Chapter 22 - The Write Off

9 Years Ago

Leave it to Amber to be the first person from our old friend group to get married. If living alone in New York hadn’t shoved me headfirst into adulthood, receiving her wedding invitation would have done the trick. And even though the idea of getting married at twenty-three feels impossible and foreign, like something that only happens in the stories I write, I can’t pretend to be surprised. Amber and Patrick are good for each other. I’m unbelievably happy for them.

The fact that I haven’t managed to cobble together anything resembling stability says more about me than it does about their relationship. I threw myself into the deep end when I moved to the city more than a year ago, and every day since has been an exercise in not drowning. In loneliness. In insecurity. In the fear that I’ve tricked people into believing I’m capable of something that I’m not, and that when they figure me out, it’ll all be taken away.

Their wedding venue is close to Patrick’s family and nestled in Redwood National Park in California.

When my flight lands, I tuck my laptop and my notebook into my carry-on bag, not sure why I bothered to pretend to work. I’m barely writing under the best of circumstances, let alone at thirty thousand feet in the air, hurtling toward a collision with my past. The sequel to Torched is due to my editor, Whitney, next month, and every morning when I open my laptop, I stare at a blank page and relearn the meaning of the phrase existential dread.

What if I can’t do it?

What if Torched was a fluke and I’m a fraud?

What if I only ever had one good book in me?

My brain is a noisy bitch pretty much all the time.

The scenes between Fox and Juniper are the worst. Their dialogue is too cliché, their movements too wooden. When I think of my looming deadline, a pit the size of a baseball sits in my stomach. I have a constant nagging feeling that I’m waiting for something, but I don’t know what, and I don’t know how to make it go away. I feel stuck and impatient and frustrated.

I always thought that writing would get easier the more I did it, not harder. And that living my dream would feel different from crying alone on the subway.

Life in New York feels at times both unbearably small and unbelievably unmanageable. I go entire days without leaving my apartment or speaking to other people. I’ve considered looking for a roommate, but the risk of ending up with someone who is a bad fit feels scarier than continuing to live alone. I haven’t yet figured out how adults who work from home make friends. The internet tells me to join a coed sports league, but I’m not that desperate. Yet. Give it another winter. Next spring I might be lacing up my nonexistent cleats.

The city is big, but my world is small. Writing my second book gets harder every day I put it off, and emotionally I’m a wreck, due in large part to Torched’s impending release. I don’t know how I’ll handle the pressure or the reviews or having my love letter to my ex-boyfriend available for critique. It’s no wonder I’ve forgotten how to write a love story. I’ve been lonely and anxious and devoid of inspiration for far too long.

The morning of the wedding, I dress alone in my hotel room while Amber and her bridesmaids get ready together in the bridal suite. I might have been with them if I hadn’t dropped off the face of the planet when I went to New York, alone and depressed and letting phone calls and text messages go unanswered. I sent my congratulations later than I should have, and while Amber says she understands that I was going through a brutal breakup, I still feel guilty that we now mainly communicate through “happy birthday” text messages and in the comments of our social media profiles.

My dress is an emerald-green maxi with gold accents and a V-neck so deep, not a bra on this planet would work with it. I’m leaving all my faith in sticky tape and the universe. I curl my hair into loose waves and painstakingly apply makeup, and when I survey the results, I can’t help but think it’s the most effort I’ve put into my appearance in more than a year. Before I leave, I slip a small notebook and pen into my clutch just in case inspiration strikes.

In case he’s there.

Stupid, really, but old habits die never, I’m starting to fear.

I arrive at the outdoor wedding with only minutes to spare, stepping over moist green moss, fallen needles, and soft ferns as I make my way to the wooden benches on the bride’s side of the aisle. I scan my surroundings with my heart in my throat. Golden beams of light filter through the canopy of ancient trees, and an earthy fragrance fills my lungs. I drink it in, enchanted, even as part of my brain is focused on something else entirely.

He’s not here.

