The Odds of You
Author: Kate Dramis
Date: 0101-01-01 00:00:00+00:00
Description: Once is chance. Twice is fate. "This book made me remember why I fell in love with reading." - B. Celeste Sage Collins knows a thing or two about odds. A year ago, she was a data analyst until she burned it all down to pursue her dream of becoming an author. One whirlwind bestseller and a struggling second book later, and Sage isn't sure she'll ever write a novel again. But then an accidental encounter with an irritating passenger on the flight to Comic Con leaves Sage in an untested position. That passenger is Theo Sharpe: a breakout actor on the cusp of fame. And, unfortunately, the paparazz
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

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About the Author

Copyright Page

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For those with too-big hearts and too-fast minds. You are enough just as you are.

1
Planes and Paps

Sage has a thing for weird deaths.

She isn’t quite sure when she started becoming obsessed with the wild ways people can die, but she knows enough tales to rattle them off without batting an eye. She can bring an entire dinner party to a screeching halt without having to mention politics even once.

She’s done it before.

It was at a stuffy affair for the fintech company she used to work for, and her misogynistic coworkers were being a unique flavor of awful, and …

Well, next thing she knew, she was telling them about this man who died when a cow inexplicably fell through his roof while he was sleeping.

Can you imagine?

One minute you’re fast asleep and dreaming, and the next thing you know, a fucking cow is hurtling toward you.

It’s not even her wildest death story, but having a vast repertoire is useful when she’s stuck in a shit situation—as she is right now.

Because honestly, right about now, Sage would take a cow dropping through the ceiling and ending her misery. Though, she’s probably going to die on this plane anyway, thanks to her own dumb choices.

She knew she had an early flight, but did that stop her from throwing back mid-shelf tequila with Emerson at their favorite West Hollywood bar last night?

It did not. And while it may have been in celebration of this very trip, and despite her current downing of two cups of shitty airline coffee, nothing is going to change the fact that she’s running on fumes.

There’s also a baby crying.

That usually doesn’t bother her. But her head is pounding and her eyes are blurry and the cursor on her laptop screen is blinking at her mockingly and …

Yeah.

She probably doesn’t need the cow.

She’s probably going to die anyway.

Sage pulls the brim of her navy Dodgers hat down further, as if that will somehow stop her head from spinning. She’s pretty sure its only effectiveness is in hiding how messy her hair is; the waves are untamed enough that she can see dark brown strands in her peripheral.

Emerson lets out an undignified snort from beside her, and Sage digs her elbow into her best friend’s ribs, the point slipping between her bones. It had been a surefire way to wake her up in college, when her snores would ring out through the dorm room and have Sage shucking off her covers and stomping over to her bed to quiet her.

Now, Emerson just grunts and turns away, platinum bangs plastered to her forehead as her head lolls dangerously close to the woman dozing against the window. Maybe the reason Emerson can sleep through anything now has something to do with all that growth she was on about last night.

“We’re thirty! This is our prime, babe! Thirty, flirty, and thriving! We’re doing the shit!”

Sage had given her a pointed look as Em raised up yet another shot, but growth isn’t linear, she supposes. Though for all the hype 13 Going on 30 has garnered over the years, Sage isn’t quite sure the quote fits. Not when Sage’s doctor recently grilled her about whether or not she planned to get married, or wanted kids, or if she was okay with her eggs dying, as if Sage had suddenly arrived at that phase of life where she needed to know everything.

Sage feels like she’s just starting to learn some things.

Or more realistically … question everything.

It was only a year ago when she looked at the progress she had made as a data analyst climbing the ranks, set it all on fire, and promptly quit, grad school and her parents’ wishes be damned. There was the whole she wrote a novel and got a book deal thing, so it worked out, but still. Throwing away a stable career?

The horror.

Her parents still haven’t recovered.

All of that is to say, Sage is very unsure of “the shit” Emerson thinks they’re doing so successfully, but she’ll go with it. She often does where Em is concerned.

“Can I get you anything else?” The flight attendant’s voice cuts through Sage’s reminiscing, but it’s syrupy enough that she knows she’s not addressing her. Sure enough, the woman’s attention is fixed hungrily on the man across the aisle from Sage, his blond hair falling slightly into his eyes as he scans a thick stack of papers. He glances up, gives the woman a kind smile, and says, “Another tea, please.”

He’s beautiful in that classic kind of way, all cheekbones and jawline and long limbs that look sort of ridiculous back here in economy where the space keeps getting smaller and smaller. He’s dressed casually—black T-shirt, dark blue jeans—but something about the way his clothes fit him perfectly, the way they highlight the cut of his biceps and the dip of his waist, makes him look entirely too put together for a transcontinental flight at …

Sage glances at the clock on her computer.

Ten AM.

God, she really regrets the tequila.

He also has an accent: English and curling aristocratically around his words. The flight attendant is blushing as she recalls he likes “two sugars, isn’t that right?” and Sage is having secondhand embarrassment as the man’s cheeks tinge pink beneath the attention.

It’s not like the attendant is the only one staring—Sage had clocked several people doing double takes as they shuffled down the aisle during boarding.

The baby’s wails increase in volume, and the man’s gaze flicks to Sage. Her mind registers blue and of fucking course, her pulse fluttering as her face heats from being caught staring. But he just grins, as if they’re sharing some sort of inside joke.

Or maybe he just wants Sage to know he knows the flight attendant is hitting on him, because, well, look at him.

The best Sage can offer is a tight smile that’s more of a grimace, because she’s tired and hungover and stressed out about the draft of her sequel that looks more like a murder scene.

There’s also an 80 percent chance he’s an asshole, based on the data she’s collected solely from her dating history. Correlation is not causation, etc. etc., but Sage does—did—have a track record of dating pretty people who turned out to be pricks.

Her Finance Fletcher era is shameful proof.

Anyway. She can connect the dots easily enough, and Prince of Grins and Poor Beverage Choices is triggering a straight line in her head from pretty to danger.

“Anything for you?” the flight attendant asks Sage, her cart clipping her shoulder.

“Um, a coffee with cream and sugar, please,” Sage responds, rubbing hard at the spot. The woman doesn’t spare her a second glance as she plops the drink down, throws a cream and five packets of sugar across Sage’s keyboard, gives Emerson and the other sleeping woman a look, and pushes off down the aisle.

Sage forces a slow inhale through her nose as she brushes three of the packets aside. She can practically hear her friend Margot’s scoff of disgust as Sage dumps the remaining sugar and cream into the cup. Her friend is quintessential LA: all green juice and no added sugars and Pilates, or whatever fitness craze has caught her fancy for the month.

She’d single-handedly ruined Sage’s love of pop when she’d sent her the latest study on why it was killing her.

(“Soda,” Emerson’s voice corrects in Sage’s head, as if she doesn’t call everything that fizzes “Coke,” thanks to her Atlanta roots.)

Sage, ever the analyst, even now, couldn’t ignore the data.

She’d ditched the soda. But Margot could pry sugar out of Sage’s cold, dead hands.

She takes a deep pull of coffee, nearly gags, and stares resolutely at her screen. She’s seven words into her draft when she hears, “Sorry, do you mind if I have one of those?”

It takes her a moment to realize Tea Guy is talking to her, and she scans her tray table to see what he could possibly want. He juts his chin toward the discarded sugar packets and adds with a teasing grin, “Unless you needed all five?”

