Dearest Series Boxed Set

by Lex Martin

  “Hey,” I say sweetly, embarrassed that I threw down that ultimatum this weekend. I need to smooth this over. I can’t believe I’ve been so jealous of Angry Red. If Gavin says he’s going to explain what happened, I’m sure he will.

  “I need to ask you something.” The cold tone of his voice is unexpected. When I saw him at the gym last night, there was a tenderness to him that melted me inside and out.

  “Okay,” I say, trying not to be paranoid.

  “Why was Daren Sloan leaving your place after midnight?”

  My breath shallows from the accusation in his voice. I don’t know why I’m worried. It’s easy to explain. Daren and I talked until Harper came home, and the three of us ordered pizza and watched reruns of The X-Files.

  I’m about to say this, to tell him what happened, but I get a moment of pause as I open my mouth. Apparently, it’s okay for him to ask me what I’m up to, who I see, where I go, but I can’t ask him any questions. What a hypocrite! A chill creeps through me.

  “Well, I’d tell you, Gavin, but I’m going to need some time. I’m sure you won’t mind waiting.”

  A half laugh escapes him, but I know he doesn’t find this funny. Neither do I. “Just tell me. Is there something going on between the two of you?”

  Anger coils in my stomach. “If you tell me why you went to another state with Angelique, a girl who clearly still wants to fuck you, I will gladly tell you why Daren Sloan was with me in my apartment until midnight.” I can’t help it. The evil bitch side of me is pissed. All I hear is silence. “No? I didn’t think so.”

  And I hang up.

  Staring at my phone, I don’t know what just happened. My hands are shaking, and I’m starting to sweat. Shit. Shit! I didn’t mean to come off like I had something to hide, but I can’t believe he had the nerve to suggest that I’m running around with Daren after I’ve been so open with him.

  Should I call him back?

  No, no way. Even though I want us to go back to the way we were, I’m setting a precedent. If I cave now, I’m telling him it’s okay for him to do things I can’t. That’s not the kind of relationship I want. But damn it, Gavin, how can I want you so badly and be this furious at the same time?

  Glancing at the clock, I realize I have twenty minutes to get to class. I don’t have time to lose it now, so I grab my jacket and bag and race out the door. A cold blast of air hits me in the face.

  Why do I have to be so stubborn? Why couldn’t I simply answer his question? Part of me is practically apoplectic at his double standard and the other half wants to track him down and apologize. The tension is becoming unbearable. Why can’t he tell me what’s going on so we can stop playing this stupid game?

  I duck into the convenience store to grab a cup of coffee. I see Brigit’s black bob, and when she glances my way, I wave. She grabs her bagel and walks over. We chat for a minute, and seeing her helps me get my head out of my backside for a few minutes. I still need to have a serious conversation with her about Wheeler, but I’m not sure what approach I should take. If I lay it out on the table the way I want to, I might lose the little bit of trust I’ve built.

  “Clem? Can I ask a favor?” she asks, her bubbly demeanor unusually somber.

  Nodding, I try to ignore the fact that this conversation might make me late to class.

  Her hands fidget, drawing my attention. Her nails are now a bright blue with little white swirls painted on the ends. “Would you mind taking a look at the first draft of my novel? Jason has been editing it, but…” Emotion clouds her eyes, but she quickly shakes her head. “He’s so busy these days, and he’s been kind of moody lately, and I thought maybe you could help me with some dialogue.”

  “No problem.” Smiling to reassure her, I can tell it was hard for her to ask me for help.

  I reach into my bag to grab my phone, and the neon flyers that Kade gave me catch my eye. I bite my lip, debating what to say.

  “Brigit, you just met Jason this fall, right?”

  “Yeah, I’m in his frosh writing course.”

  I nod, wondering where I’m going with this. “He and I haven’t had a chance to catch up. Um, was he in London all summer?”

  She gets dreamy-eyed. “He went everywhere this summer—all over England, Spain, and Scotland. I forget where else. I can’t believe Jason’s friend loaned him his yacht like that. He has some amazing photos. I’m surprised he hasn’t shown them to you yet.”

