Chapter 16 - The Write Off

10 Years Ago

Senior Year, Second Semester

Amber was relentless, and West was game, so we spent our sophomore and junior years seeing art-house movies at the Loft, getting high and hiking in Sabino Canyon, sneaking into apartment complex swimming pools after dark, and driving all the way to the café at the top of Mount Lemmon for overpriced slices of pie. I studied just enough to pass my classes, and by the time senior year rolled around, I’d done everything there was to do in Tucson. You can only get drunk in the desert so many times before the city starts to close in around you.

“There’s nothing to do in this fucking town” was our new motto. In every class, the conversations revolved around making plans to get out. And since I’d only ever had one plan, my nights were once again spent alone, tangled in crumb-filled bedsheets, with an overheated laptop perched on my thighs.

And then, on a random Tuesday afternoon outside Modern Languages, I type the words The End and feel the world shift. (I later hit backspace seven times; novels don’t announce their conclusion.) This book is different from all the ones I’ve written before—I know it in my bones. Fox Caldwell and Juniper Devereaux feel more real than my own life.

I give it a title (Torched) and start the email-driven search for a literary agent. After months of obsessing over this book, my obsession reroutes to my inbox. Who needs TV—hell, who needs books or a social life or a boyfriend—when you have the thrill of watching the clock and refreshing your inbox each time the second hand hits twelve? It’s entertainment that doubles as torture, and the fun part is the stakes. At any time, an agent could email me to say that they want to make all my dreams come true. Or—and this is where the true mind fuck happens—they could send a rejection detailing all the ways in which my book is unsellable garbage. It’s a toss-up!

I don’t see West as often as I used to. His grandma was diagnosed with dementia in July, and his family needs help with the medical bills, so before the fall semester started, West withdrew from his classes and gave his tuition money to his family. I panicked when he told me, afraid it meant he was leaving Tucson, a thought that filled me with dread that I didn’t know how to express. But instead of moving home, he quit his job at the soft-serve counter and took one with a pest control company in Tucson that doubled his pay and gave him triple the hours.

It’s a warm day in February when I refresh my inbox again with a sigh. Nothing. Typical for a Sunday evening. Typical for most days, but I can’t break the habit, even on weekends and holidays and while I’m asleep. I once woke up with my phone in my hand and my thumb on the Gmail icon. My sanity is slipping.

I slide off the bed that doubles as my desk and walk to the kitchen, only to stop short when I see Amber and her new boyfriend, Patrick, cooking spaghetti with horny music playing in the background. She dumped Kyle in a loud blaze of glory one morning in September, throwing him out of the house after she discovered another girl in his DMs. This was followed by a month of crying and long runs, and then one day around Thanksgiving she told me about a cute guy from her nursing program named Patrick. I’ve never seen her happier.

“Don’t worry, I’m leaving.” I skirt around them to the pantry and grab a bag of popcorn.

“We have extra!” Amber says as she prods meatballs with a wooden spoon. Patrick stands behind her with his chin on her shoulder and his arms around her waist. The simple intimacy of it makes me ache for something I’ve never had.

“Thanks, but I’m going to my room. I haven’t tried sweet-talking my inbox yet—maybe if I give it compliments it will repay me with good news.”

“It’ll happen! I haven’t read a book in five years, and I read yours in a day. That should tell you something,” she says.

“That you should read more?” I call over my shoulder as I leave them to their honeymoon-stage date night and crawl back under my covers, knocking three books to the floor in the process. I don’t know why I bothered; I’m in the reading slump from hell. I’ve been too anxious to do anything but daydream about seeing Fox and Juniper on the shelves of a Barnes & Noble.

I open my inbox. Refresh. Text West. Scroll Facebook for five minutes. Refresh. Ten minutes on Twitter. Refresh. Five minutes on Instagram. Refresh. Text West again. Re— My fingers pause before they hit the button; my email has refreshed itself, and there’s an unread message sitting in my inbox.

I love the sample pages…your voice jumps off the page…hooked from the very beginning…already in love with Fox…dying to find out what happens…please send the full manuscript…

My body goes numb with shock.

I reply with my full manuscript attached. The send time between her email and mine? One minute. Hopefully she doesn’t think I’m at home on my bed refreshing my email like the obsessed weirdo that I am. My fingers shake as I slide my feet into sandals and grab my keys. “I’m going out!”

Amber takes one look at my stunned expression and my day-five unwashed hair and frowns. “Everything okay?”