Is he joking?

She thinks he might be joking.

“Oh, um, sure,” Sage says, scooping up the remaining packets and handing them to him. And then, because as her mother likes to point out, Sage can never leave well enough alone, she adds, “Not just two sugars, then?”

She immediately regrets it, but really, Sage only knows how he takes his tea because the attendant wouldn’t stop thirsting, so maybe it’s net neutral.

The man lets out a low laugh. “Usually, yes, just two. But this tea is objectively awful. Need something to cut it further.”

“You’d be better off with whiskey,” she mutters as she turns back to her computer.

“Is that what has you funneling coffee? Late night?” His voice dips with the final syllables, and Sage’s stomach swoops right along with it. She feels that tug she gets when she’s challenged, and her gaze follows where it leads—right back to the smirking stranger.

So the pretty boy has teeth. Interesting.

“Early flight,” she retorts slowly.

“Of course, of course.” His tone is airy, but there’s still that teasing edge just beneath it as he says, “Hence the coffee.”

“Sorry, what’s your point?”

“No one downs that rubbish unless they need it mainlined.”

Sage doesn’t consider herself particularly picky when it comes to her caffeine—not after Margot destroyed her one sliver of joy. As long as she has something fueling her brain, she’ll take it.

Sage keeps her finger on her trackpad, but her brow arches as she cuts a glance at his tea.

“Should someone who’s gulping down a sad excuse for stale water be harassing someone else about their beverage choices?”

The man barks a laugh, the sound deep and smooth, and Sage bites down on her reluctant grin as she forces herself to focus on her laptop.

“How you can get any work done is beyond me,” he muses.

And that simply won’t do. Hinting at her hungover state is one thing but openly mocking her for it is entirely another. She has a retort ready on her lips, but she catches his smile as he nods back toward where the baby is still wailing.

“The baby,” he adds, as if he knows Sage is one breath from launching into a verbal sparring match that straddles the line between flirting and … decidedly not.

“It’s your superpower,” Emerson told her once. “You fling insults and people fall in love with you.”

He doesn’t seem as bothered by the prospect as he should be.

“Right,” she finally says, rather stupidly. “The baby.”

His grin inexplicably widens, and he motions toward her laptop. “What are you working on?”

Now she really wishes that cow would fall through the plane ceiling and crush her to death.

Sage loves her job. Obviously Sage loves her job, because she threw away an entire career she had been steadily working toward for years on the hope of fulfilling a dream. Ever since she was a child, she’s been scribbling prose on scraps of paper, losing herself in the tangle of her mind only to find her way out by jotting it all down. To be able to do this for a living? It’s … well, it’s more than she ever dreamt of, and especially when she considers that she was raised in a house where your value was tied to how high up the corporate ladder you climbed.

Her creativity was admirable, but it wasn’t viable for a career.

And yet … the world seems to disagree.

Because now, she’s a full-time author, her first book an instant New York Times bestseller, and according to her entire publishing team, that’s a feat that simply “doesn’t happen often. Or, like, ever.”

It’s what secured her a place at Comic Con, what has her on this plane headed for New York, her best friend and entertainment lawyer tagging along “just because,” what has a film studio mulling over movie rights with her agent.

It’s amazing, a dream come true, and she wouldn’t trade it for anything, but now …

Well, now she wonders if that’s exactly what it is: a dream. A dream that she’s waking up from, because now she’s staring down the sequel, and it’s not working.

What if she has only one good book in her? What if all of those scraps of paper and abandoned notebooks weren’t a sign of talent but of the limitations of her mind? What if this whole thing just … vanishes tomorrow?

What if my parents were right?

She doesn’t have time for a self-induced breakdown, so she shoves the thoughts away and evades his question with a brief “Nothing exciting.”

She eyes his stack of papers. She may not be in the mood to converse with a stranger, but she’s not above using him for deflection. “What are you working on?”

He glances down, his lips twitching at the corners. When he looks back at her, his eyes—god, they’re like … rom-com blue—are glinting with something that rivals mischievousness. “Nothing exciting,” he parrots.

Sage can’t decide if she wants to stick her tongue out at him like a child or flip him the bird—you know, like an adult—but suddenly he’s ripping open a sugar packet and she’s mildly distracted by his long fingers.

(She’s hungover—give her a break.)

He takes a sip, then promptly chokes. “Ugh, Christ, this is still horrid.”

Sage bites back a smirk as she turns to her work. She can feel his eyes on her, but she stares pointedly at the blinking cursor and forces herself to focus. She can do this. She just needs to start.

And stop letting him distract her.

“You wouldn’t happen to be writing your own obituary, would you?” the man asks.

“What? No?” She turns to see him grinning at her, his head lolling back against the seat in a way that looks disarmingly at ease.

“You look like you’re contemplating death.”

“Maybe it’s because some people never learned proper plane etiquette.”

“I’m English. We invented etiquette.” He straightens and punches the flight attendant call button. “I’ll prove it.”

“Please don’t,” Sage warns. The last thing she needs is the overly friendly flight attendant coming to—

“Well, hello again!” The attendant giggles, reaching the man’s seat in no time at all. Sage can’t help the way her eyes bug, and she can tell the stranger is swallowing a laugh.

“Terribly sorry to be a bother, but could I trouble you for two glasses of whiskey?” His English charm is turned up to ten, all round vowels and quick syllables, and Sage is so distracted for a moment that she misses the flight attendant’s question.

“Ice?” he repeats, head cocked as he waits for Sage to answer.

“It’s ten AM,” she replies with a blink.

“It’s five PM in London.” Then, to the attendant, “Ice for both of us, thanks.”

The flight attendant shoots Sage a conspicuous look, and she’s still eyeing her when she drops off the whiskey and waves off the man’s attempt to pay. Sage has enough good sense to wait until she leaves before she snorts incredulously.

“What?” The man asks as he hands her a cup and clinks his own against it.

“She must really like you.”

“Or,” he says, clearing his throat against the burn of the liquor, “she’s just being kind. I hear some Americans are capable of it.” He shoots her a pointed look.

“I mean, I didn’t ask you to buy me a drink, but thanks…” She trails off, waiting for him to fill in his name.

“Theo,” he supplies with an amused smile. “And I didn’t buy it.”

For some inexplicable reason, Sage feels her face heating at that. She can’t tell if he’s flirting or simply bored and desperate to annoy her until she self-destructs.

“Anyway,” he says as he fishes around his pocket and pulls out an AirPods case. He slips them into his ears and holds up his cup once more. “Cheers.”

Then he’s turning back to his stack of papers, as if Sage were the one pestering him. She can feel her lips part incredulously, so she snaps her mouth shut as she turns back to her computer in a huff.

It takes her a moment to notice Emerson’s eyes are open and her brows are raised as she looks between Sage and the man. “Who’s your friend?”

Sage rolls her eyes. “Theo, I guess? You were snoring, by the way.”

Emerson merely swipes the whiskey from her tray table and gives her a grin. “Good,” she says, before she downs the entire glass. “Cheers.”

