CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Today is the official release day for Woman Down. It’s been over two years since I last released a novel. Releases normally feel like a dream, but this one sort of feels like a nightmare.
I’ve been through this process more times than I can remember, but this time is different. The success or failure of this particular book rests heavier on my shoulders thanks to all the guilt that came with my experience writing it.
I don’t even care if it hits a bestseller list. I don’t even care if people like it. I just hope I can make it through this first appearance and Q&A in one piece. If I get emotional and run offstage again, I can just imagine all the coconut Pepperidge Farm cakes I’ll be consuming in my bed while I figure out a new career path.
My chest tightens with every passing moment. I can hear the faint hum of voices outside the greenroom where I’m waiting, a reminder that soon, I’ll have to face that crowd and answer every question they have about the book. About anything, really.
Nora asked if I wanted the questions vetted, but I told her no. I need to face whatever is coming my way, no matter how vulnerable it makes me feel.
Nora stands beside me, her energy as bright and bubbly as ever, but today, it feels like her confidence only amplifies my anxiety. She glances at me, concern flickering in her eyes as she picks up on the storm of emotions swirling inside me. I’ve always been able to hide my nerves from everyone else, but not Nora.
“You’ve done this a million times,” she says reassuringly. “Everyone in that room is here because they’re happy you’re here.”
“What if that’s not true? What if there are people here with bad intentions so they can get a video that’ll make me look stupid and go viral, like the last Q&A I did?”
Nora grabs both my hands in hers. “Hey,” she says, her voice a whisper. “You’ve already gone viral. You’ve already looked stupid. It’s too late to worry about that.”
Her response makes me cackle. “You’re right. You are absolutely right.”
The store manager finally calls my name, my cue to walk out onto the stage. Nora grabs my purse and phone from me and gives me a reassuring smile. “You’ve got this, Petra. Easy peasy.”
I leave her backstage and step out from behind the curtains, my heart thudding in my chest as I force a smile onto my face. The bookstore manager’s voice echoes faintly in my ears, something about how excited they are to host me, how proud they are of the turnout. But all I can focus on is the sea of faces, and just how many of them there are.
There are so many people. I freeze in place for a few seconds, surprised by the turnout. People actually showed up. And the smile that’s plastered on my face might be a real one.
I take a deep breath, my legs trembling slightly as I continue making my way across the stage, the soft glow of the overhead lights doing little to warm the cold nerves pooling in my stomach.
I wave at the crowd and then settle into the chair, smoothing my hands over my lap as I try to find my center. The manager continues to speak, naming off my bestsellers, but it feels distant, like I’m watching from underwater. My fingers toy with the edge of the armrest as I prepare myself for the inevitable barrage of questions, knowing that this moment is where the real vulnerability begins.
When the manager is finished with her introduction, she instructs, “If you’ll just raise your hand if you have a question, Francis will get the microphone to you.”
People immediately begin to raise their hands. Francis rushes the microphone over to one of them. It’s a woman who looks to be around my age, and she’s wearing a shirt with a stack of books on the front of it. Other women in her row are whispering to her, so it looks like she’s here with a group.
She finally makes eye contact with me, and she looks just as nervous as I feel. “This might be an uncomfortable question,” she says. “But this is the first time you’ve done a Q&A in two years. Since the adaptation.”
“Oh boy,” I say, laughing awkwardly.
The woman continues. “I know, it’s the elephant in the room. But you’ve never once spoken on it, and we’re all dying to know why you
agreed with the choice to remove Caleb from the movie. Could you talk about that?”
There’s a quiet murmur in the room, but surprisingly, I don’t mind it. I don’t mind this. It’s an inevitable question if I plan on writing more books, and it’s better to get it out of the way first.
“Yes. I mean, not that I necessarily want to, but I do think readers deserve an explanation.”
More murmurs rush through the room. A few excited claps.
“The truth is, I’m a writer. I write books. And when those books get adapted, it takes years, and dozens of people. And the movie side of this is a different world from what I’m used to. I don’t even look at that world as part of my career, because I’m not a director or a producer or even a screenwriter. I feel like they’re the experts in their field, so when their idea for their adaptation differed from what I wanted to see on-screen, and what I knew you all wanted to see on-screen, I ultimately trusted them to know what would make the better movie. Because that wasn’t my area of expertise. Of course I gave my opinion, but every time I fought to keep Caleb, my words were met with resistance.”
