Chapter Twenty-Four #2
I use the break in speaking to reach for the water bottle on the floor next to my chair. I look back at the girl just as she asks her question. “I was wondering if you have any advice for aspiring writers.”
I nod as I unscrew the lid to the water bottle. Just as I’m bringing it to my mouth for a sip, I pause. At first, it’s just a flicker of recognition, a face in the crowd that pulls me in like a gravitational force.
But then I freeze.
My eyes lock on him. On Saint. He’s sitting a few seats behind the woman with the microphone. The room around me seems to shrink in an instant, like it has just run out of air. He raises his hand with his eyes locked on mine. He wants the microphone.
The room is silent, waiting for me to answer the question I was just posed. What was the question?
“Google,” I say, my voice strained. “Google is your best friend. Every question about writing has been answered online. It’s just a matter of finding the answer that inspires you.”
I take a quick gulp of the water. Oh, God.
I feel myself starting to sweat as she hands the microphone back a couple of rows.
She reaches it out toward him. No. He stands up confidently as he takes it from her, his presence commanding my attention, even though every fiber of my being screams for me to look away. To run.
But I can’t.
My eyes lock onto his, and my breath catches in my throat at the sight of Saint. Cam. Eric. Whatever he’s calling himself now. It doesn’t matter, because in this moment, he’s all of them, and he’s none of them. He’s simply the man who repaired me and then shattered me.
What is he doing here? My thoughts race, a thousand questions flooding my mind, but none of them matter as fear creeps up my spine, cold and unrelenting. I grip the armrest of my chair tighter as I fight to maintain my composure. But inside, I’m crumbling when he begins to speak.
“I just have one question,” he says, his voice causing that familiar wave of turmoil beneath my skin. “Where do you get your inspiration?”
His voice cuts through the haze of my panic, smooth and unbothered, as if he isn’t feeling the same havoc he’s wreaking inside me. Or maybe he is. We both know he’s the much better actor.
The question—innocuous to anyone else in the room—feels like a dagger aimed straight at my chest. Where do you get your inspiration? It’s a simple question, one I’ve answered a hundred times before, but coming from him, it feels like a challenge, like he’s daring me to reveal the truth.
I feel the anger rising, hot and fierce, bubbling just beneath the surface. How dare he? After everything, he has the audacity to stand here, in front of me, in front of everyone, and pretend like this is some game we’re still playing?
Like he isn’t the reason I’m scared of my own shadow?
I clench my jaw, forcing myself to stay calm, to give the answer the audience expects. But the heat in my chest only grows, threatening to spill over.
“Inspiration comes from everywhere,” I say, the words feeling hollow in my mouth.
“Life, people, experiences.” The words are automatic, rehearsed, but I stop short of saying you.
My voice wavers ever so slightly, and I wonder if the audience can sense the tension simmering beneath the surface.
If they can feel how close I am to snapping.
“Next question?” I say, tearing my eyes from his smile, looking desperately for someone who can take the microphone from him.
“I have one more,” he says.
I swallow.
“Well, it’s not a question, really. More of a comment.
But . . . I just want you to know I couldn’t put this book down.
I hung on to every single word. It’s almost as if I were there, in the room with you, experiencing the things these characters experienced.
That takes true talent, Petra. You are very, very good at what you do. ”
A few people clap, but his comment was spoken so slowly, and with such intensity, I see a few people squirm or stiffen from the discomfort of it.
The smirk on his face proves he doesn’t give a shit what anyone else in this room thinks.
He hands the microphone off to the next person, and I’m stuck, paralyzed under the spotlight.
My vision blurs, the edges of my anger creeping into my periphery, but I swallow it down, forcing myself to stay composed. I can do this. I’ll be damned if I let him ruin this like I ruined my own Q&A during my last event.
That was before I truly knew what anger was, though. My anger is what gets me through the next hour, despite it being one of the hardest hours of my life.
As soon as the Q&A portion ends, I head straight to the greenroom to compose myself before the signing begins.
Nora isn’t in here, but I’m thankful. She would be able to see the feelings I’m having trouble reining in right now.