Sage knows three things with absolute certainty:

1. The first five minutes of Finding Nemo are a guaranteed cry-fest.

2. Pineapple doesn’t belong on pizza.

3. Emerson is and always will be the better half of them, despite the many times Sage has wanted to murder her.

They’ve operated as a unit for so long that Sage honestly struggles to remember what life was like before Emerson threw a crop top at her face, shoved her off the tiny twin bed in their shared dorm freshman year at UCLA, and demanded Sage come out with her lest she wither away “like a sad, Victorian woman locked in a tower.”

Emerson had held Sage’s hair back that night as she threw up Taaka. They’ve been best friends ever since.

They just fit together. Sage is chaotically caught up in her brain, and Emerson is decisive and a magnet for a good time, and together, they make mostly goodish decisions and force one another to be the best they can be. Emerson reminds Sage to live in the moment, and Sage keeps Emerson from taking that moment and making it one that lands them both in jail.

And sure, sometimes Emerson takes on the role of doctoring Sage’s life a little too much, but Sage loves her anyway. At least, that’s what she reminds herself as Emerson strikes up a conversation with Theo as they taxi to their gate.

She’s doing that thing where her tone is sugary, her Southern accent thick like honey. If it hadn’t been for the years living together through under- and postgrad, Sage might think her friend was flirting.

But Sage knows she’s actually meddling, and given she’s currently seated between Emerson and Theo, she can’t very well shoot her a look that tells her to stop. So instead, she occupies herself with her phone, ignoring both of them entirely. Emerson allows it until they disembark.

They’re off the jet bridge, and Sage is squinting at her screen as she tries to read the instructions her publicist, Taylor, sent about where to meet their driver when she hears Emerson say, “Doesn’t it, Collins?”

Sage’s surname rolls off of Emerson’s tongue pointedly, her shoulder bumping hers as they make their way toward baggage claim.

“Um…” Sage manages to say, phone still gripped in her hand as she blinks up at Emerson. Theo is walking on Em’s other side, looking bemused from beneath the plain black ball cap he’s pulled on.

It does absolutely nothing to make him look less devastatingly attractive, and Sage sort of hates that.

“Yes,” she answers decidedly.

“Sage loves a good club,” Emerson explains to Theo with a wicked grin, and dammit, what did Sage just agree to?

“Excellent,” he retorts, his lips pressing together to fight off a laugh. “It’s on Friday. You can just give my name at the door, they’ll show you to our area.”

A noise that sounds a lot like an objection builds in Sage’s throat, because she’s finally putting the pieces together and realizing that Emerson has somehow invited them to some club that Theo has special access for, but Emerson is speaking before she can.

“Great!” She snatches Sage’s phone out of her hand. “I’ll pull up the car information. That’s my job.”

“Technically, your job is making sure I’m not breaking the law. Or getting screwed over. And you’re not here in that capacity.”

The irony that it was Emerson who became the lawyer isn’t lost on Sage. But she’s incredibly talented. Yet despite having thoroughly reviewed every single one of Sage’s contracts, this week, she’s here as Sage’s friend. Emerson needed a break after a tough few months at work, and Sage needed the moral support.

But Emerson gives her a dismissive wave and puts her full focus into Sage’s phone like it’s going to tell her the winning lottery combination. She punches her thumb against the screen and brings the phone to her ear, stepping out from between them and leaving Theo and Sage side by side as they continue toward baggage claim.

“A lawyer?” Theo guesses, glancing at Emerson as she pulls ahead of them. “I could use one of those.”

“She’s in entertainment law.” Sage uses the tone she’s perfected when she, Emerson, and Margot are out on Santa Monica Boulevard and turning down a proffered drink. Theo’s lips part, as if he’s on the verge of saying something, but then he’s shaking his head instead.

“Right,” he says with a breathy laugh. He holds her stare for a long moment, and it’s enough to have Sage slowing her pace before she can even question what she’s doing.

“Look,” he finally murmurs, ducking his head toward hers. His voice is low, so she has to lean in, and something that resembles nervousness flickers in his eyes. “This might be—”

Sage never learns what this might be, because several things happen in rapid succession as they round the corner.

First, Sage trips, the toe of her Dr. Martens catching on the linoleum floor and sending her stumbling forward. Theo catches her around the waist, pulling her toward him to steady her, his arm firm and secure and so warm that it sends a rush through her veins. Before she can thank him, there’s a sudden burst of noise that’s so overwhelming Sage’s first instinct is to flinch further into Theo, her hand coming up to grip his shirt as she lets out a startled laugh.

Theo’s eyes widen, and he whips his head toward the noise—is it shouting?—with a soft “Christ.” Sage promptly realizes then that she’s clinging to him like some sort of damsel in distress and jerks away before following his gaze, her mind rapidly placing people and cameras and flashes.

She looks around to see what poor celebrity the fucking paparazzi are here to accost, not that she’d recognize them because she’s notoriously bad at that sort of thing, and …

“Theo! Over here, Theo!”

“Theo! Are you excited for your time in New York?”

“Look over here, Theo!”

It takes Sage a moment to realize Theo has moved a few steps ahead of her. He tosses an apologetic look over his shoulder, says, “See you Friday,” as if it’s a fact, then he’s lifting a hand in a brief wave for the cameras as he walks past them and then he’s just … gone.

Sage can feel the flabbergasted look on her face as Emerson turns back to her, looking smug.

“Oh, you didn’t know?” she says in a way that makes it perfectly clear she knew Sage was making a fool out of herself. “Yeah, that’s Theo Sharpe. He’s, like, the next big actor on the scene. He’s here for Comic Con, too. Promoting his movie. You know, the one I’ve been obsessed with for the last three months. The one I’ve been begging you to watch.”

For a moment, Sage’s mouth just … moves.

No sound.

Total gaping fish.

Sage is a writer. She’s not naive to the happenings of the world. But the thing is … she’s not a film buff by any means, and pop culture isn’t really her thing. Her Instagram feed is mostly bookish posts and fashion trends and latte art (one caffeine addiction replacing another, she supposes). She’s aces at trivia when it comes to history and literature, but celebrity gossip?

That’s all Emerson.

Sage reads Vogue, Emerson reads People, and that’s how it’s always been.

So, no, Sage didn’t know Theo had just been in some movie—and that it had launched him into the type of fame that has paparazzi wanting to take pictures of him.

Suddenly, the flight attendant is making a lot more sense. As are the passengers who were sneaking glances. Sage thought she’d noticed someone snap a picture with their phone, but she just thought the person was being creepy.

“But … he was in economy,” Sage manages to say.

“Don’t be a snob, S,” Emerson scolds as she hands back Sage’s phone and steers her toward baggage claim. “He’s, like … newly famous. Besides, remember that time we ran into Nicolas Cage? He was flying economy.” Emerson is grinning, and Sage is just … following her toward their carousel, like she didn’t just let her make a complete ass of herself.

“If he’s newly famous, what the hell are the paparazzi doing here?”

Emerson shrugs. “They didn’t follow him out. Probably waiting on one of the other Comic Con guests. I hear Chris Evans is coming.”

“He’s probably flying private,” Sage grumbles.

“As if you’d recognize him if he wasn’t.”

She would, thank you very much. She doesn’t live under a rock. “You’re a fucking nightmare,” she mutters.

Emerson rolls her eyes and buries herself in her phone. Sage follows suit, flicking through the slew of emails she’s been avoiding since this morning. “You know,” Emerson muses, “he really is quite handsome.”

“Who?” Sage mutters distractedly as she opens yet another email from her publicist. She’s already checked in and wants to meet to go over the schedule. She’s added a few things since they last spoke.