A few groans come from the audience.
“Hold on,” I say. “I’m not blaming anyone. Yes, the producer, Allister, had a different vision than I did. It was his project at that point, and he chose to change the storyline, along with many other people. That’s the risk you take as an author when you sell your film rights.”
Someone else already has the microphone, and she immediately piles on to the previous question. “But why did you deny having a part in it? We all saw the text exchange.”
I can feel heat crawling up my neck. But I knew this was inevitable, so I face it with complete honesty. “Honestly? I made the post saying it wasn’t up to me because, honestly, it wasn’t. If I had it my way, I would have been faithful to the book. But I lost confidence. I gave up and gave in when I should have fought harder for Caleb. And that’s no one’s fault but my own.
For that, I’m sorry. Because for what it’s worth, I am team fucking Caleb.”
The audience erupts into immediate applause. I feel instant relief at the reaction, despite knowing once this Q&A hits the internet, there will be a myriad of opinions on what I just said. But finally saying my piece without throwing anyone under the bus while doing it feels good. The same can’t be said for Allister, but for all I care, he can continue parading around on
podcasts and calling me difficult all he wants. Because the truth is, I am going to be difficult if another adaptation happens. I’m going to fight tooth and nail for the story the readers supported, and I don’t mind having the reputation Allister is out there giving me. It’s probably better that I do. I’d rather have adaptations I’m proud of than adaptations that don’t even resemble their original forms.
The woman who asked that question thanks me, but then pauses before handing the microphone off to someone else. She brings it back to her mouth and says, “You used to be more active online, but then disappeared for a while. We thought you gave up. I just wanted to say thank you for not giving up.”
“I did give up,” I say quickly, cutting off the applause. People’s reactions are mixed. There’s confusion on some of their faces. “I mean, I know that wasn’t a question, and thank you for saying that, but I do want to clarify that I did give up.”
I straighten up in my chair, preparing to continue answering the nonquestion. I don’t know how to put what I want to say into words, or if I even should. It almost feels too vulnerable to be sharing with a room full of strangers, but without this room full of strangers, I wouldn’t be here. So I speak honestly.
“I wish I could say I’ve developed an impenetrable skin being in this industry, but I haven’t. Sometimes the negativity can be too overwhelming, and all I can do is hide from it. And yes, I’ve read the self-help books, I’ve tried just ignoring it, I’ve tried therapy, I’ve tried it all. But I find myself still reacting to things I read, and sometimes I need a break from those reactions. I think it’s okay if you aren’t someone who can just let everything roll off without it seeping into your heart just a little bit. I don’t mind admitting I don’t have that kind of resilience. I show up when I’m mentally capable, and I’ll interact when I’m emotionally stable enough to. But my mental health is precious to me, and as much advice as people give me, nothing anyone has said to me so far has cured me of feeling the sting of a hit every now and then. And I’m sure I’ll continue to give up as I move through life. But as long as I keep starting over, I’m okay with being a fallible human.”
When I finish speaking, there’s another loud burst of applause. The woman who asked the question thanks me, and then hands the microphone to the next girl in line. I glance off to the side of the stage and see Nora
standing there, watching me with a look of pride. She gives me a thumbs- up, and her reassurance puts me a little more at ease.
“I was going to ask about the movie, too, but I guess you covered that,” the next girl says. Her comment is met by a round of laughter. “First of all, I love your books. My name is Christian, big fan. My whole book club is here.” She gestures toward a group of women all wearing matching shirts.
I use the break in speaking to reach for the water bottle on the floor next to my chair. I look back at the girl just as she asks her question. “I was wondering if you have any advice for aspiring writers.”
I nod as I unscrew the lid to the water bottle. Just as I’m bringing it to my mouth for a sip, I pause. At first, it’s just a flicker of recognition, a face in the crowd that pulls me in like a gravitational force.
But then I freeze.
My eyes lock on him. On Saint. He’s sitting a few seats behind the woman with the microphone. The room around me seems to shrink in an instant, like it has just run out of air. He raises his hand with his eyes locked on mine. He wants the microphone.