I take several minutes to compose myself, drink water, reapply makeup since I look like I’ve seen a ghost.
When I finally work up the courage to walk back out, I clock Saint standing toward the middle of the line to get the book signed that he’s clutching in his hand.
He’s already looking at me before I make eye contact, as if he was staring straight at the door, waiting to see if I’d actually walk out and finish the job despite his presence here.
I wonder if he really finished reading the book.
Did he stay up until midnight last night, waiting to download the ebook?
The one that holds parts of him in every chapter, every line, every word?
Did he stay up all night reading the story that wouldn’t exist without him, without what he did to me, without the tangled mess of our history in that cabin?
My pulse quickens, and I force myself to move, to walk to my signing table like I’m not about to fall apart. The pen feels heavy in my hand as I greet the first reader in line.
I move through each person with patience, trying to forestall the inevitable moment he reaches my table.
No matter how hard I try not to look, my eyes keep drifting to his spot.
He’s waiting, patient, just like everyone else, but his presence is suffocating.
I can feel his eyes on me the entire time, burning into my skin.
When he finally reaches the table, I feel lightheaded. I don’t look up when he says, “Can you make it out to Saint?”
His voice is smooth, too smooth, like he’s in complete control of the situation, as if this isn’t tearing me apart inside. Saint. The name feels foreign on him now, but I refuse to let him retain control. I take the book, open it, and inscribe the name Eric.
I sign my name and slap the book shut. My final fuck you. I slide it back to him, still refusing to meet his eyes.
“I don’t get a personalization?” he asks.
His words are a challenge laced with that familiar teasing undertone.
He’s toying with me, just like always. I can feel the anger bubbling up again, sharp and hot, and this time I don’t try to suppress it.
My eyes snap up to meet his, and for the first time, I let him see the anger, the frustration, the hurt that I’ve been carrying for so long.
How dare he stand here and pretend that this is just some casual encounter. That he’s just another reader. How dare he show up at all.
I grab the book, and my hand moves swiftly across the page, the pen pressing hard into the paper as I add: An absolute, complete and total stranger. May you have the life you deserve.
I intend for the words to be a slap in the face, but he grins. That cocky smile grates on my nerves, like nails on a chalkboard. He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur that only I can hear.
“Thank you for the dedication.”
I refuse to say “You’re welcome” as he pauses for a reaction. I don’t give him one. I look past him and motion for the next person in line to make their way to the table, indicating his turn is over and he can walk away.
I’m watching him out of the corner of my eye as he heads for the exit.
Good riddance.
Right before he reaches the door, I see him turn, and his smile brightens, but not at me. He’s smiling at something else. Or someone. He lifts a hand and waves someone over.
I’m momentarily relieved to know someone else other than me has his attention.
I start to look away, but then something pulls at me, willing me to look up again. Why would he be talking to anyone here? Who would he know here?
Has he told anyone about us?
I’m craning my neck around the reader in front of me to see who it is he just waved at. I see someone making her way over to him as he walks toward her.
Nora.
She’s smiling back at him with a giddiness that makes my stomach sink. The last thing I need is for Saint to fuck with her head next.
They continue walking toward each other, and I’m doing everything I can to see why Saint is trying to speak to Nora, but two more people swoop in and block my view.
I’m forced to give the people in front of me my attention, but I can’t help but feel an imminent urge to scream Nora’s name, to warn her away from him before she falls for that smile and fake charm.
I’ll be damned if he does to her what he did to me.
A fearful thought engulfs me. Was I not the first writer he’s done this to?
What if it’s happened to more than just me, and he’s done it to multiple writers?
It sounds like something he’d be capable of, and from the looks of it, his plan is to manipulate my best friend next.
If he’s watched all my videos, that means he’s watched all Nora’s too.
Why didn’t I anticipate that he’d be capable of this?
I smile for pictures as I search for Nora, but I’ve lost sight of them.
I sign more books as I search for Saint.
I look for signs of them both as I finish up the last several readers, feeling guilty they didn’t have my undivided attention.
But it has taken all the willpower I can muster not to run and save Nora from this monster.