“Theo,” Emerson drags out his name, her exasperation with Sage evident.

“You’re not seriously stalking his Instagram right now, are you?” Sage hisses, glancing around baggage claim from beneath her hat, as if Theo is lingering anywhere in the vicinity.

“No, I’m stalking his IMDb. And stop looking around like that, he’s long gone.”

“You don’t have his filmography memorized?”

“I figured I’d brush up on the finer points so I can help you not look like a total dork when we go to his party later this week.”

Sage clicks her phone off. “First of all, rude. Secondly, we’re not going to that.”

“Are you kidding? Why the hell not? When else are we going to be invited to an A-lister party?” Sage opens her mouth, but Emerson cuts her off. “Don’t say when your book gets made into a movie. Obviously that will be glamorous and wonderful but you will be working.”

Sage motions to the city beyond the airport. “I’m working now, you disaster.”

Emerson isn’t swayed. In fact, she looks all the more indignant, her brow furrowing the way it does right before she doubles down. “I’m surprised I even have to point out that attending that party is very much a work outing. Do you know how many connections can be made at an event like that?”

Sage bites back a curse. Arguing with a lawyer is notoriously a bad idea, and arguing with Emerson, specifically, is absolutely pointless. And if the way she straightens is any indication, she’s just getting warmed up. “What if someone from a production company is attending the Con and happens to go to this event?”

Someone from a production company is attending the Con. And not just someone—a production manager from the studio Sage is hoping bites at the option, Jaylen Hammel, will be here in the flesh. Sage’s agent, Anna, is flying in from London specifically for the dinner she somehow managed to talk him into.

It was just a few weeks ago that Jaylen had let them know they had an actor in mind for the project, and now he’s agreed to dinner. Sage, against Anna’s urging to keep her hopes low, has her hopes sky-high that the meeting is the moment she gets the good news. The thought makes her stomach twist.

Sage wants the film option.

She isn’t sure if it’s the whole Moving Goalpost Conundrum she’s struggled with her entire life where she’s always chasing after the next thing, or if it’s because this is the first time her parents have ever shown this much interest in her author career and she’s pre-programmed to care about that no matter how hard she tries not to.

When she hit the bestseller list, their reaction was distilled into a simple congratulatory text. It had been clear the accomplishment did nothing to stop their ever-growing concern that she’s made a massive mistake. But it seems even they can’t argue with the clout of a movie. Or the income it could bring her.

But what about financial security, Sage? Her dad’s voice echoes in her head.

She doesn’t need them to approve, but silencing their constant disapproval would make her life a hell of a lot easier.

So … it’s both, she guesses: the goalpost and the need for them to see she’s not floundering.

All in all, Emerson has a point. She knows she has a point, and Sage does, too. But her pride is still smarting, and it smothers her reason. Facing a celebrity that she didn’t recognize—even if he is a newly minted one—feels like a specific kind of torture, especially given she was also sort of an ass to him.

“Fine,” Sage sighs. “You’re right. But can we just … see how this week goes first? There’s a lot going on.”

She can’t afford distractions.

Emerson’s jaw is set, but Sage can see the hint of a smirk threatening to break through. “Fine,” Emerson parrots. “But can you say that first part one more time? About me being right?”

“Nope, I said I hate you and you give me heartburn.”

“That’s the spirit.”

2
Fickle Fame

Sage knows it sounds self-deprecating, but she never expected to be here. And not just here as in doing a signing in Brooklyn at one of her favorite indie bookstores on the eve of one of the biggest conventions, but here as in …

This new version of her life she’s found herself in. She keeps expecting to look in the mirror and find someone else staring back at her. Like her dark brown hair will suddenly be blond, or her skin, olive-tinged from her mother’s Greek heritage and tanned by her sun exposure in LA, will suddenly have turned a ghostly pale.

How can life change so much and yet there be no physical evidence of it?

Maybe it’s because Sage hasn’t changed, not really. She’s more … come home to herself. She’s found a way to take her overactive brain and her too-big emotions and her too-sensitive heart and channel them into something that actually makes her and others feel good.

Well, some others. There are, of course, her parents and the random people who like to send her emails about how she’s the worst writer they’ve ever read, but she tries her best to ignore them.

Don’t let them see you sweat and all that jazz.

But the thing is … Sage craves control, and she does what she needs to in order to keep it. Perhaps it stems from the years before her ADHD diagnosis—the ones where she didn’t understand her neurodivergence, so she masked, and planned, and organized, and hyper-fixated and strove because her energy needed to go somewhere, and success and achievement were outlets that also meant validation and love.

But Nights … Nights has never really been in her control.

From the first time she sat down to write about Cleo and her postapocalyptic world, it had felt completely out of her hands. She’d come home one night after another meeting where she presented her data and recommendations to management only for them to care more about shareholder value than literally anything else that could actually improve the company, and that agitated energy had been pressing against her skin, begging for release. She had to do something to ease that pressure building in her chest, so … she wrote.

It was what she’d always done, ever since she was old enough to realize she could use the written word to ease the ache of the emotions that often felt too big for her body and too much for those around her. Journal entries. Short stories. Fan fiction one-shots about her favorite bands that Noah, her older brother, teased her for liking.

Sage would write until she felt better, until she felt a little less odd, then let the half-finished stories die.

But with Nights, she never stopped.

She wrote on her lunch break at work, in LA traffic in the Notes app on her phone, in the disgusting bathroom stall of some dive bar Emerson or Margot had talked her into going to with their friends. Cleo wouldn’t stop demanding to have her story told, and so Sage kept writing, and writing, and writing. And though it was more than she’d ever written before, she hadn’t known it would be anything more than a cathartic expression of some of the rawest bits of her heart and mind.

She loved Cleo and her chaos and the wreckage of the dystopian world she lived in, and sure, part of her hoped a publisher would love it, too, but …

She certainly hadn’t expected them to love it like this.

She hadn’t expected the auction between nine different publishers who desperately wanted to publish it. She hadn’t expected the large, two-book advance she’d gotten, or the support that had people chomping at the bit to buy it before it was even available. Sage had done her research—had tried to stay in control—so she’d known not to expect that in this industry. So much of publishing, nearly all of it, is about luck. This type of experience hardly happens to anyone.

At the time, she was a data analyst with grad school debt and a fairly new and cutting realization that the path she’d been bleeding on was one she couldn’t stand to be on for a second longer.

Suddenly, striving for the next level of the career she’d been told to want wasn’t enough. The monotony of her days—spreadsheets and presentations and meetings where stakeholders didn’t care—pulled her skin tight until she thought she might burst from the shape she’d contorted herself into.

Perhaps that’s why Nights hit a chord. She took all of that discomfort, all of that angst, and funneled it into a world that resembled her own, but worse.

The next thing she knew, publishers thought it could be the thing, and then it was, and it all happened so quickly, changed so quickly, that Sage knows it could change just as quickly again. She’s seen it happen, and sometimes that thought alone is enough to have her heart rate increasing until she buries the nipping panic beneath her gratitude. She’s hardly had time to adjust to her new normal.

But she tries to focus on making the most of the moments she has while she has them.

Like right now.

