the book’s heroine, Juniper, is based on the author herself.
A source close to the pair states that they were “very serious” and “madly in love” before their sudden split.
They did not confirm where Emerson and Darling stand now, although online sleuths have deduced that the two do not seem to be in contact.
For fans of the book, the revelation has added an extra layer of intrigue as they try to unravel which parts of Fox and Juniper’s story could be inspired by real-life events.
Interestingly, Emerson himself is an author.
His debut novel, Oasis, was published last year through Underlight Press, one of the many creative endeavors to come out of Dimes Square.
While Emerson has yet to replicate his ex-girlfriend’s commercial success, Oasis has received critical praise, and Emerson appears poised on the cusp of making a name for himself in the literary fiction scene.
Today, he is eager to discuss his work, but when I bring up his connection to Darling’s Torched, he does his best to redirect the conversation.
Rossiter does not let that happen. He begs on hands and knees for the backstory, so I give it to him.
By the time I finish, Emerson’s friends are volleying insults across the kitchen with alarming ease.
When I ask how it feels to have his name connected to the biggest YA fantasy series of the year, Emerson is visibly irritated. “I’d rather be kept out of it.”
“Why?” I can’t help but press the issue. “A connection to Torched could only help your career.”
He bristles at the perceived insinuation that he needs to hitch his wagon to Darling’s star and insists that he writes serious books.
When I ask if that means he doesn’t take Darling’s work seriously, he seems to shoot from the hip.
“It’s a love story for teenagers. It’s never going to be taken seriously. ”
“I know a few million people who would disagree with you. I believe they call themselves ‘Torchers,’ ” I counter.
Emerson laughs along with his friends. “Do you think I care about anyone who calls themselves a ‘Torcher’? Those people need to get a life.”
The honesty catches me off guard. Torched has a passionate fan base, and insulting them won’t do Emerson any favors. I ask him to be clear—is he denying the rumors that Fox Caldwell is based on him?
“I haven’t seen Margot in half a decade,” he says, a statement that garners audible scoffs from the rest of the group.
Seemingly unwilling to allow his friends to speak on the topic of Darling, he continues without pause.
“If I was some sort of inspiration to her, and she’s still writing about me all these years later, wouldn’t that be kind of pathetic? ”
It’s not exactly a denial, but it is a rebuke. One thing is clear: West Emerson has no interest in being cast as anyone’s muse.
When West finally calls, I block his number.
I spend the day in my hotel bed. The YA faction of every social media platform is the car crash I can’t look away from.
Just when I think it can’t get worse for West, it does.
He’s the main character of the day, and they’re tearing him to shreds on behalf of me, my readers, and the entire YA community.
Uninvolved parties emerge from internet obscurity to contribute their two cents.
And as usually happens, everyone has the same two cents: West is a judgmental, untalented, bitter snob.
He doesn’t respect teenagers. He doesn’t respect women.
He doesn’t respect YA readers. He doesn’t respect fantasy as a genre. He doesn’t respect romance.
He doesn’t respect me.
By the time the West Coast is sitting down for their morning coffee, the review-bombing has commenced. West’s previously under-the-radar novel gets spammed with one-star reviews.
I feel sick. The man in that article is not someone I know. I should have seen his friends for the glaring red flag they are instead of blindly believing he’s still the same person I fell in love with. I wanted it to be true so badly that I ignored common sense.
By evening, I’m trembling with unspent energy. It has taken every ounce of my self-control not to vomit my feelings all over the internet, but that will only make me look wounded, and what was the word West used? Pathetic.
I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
In search of a distraction, I open my Word document to read my manuscript one final time before sending it to my editor.
As I review the painstakingly chosen words, anger spills from my fingertips.
It strikes me as absurd that Fox is so attractive.
It’s not realistic! Before I know it, I’m making small changes here and there.
Suddenly, Fox is a little less hot, a little less perfect.
Instead of flawlessly tousled hair, I give him a bad haircut, and feel a small hum of satisfaction.
What kind of masochist was I to immortalize my college boyfriend in paper and ink?
The injury is too much, and there’s only one hope of fixing it.