The door shuts behind me before I know what to say. I’m jittery the whole mile and a half to West’s apartment. His roommate answers the door with a hand over his gaming mic.

“Is West here?”

“In his room.” He nods for me to step inside.

My stomach flutters with nerves as I knock quietly on West’s door. When he doesn’t answer, I knock again. Unintelligible mumbling filters through the wood.

“It’s me,” I say.

There’s a pause. “Just a sec.” His voice is sharper now. I hear his feet hit the floor, and when he opens the door, he’s shirtless, basketball shorts slung low on his hips. He squints at me.

“Did I wake you up?”

“It’s fine.” He shakes his hair out of his eyes. “What’s up?”

“An agent wants to read my book.”

His lips part in surprise. “What?”

“An agent requested my full manuscript. She might want to represent me.”

“Mars. Holy shit.” He wraps his arms around me and pulls me in to his bare chest. I stiffen, too surprised to react. He tugs me into his room and shuts the door behind us, letting his arms drop away from me. “Why didn’t you tell me that you were looking for an agent?”

I pick up a Rubik’s Cube off his dresser and mindlessly rotate it to avoid having to make eye contact. “You’ve had a lot going on.” The bigger truth is that I wasn’t sure if he’d care. He hasn’t expressed interest in so long.

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye just in time to see his frustrated expression before he blinks it out of existence.

“Can I read it?” he asks.

“Do you want to?”

He winces before taking a deep breath and looking up at me from under his long, dark lashes. “I want to.”

It feels almost like a dare. I use my phone to forward him the manuscript. “Done.”

“Thanks.” He scratches his nose. “I’m working twelve-hour days this week, so it might take me a while to get through it.”

“No pressure.”

He stares at the floor. I put the Rubik’s Cube back on his dresser. We stand in silence for an excruciating moment. “Have you been working on anything?”

“No time.” He shakes his head.

“Yeah. Of course.” I want him to say something—anything—to make this less awkward, but he leaves it up to me to bail us out. “I should go.”

“Okay.”

“Well, see you around, I guess.”

He nods. “Right.”

“Right.” I place my hand on the doorknob.

“Hey, Mars?”

I turn back hopefully. “Yeah?”

“Congratulations.”

* * *

Back at the house, Amber and Patrick are watching a movie on the couch. “I was about to send out a search warrant,” she says.

“Am I not allowed to leave the house?”

“You usually don’t,” she counters. “And you look spooked. What happened?”

I fill them in on the request from the agent—stopping every other sentence to explain to Patrick how publishing works. Amber shrieks in excitement and declares that we need to celebrate immediately. But because she’s starting her OB rotation in the morning and can’t stay up late or get drunk, she sends Patrick out to pick up fruit slushies from Eegee’s. When he leaves, she corners me in the kitchen.

“What are you going to tell West?”

“About what?” I spear a leftover meatball with a fork.

“If the book gets published?”

“That’s years away.”

She looks at me like I’m a very simple idiot. “What if he wants to read it?”

“He does. I sent it to him tonight.”

Her eyes widen. “You’re pulling off the Band-Aid. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

I pause with the meatball halfway to my lips. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Amber blinks at me. “Fox is West.”

“What?”

“Fox Caldwell is West Emerson. They’re the same guy.”

“Amber.” I say her name like she’s the very simple idiot. “Fox is immortal. But most importantly…he’s not real.”

“Black hair. Long eyelashes. Jacked-up nose. Those freaky multicolored eyes. The fidgeting. How he’s tall, tall, tall. So damn tall, it’s mentioned on every other page.” She ticks the similarities off on her fingers as icy dread slithers up my spine. “His obsession with loyalty. His protectiveness over his sister. The way his fingers are smudged with charcoal—”

My fork falls to the floor. Marinara sauce splatters like blood on the tile. “Oh no. No, no, no, no.”

“You really didn’t do it on purpose?”

I grip the edge of the counter as my mind jumps back and forth over things I wrote in the book. Humiliating things about Fox’s lips and his body and the kissing scenes…oh my god…the scene with the knife against her neck…and the one where they have to share a bed. “Do you think he’ll notice?” I wheeze. I’m having trouble breathing. I might be dying. I’m looking at Amber through a fish-eye lens.

Her expression turns sympathetic. “The main character’s name is Juniper. West is the only person on earth who calls you Jupiter.”

Fuck. There goes my plausible deniability. “I swear I didn’t mean to. I don’t even know what I was thinking or why I did that.”