Her heart is pounding from adrenaline, her cheeks sore from smiling with readers, but she can’t stop grinning. She’s just wrapped up the signing—for which tickets were sold out—and sure, maybe it will all slip away tomorrow, but for today, it’s real and it’s good and she will let the joy of it fill in every tiny crevice inside of her.

“You absolutely killed it, babe,” her publicist, Taylor, says as Sage stands from the table. Taylor has a Stanley in one hand, her phone in the other. “Good practice for the Con, yeah? I have some meetings, but you’re done for the day. Oh, and don’t forget, Greg Norman of Ballad Books wants to have coffee, so I booked him in tomorrow mid-morning.”

Taylor says it as if they haven’t been over the schedule a hundred times already.

Greg Norman tomorrow at 11.

Free time.

Dinner with Jaylen Hammel from the studio and Anna at 7:45.

Her Comic Con signing the next day.

Her panel the day after that.

But there’s something about Taylor running through it all again that’s soothing, nonetheless. Taylor is all sharp edges, from her perfectly tailored black pantsuit to her tight brunette bun that accentuates the jut of her cheekbones to the sharp cut of her pink heels that matches her lipstick and the blush on her pale cheeks. It’s only natural for her to launch straight into business, well, always. And besides … Ballad Books is the largest retailer on the eastern seaboard. To be grabbing coffee with the head fiction buyer is a big deal. A huge deal. All of this is, really, and Sage doesn’t mind the reminder.

She’s walked a delicate balance between thriving on pressure and drowning beneath its weight her entire life. Why stop now?

“It’s a good thing Greg is in town,” Taylor says. “We need to strike while the iron is hot and use this momentum for book two.”

“Absolutely,” Sage replies with a confident nod, ignoring the ice that slips down her spine at the mention of her sequel that is very much not coming along. Emerson appears at her side, wordlessly handing her a chai.

“Hungry?” her friend asks as Taylor excuses herself.

“Starving.”

They find a wine bar a block away from their hotel. They tuck themselves away in a booth and have just gotten started on a bottle when Sage realizes she should check in on the social media interactions from the signing. It would be good to DM those who have shared and thank them again for coming. She can also repost some photos from readers.

She grabs her phone and opens up Instagram.

“Should we do apps?” Emerson asks, her nose buried in a menu.

“If you want, I could go for—” The rest of Sage’s answer gets tangled on her tongue as she stills, the breath sweeping from her lungs. “What the hell?”

Her blood goes cold as she stares at the screen. Her notifications are flooded. New follower requests, new DMs, comments on comments on comments. Her signing was good, but it wasn’t that good. No signing she’s ever done has caused something like this.

Emerson leans over her shoulder, her brow furrowing. “Did you get hacked?”

Sage clicks around a bit, rather uselessly, because the notifications are still coming, and she sort of feels like her phone is about to combust in her hand, so she drops it on the table. “What the hell is happening?”

Emerson has her own device in hand, her bottom lip trapped firmly between her teeth as she taps around on her screen. Her eyes blow wide, and Sage knows, even before Emerson’s whispered “Oh shit,” that it’s bad.

“What?”

Wordlessly, Emerson hands her the phone. It takes Sage a minute to realize what she’s looking at. It looks like some gossip site’s Instagram. Emerson has pulled up a picture of Theo walking down a hall, his hand lifted in a half wave as he squints in what Sage assumes is the flash of a camera. He’s wearing the same black T-shirt he was wearing on the plane yesterday, because—

Oh. It’s from yesterday. She can see his duffle slung over his shoulder and a line of passengers behind him. There’s a red circle on the photo, but it’s not outlining Theo. It’s outlining a blurred shape behind him, just out of focus enough that you can’t see who it is.

“Fuck,” Sage breathes. Because when she swipes, there’s another photo, and there’s Sage, clear as day, her head tilted up toward Theo, and oh god, his arm is around her waist and her hand is on his chest and there’s that red circle around her again, a bunch of childishly drawn question marks at the edges.

2,319 likes
celebrity411 Is romance heating up at Comic Con? Theo Sharpe seen looking cozy with mystery woman as they left LaGuardia yesterday … more

View all 423 comments
theosgirl omg wait is this his gf?!

1 HOUR AGO

“How do they know it’s me?” Sage breathes.

Emerson expands the comments, and there it is …

readersforlyfe89 OMFG, this is @sagecollinsauthor! I love her book!!!!

“Fuck,” Sage says again as she clicks on Theo’s tagged photos. Variations of the picture—zoomed in, pixelated—are everywhere. E! News. People. Fan pages (Theo’s, obviously). The Daily Mail.

The news that it’s her has started to spread, and some of the photos even have her tagged, and Sage has never hated the Internet’s propensity to make Something out of Nothing more. Because there they are, splashed all over social media, and it looks so goddamn condemning with their ball caps and the way they’re leaning toward each other and the captions of “mystery woman” and “romance” and “cozy.” Sage wants to laugh, or cry, or maybe find Theo and throttle him for not disclosing who he was sooner.

“I’m really sorry, S.” There’s a softness in Emerson’s voice that speaks to years of knowing someone and what sinks beneath their skin. Emerson’s face is earnest, her eyes steady as they lock on hers. “We can fix this.”

Sage remains silent as she returns Emerson’s phone and picks up her own, navigating to her most recent Instagram post. It’s from the hotel yesterday, a quick little snapshot that’s all about being excited for her first Con. There’s an influx of new comments beneath it, and Sage feels nauseous as she reads them.

589 likes
sagecollinsauthor So excited to be in NYC for @newyorkcomiccon!! Are you going to be there?!

View all 70 comments
carlasingerx Seriously? She’s basic.

theosgirlfriend4 Looks like a publicity play to me.

unknownuserforev So sick of authors trying to be celebs
theosharpeunlimited We all know she’s just using him!

1 DAY AGO

This … this cannot be happening. Not now. Not during the biggest week of her career. She has a panel to do and booksellers to meet and a goddamn studio to charm and the absolute last fucking thing she needs is a publicity scandal that makes her look like some sort of … some sort of …

She’s so irritated, so uncomfortable, she can’t even think of the word.

And then there’s something deeper …

Something shaky, a strange buzzing in her body that she’s never quite been able to avoid when she faces rejection. It’s reminiscent of the first time a negative review about her book went viral; it’s the same anxiety-riddled feeling she’d get when she was younger and she got a bad grade in school.

Except this feels even worse.

She doesn’t even know Theo. She’s certainly not using him.

Sage inhales through her nose and forces her mind to focus on the facts:

1. She’s not actually dating Theo, so these rumors can be easily squashed.

2. Taylor, her publicist, is literally blocks away in a meeting. Sage can talk to her as soon as she’s done.

3. She didn’t do anything wrong.

“Sage,” Emerson urges, her hand warm on her wrist. “Say something.”

Sage swallows. Runs through the facts again.

I didn’t do anything wrong.

She nods.

“I’m fine,” she finally manages. She copies the link to the Instagram post and pastes it in a text to Taylor, along with a Need to talk ASAP.

Taylor’s text comes back immediately. Vaguely, Sage remembers her saying something about having Google Alerts for her authors’ names. She imagines Taylor’s phone buzzing like a vibrator in whatever meeting she’s in and promptly wants to perish.

Saw it. Where are you?

Wine bar—28th and 11th.

Be there in five. And for fuck’s sake, stay offline.

