Page 119 of One More Chapter

She is radiant. A little stiff, but she is absolutely in her element. Despite the hurt and the confusion and the betrayalrushing through me like white rapids, pride is still trying to fight its way through.

I wonder, is this how she felt when I let her down? Because if so, I guess I get it. I get why she avoided me for so long. I feel like my heart has been carved out with a jagged knife, only for the knife to stay in place so that every time I breathe, I feel it all over again. If that’s the case, I may still owe her more apologies. But just like she was at the beginning, I have no idea how I’m supposed to face her, and Ihave tofor the next several hours.

She does so well, answering questions with a little bit of grace added to her quick witted humor. Her fans clap at the mention of every book. It’s only when the moderator mentions her newest book—the one written about us—that my heart becomes doused in gasoline, her words the torch.

“Now, I know you can’t revealtoomuch about Finn and Delilah’s book…” She pauses for ringing applause that makes my eardrums sting. “But if you could give justonesentence to tease us a little, what would it be?”

She freezes, her expression blank as she peers out over the audience. I didn’t realize it until now, but she hasn’t eyed over our row once this entire time. Now, after her eyes close and she takes a deep breath in, she finds us. There’s a bit of surprise when her gaze catches on mine, but her words don’t add a spark to my fire. They make my heart swollen for an entirely different reason.

“Finn and Delilah’s story is a reminder that, even when the person you thought was your security pulls the rug out from beneath your feet, even when you’re so raw that you don’t think you can bear to breathe, if you’re truly meant for each other, even the tiniest pieces of shattered glass can be put back together.”

There is hesitance in her eyes, but beneath it is a river of hope. I wonder if anyone besides me catches the fraction of timewhere she bites her bottom lip in question. But then, the crowd stands for a resounding ovation, and her gaze turns from me to look on them in thanks, taking all of the unsaid between us with it.

forty-six

penelope

I won’t saythat Anthony Ellis ruined my night. I made a vow with myself a long time ago that he doesn’t have ownership of my emotions anymore. Iwillsay that I would’ve enjoyed it immensely more if I hadn’t looked out into the crowd to see his empty seat. I’m not sure if that made my heart drop more, or if that honor belongs to seeing the look on his face when my eyes finally did find him.

Hedidcome. Just how long he was there, I’m not sure. And I don’t feel like finding out.

After the event, I sign books and merch and illustrated artwork and even a few arms until the last of my readers has left the building. When Rafe tells me that there are several people gathered outside the theater, I head out there too, signing until my fingers are numb—which doesn’t take long in the east coast December air. Having a security detail is weird, but even weirder is the fact that so many people are lining up to seeme. Up until now, my readers have been names on the internet and numbers in my book sales. Here, they’re real people with real feelings about my books. The amount of people who shed tears when telling me how much my characters’ stories meant to them is an instant core memory, one I wish I could bottle and put on a shelf.

We don’t get to the restaurant for our private after-party until after ten. I should be exhausted, but a combination of my muddled feelings stirred in the pot by Ant, and the absolute high I’m riding from the event, could rival a snort of cocaine. I barely get to do more than hug the guys hello, squeeze the girls in thanks, and put myself and Anthony through the most awkward embrace of our history together. He’s stiff, and I’m short. HisNice jobcomes without a silly little nickname attached, and myThanksis as distant as the Florida beach is from here. He sticks to the outskirts of the room, and I give him that distance.

He knows. There’s no other explanation for his soured mood. What else could have him simultaneously here for me and also a thousand miles away?

At the same time, I’m not sure if I’d rather have him here for me as a virus sucking the life out of the party, or to have not shown up at all.

The more I fester on it, the more my mood sours. Idoenjoy my evening, but my eyes are drawn back to him time and time again. In the background of every congratulations, every invitation to host the next signing or appear on a talk show or headline a convention, he is lurking with clenched fists and a crease in his forehead that spells out despair in jagged font.

Eventually, when the rest of my friends say they’re going to head back to the hotel, he edges out with them. Our goodbye is less stiff than our hello, almost as if we’re relieved to be out of the other’s company. Without Anthony in the room, I feel a little more free to enjoy myself and the professional opportunities Rafe networks for me. And at the same time, I feel like my anchor has dropped off, and I’ve been left to float alone in the middle of the sea.

Without him here, I finally feel the weight of what’s happening. Our foundation, that we’ve been rebuilding brick by brick, is shaking. Only this time, I’m not the one left on unsteadyfeet. I’ve done this to Anthony, and it makes me feel sick to my stomach—both at the thought of him feeling this way, but also that I still wouldn’t change the words I wrote. The two at war are making me dizzy.

As I lay in the middle of my king sized bed in this empty hotel suite, I feel alone, but wide awake. I pull up our text thread, a ball of tears clogging my throat as I skim back over his live texts as he finished another of my books today. The higher up I go, the more I pass over little mundane things, like grocery lists or reminders for him to switch over his laundry, interspersed with memes and gifs and little inside jokes.

I’m drowning in a sea of sadness and worry. He is right across the hall instead of beside me. All I have to do is text him or call him—or hell, walk the hundred steps to his room. But I can’t do it. I wonder, briefly, as the Sandman comes out of nowhere to kidnap me into unconsciousness, if this is how he felt the day his ex came back into his life.

The emotions from the day circle me, but without a life preserver, I can’t latch onto one of them. I fall asleep simply because my eyes won’t stay open. In my dreams, I fend off sharks that look like Anthony and the covers of my books. It’s restlessness that wakes me before the sun so I can see my friends off. They’re heading home for Christmas, while I’ve elected to extend my stay here in New York a couple of days so that when Debbie Ellis sends me a pity invite, I have an excuse not to go.

While in New York, Rafe and I have a few different in-person meetings and networking opportunities. This is also the trip where I’m supposed to renegotiate my contract. The words I’d once longed to hear, the dollar signs that can hold me afloat like a yacht instead of a sailboat, don’t give me the thrill they once did.

“Penelope, darling, I don’t want to speak too soon, butHills and Valleysis the best book you’ve ever written. Your craft keepsgetting better and better, but the way you weaved this story… I just can’t put it into words. Finn and Delilah will be Allie and Noah classics.”

I can’t put it into words either. Mainly because I plagiarized their story from true events. Paula’s words should make my heart sprout wings, but instead, they just close the claws of the bear trap a little tighter.

I have until after the new year to think about the offers before me: A three year contract for six more books. Book tours around the US, and an opportunity to travel abroad. The dollar sign beside my name seems fake, like they added one too many commas. It’s the stability I’ve been craving. The proof that I can do this, that Iamdoing this. The exact permission I need to leave teaching once and for all. So why do I feel so empty?

The emptiness only widens when I return home the day after Christmas to an empty townhouse. It isn’t that the furniture is missing and the walls are barren. In fact, Ant’s breadcrumbs are still here, right down to the scene of the crime: He was in my office. A tote is filled with one of each of my books, as if he was planning on bringing them to my signing. What the house is vacant of ishim.

There’s no running water left on while he comes to ask me a question, no pop music blasting from his speaker, or sports broadcast playing from the living room. He isn’t here. And all over again, my heart is left to wonder if all we’ll ever do is scour one another.

There are a few presents beneath our tree, mainly mine still left to exchange with friends. There’s a box from me to Ant that seems trivial now. I think briefly of the custom statue I commissioned of a squirrel wearing an Iron Man helmet, and am reminded of all the ways I’ve overdone it in the past.

They always say that with the right person, you can never be too much. So why do I suddenly feel like nothing I ever do for him will be enough?

forty-seven

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