  I shrug. “We’ve grown apart in the last few years because he was teaching abroad.” And because he wanted to get in my pants.

  My cell buzzes in my hand with a text from Jenna. Get your ass to class!

  I see the time stamped above the message.

  Shit. I’m gonna be late.

  “Brigit, I have to run, but I’m happy to read your draft.”

  We exchange numbers, and after I pay for my coffee, I turn back toward her. “Let’s meet up for lunch in a day or two, and I can take a look at your story.” Of course, she could email it to me, but this way we can have a serious talk about Wheeler.

  I’m out of breath when I get to Marceaux’s class, and the room is packed, so I stand near the door and glance around, hoping to find Jenna. I finally spot her, and she waves to me from the fourth row, so I trudge toward her. The aisles are narrow, and I stumble over a guy I’ve never seen before. He’s wearing a plaid shirt and black-rimmed glasses, but despite his geeky exterior, there’s something really intense about him. I apologize as I scoot by and try not to trip over anyone else before I settle next to Jenna.

  “You ready for today?” She looks concerned.

  Why wouldn’t I be ready? I submitted what I thought was a pretty strong draft last week, and I have several pages of notes for the upcoming chapters. I think our professor should be pleased. I think I’m even ready for our small group feedback sessions.

  Jenna tilts her head toward me like she’s waiting for me to get with the program.

  “Oh my God. The critique.” With the drama this weekend, I’d forgotten we’re discussing my book today. Fucking hell.

  Jenna pats my hand, seemingly content that I haven’t fallen off my rocker and developed early onset Alzheimer’s.

  Professor Marceaux claps her hands to start the class, and everyone quiets. She mumbles to herself at the lectern and tilts her glasses up so they’re perched on top of her head.

  “Today we’ll be discussing Say It Isn’t So by Austen Fitzgerald. Typically, it’s considered a Young Adult novel, but it crosses into Romance and more specifically New Adult because the character turns eighteen early in the story, and it also deals with first love and infidelity.” She starts her strut across the room. “I chose it because it was an e-book bestseller, one that does not have the happy ending generally associated with YA novels.”

  Jenna nudges me. My eyes slide from her to the door of the class. My mouth goes dry as Jason Wheeler strolls in.

  “I have a special treat.” Marceaux holds her arm out dramatically. “Some of you may know Professor Wheeler, a very successful YA author himself. He’s written four books, and his fifth is in the late stages of the editing process and should be on bookshelves this spring. Because Say It Isn’t So is somewhat of a crossover novel—actually, one he suggested—I thought it apropos if he directs this discussion.”

  Wheeler strolls over, kissing Marceaux European-style on both cheeks. What a poseur.

  He’s wearing a tailored black suit and a pale salmon-colored shirt. If I didn’t know what lurked beneath that coiffed exterior, I’d think he was someone to emulate.

  Tapping on the podium, he soaks in the sight of the class. In about two minutes, everyone will be eating out of his hand. Thinking back to my freshman year, it was easy to get mesmerized by how he talked about books and poetry. He spoke with such passion, conviction even.

  While he’s read my book and we’ve had dozens of discussions about my work, having that acumen pointed at my novel in public makes me ill. Like a distant storm rolling
in, I know this isn’t going to go well. I don’t trust his intentions. I mean, why else would he suggest critiquing my story except to humiliate me somehow?

  “Jason, why don’t you tell us a little about your next book. I think everyone is dying to know.” Marceaux waves him on, letting him take over the class as she settles into a chair behind him.

  “This one is a bit of a departure for me,” he says, loosening his tie in a faux attempt to look casual. “As you know, I tend to write about coming-of-age themes. My latest novel, which is my first attempt at romance, is more of a murder mystery so the reader pieces together the love story in the aftermath of a tragedy.” When the words leave his lips, I close my eyes briefly, fighting the urge to leap out of my seat and run as far away from this man as possible, like maybe to Indonesia. “It’s about a girl who betrays her boyfriend and ends up dead. The story picks up after she disappears, when the girl’s friends and family realize they didn’t know the first thing about her. She had built so many walls that she was nearly unlovable.”