Sage lets her head fall back against the booth as she tosses her phone on the plush seat next to her. “First major event, and I’ve caused a scandal large enough for Taylor to leave a meeting.”

“She’s on her way?” Sage can’t tell if it’s worry or relief that coats Emerson’s tone. Sage just nods, her thick hair staticky against the velvet. “She’ll know exactly what to do,” Emerson assures her. “And look. It’s not all bad, you know? See how many new followers you have. Those are all potential readers!”

Sage’s head feels heavy as she lifts it to narrow her eyes at Emerson. “These people do not give a shit about Nights.”

“Not with that attitude they won’t.” Emerson wilts a little under her continued glare. “Too soon for humor?”

Sage is trying very, very hard to not take her anxiety and spew it like fire onto Emerson. She’s done it before to those she loves, when the spinning record in her mind goes too fast. As easy as it would be to blame Emerson for this mess … it’s not her fault. It’s not like Emerson planned for Sage to be photographed with Netflix’s newest darling.

God. What are the odds of something like this? Theo being Theo and Sage tripping and the fucking paparazzi being there to catch it all?

“Why do they even care?” Sage grumbles. “I thought you said Theo was a new celebrity.”

Emerson’s mouth pinches in concentration as she scrolls through her phone. “It looks like there have been rumors lately that he’s seeing someone. Unconfirmed, of course. But just a few weeks ago, there was a big stir online about it.”

“You just happened to miss that, did you?” Sage deadpans.

Emerson looks sheepish as she dutifully fills Sage’s wineglass. Sage takes a long sip of the pinot and focuses her attention on the door. In what feels like no time at all, Taylor is striding through it, looking far too composed for having just found one of her authors in the middle of a gossip column scandal.

She sits down, takes Emerson’s wineglass, and drains it in three long gulps.

“Right,” Taylor says. “So when we caught up yesterday, you didn’t think to tell me that you’d met Theo Sharpe on the plane?”

“I didn’t know who he was,” Sage mutters, as if this would at all help her case. “I didn’t think it was relevant.”

Taylor blinks at her, her jaw shifting as if she’s trying to determine if she wants to pick apart Sage’s stupidity. “Well, I’d say it’s pretty relevant now.” To Emerson, she says, “I take it you knew?”

Emerson has the decency to look properly scolded. “I might have recognized him.”

Taylor lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Do I need to get Anna on the phone for this?”

Sage feels her shoulders curve inward. “She’s on a transatlantic flight right now. Email her a debrief?”

“Fine. Here’s what we’re going to do. I guess first, I need to ask—you’re not fucking Theo Sharpe, right?”

“I just told you I didn’t even know who he was!”

Taylor shoots her a look. “Forgive me for making sure I get all of the details this time. So you met him on the plane and just happened to be bombarded by paparazzi?”

“We think they were there for Chris Evans,” Emerson chimes in, as if that’s somehow helpful. She looks down at her phone, thumbs moving rapidly across her screen. “Yep,” she chirps, holding up her phone. Sure enough, there’s Captain America in all of his glory. Sage’s lungs squeeze in her chest as she notes, hysteria edging into the inner voice that narrates constantly in her head, that his aviators aren’t enough to hide his identity, even from her.

Taylor closes her eyes and inhales deeply, as if praying to some higher power for patience.

“Okay,” she says levelly, meeting Sage’s gaze and ignoring Emerson completely. “We’re going to issue a very, very casual statement. And by we, I mean you.”

There’s a bitter taste of guilt on the back of Sage’s tongue, that voice whispering something that sounds like you and a problem, but she swallows it down. She needs to focus.

“How bad is it really, Taylor?”

Taylor waves a hand. “A truly unreal situation, but … it’s fine. I’m more annoyed that you didn’t tell me. Now get drafting.”

It takes them thirty minutes and several glasses of wine (for Emerson at least, given Sage and Taylor need a clear head) to come up with something that Taylor approves and Sage feels sounds enough like her.

The post is simple: black text over a white background. And yet hitting Post feels sort of like jumping off a cliff without a parachute.

Wow. Hi to all the new faces! The good news (for you, and Theo, I guess!): I am very much not with Theo Sharpe. We just happened to be on the same plane out to Comic Con! Was great to meet him, though, and who knows—maybe you can still go shoot your shot?! The bad news (for me): I’m fairly certain 99% of you are here because of those pictures. But that’s okay! Anyway, if you’re at Comic Con this week, come say hey! Would love to meet you!

The comments start immediately, but Sage turns off her phone per Taylor’s instructions as her publicist shoots off an email to Anna. She’s definitely not looking forward to that late-night phone call when her agent lands in New York.

“I really think this will blow over,” Taylor says, an uncharacteristically soft look on her face as she holds Sage’s gaze. “Try not to stress too much about it, okay? If anything, we can work it to our advantage.”

Sage will most definitely be stressing about this. Her overactive mind has already added it to the litany of other things that she’s been cycling through on repeat leading up to this week, but if she buries herself in her draft tonight, maybe she won’t have to think about it too much.

“Two hours, no Internet,” Taylor continues, her voice hardening as she points a finger at Sage. “Don’t make me take your phone away.”

“Yes, Mom,” Sage intones, her lips quirking into the closest thing to a smile she’s been able to muster in the last hour. It’s a miracle she can even manage humor this soon.

Taylor rolls her eyes and drains the rest of Emerson’s wine again despite her protests. “I have meetings to get back to. I’ll see you in the morning for coffee with Ballad. Try not to get papped with any more celebrities between now and then.” She shoots Emerson a look that clearly says behave before sliding out of the booth and striding out the door.

“I take it we’re paying for her drinks?” Emerson says with a hint of incredulousness.

“Technically those were your drinks.”

Emerson flips her off and pays anyway.

Sage manages to wait three whole hours without checking Instagram, and it’s only because the last hour has been spent on the phone with Margot recounting The Incident fifty times over.

“Okay, but like … is he dreamy?” Margot’s voice is eager through the speaker. “He seems dreamy.”

Emerson snorts into the comforter of their king-sized hotel bed. “He’s dreamy!” she calls, dodging Sage’s attempt to keep her head buried.

“He reeks of pretty boy energy,” Sage says, her ankles crossing in the air as she lays face down on the mattress.

Margot gasps. “Oh my god, have you been reading that book on personal vibrations I gave you?!”

“No, Margot.”

“I’m telling you, Sage, it could be great for you. There’s a whole chapter on setting energetic boundaries. Imagine what that could do for your phone calls with your mom!”

Emerson waggles her brows at Sage, and Sage shoves Emerson’s head back into the comforter. “Speaking of boundaries,” Sage says over Emerson’s squeal. “I’m hanging up now. My energetic force field needs refreshing.”

“That’s not a thing,” Margot retorts with a sniff. “See if I help the next time your vibrations are low.”

Sage rolls her eyes. “Love you, M. At the highest vibration possible.”

Margot groans, but there’s a fond exasperation to it. “Love you too. Send me updates.”

“I will!” Emerson calls gleefully just before Sage clicks off the phone. “I’m going to shower,” she declares, rolling dramatically off the bed.

Sage puts on some rom-com for background noise before pulling up her email. There’s nothing from Anna, but she didn’t expect a reply yet. Anna takes flying without Wi-Fi very seriously. It’s about the only time her agent gets to binge movies uninterrupted.