She tilts her head. “You don’t?”

“No!” It was an accident. Coincidence. Temporary insanity.

Her eyes widen in surprise. “Mars—it’s because you’re in love with him.”

* * *

Denial: googling can you unsend an email?

Anger: stonewalling Amber for the rest of the night after she had the audacity to point out something painfully obvious.

Bargaining: writing a text to West and begging him not to read my book. I delete it before pressing send, afraid that acting like a weirdo about it will only make him more curious.

Depression: vowing to never get out of bed again because a person as oblivious as me is a threat to themselves and society at large.

Acceptance: rereading my manuscript with a new perspective and admitting that it’s basically West-and-Mars fan fiction.

I cycle through these stages at warp speed, and by Monday morning, my life suddenly makes a lot more sense. Hearing Amber say the words out loud broke the spell I’d put myself under, and I have no choice but to admit that I’m in love with West Emerson.

It’s why I rarely feel the need to date or make out with anyone else and why West’s face appears in my head every time I sit down to write. It’s why his opinion is the one I care about most and why I’d rather spend time with him than anyone else.

It’s likely the reason that Bethany is annoyed by my mere existence.

And if West didn’t know before, he will once he reads my manuscript. My only hope of surviving this situation with my pride intact is that he gets too busy or loses interest or suddenly forgets how to read. I don’t know how I’ll ever look him in the eye again, but unfortunately, I find out sooner than expected.

West is sitting on a bench outside the languages building when I leave my afternoon Creative Nonfiction class, his elbows on his knees and his head down. The whole campus smells like orange blossoms, and when I leave Tucson after graduation, I’ll miss West first, and I’ll miss this smell second. It’s intoxicating, making me feel drunk on spring and sunshine.

I stop in my tracks and flash back to the first time I met West in this exact spot, with his skinny jeans, his colored nails, and his refusal to let me ignore him. He was tall, he was funny, and he didn’t know it yet, but we’d spend the next four years revolving around each other, creating worlds out of thin air. How could I not fall in love with him? And why is he sitting in front of me?

“West?”

He rises slowly to his feet, his thoughts masked behind a neutral expression.

“What are you doing here?” I glance around, looking for context that doesn’t appear. “Are you taking classes again?”

“No.”

“I thought you had work today.”

“I called out.”

A beat. “Are you going to tell me why, or make me guess?”

He lets out a ragged exhale. “I read your book last night.”

That’s—hmm. That’s less than ideal. “All of it?”

“Yes.”

I nod. Swallow. Choke on air that goes down like sandpaper. I forget how to breathe, think, move. I’m trapped between fight and flight, so I choose the third F: fucking lie.

I cross my arms to prove that I’m casual, that this is fine, thanks for asking. “What’d you think?” I ask calmly, as if my body isn’t malfunctioning in every capacity.

He studies me for a long moment. Judging by the pained look on his face, he’s here to let me down gently. “I think we should talk.”

Oh god. The cliché of it all doesn’t make it hurt any less. I am heartsick. Four years later, I finally understand the gravity of the word.

I take slow, even breaths and keep my eyes trained on his, determined to salvage as much dignity as possible. “Cool. About what?”

He frowns. “It was great, obviously…”

“But?”

He runs his tongue across the inside of his cheek. “Fox seems a lot like me.”

“You think?” I pretend to consider this; meanwhile, I’m in a full mental spiral. “I mean, I guess so. I didn’t do it on purpose.”

His expression flickers. “You’re telling me it’s a coincidence?”

I shrug as blood rushes to my face. It’s not fair that he knows I love him; I just barely found out myself. I didn’t even get a full day to love him before having it crushed under his heel.

“Sorry. If you hate it, I can change him in the next draft. I’ll give him two blue eyes like every other boring character.”

“I’m not mad; I just want to know what you were thinking.”

“I don’t know. When I was writing, you kept popping into my head.”

He steps toward me. “And what does that mean, Mars?”

“It means nothing. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.”

“Is that what you want?”

“What else is there?” I throw my hands up in surrender, and a shadow crosses his face. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was hunger. “Isn’t that what you want?”

“Last night I drove to Casa Grande to see Bethany.”

Damn, what a swift return to reality. “I hope you both had a great time.” My voice is hoarse as I try not to cry.

“Not really. I broke up with her.”

Time stops.

My heart beats deliberately against my ribs, like someone knocking at the door to be let in. “Why?”

