Sometimes, as she turned onto her side and flipped her pillow yet again, she wondered if the conversation would have gone differently under other circumstances. If she hadn’t still been raw and chilled and exhausted from that long-overdue confrontation with her mother, still on edge from the proximity of her father and Marcus’s abandonment of her at her parents’ house.

He’d blasted the heater for her. Warmed her seat. Cupped her face. Apologized earnestly.

But her rage and hurt had still been lingering just beneath the surface, much too easy to access. The slightest scratch to her composure would have unearthed all that volatile emotion, and he’d provided much more than a mere scrape.

With his deception, he’d gutted her.

With her sharp words, by withholding her forgiveness, she’d gutted him right back. That was clear enough. If the devastation in those expressive eyes hadn’t told her so, his body language would have. On the way out her door, he’d moved like a man broken, cradled into himself and guarding against further jolts.

Five days had passed since then. Out of respect for her stated wishes, he hadn’t called or emailed or DMed. That first night, he’d only texted her once. Two simple words he’d already told her, ones she knew he meant sincerely.

I’m sorry.

Scared. He’d been scared, so he’d hurt and misled her.

She couldn’t blame him for that, but she couldn’t seem to forgive him, either. Not when she remembered the wrenching pain of BAWN’s sudden, now-explicable estrangement. Not when she considered all those months he’d pretended ignorance when it came to reading and writing fanfiction; all those months he’d failed to acknowledge the intimate knowledge he held of her, born out of years of friendship; all those months he’d secreted that same advantage, the understanding of who and what he really was, out of her reach.

No wonder she’d felt as if she’d known him for years. She had. But not all of him. Not enough of him.

She didn’t hate him. She wasn’t angry anymore. She was just . . . tired.

The warm, bright spotlight of his love was gone, and the shadows left behind were fine. She was fine.

Absolutely fine.

Or she would be, if she could convince herself she’d made the right choice.

Lavineas Server DMs, Five Months Ago

Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: What do you do when you feel down for no good reason?

Book!AeneasWouldNever: What’s wrong? Are you okay?

Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: I’m getting my period soon. Nothing is wrong, but everything is wrong.

Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: I hope you’re not squeamish about things like that, because if so: TOO LATE, SUCKER.

Book!AeneasWouldNever: Since approximately half the humans on this planet either have gotten or will get periods, I’ve always found that particular brand of squeamishness ridiculous.

Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: So you’re the type of guy who would buy his girlfriend tampons at the grocery store?

Book!AeneasWouldNever: This is not a hypothetical. In past relationships, tampons have been procured. Back rubs have been dispensed. Bloodstains have been removed from sheets and clothing.

Book!AeneasWouldNever: And in case you were worried, my manhood has nevertheless remained intact. Despite what some men seem to believe.

Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: Well, I’m certainly glad you reassured me about your intact manhood, BAWN.

Book!AeneasWouldNever: I’m so sorry you’re not feeling well, Ulsie.

Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: Thank you.

Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: Also, thank you for distracting me from my woes via our discussion of tampons. I had not anticipated that particular conversational tangent.

Book!AeneasWouldNever: I try to maintain a certain air of mystery.

Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: You’re a constant surprise, my friend. A riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside a grocery store with Playtex in your cart.

Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: You never answered my question, though. What do you do when you feel down?

Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: Do you drink tea? Take a bath? Watch a terrible movie? Read? Eat a pint of ice cream? Have a glass of wine?

Book!AeneasWouldNever: At various times in the past, all of the above. But these days, I mostly

Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: Yes?

Unapologetic Lavinia Stan: BAWN?

Book!AeneasWouldNever: I mostly talk to you.

27

AFTER APPROXIMATELY TEN SECONDS OF SHARING A HOTEL suite with Alex, Marcus remembered exactly why they were no longer roommates.

His best friend was many things. Ridiculously loyal. Sharp as a sword’s edge. Sympathetic in the face of his friend’s abject, self-inflicted misery. A good distraction from said misery, which was why Marcus had suggested sharing a suite in the first place.

What Alex wasn’t: restful.

Marcus had been hoping for a nap before the evening’s events began. His first photos with fans were scheduled that night, following Alex’s Q&A session, and the participants paid plenty for the privilege. He wanted to look fresh for them. He wanted to feel fresh for them.

Since Alex had talked nonstop during the lengthy car ride from the airport, all through their check-in process, and down every single hallway leading to their suite, though, all hopes of a nap were likely to die a much-lamented death in the near future.

“—don’t know why Lauren’s so worried.” After flopping face-first onto his queen bed, Alex propped himself on his elbows and began tapping on his phone. “I didn’t do anything particularly objectionable to the fan. I only suggested that if she didn’t have anything better to do with her time than insult total strangers, she should occupy said time by going and fucking herself. It’s not my fault she went straight to the tabloids, and it’s certainly not Lauren’s either. Ron and R.J. aren’t going to fire her over something as minor as that.”

Marcus frowned. “What did the fan say to you?”

“Not to me.” Alex’s finger stabbed at the screen with unwonted force. “To Lauren.”

Ah. That explained things, at least somewhat.

Lauren’s appearance could best be termed unconventional. She was short and round. Very short and very round, with comparatively skinny legs and bright eyes and sharp features and a near-constant frown.

She reminded Marcus of a small, plump bird, honestly. A cute one. But he could see how strangers with ugliness inside might look at her and see only ugliness outside.

“Don’t ask me what that fan”—it sounded like an epithet, spat that way in Alex’s most cutting tone—“said to her. It was vile and hurtful, no matter what Lauren claims. I don’t care if she’s used to hearing things like that. It’s not happening in my presence. Not if I can help it.”

Alex shoved a rough hand through his hair, his scowl thunderous.

Nope. No nap occurring anytime soon.

“I’ll go get us some ice,” Marcus offered. “Do you need anything while I’m out?”

“Nope. I’m going to plot out a fic where Cupid’s arrow makes a horrible, insulting woman so eager to fuck herself that she can’t eat or drink, just masturbate, and then she dies of masturbatory malnutrition.” He paused, thoughtful. “Or maybe she’ll just pass out and learn her lesson. I don’t usually kill people in my stories.”

That was Marcus’s cue. “Okay, I’ll be back soon. Try not to get fired while I’m gone, please.”

“No promises,” Alex muttered, and bent over his phone again.

The conference hotel was built around an atrium that rose to skylights far above, the hallways on each floor open to that central square and looking down on the madness below. According to the hotel map on the inside of the door, the ice machine was located on the exact opposite side of his floor’s square, as far away as possible.

Fine. He could use a few minutes of quiet.

The door shut behind him with a bang. Bucket tucked under his arm, Marcus wandered to the other side of the hallway and glanced idly down at reception. Most of the Gates cast and crew in attendance at the con should be arriving shortly, so he checked for familiar faces.

The chances were infinitesimal, with thousands of people crowding the hotel.

Still, there she was. Tiny but recognizable down below. Almost at the front of the check-in line, suitcase by her side, waiting patiently as the discreet lobby lighting set her hair ablaze.

He’d desperately hoped she’d come. Prayed she wouldn’t.

But he’d known what she’d decide to do, in the end. April wasn’t a woman to abandon her responsibilities, and she’d agreed to moderate Summer’s Q&A session and meet their—her—friends from the Lavineas server at the conference. She wouldn’t skip the event, even if she wanted to.

And maybe she wouldn’t mind being near him again. Maybe her gut hadn’t been seething with almost-constant nausea since their confrontation. Maybe she didn’t find herself sleepless and replaying their last conversation in her head, searching for what she could have said differently, regretting the choices she’d made weeks and months before.

She might be fine. On his less selfish days, he even hoped she was fine.

He was not.

After that horrible car ride, he no longer visited the Lavineas server, even invisibly. Seeing her name, her avatar, turned his lingering nausea acute. Even writing fanfic evoked too many memories now—of Ulsie’s careful, cheerful beta-reading comments, of April’s glee at particularly smutty stories, of the community he’d helped create and then lost.

April hadn’t posted a story on AO3 since he’d left. He didn’t know if he’d have the heart to read it if she did.

The sources of joy and meaning in his life seemed to be extinguishing one by one, and he had only himself to blame. No wonder his stomach was roiling, his head throbbing daily.

From his spot far above, he watched her take her turn at check-in. He watched her wait as they ran her credit card and checked her ID. He watched her accept her room keycard and head for the elevators, where she passed out of his sight.

Then he trudged down the halls to the ice machine, filled the bucket, and tried not to remember why his life had become as cold and hard as the ice rattling with each step he took.