Page 61 of Cabin Fever
“Liar. Put it on right now.”
“I’m not putting it on at midnight,” I say, but my hand is already digging through the closet, searching for the tartan fabric. I find it, a little wrinkled, and immediately put it down again, my heart pounding with sexy memories.
“Simone. He’s coming here. To Century Pages. That’s two blocks away.”
“So go,” she urges, like it’s obvious. “Go and confront him. Worst case, you get closure. Best case, you reconcile and have a sweet story to share with your future grandkids.”
I laugh, but the noise comes out raw and wanting. “I don’t think I could even face Talon at this point.”
“You survived the woods. You can survive a book signing.”
I hesitate, fingers worrying the hem of the skirt. The idea of seeing him again is like an electrical current up my spine.
“Sim, what if it’s a trap? What if he’s just there to gloat and make fun of me”
“Then you tell him to suck your clit and walk away like a legend,” she says in a smart tone.
I giggle and picture it. I like the image, a lot.
“Fine,” I say, finally. “I’ll go.”
“That’s my girl,” Simone says. “And Kat?”
“Yeah?”
“If you want me to come with, I will. Just say the word.”
I smile, real this time. “I’m okay, but thanks, girlfriend. You’re the best.”
“Damn right,” she says. “Now put on the skirt. Sleep in it. Let it soak up all your sexy energy, and then go see him next week!”
“Will do!”
I giggle with the goodbye, hang up, and collapse backwards, the book pressed to my heart, the plaid skirt bunched under my knees. I stare at the ceiling, listening to my heartbeat, wondering if next Tuesday will bring the end of the story, or just another chapter.
Either way, I’m going to write my own lines from now on.
The next morning,I wake with the book pressed against my sternum like a loaded weapon. My phone is underneath it, lighting up my clavicle with a series of pings from Simone: YOU DREAM OF THE PLAID? and then, in quick succession, DON’T FORGET TO BRING PROTECTION (FOR YOUR HEART), followed by the more on-brand, IF HE DOESN’T GROVEL I WILL FIGHT HIM IN THE PARKING LOT.
I text back a line of laugh-cry emojis, then sit up, rubbing sleep out of my eyes. Sunlight cuts a hard angle through my curtains, highlighting the dirty tea mug and last night’s stress-chewed pen caps. I don’t want to look at my own reflection, but I do anyway, bracing myself for the ghost of the girl who left the cabin months ago.
She’s still here, blonde hair messy, eyes bloodshot but sharper than ever. I smile at her, or maybe snarl, and she stares back like she’s been waiting for this showdown.
I thumb the book open to the first page, reread the dedication that’s been gnawing at the inside of my head:
For the muse who showed me what real passion feels like.
There’s no name. Not even an initial. It could be for anyone, or it could be for me, but the word “muse” punches right through my ribcage and grabs my heart and squeezes it. It was the word he used the first week, when I recited his own lines back at him during dinner. “You’re a natural, Kat. A born muse, whether you want to be or not.”
I can almost hear Simone’s voice of reason: “Think about it, Kat. This guy writes books for a living. Maybe putting feelings into words face-to-face isn’t his strong suit. Maybe he had to write a book to speak the truth.”
It would be easy to dismiss this as more of Simone’s relentless optimism, her refusal to believe anyone could be as cold as I made Talon sound. But now, tracing my finger along the words, I realize I’ve never met a man less capable of a normal, healthy apology. Not even “Sorry” in a text, not even a “My bad” in passing. Talon once told me the only time his father ever said he was proud of him was when he won an award for a short story contest in middle school—and the old man ruined the moment by saying, “Imagine if you put this effort into something that matters.”
So, what if this—this book, this raw, beautiful monument to our relationship—was the only way Talon could apologize for what he’d done?
My brain does a weird, backward somersault through every line he wrote. The romantic intimacy. The steamy sex. The way he let the heroine run away. The way, in the end, his stand-in character chases her down, begs her forgiveness, and finally says the words I never got in person. Was it a fantasy, or was it a practice run for something real?
I text Simone:
