Chapter 36
Present Day
I work very hard to keep my eyes from straying to West at the back of Dr. B’s classroom. As I speak to the students, however, his gaze weighs on me like a physical presence, like his hands are pressed to my shoulders, demanding my attention.
He looked skeptical when I steered his truck toward campus earlier today. “I want you to know there’s more to Tucson than our old college campus,” he said flatly.
“We can go anywhere you want tonight, even the roped-off room at Casa Video,” I said with a wink that earned me a laugh. “But I have a promise to keep first.”
He broke into a grin when he realized that I was leading him toward Dr. B’s classroom and settled happily in a desk in the far corner to watch me speak to a class of undergrads.
Dr. B knew I was coming, but he chuckled with delight when I showed up hand in hand with West. “My star pupils! Together at last.”
I’m starting to think he says that to all his former students, but I don’t care.
My heart warmed to a worrying degree to see the proud smile on West’s face as he greeted our old professor.
West has an entire life for himself here—a life he can’t pick up and transfer as easily as I could.
With Daphne in California now and a job I can do from anywhere, I don’t have many physical ties to New York.
But we haven’t had that conversation yet. It’s too early to even be thinking about that conversation. Or at least that’s what I tell myself when the constant flutter in my stomach threatens to overwhelm me.
I open the class up to questions for the last few minutes, and as much as I’m sure Dr. B wants me to focus on writing and publishing, most of the questions are about the Torched movies.
“Any other questions? Anything not related to whether I can give you the phone number of a certain famous actor?” I ask.
A few students laugh, but a lanky blond boy sitting in the front of the room leans forward over his desk. “I have a question.”
“Go for it,” I say as I pack my bag to leave.
“Do you know that you’re blowing up online?”
“Like I said, if it’s about the movie, that has very little to do with me.”
“It’s not that. Everyone is talking about you and your boyfriend back there.” He jerks his chin in West’s direction.
My hand pauses. “What?”
“Apparently, he’s persona non grata. Made himself some enemies a few years ago. Especially with your biggest fans.”
“What?” I lock eyes with West at the back of the room before focusing again on the blond boy. “What are people saying?” Too distracted in my bubble with West, I haven’t been online in days.
Dr. B claps his hands, drawing the students’ attention. “We’re out of time. See you Friday.”
In seconds, West is next to me, pulling my phone out of my hand and lacing his fingers through mine. He tugs me out the door, and I walk just slowly enough for him to know that I’m annoyed about it.
I reach for my phone. “Hang on. I just need to check—”
He slips my phone into his pocket. “Let’s go.”
“Wait, West.”
“Not here.”
“Give me my phone.” I tug on his arm as cold dread crawls up my throat, making it difficult to breathe.
He faces me in the crowded hall and places his hand on the side of my neck, his thumb brushing across my jaw. “Please, Mars,” he says softly. “Come with me to the truck, and I will relinquish my possession of your phone.”
I nod and let him lead me through campus.
True to his word, he hands my phone over the moment I fasten my seat belt.
It feels heavy in my palm, and my fingers tremble with an old, familiar feeling.
West frowns when he sees the tremor. “I don’t suppose you’ll listen to me if I tell you that this is a bad idea. ”
I clear my throat. “I can’t avoid it forever.”
He exhales a sharp laugh. “You could, though. It’s just the internet. Nothing that happens on social media is real.”
“I don’t know, it felt pretty real when I was getting death threats and my fans were calling for book boycotts,” I say sharply.
West winces, memories of last night’s conversation still painfully fresh.
After I answered all his questions, he asked me to tell him about my life after the article was published.
The color drained from his face as I recounted the shitty aftermath of my book’s release and the period of depression that followed.
He tried to shoulder all the blame, as if he’d personally opened my Word document and torn it to shreds.
I scroll silently for several minutes before turning to West. “The internet has decided that we’re together.”
His brows furrow as he studies my face. “Based on what?”
“A picture of us from the panel. It’s fairly obvious that I’m wearing your sweater. And we’re looking at each other.”