  I’m having difficulty breathing. His eyes shift toward me, and I know this is a threat. That he means to harm me. He continues. “She was a stranger to everyone but her boyfriend. To him, she was like Dante’s Beatrice who should have led him to paradise. After all, he was the only one who knew her, who loved her, who was even capable of loving her and appreciating her brilliance, but her foolishness led her astray, and instead of paradise, she led him… somewhere darker.” He chuckles, and the sound rolls my stomach. “I’m going to have to let you read it to see what happens.”

  Everyone applauds except Jenna and me. She and I make eye contact, and the expression on her face confirms that I should be afraid of Jason Wheeler. Very afraid.

  “Thank you. Gracious, you’re being too generous,” Wheeler says. “It could be total crap.” Everyone laughs. “Well, let’s discuss Say It Isn’t So. We can start with something easy before I rake you over the coals.” Again, the class laughs. “What did you notice?”

  After a couple of comments, someone says, “It seems a little sexually graphic to be YA.”

  “That’s true,” he says. “That’s one of the noticeable flaws with this story. I think it goes too far.”

  What? That was something he repeatedly told me he loved. Of course, maybe he had ulterior motives for encouraging me to describe those scenes.

  “I liked it,” Jenna says loudly as she grips my hand. “I thought Isabella’s honesty about her breakup with Evan pulled you into the story because of her desperation. They grew up together, and he slept with another girl, practically in her face. I think most girls would go postal over something like that.”

  I squeeze her hand.

  Wheeler’s eyes squint slightly as they pass over us, and I shiver under the weight of his stare.

  “Perhaps, but don’t some of you find that Isabella might be a little, I don’t know, pathetic? Especially with that sad one-night stand?” he asks, almost grinning.

  Jenna tenses next to me. A few hands go up, but I don’t hear what they say because blood is thundering in my ears. The discussion continues, but all I can do is take deep breaths as I try not to hyperventilate. I keep watching the clock behind the podium, waiting for the instant I can leave.

  Wheeler’s laugh gets my attention, but I haven’t been following. He clears his throat. “Perhaps one of the most unappreciated details here is that I have it on good authority that Miss Fitzgerald borrowed several ideas from one of her writing partners.”

  Holy. Shit.

  Jenna gasps as hands start flying up. Marceaux sits straighter, tilting her head at her colleague. Wheeler calls on a student in front of me.

  “Professor, are you saying this author plagiarized?”

  “I am.” He looks so smug up there that I could leap over these seats and strangle him.

  There are instances in life when the powers that be push the pause button, and you can see your future before you like an endless road stretching into the horizon. I see this now, realizing that how I react to this situation has a myriad of life-alternating implications, like dominos set up to clatter against one another as they reach the ground in quick succession. Biting back the fury that has taken residence in my body, I struggle to swallow.

  He smirks at me. “I know Miss Fitzgerald personally, and I know that she outright stole portions of her manuscript—”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” I cut him off, fisting my hands in my lap. Professor Marceaux’s head jerks toward me. “I’ve sat here, listening to you insult my novel, the one I wrote when I was a freshman, the one you called brilliant when you helped me edit it.”

  The class erupts in murmurs, and Marceaux’s eyes widen. I know there will be hell to pay for what I’m doing, but I can’t stand another minute of this man’s insane accusations.

  “You know that I have several journals’ worth of evidence that prove this is my work, and if my peers are curious, I’ll also add that you were the only person who saw the manuscript prior to publication. So unless you’re saying that I stole this story from you, you should shut the hell up.”

  I get up and balance myself against the seat in front of me. Forty pairs of eyes are on me, so I’m hoping I don’t faint. Looking up at him and seeing his steely defiance pisses me off more.

  “You have some nerve, Jason. You’ll be hearing from my attorney.” Shit. That means I need to get one.

  On my way out, I trip over the same geeky guy. When I get home, I head straight for the bathroom. And throw up. Again and again.

