Page 74 of Cabin Fever
The phrase hits a nerve. I want to hit him. Instead, I lean forward. “I read the book again. Cover to cover. Is any of it true?”
“All of it,” he says, and his voice isn’t dramatic, just tired. “It’s the only honest thing I’ve ever written, to be frank.”
We sit in silence, the tension simmering in the air between us. The koi flash gold and white in the sun, oblivious.
I press on. “So what happens now? If I don’t forgive you, will you just move on to the next girl?”
Talon runs a hand through his hair, and I see the frustration. “Kat, it doesn’t work like that anymore. I don’t want someone else. I don’t want to order off a menu, so I canceled my Sweet Lies account. I’m in therapy. I’m trying to fix the part of me that thinks women are just sexy playmates and nothing else.”
I almost laugh, but it comes out as a sigh. “You think I’m supposed to be impressed by that?”
“No,” he says. “I don’t expect anything. I just wanted to tell you what steps I’m taking. So you’d know it’s not a scene, not a performance. I’m being genuine about this.”
I study him, looking for the old tells: the half-smile, the deflection, the ego. But they’re not there. Talon’s posture is looser. His eyes don’t dart away when I push. It feels real, and it scares me almost as much as it comforts me.
I lean back. “So, what now? You want me to forgive you? Or just write a better ending?”
He shakes his head. “Forgiveness would be nice, but I don’t deserve it. Andyoushould write the ending, Kat. Whatever you want it to be.”
My hands stop shaking. I didn’t expect this. I expected some hail-mary attempt, another contract, a promise of riches or fame. But this—just talking, just being here, letting me lead—is somehow more disarming than anything else Talon could have done.
I stand, brushing crumbs from my jeans. “I’ll think about it. But you don’t get to decide if you’re the hero or not. That’s my call.”
He nods, standing too. For a second we’re close, close enough I could touch him if I wanted. I let my hand hover, then, almost on impulse, let my fingers graze his arm.
“Thank you,” I say, and mean it. “For being honest. Even if it’s late.”
The handsome man smiles, small and a little sad. “Thank you for making me want to try, Kitty Kat.”
We part ways at the pond—me toward the east gate, him toward the coffee cart at the entrance. Neither of us looks back.
The spring sun is warm on my face, the scent of cherry blossoms thick in the air. I walk with my hands in my pockets, head up for the first time in ages.
Maybe there isn’t a happy ending.
But this time, I want to write the sequel myself.
19
CHAPTER NINETEEN – A DATE AT THE RESTAURANT
Talon
If you want to know what hell actually feels like, try waiting outside a crowded Italian restaurant in a college town when the woman you love is late. Is Kat going to show? Or am I going to be left on the sidewalk like discarded trash?
Every couple walking past is locked into their own romantic reverie, making me feel even more desperate. I check my phone for the third time—no texts, no missed calls, just a home screen full of unread news alerts and the nervous thrum of my own reflection in the glass. I look like I’m trying too hard to seem normal: black jeans, blue button-down, the sleeves rolled and the cuffs just uneven enough to say “I’m not overthinking this.” I am, obviously. My hands are so dry I could sand wood with them.
I fumble with the collar, tug it down, then do it again because my heart is hammering against my ribs and nothing on this side of tequila is going to slow it. The inside of the restaurant glows warm through the windows, all candles and red and whitecheckered tablecloths. I can see the old Italian lady at the hostess stand, fussing with her iPad, and I’m already rehearsing what I’m going to say when Kat shows up. If she shows up.
A woman walks up the street, her head down in the collar of a blue coat. She moves elegantly, like a sylph—shoulders back, hips swinging with metronomic grace. I know it’s Kat before I see her features. I’d know the tilt of her jaw or the gloss of golden hair anywhere. She slows on the sidewalk, takes a breath, and looks up.
It hits me all over again, the way it did in the bookstore: Katherine Vreeland is beautiful. Not the surface-level, Instagram-influencer kind, but the sort that makes you ache in your bones. Her hair is loose, gold catching in the streetlight, and she’s wearing a dress I’ve never seen—a soft gray thing that clings to her curves and stops just above the knee. For a second, I forget what my mouth is for.
She spots me and smiles shyly before approaching.
“Hey,” she says, tucking a strand behind her ear. She’s not wearing much makeup, maybe none at all, but her lips are bitten red and her eyes look enormous.
I smile, but it probably looks more like a grimace. “Hey yourself. You look—” My brain catches on the word. “—really good.”