The room is silent, waiting for me to answer the question I was just posed. What was the question?
“Google,” I say, my voice strained. “Google is your best friend. Every question about writing has been answered online. It’s just a matter of finding the answer that inspires you.”
I take a quick gulp of the water. Oh, God. I feel myself starting to sweat as she hands the microphone back a couple of rows. She reaches it out toward him. No. He stands up confidently as he takes it from her, his presence commanding my attention, even though every fiber of my being
screams for me to look away. To run.
But I can’t.
My eyes lock onto his, and my breath catches in my throat at the sight of Saint. Cam. Eric. Whatever he’s calling himself now. It doesn’t matter, because in this moment, he’s all of them, and he’s none of them. He’s simply the man who repaired me and then shattered me.
What is he doing here? My thoughts race, a thousand questions flooding my mind, but none of them matter as fear creeps up my spine, cold and unrelenting. I grip the armrest of my chair tighter as I fight to maintain my composure. But inside, I’m crumbling when he begins to speak.
“I just have one question,” he says, his voice causing that familiar wave of turmoil beneath my skin. “Where do you get your inspiration?”
His voice cuts through the haze of my panic, smooth and unbothered, as if he isn’t feeling the same havoc he’s wreaking inside me. Or maybe he is. We both know he’s the much better actor.
The question—innocuous to anyone else in the room—feels like a dagger aimed straight at my chest. Where do you get your inspiration? It’s a simple question, one I’ve answered a hundred times before, but coming from him, it feels like a challenge, like he’s daring me to reveal the truth.
I feel the anger rising, hot and fierce, bubbling just beneath the surface. How dare he? After everything, he has the audacity to stand here, in front of me, in front of everyone, and pretend like this is some game we’re still playing?
Like he isn’t the reason I’m scared of my own shadow?
I clench my jaw, forcing myself to stay calm, to give the answer the audience expects. But the heat in my chest only grows, threatening to spill over.
“Inspiration comes from everywhere,” I say, the words feeling hollow in my mouth. “Life, people, experiences.” The words are automatic, rehearsed, but I stop short of saying you. My voice wavers ever so slightly, and I wonder if the audience can sense the tension simmering beneath the surface. If they can feel how close I am to snapping. “Next question?” I say, tearing my eyes from his smile, looking desperately for someone who can
take the microphone from him.
“I have one more,” he says.
I swallow.
“Well, it’s not a question, really. More of a comment. But . . . I just want you to know I couldn’t put this book down. I hung on to every single word. It’s almost as if I were there, in the room with you, experiencing the things these characters experienced. That takes true talent, Petra. You are very, very good at what you do.”
A few people clap, but his comment was spoken so slowly, and with such intensity, I see a few people squirm or stiffen from the discomfort of it.
The smirk on his face proves he doesn’t give a shit what anyone else in this room thinks. He hands the microphone off to the next person, and I’m stuck, paralyzed under the spotlight.
My vision blurs, the edges of my anger creeping into my periphery, but I swallow it down, forcing myself to stay composed. I can do this. I’ll be damned if I let him ruin this like I ruined my own Q&A during my last event.
That was before I truly knew what anger was, though. My anger is what gets me through the next hour, despite it being one of the hardest hours of my life.
As soon as the Q&A portion ends, I head straight to the greenroom to compose myself before the signing begins. Nora isn’t in here, but I’m thankful. She would be able to see the feelings I’m having trouble reining in right now. I take several minutes to compose myself, drink water, reapply makeup since I look like I’ve seen a ghost.
When I finally work up the courage to walk back out, I clock Saint standing toward the middle of the line to get the book signed that he’s clutching in his hand. He’s already looking at me before I make eye contact, as if he was staring straight at the door, waiting to see if I’d actually walk out and finish the job despite his presence here.
I wonder if he really finished reading the book. Did he stay up until midnight last night, waiting to download the ebook? The one that holds parts of him in every chapter, every line, every word? Did he stay up all night reading the story that wouldn’t exist without him, without what he did to me, without the tangled mess of our history in that cabin?
My pulse quickens, and I force myself to move, to walk to my signing table like I’m not about to fall apart. The pen feels heavy in my hand as I greet the first reader in line.