He scoffs. “We’re not allowed to look at each other?”
I sigh and scrub my hands over my face. “It’s the way we’re looking at each other.”
Like we’re in love. He stares at me like he’s holding vigil. I gaze at him like I’m falling into the sun.
It started with the picture, which led to comments linking to the old article about West, which led to posts and videos and more comments.
They all boil down to the same thing: West is problematic, therefore I’m problematic by proximity.
Doing the panel with him is implicit support.
I’m platforming a misogynist. I’m dating a misogynist. I’m disappointing. I’m disrespectful to my fans.
Everyone has a take; everyone wants a pat on the head for joining the conversation.
For calling out the bad guy. There’s nothing the internet loves more than a dogpile.
I read DMs from readers I’ve known for years.
Profile pictures and names I recognize and interact with regularly. They beg me to make a statement.
About what? I think. I didn’t even do anything wrong.
“Mars?” West touches my shoulder.
I startle. “What?”
“I asked if you’re okay. I don’t think you’ve taken a breath in the last two minutes.”
“Yeah.” I shake my head, trying to clear it. “I’m fine,” I say more to myself than him. It’s fine. I’m fine. Not everyone has to like me.
“Do you want to go inside?” he asks, and I realize we’re back at his house. From the look on his face, we’ve been sitting in the car for a while.
That night, he holds me in bed and whispers apologies into the dark.
“It’s not your fault,” I say.
His arms tighten, crushing me to his chest. “It’s explicitly my fault, and true to form, the internet is blaming the woman. You should say something.”
“Like what?”
“Who cares? Say that you were forced to work with me this weekend. That you hate me. That I deserve every name they’ve called me.”
“No.”
“Please, Darling, throw me under the bus,” he begs. He’s tried to take the blame already, but his statement and apology went unnoticed. With his book recently released, the timing of it is too convenient. No one trusts him.
“It’ll blow over,” I insist, but my body doesn’t believe the lie.
I feel like I slipped backward in time. My limbs are heavy, my thoughts scattered, my appetite nonexistent.
A wave of nausea rises in my stomach when my phone vibrates with a notification.
Hours blur together. Days turn into nights when I don’t sleep, and nights turn into days when I bite my fingernails until they bleed.
I draft statements in my Notes app that I don’t post, scared to anger even more people.
I brainstorm ways to give my readers exactly what they want. I vow to get it right this time.
It doesn’t take long for Shattered’s online rating to tank. It’s not even published yet, and everyone already hates it. I’m accused of disrespecting and profiting off readers. I screwed them over once, and now, by associating with West, I’ve done it again.
West doesn’t escape unscathed. For every comment calling for the boycott of my book, there are two for Drought.
He doesn’t blink when I tell him. He gives a very good impression of a man who does not give a shit about the opinion of strangers, but when I look closer, I’m not so sure.
He has stress lines around his eyes, his fingers massaging the bridge of his nose every other minute.
His face crumples into a grimace when he looks at me.
As if all of this weren’t bad enough, the looming premiere of the third Torched movie turns a minor internet scandal into a national frenzy.
(It’s a bad time to remind everyone how much they fucking hated my last novel.) West and I read the Entertainment Weekly timeline of our relationship on my laptop, marveling over which details they get right and which ones they get wrong. After, I scroll to the comments.
West snaps my laptop shut. “Don’t read the comments.”
Danielle calls to check in on me. “I’m fine! I’m fine! I’m not worried! I’m fine!” I say, increasingly shrill with each declaration. By the time we hang up, I fear she’s more concerned than she was before the call.
On Friday, West finds me sitting on the floor of his office. My knees gave out after a call with Whitney, and I collapsed against the wall before sinking down. He sits next to me and laces his fingers with mine.
“What happened?” he asks.
“They want to postpone the release of Shattered and cancel my events,” I say, slightly dazed.
He looks stricken. “My editor says it’s to protect my mental health.
They don’t want a repeat of what happened last time.
There’s also talk of canceling the sequel.
” I know she doesn’t trust me to write one if I’m in a bad headspace.