Unfolding the letter, I pore over Will’s shitty handwriting with a gnawing burn in my chest, soaking in his words privately one last time. And when I’m finished, I pleat the letter into fourths, tuck it into my pocket, and return to the study where I left Elle.
Only when I get there—she’s gone.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
ELLE
I’m almost home when West calls. I thought about leaving a note when I left his study—or even sending a text. But I couldn’t find the right words, and all I could think about was that scene in Sex and the City when Carrie gets dumped via a Post-it. It all felt strange and surreal and unfitting, because that was fiction and this is real life.
“Hey,” I answer.
“Why did you leave?”
“You left first . . .”
The line goes silent.
“And I assumed you had nothing more to say and the conversation was over,” I add. “Did I assume wrong?”
A city bus whirs past, leaving a warm trail of exhaust fumes.
“Absolutely you assumed wrong.” His words are curt and biting and 100 percent him.
An image of West comes to my mind—specifically the cocktailed flicker of hurt and anger in his eyes when I insulted his magazine, the way he stormed off without a word. He was upset with me. And I was upset with him. With Scarlett being down the hall, our only options were to take our spat to another floor . . . or go our separate ways.
“There was something I wanted to show you,” he finally answers.
I almost spit back a brusque Then you should have communicated that, which would’ve been followed up with a tangent about his lack of communication skills. But I stop myself. The whole reason I left was that I didn’t want to fight with him anymore.
“I don’t think this is a good idea, West.” I gather in a lungful of night air and let it go.
“You don’t think what is a good idea?”
“This,” I say. “Us.”
“Because of a fight?”
“No.” I switch my phone to the opposite ear, gathering my words and editing them in real time. “You’re a mesmeric man, West. On your best days you’re charming and wonderful and all the things that make a girl all rainbows and butterflies. But on your worst days, you’re a padlocked safe of a man. And it’s exhausting trying to pick your lock.”
He says nothing—whether that’s a good sign or bad, it’s impossible to know.
“Relationships only work when both people get what they need,” I say. “I want all of you, West. Not just fragments.”
“Not everyone is an open book.” His words are laced with heat and frustration. “But my God, Elle, I was trying for you.”
“I’m almost home,” I say. As soon as I walk in that door, I’m pouring myself a glass of wine and running a hot bath—in that order.
I don’t know what I’ll do after that, but chances are I’ll lie in bed, staring at the ceiling fan and wondering if I’m making the right decision.
“We’ll talk tomorrow, yeah?” I ask.
“What are you afraid of, Elle?” He ignores my attempt to pause our conversation. “You waltzed into my life preaching about being fearless and living your truth and being your authentic self—but you can’t even be honest with yourself right now. You’re terrified. You’re falling for me, and you’re scared that this is real and you’re going to get hurt.”
My gait slows as I approach the awning outside my building, and I let the sting of his words wash over me.
He isn’t wrong.
In fact, he couldn’t be closer to the truth.
“You’re right, West.” I stop before going inside. “I’m terrified of falling for you without ever fully getting to know you.”
“I shouldn’t have walked away,” he says. “But at least I came back. You kept walking. Remember that next time you’re concerned about me breaking your heart.”
“West—”
“Good night, Elle,” he says. “We’ll continue this conversation in the morning.”
The line goes dead.
And I head inside with a hollowness in my chest that wasn’t there before and a fullness in my middle from eating all my words.
I pushed him away.
And I did it because I—the fearless crusader blazing through her second chance at life—was terrified of falling in love with the one man who didn’t walk when things got hard.
Curling onto my bed a few minutes later, I roll to my side only to come face to face with a stack of books I purchased months ago—Near Death: A Collection of Essays, What Comes Next, and To Live and Die among the Stars.
Each of their spines is flawless and uncracked, their hundreds of pages pristine and untouched.
Ever since my world collided with West’s, I’ve been so busy living that I stopped obsessing about dying.
The irony of this is not lost on me.
I’m washing my face the following morning when the door buzzer goes off in the next room. Trotting to the kitchen, I press the answer button.