Well, that’s okay. It’s good, actually. Now I can give my full attention to the wedding.

I smooth my hands over the stupidly expensive dress that I bought just for this. As the last few guests take their seats, I wave to Amber’s parents and some people I know from school. Finally, the wedding party enters, the groomsmen in white shirts, bow ties, and suspenders and the bridesmaids in shades of rust, walking arm in arm across the forest floor toward a circular clearing of trees—a redwood fairy ring. When the music swells, it’s Amber’s cue.

In unison with one hundred guests, I turn to watch her big entrance, and my stomach pitches violently. Sitting on the edge of the very last bench is West.

His hair is short again, not a hint of a curl in sight. It’s a small mercy, but I realize immediately that I have never, not once in the five years I’ve known him, seen West Emerson in a suit. He’s wearing black pants, a black jacket with no tie, and a crisp white shirt with the top button undone at the neck. He could not look further from the emo boy in guyliner and Sharpie nail polish I met when we were both eighteen. It’s almost like looking at a stranger. His head turns in my direction, and I nearly give myself whiplash whirling around to face the wedding party. I bunch my hands in the fabric of my dress, cheeks burning, heart racing.

The wedding is beautiful, and I don’t hear a word of it. I can’t distinguish the vows from the blood rushing in my ears. I cheer and clap when Amber and Patrick kiss, but my own lips have gone numb. I’ve thought about this moment for so long, but now that it’s here, all my wires are crossed, the signals short-circuiting.

Amber and Patrick are quickly whisked away for photos, leaving the guests to enjoy cocktail hour on the deck attached to the rustic banquet hall.

“Mars! Are you famous yet?” I’m pulled into a circle of old classmates and am bombarded with questions about my book deal. I’ve never made as extreme eye contact as I do now. My neck aches from how actively I am not looking at West, but the problem with avoiding someone is that you have to know where they are at all times; when I’m offered a fruit skewer from a passing server, West is on the left side of the room chatting with Patrick’s best man. By the time the prosciutto-wrapped figs make it to me, I can feel him standing by the bar. It’s like he’s the moon, and I’m the tide, constantly tugged in his direction. It takes restraint I didn’t know I had to act like I don’t care that we’re breathing the same air for the first time in sixteen months.

It’s almost unthinkable that we haven’t talked in that time. A few months after the move, I sent him a long, groveling letter of apology, but I don’t know if he ever read it. We had no last conversation or moment of closure; one minute we were together, and the next he changed his mind, and I lashed out, and by the time the dust settled, we lived on opposite sides of the country, and there was nothing to force us together.

It didn’t take long after our breakup for me to block him on Instagram. Eventually, determined to hurt my own feelings, I created a fake account so I could check his profile without being caught—but, of course, he never posts. When it comes to the details of his life, I’m a dog with a bone.

Cocktail hour ends, and Amber and Patrick join us to thunderous applause in the twinkly banquet hall for dinner. I find my assigned place at a table near the back of the room, and it gives me a perfect view of West. As I watch him sip from a glass, too far for me to know if it’s alcohol or water, it occurs to me that any idea I’ve had about his life over the last year could be dead wrong. Every time I picture him, it’s just a story made up in my head. I don’t know where he lives or what he does for work or who he texts as he’s falling asleep. The thought makes my chest feel like a drum: hollow but loud, my heartbeat thumping steadily against my ribs.

The chicken arrives, and as I’m taking my first bite, I realize the awful restless, waiting feeling is back with a vengeance. I glance at West and find him watching me, his mouth turned down, his eyes guarded. I wave, tentative and awkward. He nods, his eyes dropping to his plate.

My hands are frozen on my knife and fork, impatience clawing its way up my chest. I realize, finally, what that persistent feeling is all about.

The speeches are nice, Patrick’s best man only eliciting a few groans from the audience. The way Amber and Patrick gaze at each other during their first dance makes my eyes well with tears. While I still can’t believe any of us are old enough to be getting married, they look wildly happy together. The dance floor opens for everyone else, and by the time I’m pushing my chair back from my table and walking toward West, I’m already emotionally wobbly.

He makes eye contact as I weave through chairs, his Adam’s apple bobbing. I expect him to drop his gaze with every step I take, but he’s locked in; I’m holding him hostage with my stare.

“Hey.” I stop at the empty chair next to his, placing my hands on the back of it. “Mind if I sit?” I pull out the chair and sit, scooting it a couple of inches closer to him. “Nice suit.”

He yanks on the sleeve of his jacket. “This stupid fucking suit,” he mumbles, looking uncomfortable. I wonder if it’s the first time he’s ever worn one, and the fact that he did for Amber’s wedding makes my chest warm. Not even the groomsmen are wearing jackets. He looks better than all of them.

“No, I mean it. You look nice,” I say. He grimaces, and I feel the urge to lessen the impact of my compliment. “Although…”

“What?” He looks himself up and down.

“Would it have killed you to wear some eyeliner?”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m emo for one year—”

“Two,” I interject.

“Two years of eyeliner and fake nail polish and no one lets me forget it.” He tries to hide his smile, but it hits like a drug. I’ve been in withdrawal this whole time. No wonder everything hurts.

He studies me with guarded eyes, his jaw working. “You look—” He cuts himself off. Pain on top of pain. He tries again. “You look beautiful. How’ve you been?” He frowns like he wants to take back his words, snatch them out of the air and stuff them deep in his pockets.

“Oh, you know…” Tears are imminent. It’s been a hundred years since someone asked me that question and meant it. How boring for me to cry right now. I was crying the last time I saw him. I don’t want him to think it’s all I do. “I’m good, I think? New York is not what I thought it would be, but most things aren’t.”

Except you, I think with a dull ache. You are so much more than I thought you’d be.

He’s leaning toward me, his elbows resting on his knees, and I’m close enough to see the wince when I mention New York.

“How are you?” I ask, too earnest by half.

He leans back, looking mildly alarmed by the question. “I’m really good. Happy for Amber and Patrick. They’re great together.” He motions toward the dance floor, and I can feel his attention slipping away. The pressure that’s been building in my chest reaches a breaking point.

“Dance with me?”

A host of emotions play out on West’s face, and I recognize them all. Hesitation. Fear. Desire. “Mars—” he says in a measured voice.

“One song.”

“Dance with her, man!” urges a vaguely familiar voice to my left. I don’t turn to see who it is. I’m afraid that if I look away, the moment will dissolve entirely.

We walk toward the dance floor, side by side but not touching, as “YMCA” starts playing. West raises one singular, judgmental eyebrow.

“Maybe we wait for the next song,” I say.

He backs slowly onto the dance floor. “You said one song.”

“I didn’t mean this one!” I protest while he lifts his arms in a Y shape.

He has the audacity to laugh, his eyes lighting with amusement. “Sorry, Jupiter, not my problem.”

It’s the nickname that kills me. That’s all it takes, and my feet are moving in his direction, accepting the excuse to be in his orbit for a little while longer. Amber sees us and shrieks with excitement, joining us for thirty seconds as we scream-sing and jump and dance before she moves on to another group, but we keep dancing, our arms flailing wildly. It’s the silliest and happiest I’ve felt in recent memory, and when the song fades and transitions into something slower, I can’t help but feel disappointed that it’s over. Without meeting West’s eyes, I turn to leave.

He catches me by the elbow. “One more?” This time, I don’t recognize any of the emotions on his face. His eyes are serious, but his voice is casual, like he’s entirely unaffected by his skin on mine.

“Okay.” My pulse trips over itself as his fingers slide from my elbow to my hand, my skin burning with awareness. He pulls me in to him, his other hand settling lightly on my waist. I touch his shoulder like we’re at a seventh-grade dance, but he inches me closer until you can no longer fit an Oxford English Dictionary between us.

I am breathless. Sweaty. Questioning all my life choices. West’s eyes are on something or someone I can’t see, his face giving away nothing. “Am I really the only one who’s dying right now?” I exhale, immediately showing all my cards. I spent three years secretly in love with him, but I can’t keep my cool for the length of one dance.

He sighs and looks down at me, heat kindling in his eyes. “I’m always dying when I’m with you, Mars.”

A hot shiver rattles down my spine. We stare at each other about a dozen beats too long. It’s wonderfully unbearable. Strangers don’t make eye contact in New York, and everyone in New York is a stranger to me. But doing this with him feels like the most obvious thing in the world. When West is in the room, why would I look at anything else?

He looks away, the tension intolerable.

“How’s your family?”

“We’re holding it together,” he says, and I worry that means he’s holding it together for them.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“Please don’t,” he says tightly.

“It never should have ended like that.”

“It’s fine.” He moves his hand off my waist to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“It’s not, though, and it’s killing me, West. Did you know I can’t write anymore? Of course you don’t, because we don’t know each other. Isn’t that messed up? You’re wearing a suit, and your hair is all short again!”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“It surprised me!”

“And? What’s your point?”

“I don’t want to be out of the loop on your life, West! Your hair might be short again because you’re with Beth-any and that’s how she likes it, but I wouldn’t know.”

His jaw clenches, and I realize belatedly that I lost the right to talk about his love life. “I’m not.” He grinds the words out.

“I know, but only because I stalk her on the internet and she posts pictures with her new girlfriend!”

He huffs an annoyed laugh. “What do you want from me, Mars?”

“I want you to forgive me, because I want you in my life. I don’t know what to do with myself in New York. I don’t know how to be an adult. It’s awful.” My eyes well with tears. “I want this stupid nightmare of a fight to be over.”

He presses a kiss to my forehead, stopping my meltdown in its tracks. I freeze, too stunned to move. I blink up at him through wet eyelashes, and he swallows heavily, looking shaken to his core. “It’s fine, Mars,” he says, his rough voice scrubbing away the worst layer of our history. I wonder if he downed a shot of whiskey when I wasn’t looking. “I forgive you. It’s really not that big of a deal.”

“It’s not?” How could it not be? It’s the reason we’re not together.

He shakes his head. He laughs. “No. We’re good.”

“Oh, thank god.” I let my head fall to his shoulder and my body sag against him. His frame catches my weight; we’re touching nearly everywhere, and it feels perfect. We never should have stopped doing this.

Too soon, West straightens and brings us back to middle school–dance position. His hand stiffly on my waist, our arms held out wide, and a familiar foreboding clings to my skin like smoke. “We’re good? You’re sure?”

“Yes.” He nods decisively, but the warning bells are loud in my head.

“So, we’re friends now?”

His brows crease. His eyes full of pity. “You’re in New York; I’m here. It doesn’t make sense.”

“But you said we’re good.” I hate how small and unsure my voice sounds.

“It was college, Mars.” He shrugs. “Nothing that happened then matters anyway. I’ve moved on. You should do the same.”

It’s only later, after he’s dropped my arm and walked off the dance floor, that I realize I selfishly said all the wrong things.

I want you to forgive me.

I don’t know what to do with myself in New York.

I don’t know how to be an adult.

When what I really meant was You were my best friend, and hurting you is the biggest regret of my life, and you deserve to get everything you’ve ever wanted.

Even if that isn’t me.

* * *

I cry every mile from California to New York. The flight attendants exchange worried looks and silently pass me tissues as they walk by. I hoped to fix things with West so badly I didn’t even admit that I wanted it. Like if I kept it a secret from myself, it couldn’t hurt me.

By the time I return to my apartment in Brooklyn, I’m jet-lagged, dehydrated, and exhausted. I haven’t slept in twenty-four hours.

I drop my bag just inside the door and fall into bed with my laptop.

Six days later, I email my editor the sequel to Torched.