Chapter 11 Now
Now
The faint smell of something rotting in my fridge greets me as soon as I walk into my apartment.
Great. Add that to the list of things I avoided before leaving for the book tour.
I set my suitcase by the front door, where it will stay until later this week when I finally have the energy to deal with it.
Anyone who says they unpack their suitcase and start a load of laundry the minute they get home from a trip is lying. Or they’re psychopaths.
I strip out of my airport clothes and turn on the shower because that’s one thing I will do after a day of travel.
I turn the faucet as far as it will go, hoping the hot water will kill off all the plane bacteria as well as the heartbreak at being confronted once more with my own loneliness.
The shower is my favorite place. It’s the one place I can completely shut off my mind and just be.
I can’t even do that in my sleep. My brain is constantly working overtime (on everything but this new book, that is), replaying vivid memories of Cole, trying to figure out where we went wrong, trying to piece together if we could ever fix it.
It isn’t until I get out of the shower that I notice I have three missed calls from Ross.
I’m praying for good news, because I don’t think I can mentally handle anything less.
I hold my phone up to my ear, the anticipation buzzing through me as it rings.
Almost immediately, he’s there, his voice bursting through the other line, filled with an impatience I can almost feel.
“Finally!” he exclaims as if he’s been waiting on this call all day.
“Sorry, I was in the shower. I literally just walked in, like, minutes ago. What’s up? Is something wrong?”
“So you haven’t been on Instagram?” he asks.
“Not in a few hours. I was on the plane, then I had to drive home from the airport,” I explain, fingers dancing over the screen in search of the app, the curiosity in his voice making me anxious. “What did I miss?”
“Who drives to the airport anymore? Haven’t you heard of Uber?
Never mind, that’s beside the point.” He chuckles before getting to the real reason he called.
“Brooke Barrett has been hyping you up all over her socials! She included you in her ‘Best New Romance Books to Read This Fall’ YouTube video and picked it as her fiction selection for October’s BrookeShelf pick! ”
Brooke Barrett is like the Emma Chamberlain of book influencers.
She started out on YouTube, scrappily filming book reviews in her childhood bedroom, surrounded by stacks of novels and posters that said things like just one more chapter.
I started watching her videos during senior year of college, when I couldn’t go on the spring break trip because of student teaching.
Then she made the leap to Instagram and TikTok, and immediately she was everywhere.
Now, with a combined following of twelve million and her book club, BrookeShelf, practically running the internet’s reading lists, she’s not just talking about books, she’s also telling us what to read.
When I started writing my first novel, I’d kept a list of goals, dreams, and manifestations on my desk to help keep me driven. Brooke Barrett was one that I never thought I’d cross off.
The list:
Goals (most attainable)
Book signing
10,000 followers on Instagram and/or TikTok
Podcast interview
Dreams (probably not but a girl can dream)
Cool media placement (Cosmo, People, etc.)
Morning show appearance
BrookeShelf monthly pick (or get posted by Brooke Barrett)
Quit teaching
Manifesting (definitely not but writing it down anyway)
New York Times bestselling author
Sign a film/TV deal
My grip on the phone loosens, almost sending it flying into the sink. Catching it at the last second, I press it back to my ear, my feet carrying me back and forth across the small bathroom. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope,” he replies, and I swear I can hear the grin in his voice, the excitement barely contained.
I’m in shock, trying to wrap my head around the news.
“How is this even possible? The book’s barely been out for two weeks,” I manage to say.
Ross laughs. “Girl, you should know me by now. I had a little coffee date with her agent and gave your book a nudge,” he confesses.
Rolling my eyes but with a smile, I reply, “Thank god you’re single. You seriously meet the most interesting people.”
“This could be you,” he teases. “If you’d just move to New York.
North Carolina’s not exactly the hub of dating excitement or hot guys for that matter.
” Getting right back into business, he adds, “I’m sending over some options for your post. I’d get it up as soon as possible.
Tag everyone—Brooke, the BrookeShelf account, and McAlpine. ”
“Got it.” I nod to myself, a mental checklist forming.
“And, Ains?”
“Yeah?” I answer.
“Go fucking celebrate,” he says, and just like that, the line goes dead.
Still wrapped in a bath towel, I stare at myself in the mirror, disbelief written all over my face. This might be the most exciting news I’ve ever received. A story I wrote ended up in Brooke Barrett’s hands, and now she’s recommending it to millions of followers.
The whole time I was writing, I kept doubting myself.
I worried no one would take it seriously.
That I wouldn’t get an agent. That no publisher would want it.
And even if it somehow made it out into the world, who was going to read it?
Who was going to like it? So for this to happen doesn’t feel real.
I reread the caption one last time and double-check the tags.
I can’t believe my book, my name, and BrookeShelf are all in the same square.
Then I hit Post. Notifications light up instantly with incoming likes, DMs, and reposts.
I flip my phone to Do Not Disturb and head to the closet to finally change out of my towel.
Except I don’t. Instead, I linger at the edge of the bed, towel wrapped around me, thumb hovering over my own story. Just one peek. Just to see the views.
Or rather a view. More specifically, Cole’s.
I tap, refresh, and don’t see his name. Maybe he hasn’t opened Instagram yet. He liked my pub day post; that had to mean something. Didn’t it?
God, I hate that I still care. With every single accomplishment, every milestone, every mention, every carefully crafted caption, there’s a small embarrassing part of me that still wants him to see it. Not because I want him back but because I want him to wish he hadn’t let me go.
I lock my phone and toss it onto the comforter like distance might make me stronger. But it doesn’t. Ten minutes later, I’m eating a bowl of stale Cinnamon Toast Crunch with nearly expired milk and wondering how a moment that should’ve felt like a win somehow feels like a loss.
An hour after that, I pop open the bottle of champagne Lucas gave me and sit on the couch while old Love Island episodes play on the TV.
I drink two glasses fast—too fast—and feel the fizz hum through my bloodstream.
My head is light, my body restless. I laugh too hard at the screen, then suddenly I’m refreshing Instagram again.
Still no Cole.
Without thinking, I tap the magnifying glass, type @cole_evans into the search bar, and freeze.
No user found.
That’s weird.
I click into my own profile and scroll to the last photo we were tagged in together.
A trip to Wilmington. Gone. I check another.
And another. Nothing. His username isn’t clickable anywhere.
It’s like he vanished. But I know what this means.
He didn’t delete his account. He blocked me!
I let the phone slide from my hands and land on the couch cushion.
My face feels hot. My chest is even hotter.
This is it. This is when he freezes in time.
From this moment forward, the only version of Cole that exists to me is the one in my camera roll and memory.
The only version of him I’ll know is the twentysomething-year-old boy with a full head of hair, a quiet laugh, and my favorite smile.
I won’t know what he looks like in his thirties, forties, or fifties.
I can imagine it though. The wrinkles branching around his eyes from all those years of laughter.
His hair will be thinner, but there will still be a lot of it.
He’ll try to grow a beard because he thinks it will make him seem more mature, but he hates the way it itches.
His big blue eyes won’t change, and he’ll still have the same crooked smile, both of which used to light up any time I walked into a room.
One day, I won’t know him anymore. I won’t know the person I once thought I would spend the rest of my life with. And the thought of that is terrifying.
I wonder if it’s easier for Cole to erase me. Is it easier for him to just pretend our relationship never existed instead of facing the heartbreak? If given the choice, would I erase him? I ponder on the thought for a moment.
I don’t know if I’m ready to answer that question yet.
I’d like to think that one day I’ll wake up, and his absence on the other side of the bed won’t be the first thing on my mind, but I’ll still think of him in small ways throughout the week.
I’d like to think that one day I can look back on our time together fondly and understand why we didn’t work out without the gnawing sense that I should’ve just tried harder.
I’d like to think a lot of things, but I also thought he’d never leave.
I debate calling it a night, going to bed, and leaving tearstains on my pillowcase.
Instead, I walk to the kitchen, top off my champagne, and take a long sip.
The bubbles make me bold, buzzing with just enough tipsy energy to drown out my better judgment.
Fine. He doesn’t want to see what I’m up to?
I’ll make it so the entire internet can’t stop watching.
I’ll make myself inescapable. How about that?
I grab my tripod from the closet and mount my phone in it before I can second-guess my adrenaline-fueled actions. It’s stupid. Chaotic. Borderline embarrassing. But also kind of brilliant.
I prop the tripod on the kitchen counter, hair still damp and clinging to the back of my neck. I’m in a hoodie and pajama shorts, hardly camera ready, but I don’t care. I brush some hair behind my ear and then hit Record.
“Hi. I’m Ainsley Green, and I write romance novels. My latest book, The Lucky Ones, is inspired by my parents, who met in the cereal aisle of a grocery store. Real meet-cute stuff. The kind that makes you wonder if maybe fate isn’t completely full of shit.”
I pause, letting the words catch up with the thoughts that have been brewing since the second I saw No user found.
“Life isn’t like that anymore though,” I continue, passionate now.
“Our dating culture is a disaster! The apps are a black hole of gym selfies and guys that’ll ghost you.
And when you actually try in real life—because trust me, I’ve tried.
I knocked over an entire display of toilet paper at a grocery store, and the guy didn’t even look at me!
I said hi to someone at the airport, and he immediately told me he had a girlfriend.
People act like you’ve violated some unspoken rule just for putting yourself out there.
“So I’ve decided to embark on a little experiment.
For the next few weeks or months or however long it takes, I’m throwing myself into rom-com scenarios in real life and documenting what happens.
I’m not doing it to find love. Honestly, I’m not ready for that yet.
” I pause again, searching for what to say next.
“I’m doing it to find inspiration, because I’m a romance author with a broken heart, and maybe the best way to write a love story is to start living one. ”
I hit Stop and type out: Day one of my rom-com era. I pinch and drag until the text is perfectly centered on the screen. For the caption, I simply write #FindingLoveInTheCerealAisle. Then I take a breath and post.
Shoving my phone into the pocket of my hoodie, I empty the rest of the bottle into my glass and carry it over to the couch, where I sink into the cushions and stare at the ceiling.
Cole might have blocked me, but he’ll never forget me. And if I have to build an entire bestselling empire just to prove that? So be it. I’ll take up space in bookstores, in airports, on the endcaps of every damn Target in America.
He wanted silence. Unfortunately for him, I’ve got stories to tell.