Page 137 of Bad Words

“Fuck,” I muttered. “What now?”

“What?” Selina said as I opened social media.

Wordless, I showed her the picture I’d been tagged in. Somehow I wasn’t even surprised. It was Selina and me at Scott’s party last night, laughing with Arthur and Jacob and Cassie, my arm around her waist.

@SasuNaru113: I’M SORRY. WHAT? SO ALL THE DRAMA WITH THESE TWO WAS A PR CONSPIRACY?

@mentoscokegoboom: I knew it I knew it I absolutely fucking knew it

@swift_ly_falling: So do we think she got paid off to do the second negative review by his publisher? Like was the fight even real?

@Doubleganger: Of course the fight wasn’t real, dumbass. The whole thing is a lie

@LolaXu: Interesting developments.

Lola Xu’s post had six thousand likes and a slew of sly replies. Most of them were questioning Selina’s credentials. Some were calling her an embarrassment to the critical profession.

I glanced over, considering how to defend her, how to respond, how to win. “Should we—”

Selina plucked the phone from my hand. For a moment I wondered what blistering response she was going to type.

Then she exited the page. I watched her delete the app, and the next, and the next. She tossed my phone into the hammock, where it swayed, an invisible weight.

She turned back to me and said, “What were you saying?”

I pulled her in, smiling, and as she kissed me, I felt something untie in me and slip away. Let the ocean of judgment keep recoiling and resurging outside these walls. Later, Selina and I would roll out of bed, and we’d get coffee next door. We’d drink it over one of the cramped tables in the humid back corner and I’d steal bites of her croissant while she made charmingly specific threats. We’d go to an art gallery in the afternoon and explore some exhibition that made me feel far away from myself. We’d swing through every bookstore we saw, and I wouldn’t check whether my books were stocked in any of them. We’d return home and Selina would absentmindedly wander onto my bed to read an article or make notes for her next review, and I’d call my mother or father while sitting in the front window and watching spring slip one green finger through the white veil of winter. I was done scoring points in public, with a life like this in private.

By late April, High and Dry had dropped off the bestseller charts, but ten weeks on the list was a strong enough showing to ensure my future in publishing, at least for another several years.

First of all, the book had immediately earned out its fifteen-thousand-dollar advance. So, come this fall, and every six months thereafter, I’d get a royalty check—somewhere in the six-figure range this year.

Second of all, with these new and improved sales figures, Lauren convinced Coronation to buy my next two books on proposal, this time for fifty thousand dollars apiece. Bill tried to negotiate higher. Lauren told him not to push his luck.

In mid-May, Selina and I celebrated the new deal by taking the train up to Boston, where we overnighted in a tiny hotel and visited Elena and her girlfriend, Katy. As it turned out, Katy was a fan: not of me, but of Selina.

“I read all your reviews,” she stammered, tugging at her hair.

“Thank you,” Selina said, unsmiling.

Katy laughed nervously and went off to use the bathroom.

“How have you been, Park?” asked Elena, picking at the end of one of her braids. “With, you know…” She gestured vaguely at her head.

“Not bad. Seriously. I haven’t had a really bad day since”—I glanced over at Selina with a small smile—“since February.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” In the days after my last post about High and Dry, my siblings had reacted in ways I hadn’t expected. Christi and Kevin had sent shocked, sympathetic texts that had surprised me with their candor and sensitivity. Justin, normally allergic to phone calls, had rung me on a Sunday afternoon, and we’d spoken for an hour about my downward spiral in college. At one point his voice had grown narrow and buzzy, and he’d coughed a few times, muttering, “Sorry, I’m sorry.” The last time I’d seen Justin cry, I’d been six years old and he’d been ten, his knee gashed open on a concrete driveway.

As for Elena, she’d told me she’d already suspected the truth.

“Well, thank God,” she said, pouring me more wine, then Selina. “It’s about time you both got a break.”

We returned to Brooklyn to an apartment full of boxes. Over the course of April, Selina and I had talked about moving in together in language that included fewer and fewer jokes, and finally, at the start of May, I’d asked Arthur if he’d be okay with moving out.

“I knew this was coming,” he said with a sigh.

“If it softens the blow,” I said, “I just heard about a lease takeover for this convenient rent-stabilized one-bedroom in Bed-Stuy.”