She does, however, have a text from Noah, with a screenshot of her Instagram post and a bunch of question marks.

???? Is this a marketing thing?

Leave it to her brother to hit her main fear right on the first go.

For all he takes his role of big brother seriously, Noah lacks Emerson’s emotional finesse. He’s excellent if you want a five-pronged argument for why you deserve a raise, but quieting the inner voice that tells you you’re shit?

Not his forte.

It doesn’t make her love him any less. It does, however, mean she sends a pointed no, and moves on to Instagram.

Her notifications are still going wild, her post about Theo easily having become her highest liked. She’s sort of bitter about it, but at least that means people are reading it.

She swallows and pulls up the comments.

View all 200 comments

Emmairl55 oh thank god

Rrt9013 what a fucking transparent publicity stunt. using a celeb to boost your book? 1 star review, don’t even need to read it.

3 HOURS AGO

Her inbox is also full of messages, some from friends, some from readers, another from Noah (he’s sent her her own post with a simple WTF??), some from random strangers on the Internet. She answers a few, tells Noah to stick to one medium for communication, and ignores the rest. She’s about to close out of the app when another message appears.

NEW MESSAGE: @theosharpeactor

Sage’s heart skips a beat. Was she supposed to loop his team into this or something? Is she about to be scolded by some fancy Hollywood PR pro?

What does ‘very much not with’ someone mean? Is it different than just … ‘not with’? You’re an author so I assume you use words intentionally. Should I not hold out hope?

She stares at the message for a long moment.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” she mutters. But a reluctant smile tugs at the corner of her lips. She can, despite her annoyance at the situation, respect his audacity. Perhaps that’s why she types out a response before she can think better of it.

You can’t seriously be joking about this.

Tell your groupies to back down.

She tosses her phone onto the fluffy white comforter with an incredulous huff. Sure, a gossip scandal like this might not impact Theo’s career the way it could hers, but he could at least have some empathy. She’s getting dragged by his rabid fan base.

Sage hates herself a little for how she eyes her phone for a response.

Theo Sharpe

@theosharpeactor * Instagram

[View profile]

6:45 PM

First of all, they call themselves ‘Theologians,’ and secondly, I will do no such thing.

They bloody terrify me.

I’m going to share a screenshot of that.

Please don’t, I beg of you.

How do I know this is even you?

Aren’t you fancy enough to have people run this account?

Give me your number and I’ll prove it.

Sage hesitates, a feeling stirring in her stomach not unlike the lurch she feels on a roller coaster.

312-555-4789. Leak it and I kill you.

3
We Can Still Be Friends

For someone who crossed the Atlantic only to be met with a shitstorm upon her arrival, Sage’s agent looks incredibly composed.

Her chin-length black hair is perfectly straight and tucked behind her ears, and there’s not a dark circle to be found marring the beige skin beneath her eyes.

Then again, Sage has a running theory that Anna might be part goddess. There has to be some unique, superhero something in her veins. It’s the only thing that can describe how Anna is simultaneously one of Sage’s favorite people and the one she fears the most.

They’re sitting in the small café of the hotel, all white cushioned armchairs and black lacquered tables. Sage taps an anxious rhythm with the toe of one of her over-the-knee boots while Anna stirs sugar into her tea.

Anna’s only response to the detailed email Taylor had sent yesterday was a pointed Christ. Ok, and Sage had spiraled about that for the better part of the predawn hours this morning.

But right now, Anna looks calm, even as she arches a brow at Sage above the rim of her gold-framed eyeglasses. They highlight her eyes perfectly, her champagne eye shadow and winged eyeliner accentuating the deep brown of her irises.

“Look,” she finally says pointedly, “I wouldn’t have known who the bloke was either.”

That startles a laugh out of Sage, and her shoulders drop slightly as she leans back against her chair. She spins her cappuccino in her hand, her stomach not quite calm enough for caffeine—or anything, really. “But he’s English,” she teases.

Anna rolls her eyes. “You don’t claim every American.”

Sage pulls a face. She absolutely doesn’t. “Emerson says he’s the next ‘big thing,’” she intones with air quotes. “Apparently his movie, Legends, was the highest streamed of the summer.”

Anna’s lips pinch. “I thought it was shite, but…” She shrugs, as if to say to each their own, and Sage fixes her with a look.

“I thought you said you wouldn’t have recognized him either?”

“I wouldn’t. I turned the film off after fifteen minutes.” Sage laughs again at that, more of the tension bleeding from her body. Okay so, yes, Theo is a big deal, but having the reminder that he’s not the center of everyone’s universe is reassuring. Maybe this will blow over faster than she thought.

She hopes so. She may or may not have spent the better part of last night angry-reading his Wikipedia page, which had been both illuminating when she’d seen the dedication of his fans, and guilt-inducing when she reached the part about his family.

Theo Sharpe (29) is the younger brother of Oliver Sharpe, a promising actor who died in a car crash along with their mother, Olivia, in 2016.

She’d immediately closed the tab. Some things simply shouldn’t be for public consumption. And yet she hadn’t been able to shake the discomfort of it, especially when, true to his word, Theo had texted her to “talk damage control.”

+44 7946 555813

Oct 11 8:32 PM

+44 7946 555813

I truly am sorry. I had no idea the paparazzi would be there. That’s never happened to me before.

Sure, sure.

I’m sure as Hollywood’s newest heartthrob you’re TOTALLY not used to getting photographed.

+44 7946 555813

Fans, yes. Paparazzi, no.

Heartthrob, eh?

I’m quoting the Instagram posts, obviously.

Okay, so maybe she’d also Googled him. Maybe she’d read some (less) intrusive articles—ones that painted a picture of a young and hungry actor who exploded onto the scene this summer. Except he hadn’t exploded onto the scene. Not really.

If the length of his filmography is anything to go on, Theo has been cutting his teeth on any and every role he could get his hands on for years. He just hadn’t been noticed yet.

Until now.

The Internet loved to wonder if that was because all eyes had been on Oliver.

+44 7946 555813

Oct 11 8:50 PM

Also, for what it’s worth, I hear they were waiting for Chris Evans.

+44 7946 555813

Damn, Chris was there?

+44 7946 555813

I would’ve waited with the paps.

+44 7946 555813

Been wanting to meet him.

Sage couldn’t tell if she wanted to laugh or cuss him out for his flippancy. So instead, she’d told him she was tired from almost dying of embarrassment, and that she had to go.

+44 7946 555813

Oct 11 8:55 PM

+44 7946 555813

Don’t die, I owe you an apology drink at Vibe this Friday.

+44 7946 555813

As for the rest—

We typically don’t respond to these things, but I’m trying to see if my manager will let me at least share your post.

Hang tight.

In between her excitement for her week at the Con and the utter hell that was yesterday evening when her social media turned into some sort of automatic insult machine, she’d completely forgotten about the party. She hadn’t bothered to tell Theo that now he’d reminded her, she was going to avoid it like the plague.

One day of humiliation was quite enough, thank you very much.

“Look,” Anna says, drawing Sage out of her head. “Is a media frenzy fun? No. Is it shite timing? Maybe. Maybe not. But you said your piece, so now it’s time to focus on what’s ahead of us.”

Sage’s teeth dig into her bottom lip. “You don’t think this is going to affect the meetings?” She uses the plural, but Anna knows there’s one meeting that’s on Sage’s mind.