He takes another step toward me, backing me up against the brick. We’re close enough to touch, but instead he rests his forearm on the wall above my head. “Why do you think, Mars?”

I shake my head, too afraid to hope. If I can write three hundred pages that bleed the same sentiment, he can say it once out loud.

His gaze sharpens. “Because I can’t stop thinking about someone else.”

My breath turns shallow as his tongue darts across his lower lip. “If her name is Juniper, you should know she doesn’t exist.”

Amusement ghosts over his features. “And if my name is Fox?” He tips his head lower, until the tip of his nose brushes mine.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I murmur.

He laughs softly. “It’s always been you, Mars.”

“Don’t lie.” I turn my head; he backs up just enough to give me room to breathe. “Things between us have been different lately. Weird.”

He nods. “I had to pull back, because every time I read one of your stories or watched your eyes light up in excitement, I knew I wanted you. It was shitty to Bethany and shitty to you, and I got so fucking sick of myself I could hardly stand it.”

I’ve never been so close to what I want and so scared of having it disappear. “What changed?” My voice shakes in time with my knees.

“I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. And you’re brave, Mars. You’re going to get everything you’ve ever wanted in life, and I’m…what? Not going to be there to see it happen? Too scared of my own feelings to read your book?” He shakes his head. “That’s not the guy I want to be.”

“Who do you want to be?”

He drags his fingers slowly from my shoulder to my wrist, his hand collecting goose bumps as it moves. “I’ll be whatever you want, Mars Darling.” Two fingers pause on the inside of my wrist. His mouth hitches up into a wolfish grin as he measures my pulse. “Interesting.”

I’m tachycardiac. Drenched in endorphins.

His hand slides to my waist and urges me toward him until our bodies are flush. My breath hitches in disbelief. This can’t be happening.

His eyelids droop to half-mast, and the aching need in my stomach spreads out, traveling lower. My blood is hot, and my skin is tingling, and if he doesn’t kiss me soon, I might collapse. He leans in until our lips are touching. “Admit that I’m Fox.”

My eyes are closed, but I feel the smirk against my mouth. I nip his bottom lip with my teeth as he groans. “Never.” My fingertips slide over his stomach and up to his chest as I enunciate the word slowly, but I barely get it out before his mouth is on mine, muffling my response. He reaches up to cup my face in his hands, his fingers spread across the sides of my neck and up to my jaw. His lips catch mine, slow and questioning. He inhales through his nose as his chest shudders, and then his tongue sweeps once over my lip before he pulls back. He is completely still, attention rapt as he gauges my reaction.

Desire courses through me, hot and impatient. I need contact. I twist his shirt in my hands and pull him back to me, molding my lips to his. This time, he presses me hard against the wall, pinning me with his hips as he kisses me. His hands slip to my waist, his thumb brushing under the hem of my shirt, and suddenly I need him closer. I open my mouth, and his tongue brushes over mine as I slide my hands up to his jaw, feeling it move as we kiss like we invented it.

This kiss is chaos and fervor and speed, and I can’t get enough.

I lose sense of where I am as he rolls his hips against mine, the sensation making starbursts appear behind my eyelids. I arch against him and thread my fingers into his hair, pulling a moan from both our lips. His mouth works its way to my neck, lips traveling greedily over my skin until he finds a spot below my ear that makes me squirm under the heavy weight of him. His hands skirt over my body as we kiss like we’re making up for lost time, but I don’t even care about any of it. I would do the last three years over the exact same, because it brought us to this moment, with West’s hand slipping under my shirt, his fingertips searing the small of my back.

“For a guy who doesn’t like PDA, you keep kissing me in public.” I gasp as he presses a kiss to the underside of my jaw.

“And for a character who isn’t based on me, Fox is a hell of a lot like me,” West retorts, his lips turning up into a smile against my mouth. My feet leave the ground, and I scream in surprise as he lifts me up and walks out of our empty courtyard with my legs wrapped around his waist.

“What are you doing?” I laugh until I snort, and West’s eyes shine as he grins up at me.

“You don’t want me to kiss you in public? Looks like we need to find somewhere more private.”

“Now?”

He pauses. “Now. Tomorrow. And the day after that.”

I slide through his arms, my curves dragging over his body until my feet touch concrete. “Do you mean it?” I whisper.

West leans down and presses his lips to my forehead before tracing his nose over the length of mine and parting my lips with his tongue. He pulls back, his eyes nearly black. “I’ll kiss you for as long as you let me, Mars Darling.”