Chapter 36 - The Write Off

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.

I can’t even say that I’m surprised. I knew that at some point my publisher would decide I’m not worth the drama. It’s the loudest thought in my head and the monster in my closet. It’s the nightmare that wakes me up in a cold sweat. I chased my dream, and I got it—and now there’s nowhere to go but down. In the decade since I got my book deal, nearly every thought and action has been driven by the fear of what will happen when it’s gone.

“Well, fuck.” West lets his head fall against the wall. “My agent dropped me.” I open my mouth to let out a string of incoherent rage, but he squeezes my hand and shakes his head. “It’s my own fault. My agent represents a lot of YA authors.”

“Schedule another interview with that journalist. She won’t ignore you this time; you’re in the zeitgeist now. Make your apology tour, and your career will be fine. The Torchers will leave you alone.” The second half of that sentence hangs unspoken in the air. As long as you’re not with me.

West scoffs. “You’re worried about my career?”

“Obviously.”

He shakes his head. “I’ll be fine. All I care about is what happens to you.”

I swipe tears off my cheeks. “They can’t postpone my book forever,” I insist, though I wonder how long they’ll wait. Until the scandal blows over? Until I speak out against West?

“I’m relieved to hear that, but I’m worried about you. Here”—he lifts his free hand and taps me lightly on the temple—“and here”—over my heart. “I don’t want you to suffer the same way you did last time.”

We sit so long that we watch the light bleed from the sky, quiet surrender settling around us. With my head on West’s shoulder, I track the sun as it sets, shadows lengthening until they swallow the room whole. “You’re going to leave again, aren’t you?” he whispers into the dark.

I suddenly wish I hadn’t avoided this conversation until now. If we’d already made the important decisions without the weight of all this surrounding noise, maybe this week would have a different ending. But I’m leaving, and once again, he won’t ask me to stay, because he doesn’t want to be a person who holds me back. And I won’t ask him to follow me, because he deserves every bit of success coming to him, and I refuse to get in the way of that.

“What other choice do I have?” I ask eventually, so long after West’s question I wonder if he forgot it. “I don’t want you punished for your association with me.”

He drops my hands and presses his palms into his tired eyes. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Use me as a convenient excuse. I’m telling you that I do not give a single fuck what the internet thinks about me. When you leave, you don’t get to pretend like you’re saving me from anything. You’re scared,” he says bluntly.

“I have every right to be scared. You have no idea what it was like for me last time, because you weren’t there,” I snap with more force than intended.

Hurt flashes across his features, an edge of resignation bleeding through. I realize with an unpleasant lurch that he told me this would happen when he asked me to read his apology letter. He knew there would come a day, sooner rather than later, when I would throw our past in his face.

He rolls his shoulders and looks me square in the eye. “You’re right. I don’t know, and I feel awful about what you went through. But that’s not the whole story. You’re leaving because you’re scared of not measuring up to your warped definition of success. You don’t believe you can be happy without it.”

I push to my feet. “Don’t act like you’re the expert on me. We barely even know each other.” The lie burns all the way up my throat, leaving a bitter taste on my tongue.

West’s eyes flash as he stands, bringing us chest to chest. “And that. Right there. I think you’re scared that I’m all in. That I’m ready to start a life with you right now.”

“We live on opposite sides of the country!”

“Details.”

“Big ones.”

“No. I love you—that’s a big detail. I don’t want to live another day of my life without you. You think I’m going to throw my hands up based on something as trivial as location or comments on the internet? Give me more credit than that. Give us more credit than that.”

My breath sticks in my chest until I’m choking from lack of oxygen. He loves me. My insides shift to make room for this new truth. It changes my brain chemistry and my cellular structure. It changes absolutely everything—except the reality of our lives and circumstances.

“You don’t want to come to New York,” I say.

His jaw clenches around the truth. No, he doesn’t. “I want to be anywhere you are.”

“What about your job?”

“I’ll find a new one.”

“What about your sister? And your home?”

He pushes his hands through his hair in frustration. “I lost you once because of distance and fear. What kind of coward would I be to not hold on to you this time?”

My body twitches with the urge to launch myself into his arms and tell him that I’ve loved him for so long I can hardly remember a time when I didn’t. After a stilted moment in which I stand motionless, I realize that West is right about all of it. My fear is overwhelming, smothering every other instinct and thought.

Tears build behind my eyes, and a fluttery panic takes root in my stomach. It branches out and digs in until I feel woozy. You’d think experience would have prepared me to say goodbye to West, but the time and the fight and the effort it took to bring us to this moment make this goodbye excruciating.

“Maybe we can try again when things settle down,” I say, a last-ditch effort to calm the beast clawing at my ribs.

He leans against the desk and stretches his legs out as he studies me. “I’m done with first kisses, Darling. I can’t keep losing you. I won’t survive it again.”

“What does that mean?”

His hands grip the edge of the desk as he studies me. The unwavering intensity in his eyes makes my skin hot and my chest cold. He looks at me as if he’ll never get another chance. “It means this is our last goodbye. I hope you eventually find what makes you happy. You deserve it.” With one final, searing look, West pushes off the desk and drops a kiss to my head before leaving me alone in the office he wanted to be mine.