I move through each person with patience, trying to forestall the inevitable moment he reaches my table. No matter how hard I try not to look, my eyes keep drifting to his spot. He’s waiting, patient, just like everyone else, but his presence is suffocating. I can feel his eyes on me the entire time, burning into my skin.
When he finally reaches the table, I feel lightheaded. I don’t look up when he says, “Can you make it out to Saint?”
His voice is smooth, too smooth, like he’s in complete control of the situation, as if this isn’t tearing me apart inside. Saint. The name feels
foreign on him now, but I refuse to let him retain control. I take the book, open it, and inscribe the name Eric.
I sign my name and slap the book shut. My final fuck you. I slide it back to him, still refusing to meet his eyes.
“I don’t get a personalization?” he asks.
His words are a challenge laced with that familiar teasing undertone.
He’s toying with me, just like always. I can feel the anger bubbling up again, sharp and hot, and this time I don’t try to suppress it. My eyes snap up to meet his, and for the first time, I let him see the anger, the frustration, the hurt that I’ve been carrying for so long.
How dare he stand here and pretend that this is just some casual encounter. That he’s just another reader. How dare he show up at all.
I grab the book, and my hand moves swiftly across the page, the pen pressing hard into the paper as I add: An absolute, complete and total stranger. May you have the life you deserve.
I intend for the words to be a slap in the face, but he grins. That cocky smile grates on my nerves, like nails on a chalkboard. He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur that only I can hear.
“Thank you for the dedication.”
I refuse to say “You’re welcome” as he pauses for a reaction. I don’t give him one. I look past him and motion for the next person in line to make their way to the table, indicating his turn is over and he can walk away.
I’m watching him out of the corner of my eye as he heads for the exit.
Good riddance.
Right before he reaches the door, I see him turn, and his smile brightens, but not at me. He’s smiling at something else. Or someone. He lifts a hand and waves someone over.
I’m momentarily relieved to know someone else other than me has his attention.
I start to look away, but then something pulls at me, willing me to look up again. Why would he be talking to anyone here? Who would he know
here?
Has he told anyone about us?
I’m craning my neck around the reader in front of me to see who it is he just waved at. I see someone making her way over to him as he walks
toward her.
Nora.
She’s smiling back at him with a giddiness that makes my stomach sink. The last thing I need is for Saint to fuck with her head next.
They continue walking toward each other, and I’m doing everything I can to see why Saint is trying to speak to Nora, but two more people swoop in and block my view. I’m forced to give the people in front of me my attention, but I can’t help but feel an imminent urge to scream Nora’s name, to warn her away from him before she falls for that smile and fake charm.
I’ll be damned if he does to her what he did to me.
A fearful thought engulfs me. Was I not the first writer he’s done this to? What if it’s happened to more than just me, and he’s done it to multiple writers? It sounds like something he’d be capable of, and from the looks of it, his plan is to manipulate my best friend next. If he’s watched all my videos, that means he’s watched all Nora’s too.
Why didn’t I anticipate that he’d be capable of this?
I smile for pictures as I search for Nora, but I’ve lost sight of them. I sign more books as I search for Saint. I look for signs of them both as I finish up the last several readers, feeling guilty they didn’t have my undivided attention. But it has taken all the willpower I can muster not to run and save Nora from this monster.
When the last person in line finally leaves, the manager has two employees following behind her as she brings over leftover stock for me to
sign.
“Can I take a break first?” I ask.
“Of course,” the manager says. I make a beeline for the exit. I ignore my name when it’s called by a reader. Not something I would ever do under any other circumstance, but I’m starting to worry about Nora. It’s all I can focus on, even though my actions since seeing him wave at her have probably come off as rude to a lot of people.
I don’t have time to worry about other people’s hurt feelings as I make my way outside and look for her.
I almost release a sob when I finally see her. Safe. Her back is to me, and she’s leaning against a car, talking to him.
Saint spots me first.
He stands up straight, pulling his weight off the car he was pressed against. Nora spins around, and she flashes her usual smile, but she also looks like I just caught her flirting with a married man.
He isn’t married, honey. Far from it.
“You done already?” Nora asks. Her voice is cheerful, but also . . . rushed. She’s walking toward me like she wants to escort me inside and not even introduce me to her new friend.
