Chapter 12
EZRA
The sunset is releasing that end-of-day warmth that makes the garden look like something out of a dream. The sun slips down behind the live oaks. Every branch, flower, and uneven stone looks like it’s been dipped in firelight. It’s gorgeous.
For the past hour, I’ve been checking the cottage to see if there’s a flicker of the lamp through the curtain. So far, there’s been no movement.
Scarlett must’ve fallen asleep. She’s been working her ass off lately, so she needs her rest, but I selfishly want to have dinner with her.
Did she eat anything other than the toast I prepared for her earlier? I hope so.
I stare so hard, like I can summon her awake with my Jedi mind tricks, but it doesn’t happen.
It’s not lost on me that today is over, which means I have only five more days with her. Five. It’s not enough time.
Scarlett told me she stayed up late writing and was happy to announce that the words were pouring out of her. I knew she’d crash hard, considering she was up at six. The body always catches up to the mind. I imagine her curled up in a comforter, covered by dreams.
I stay where I am, pressing my knuckles to the pane like they might steady something in me. I don’t know why I keep checking for her. I don’t know what I’m waiting for.
That’s not true.
I head downstairs because I need to keep my mind busy.
Willow lifts her head as I pass through the living room, then flops back down with disinterest, like she’s bored.
In the kitchen, I make a cup of tea. The smell of the Earl Grey calms me. I add a spoonful of honey and stir. The warmth grounds me for a second, but it doesn’t last. I pull my phone from my pocket, flipping through my apps, already knowing what I’m going to do, aware that I shouldn’t.
I go to the web browser and type her name.
Scarlett Collins, author.
The results come fast. I’m served up photos, bios, and book covers with her name across them in bold sans serif fonts.
I come across a dust jacket photo from a decade ago.
She’s younger, eyes softer, lips parted like she’s about to say something clever but hasn’t quite decided how vulnerable she wants to be.
There’s a confidence in her posture I recognize. Fucking fearless.
There’s a link for a podcast interview from three years ago, and an old write-up in The Times with the headline: The Voice of Modern Romance Takes Us On An Emotional Roller Coaster You Might Not Survive.
Damn.
I click into an excerpt from the article and scan it.
It discusses her last book reaching the number one spot on The New York Times Best Seller list, The Sunday Times, and USA Today in its first week of release.
There are full write-ups about movie options and major motion pictures being produced with A-list actors.
Readers have her words tattooed on their bodies.
There are articles speculating about why she hasn’t released her sequel.
There’s a photo embedded in the middle with a quote from an interview she gave.
“Creating art isn’t an escape from life. It is life. Every book I write has pieces of myself inside. I share my most vulnerable thoughts with strangers, hoping someone can relate.”
I read it twice.
I don’t know what I thought I’d find when I searched her.
Maybe something that would explain why she was here.
But the deeper I go down the rabbit hole, the more I realize she’s sharing the rawest form of herself with me.
I don’t care about the million followers she has on social media or the accolades she’s collected over the years.
The real her is the one who wrecks me.
The version of her without the fame and fortune.
I take a seat at the kitchen table and find a few forums where her last book is discussed in detail, along with speculation about her current love life.
Scarlett has sworn off men. Doubt she’ll ever give anyone a chance again. It’s sad because I feel like she could date anyone she wants. She has a huge heart.
Even Scarlett’s love life is up for debate.
I read a paragraph about how her last book was supposed to save her relationship, but it only destroyed it.
There are pictures of Scarlett on the streets of New York with red-rimmed eyes, like she’d been crying.
I think about the conversations we’ve had and how she’s told me she ruins men’s lives.
Is this why?
I click out of that and move on to reviews, and I recognize the cover of one. A few years ago, people were lined up at Charleston Books one I didn’t even know I was looking for.
I walk back to the truck, then drive home in silence, allowing everything I’ve learned to seep in.
Truthfully, it’s changed nothing for me.
I park in my driveway, grab my shit, and walk up the sidewalk toward the house.
A breeze kicks through the treetops, stirring the edge of the bushes in front of the house.
When I glance in the backyard, I notice the cottage is still dark.
When my feet hit the bottom step, a car pulls into the driveway. It’s not a vehicle I recognize.
I turn and wait for the guy to get out, and then I see an insulated bag in his hand.
“Hi. Can I help you?”
He glances at the receipt. “Yeah, I have a pizza for Scarlett Collins.”