She gives me a hug. “You’re going to do great. What’s the worst that could happen? It’s not like a disgruntled superfan is going to hack into your private files and share them with the entire—oh, wait. That already happened.”
I sigh. After getting back home, the law-enforcement authorities who investigated the HNA leak informed me that they’d identified the hacker and apprehended them. It’s been an enormous relief, but I must not look any less nervous about this interview, because Savannah snaps the waistband of my underwear and says, “Look. Your readers have seen these, and theystilltook you back. If that’s not unconditional love, I don’t know what is.”
I laugh, elbowing her away. What she’s said is true though. In the roughly two months since I posted that explanation letter and photo of myself with Forrest, my life has turned around in ways I couldn’t have begun to imagine when I originally boarded that plane to Alaska.
Not only have my fans forgiven me, but my brilliant agent was able to broker my biggest deal yet with a new publisher for my manuscript. If that weren’t enough, two of my older novels have climbed back onto the bestseller list, and demands for my Alaska book have been overwhelming. It’s a lot to process. Of course I’m thrilled to be a part of this community again. Of course I’m grateful. But according to my new therapist, that doesn’t mean I can’t also be sad as hell.
Because while many wonderful, astounding things have happened since I came back to L.A., they’ve all been like beams of sunlight filtered through a cracked and dirty window. A muddiedlens diminishing every good thing that comes my way because I can’t share them withhim.
As usual, just the thought of Forrest sends a pulse of pain through the yawning cavity in my chest. Missing him is less of an emotion and more of a full-body chronic condition I’ve barely learned how to manage. As I prepare for my first public-speaking engagement since the floor of my life dropped out from beneath me, I know the only question on everyone’s mind is whether or not I found my HEA with him after all. It’s a question I’m not sure how I’ll bring myself to answer despite the endless versions I’ve drafted.
“Thanks, Van,” I say after taking a deep breath.
“You betcha,” she says from the couch, and I’m surprised by her distracted tone of voice and how intently she’s staring at her phone.
I check the time on my screen and get a sharp zing of adrenaline. One minute to go. “I guess this is it,” I say, sitting in my chair and pulling up the social media platform the event is being held on.
She looks up in alarm. “You’resureyou don’t want to put pants on?” she says. “Just in case?”
I smile. “Just in case I have to stand up and have another mental breakdown?”
“Never saynever, Margot,” she says. “What if there’s a fire? What if we’re burgled?”
“These are my lucky panties now,” I say, mildly amused by her concern. “I think I’ll take the risk.”
“Fine,” she grumbles. “I guess it’s not like there’s anyone left on Planet Earth who hasn’t already seen how great you look in enormous beige spandex.”
“Okay, well, thanks for the pep talk,” I say, switching on my ring light. “Here goes nothing.”
“Good luck!” she says, blowing me three kisses in quick succession.
I pretend to catch them in midair, smack them to my lace-clad hip, and then it’s go time. With one last prayer that I don’t stick my foot in my mouth, get burgled, or generally fuck this up, I join the live stream.
“Thanks for that answer, Margot,” Sylvie says. “I think what you said brings up a salient question about whether the romance genre creates unrealistic expectations in real-life relationships, or provides a set of bars that we should rightfully expect every potential partner to hurdle.”
I take a drink of my water. To her credit, Sylvie hasn’t come out and openly asked me about #MrHotTub, as he’s known on socials, but she’s been slowly circling around it, keeping me and our thousands of listeners on the edge of our seats.
I put down my water glass, nodding. “I’d say that people have always looked to stories as a way of navigating their own lives and relationships. Reading novels is one of the most time-honored ways of understanding and processing the human experience, and an essential part of that human experience is, of course, love.”
“So youdobelieve that the genre provides useful standards for people to check against while navigating their own relationships,” she says, thoughtfully twirling one of her bright blue 1940s-style pin-curls. “That feels like a pretty different tune from the one you sang in your Happily Never After file.”
During this live stream event, I can’t see any faces besides Sylvie’s, but her statement immediately creates a surge in comments and reaction emojis that sends an icy-hot prickle up my spine. This is her first mention of my HNA file, and there’s a palpable sense of being in the middle of a lake I thought was frozen and hearing an ominous crack.
“Yes, I suppose it does probably sound different,” I say, tryingto keep my composure even though I know she’s moving in for the kill.
She smiles, sweet as pie. “And does your change of tune have anything to do with a recent change ofheart? Maybe because of a certainsomeonein a hot tub?”
I blink and I see Forrest’s eyes. Just a flashing memory of deepest green, warm with firelight. But as soon as the image arrives, it’s gone again, leaving behind a fresh bruise. I’m aware that Sylvie and thousands of unseen others are watching me carefully, and that maybe Savannah was right about wearing pants after all. If I were wearing them, simply standing up and running away might be an option. Because despite all my carefully crafted answers to this very question, none of them feels like the right one. I could be ambiguous and leave everyone unsatisfied. I could be dishonest and say I’ve never been happier. Or I could be truthful but disappointing and admit I’ve never been more miserable in my life.
In the end, I find a way to be all three at once. “I don’t think there’s ever been a single heart that hasn’t been changed from meeting someone remarkable, Sylvie. Even if the time spent together was brief.”
“And that remarkable someone,” she says, leaning in closer to her screen. “Do you mean to say he mightnotbe part of the Happily Ever After you hoped for in your post?”
I swallow hard as loss briefly pinches the muscles of my face together. I open my mouth to speak, but my response won’t emerge. I stare down at my hands, which arenotshaking only because I’ve gripped them together so tightly. Sensing that Sylvie is on the verge of repeating her question, I reflexively look up at Savannah like she might have cue cards waiting for me.
To my surprise, she’s not looking at me. She’s nervously tapping her fingernails against the back of her phone and staring off to the right at my office door. Before I can finish thinkingWhatthe hell, the doorbell rings, and I nearly emergency-eject from my skin. Savannah jumps, too, but doesn’t land back in her seat. Instead, she’s up and jogging out of my office like she’s been waiting for those chimes all night. Bewildered, I turn back to Sylvie, who’s looking as confused by the loud interruption as I am.
“Sorry,” I say, chuckling nervously. “Saved by the bell, I guess.”