Saint’s jaw is tense as he stares straight into me. Nora sees me clocking Saint, so she pauses her steps and stands awkwardly, feet from me and feet from him. She shoves her hands in her pockets. It makes her look .
. . guilty.
Saint suddenly looks guilty too.
Why do both of them look like they have something to hide from me?
Has something already happened between them? Am I too late?
I walk closer to them, hesitant. “What is this?” I ask, my eyes trading glances with each of them, waiting for one of them to speak.
Saint and Nora glance at each other with a look that indicates they share a secret.
My head is spinning. “Do you know him?” I ask her. Then my attention lands on him. “Stay away from her.”
“Petra,” Nora says, sounding shocked by my anger.
I don’t give her time to make it seem like I’m overreacting. She has no idea what he’s capable of, or that, if anything, I’m underreacting. “Stay away from her,” I say to him again.
He lifts both hands in a peaceful gesture and takes a step back.
“Petra,” Nora says again. “Why are you being like this?”
“He’s lying to you about who he is. Do not trust him. Whatever he says, he’s lying.”
Nora doesn’t react like I expect her to. Instead, she and Saint share another knowing look, but this one is chock full of shame. She folds her arms over her chest and looks down at the pavement.
I wait for one of them to elaborate, but neither of them does. Nora eventually peers up at me with eyes that hold a level of betrayal like I’ve
never seen in another human.
“Eric is an old friend of mine.”
The words sound like echoes reverberating around in my heart. He’s . . . what?
It’s as if my world turns gray. All the possibilities of what that could even mean are slamming into me from every direction.
“Petra,” Saint says, attempting to reassure me. Or Eric. Whoever the fuck he is steps forward, but I hold up a hand.
“Don’t come near me,” I say to him. Then to her, “What the hell are you talking about?”
Nora sighs, and then glances toward the bookstore behind me. People are lingering, but not close enough to hear our conversation.
She lowers her voice almost to a whisper. “You were stuck, Petra. I was trying to help.” Her voice is a plea for forgiveness, but I’m still not sure what she’s done that requires my forgiveness.
How is Nora, my best friend in the whole fucking world, involved in what happened between me and Saint?
She continues by saying, “Eric and I . . .” She waves a hand at him.
“After my live video with you ended that night, we were chatting online.
We joked about how it would be nice if he could help get you out of your slump. And you seemed so desperate for inspiration.”
I cannot believe what I’m hearing.
Every feeling and emotion I went through when I thought this was merely Saint’s idea is amplified. I can feel the tears stinging my eyes.
“This isn’t true,” I say with a twinge of hope. “You’re joking, right? If you know him, why have you never mentioned him?”
“I haven’t seen him since college,” she says. “We’ve been friends online since then. You don’t know every single person in my life.” She sounds defensive, but I’m the only one here with any reason to feel defensive. Or angry. Or betrayed.
The two of them should feel nothing but sheer and utter shame.
“But . . .” I can’t fathom it. Nora . . . Saint. Both of them? “You’re my best friend,” I say, stepping closer. “If what you’re saying is true, that you sent your friend to inspire me, you knowingly put my marriage at risk! You put me at risk!”
Nora’s expression loses some of the guilt in exchange for confusion.
She glances at Saint, and then back at me. “I don’t think I did,” she says.
“All I did was ask him to show up in uniform and knock on your door so you could put a face to your character.” She shakes her head, looking between us. “He agreed to ask you a question and then leave. Did . . .” Her eyes land hard on Saint. “Did something else happen?” She’s finally beginning to sound concerned for me, rather than concerned about being caught.
“Nothing happened,” he says to Nora. Then he looks at me, sincerity in his eyes. “I told her nothing, Petra.” Saint says it quickly, as if to throw
me a lifeline.
I am completely in shock. I need time to process this, but I don’t know how I can do that when the person I always go to when I need to talk something through is the person I need to talk about.
She has completely betrayed my trust, and now she knows there’s more to whatever happened, more that I haven’t told her. Something big.