  - 24 -

  Someone presses a wet washcloth into my hand. “You okay?”

  I can’t help the hysterical laughter that comes from my mouth. I’ve officially gone off the deep end.

  “She’s cracked,” Jenna says to Harper as I stare at their feet, which are clad in neon socks. Why do they have matching socks?

  My left cheek is pressed to the cold tile in our bathroom. Rolling onto my back, I stare up at my roommates who stare back. This must be what it feels like to be an animal in the zoo, always being observed and always observing. Any minute, someone is going to start petting me.

  Harper crouches down and presses her palm to my forehead. “I don’t think she has a fever,” she says to Jenna like I’m not here.

  I close my eyes. “Everyone knows. It’s out there, and I can’t make it go back in the can. God damn Wheeler.”

  “Clem, it’ll be okay.” Harper grabs my hand to pull me up into a sitting position. I groan, my whole body aching from lying on the floor for the past hour. “I know anonymity is important to you, but there are bigger problems in this world than revealing a writer’s identity, like famines, genocide—”

  “Human trafficking and sexual cults!” Jenna adds. Harper and I turn to look at Jenna who shrugs. “What? Those are serious problems.”

  “Okay, point taken.” My throat is hoarse from vomiting. After wrapping my neck with my hand to soothe the pain, I try to stand, and my roommates steady me.

  “I’m glad you stood up for yourself today,” Harper says as she hugs me, but just as quickly, she wrinkles her nose and pushes me away. “You stink. Take a shower.”

  “He accused me of plagiarism. I couldn’t stand there and take it.” Noticing a chunk of an undeterminable nature in my hair, I pluck it out.

  There are bigger things you should be worried about. What if he tries to hurt you? My hand trembles as I cover my eyes.

  “You should have heard her, Harp.” Jenna nudges me. “She totally told off that asswipe. It was awesome.”

  Pressing my hand to my stomach, I say, “We’ll see how awesome it is when I have to explain this to the dean. I should call him before Wheeler beats me to it.”

  Relieved to find that Dean Marshall isn’t in today, I leave a message before I crawl into a hot shower. Letting the steady stream beat into my back, I stand there and try to keep it together.

  Every molecule in me wants to call Gavin. I miss my friend, and the
re’s no one I want to confide in more. Remembering how he nearly beat up Wheeler last week makes the ache in my chest grow.

  But Wheeler’s words echo in my head, that my character Isabella is pathetic. Really, that I’m pathetic. Because not only did I blow it with Daren by shutting him down, but I ran off and had a one-night stand after we broke up. Ironic that I wasn’t opposed to having sex with Daren; I only wanted to make sure I was ready so that he’d respect me afterward, so that I’d respect myself. I wanted to know that he loved me. Instead, I hooked up with John or Sean or whatever the fuck his name was for ten minutes of awkward and somewhat painful sex.

  The thought that I’d go crawling to Gavin broken and needy disgusts me. I won’t go to him to pick up the pieces of my life. I’ll handle this myself. Besides, now that people know I wrote this book, he might not be interested anymore. I wouldn’t blame him.

  God. Gavin is going to read about my one-night stand for fuck’s sake! Although I’ve told him what happened, it’s another thing entirely for him to read a first-hand account.

  Mortification spreads in me as I think about what else that book reveals. I poured all of my insecurities between those pages. Every shortcoming and fear. Every humiliating moment as I fell apart over Daren. Every tear shed as my life fell imploded.

  Sniffling, I brace myself for the fallout, which I’m sure includes some pissed-off rich people.

  I should give Daren a heads-up.

  While he’s not named in my novel, it won’t take a genius to figure out who I’m talking about. I’m sure his parents will be thrilled with my depiction.

  I change into some yoga pants and t-shirt, stopping to wipe the steamed mirror with my elbow. “Man up, Clementine,” I tell my reflection.

  When I step out into the living room, I stop short. Jax jumps off the couch and scoops me into a bear hug. “I’m going to kill that motherfucker.”