When I stumble across a line of romantic dialogue that makes my stomach clench, it hurts, so I delete it. Human boys don’t ever say the exact right thing at the exact right time. Why should an immortal king be any different?
When Juniper waxes poetic about how much she loves Fox, I frown. Am I sending teenage girls a bad message? Should I let my heroine be a little more independent? Is she sure that Fox is even worth all this trouble?
Driven by West’s betrayal, I charge carelessly through revisions.
I edit with the reckless abandon of someone who has nothing to lose.
By the time I get to the final act of the book, I’m knee-deep in blinding anger and unbearable hurt.
I delete the last three chapters and rewrite them. I kill Fox Caldwell.
No one gets a happy ending. Not Fox, not Juniper. Not even their adopted magical wolf. He dies with Fox. It’s revenge and misery and gloom all the way down.
As the sun is rising over the Thames, I email the manuscript to my editor. She calls in a panic a few hours later. “None of this works. Especially not the ending.”
“It’s the ending I want.”
“Don’t betray your readers,” she begs. I tell her that nothing else feels honest. To the bitter end, West is the muse I can’t shake.
I take perverse pleasure in knowing it’s a title he hates.
When this book is published, headlines will be written with both our names in them.
He can screw me and then screw me over, but he’ll never be able to escape me.
He wants to be removed from this conversation?
Too bad. With this ending, it’s impossible.
Whitney asks me to take a week to reconsider. She offers to brainstorm with me. But when the week is up, the sting of betrayal is still too fresh to consider anything else, and we both know that we’re out of time. The book goes to print. It is what it is.
At least it’s not boring.
By the time the final book in the Torched trilogy is released, I realize that boring would have been a blessing. Readers can forgive boring. My sins are much greater, and there is no shortage of critics eager to catalog them all.
Each review reads worse than the one before it, and despite Daphne’s insistence that I stop reading, I can’t.
I feel cursed. Addicted. I wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night and reread the tangible proof of my failure.
I memorize the lines that hurt the most and let them play on a loop.
…an insult to both its genre and the intelligence of anyone brave enough to finish it…
Comically misguided.
Bestselling author Margot Darling strips the heart from a genre that deserves so much better.
Darling takes the very essence of YA romance and shreds it, leaving readers with a soulless imitation.
…leaves me wondering whether Darling understands the genre she is trying to exploit…
I assumed the book would be polarizing, but I’ve never been further off the mark. The entire fandom has rallied together under the same cause: hating me.
I receive my first death threat two days after the book is published.
I read it with shaky hands before sprinting to the bathroom.
Daphne holds my hair back while I puke up breakfast, and then she helps me forward the message to my publisher and report it to the authorities.
Half a dozen death threats later, I stop bothering with the formality, although my body trembles every time I open my email.
If possible, social media is worse. My accounts attract an onslaught of angry comments.
You owe me a refund and several hours of my life back.
brB, burning all of your books
A dumpster fire from start to finish
Did you really have to kill the dog?
(Why the hell did I kill the dog?)
Last book of yours I’ll ever touch
Go die
Two weeks after the release, Daphne pries my phone from my fingers and deactivates all my accounts.
My publishing team cancels my tour.
A complete reworking of the book pops up on a fan fiction website. I read it, and the truth is humbling; the story treats my characters with more respect than I did. It’s more fun, more satisfying. It’s better.
On a long, sobbing phone call with Danielle, who has been more loyal amid the shitstorm than any agent should have to be, I promise to write a new book and have it ready to sell by the end of the year.
She advises me to slow down, take a breath, give myself time.
I don’t want time, but at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter what I want; it only matters what I’m capable of.
And that includes very little except lying in bed, numb to the world.
Daphne tries to help, but she’s out of her depth.
In the span of six months, my entire life and sense of self fall apart.
I can’t write. Can’t read. Can’t get on the internet.
Can’t leave my apartment. I have always defined myself by my success, and the idea of redefining myself without it is unfathomable.
My brain becomes a dark, desperate place, and when I drill down to the center of it, I find West Emerson.
He ruined me, and I’ll never forgive him.