“It’s not my business,” Nora says. “But Petra, I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened between you two—he said you only spoke for a few minutes—but I swear to you, that is what I’ll believe. Forever. Please forgive me. I really was truly just trying to help. I was going to tell you the next day, but he begged me not to. And then when we spoke, you sounded like it helped, so . . . I just left it alone.”
“I was there for less than five minutes,” Saint says to Nora, throwing me another lifeline. He’s still trying to protect our secret, despite theirs being out in the open. “I left right away. Nothing happened, I just felt bad that she got scared.”
I can’t even find it in myself to appreciate that he’s trying to cover for me, because I’m furious. I’m embarrassed. I feel betrayed and confused and mortified, and now I’m crying and trying to wipe the tears away with quick swipes of my hands.
At least I made it until after the signing this time before having a breakdown.
My vulnerable position forces Nora to step forward and naturally try to comfort me, but I push her away. The three of us stand quietly as I try to
process everything I’ve just learned.
Nora sent him there? My best friend?
When I finally compose myself enough to speak, I lift my chin and look at Saint. “I’d like to speak to you alone.”
Nora gets the hint. She nods and walks back toward the store.
What does he want with me? Why couldn’t he walk away after it happened and leave it alone? And now my best friend is involved?
I wait until I know we’re completely isolated before I speak again.
“Why are you here?” I say sharply.
“To get my book signed.” He says it easily, a failed attempt to ease the tension. I don’t laugh, so he finally straightens up and looks at me with sincerity. “I wanted to see you.”
There’s an ache to his voice now. He seems like he’s finally being honest in this moment. I use it to my advantage because I need to know how mad I’m about to be at my best friend.
“I need the truth. What does Nora know?”
“Nothing,” he says with certainty. “She’s being honest. We don’t even talk that often. That night of the live video just happened to be one of the nights we connected. We were discussing your writer’s block, and she knew we were in the same state. She joked that she wished I could stop by and inspire you. I mean, it was a joke at first, but . . .” He stops speaking for a moment. “I’m the one who pushed her to think it was a good idea. I wanted to meet you. And then once I actually met you, I was intrigued. More than intrigued. So I kept it up without telling her.”
I wipe another tear from my eye with a trembling hand. Seeing me cry stirs up guilt in his expression like I’ve never seen. He moves even closer to me, close enough that the memories of him flash through me in a heated second.
“I never meant to scare you. Or betray you. I was attracted to you, and I let it go too far. And I’m sorry. Truly.” He reaches a hand up and grips my elbow gently, dipping his head so that I’m forced to look him in the eye.
“I’m sorry.”
I stare back at him, every moment we spent together spiraling through me. Apology after apology, but this betrayal is too much. This hits too close to home. Too close to Shephard. The man I almost destroyed. I owe so much more of myself to Shephard than the wife I’ve been to him.
“I want you to leave. And I never want to see you again.”
He nods. But then he says, “For what it’s worth, I would do it again in a heartbeat.”
Saint might, but Saint doesn’t have what I have at home. I brush his hand from my arm, and with as much resignation as I can muster, I simply say, “I wouldn’t.”
I spin and head straight back inside without saying goodbye to Saint, but it’s clear this was goodbye. I don’t even look back to see his expression, or watch him leave. I walk straight into the bookstore, and I don’t even look at Nora, who is standing there, waiting, hopeful for any morsel of attention from me. I don’t speak to her at all.
I walk over to the table where all the unsigned stock has been neatly placed, ready for my signature. I sign each book robotically, and even
though I want to punch Nora square in her fucking face, she stands next to me and stacks each book neatly into a pile as I sign them.
Nora and I are staying at the same hotel, and the publisher has one driver scheduled to take us back to that hotel, but at least we don’t have to share a room. I’d probably choke her in her sleep.
When the last book is signed, I thank the staff and head for the exit. As Nora follows me out of the bookstore, toward the Escalade waiting out back for us, I hear her whisper, “I’m sorry.”
I climb into the car, but all I can do, after we’re both seated in the back seat and heading toward the hotel, is remain silent in my betrayal as I stare out the window, holding tears at bay.
This has more than likely broken trust in our friendship forever, but it isn’t Nora’s fault I let things go as far as they did. She didn’t set out for me to cheat on my husband.
That’s something I’m realizing I was perfectly capable of doing with or without her help.
God, this is the worst night of my life.