“Yes, because film studios hate when you fraternize with other people in film,” Anna retorts dryly.

“Ha. Ha.”

“If anything,” Anna continues as if Sage isn’t shooting daggers at her, “they’ll probably wonder what your problem is with him.”

Well, there’s a new worry Sage absolutely did not need. “I don’t have a problem with him!” The quick denial makes her voice increase in volume, and she throws a furtive glance around the café before giving Anna a look. “I don’t have a problem with him,” she tries again, calmly. “Why would you say that?”

“You issued that denial fairly quickly.” Anna takes a sip of her tea. It’s impossible to tell if she’s serious or if she’s taking pleasure in torturing Sage, as she’s often wont to do. Fifteen percent isn’t enough for Anna—she needs a hefty dose of Sage’s anxiety right alongside it.

“Are you joking?” Sage finally caves, hating how needy she sounds. “I can never tell.”

Anna just lifts a brow and smiles into her tea. “Shall we discuss today’s schedule?”

“Between you and Emerson, I’m going to die prematurely from stress.”

“Darling, if you die from stress, you’ll have no one to blame but your overactive imagination.”

“That imagination is paying us,” Sage retorts, pointing a spoon at Anna and ignoring the way foam drips onto the white tablecloth.

“Right.” Anna straightens, suddenly all business. “So let’s talk about getting us paid, shall we?”

It turns out Anna does suffer in the same way mere mortals do. She blames jet lag for why she needs time to herself at the hotel after their meeting with the head fiction buyer of Ballad Books, but Sage has an inkling that maybe Anna needs a break from the way Sage is buzzing.

She’s also fairly certain Anna isn’t actually going to her room but is instead ducking out to Sullivan Street Bakery to do some recon. The only thing meaner than Anna’s negotiation skills is her stirato.

Anna leaves her with a kiss to the cheek outside of the hotel, and Sage inhales a crisp lungful of NYC fall air that’s slightly rank and yet wonderful all the same. She should be writing—she should literally always be writing—but she’s too excited to stare at her laptop.

So she pivots on her heel and heads toward the Javits Center, where Emerson has been passing her time wandering exhibitor booths.

It’s a few blocks away, but between the walk and the cold, she can feel her shoulders loosening as she replays the meeting with Ballad in her mind.

Sage has always thrived under pressure, so when Greg said, “We’re going all out for book two,” in a way that sounded a lot like this shit better sell as well as book one, it had the achiever in her rearing its head.

They’d swapped marketing ideas, and for the first time in the weeks since she’s been stuck on her sequel, she felt like she could do this.

She’ll get home, she’ll get drafting, and it’ll all come together.

Sage smiles and tilts her head back and takes in the towering skyscrapers.

In West Hollywood, she’s certainly just a number, but not like this. There’s something about everyone else being so small right alongside her that feels comforting. It’s one of the things she loves most about living in a city. She can be anyone. Blend in anywhere. Get swallowed by a crowd and lose herself to the hum of the energy around her.

Her phone buzzes in the pocket of her leather jacket, cutting through her philosophical musing.

A text—from a number she didn’t save last night because she honestly didn’t think she’d need it. Surprise flits through her, sending her heart fluttering as she swipes open the message.

Who’s Remy?

She frowns in confusion, typing out a brief What? Suddenly she’s looking at a picture of a dedication page in a book.

Her book.

To Remy, who stood by me during my own darkest nights.

Sage stops in the middle of the sidewalk and is promptly cussed out by no less than three people. She squeaks out an apology and ducks into the front of a bodega.

Theo has a copy of Nights.

Distantly, Sage realizes this is kind of like how she thought about watching his movie on Netflix last night, but she’d refrained, and not just because she’d seen enough still shots of the sex scene circulating social media to know she wouldn’t be able to watch it without dying of secondhand embarrassment.

Or fixating on his gorgeous co-star. She didn’t even need to watch it to know it could be a new generation’s Pirates of the Caribbean. She may not be one for films, but she does have Elizabeth Swann to thank for her own bi awakening.

My dog.

She passed right after I finished the first draft.

That had to be so difficult, I’m sorry.

Do you have a picture?

She has several, but she picks her favorite and hits Send before she can wonder why the hell she’s texting Theo Sharpe in the middle of the day like they’re … well … not practically strangers. Theo responds immediately with a picture of a black cat.

Adorable.

This demon is mine.

His name is Toothless.

As in Toothless from “How to Train Your Dragon”?

Indeed.

Sage blinks.

That is … unexpected.

Obviously, she doesn’t know Theo, but you see enough shirtless pictures of someone, and you start to sort of feel like you do. It’s parasocial behavior, and typically Sage hates that, but …

There’s just nothing about Theo that screams “DreamWorks.”

Or cats.

Then again, she bristles when people try to pigeonhole her with her own career, as if every writer is the same. Yes, she has a bookshelf teaming with enough books that she’s not sure it’s structurally sound, and yes, she loves leather-bound journals and finding the perfect pen, and yes, she’s living out an entirely different story in her head 80 percent of the time, flipping through dialogue in her brain while holding a conversation in real life, but that last part has more to do with her ADHD than it does with her job.

Even still …

Surprised to find out you’re a cat guy.

Because I’m …

How do you Americans put it?

‘A total golden retriever’?

‘So babygirl’?

Sage chokes on a laugh, and the owner of the bodega leans over the counter to check on her. Or maybe he wants her to leave if she isn’t going to buy anything. Either way, she waves him off and steps out of the store.

You are utterly ridiculous.

She doesn’t even realize she’s smiling until her cheeks start to hurt a few blocks later.

Noah

Oct 12 3:27 PM

Noah

Good luck at the dinner tonight!!

Thank you!

I feel like I’m going to puke

Noah

Just don’t do it at the table.

It’s 9 PM and Sage is no longer smiling. Not in a real way, at least.

She imagines if someone were to snap a picture of her face right now, her mouth would resemble the type of forced grin that’s become a fixture of her FaceTime calls with her parents.

So really, it’s more of a grimace.

It’s just … Sage has been through her fair share of breakups. She’s done the dumping, but she’s also been dumped enough to recognize the signs. To know you can see the it’s not you, it’s me, before you ever hear it.

With Charlotte, Sage saw it in her smile: It went from loose and easy to firm and pinched, like the time she’d mistaken Sage’s oat milk latte for her bitter black coffee and tried not to spit it out. With her high school boyfriend, it was in the way his gaze darted across her face without ever meeting her eyes, as if he couldn’t bear to look at her.

Basically, Sage knows when to brace for impact.

And right now, she’s gripping her fork like it’s the only thing she has to protect her from the blow she knows is coming her way. Because Jaylen Hammel, production manager at one of the biggest studios in film and television, is being nice.

Too nice.

It’s not that Jaylen has ever been rude, but he’s always had a type of sternness about him that reminds Sage of Anna. He’s direct, and sometimes curt, and complimentary only when it’s absolutely necessary. It’s one of the reasons Sage likes him so much. She’d heard it was typical for Hollywood types to butter up writers while they keep a carrot dangling just out of reach. With Jaylen, she didn’t have to worry about that.

But tonight, he’s been doling out compliments like candy on Halloween, and his voice keeps going up at the end of his sentences in a way that’s not nerves but something worse—something Sage hasn’t put a name to yet.

All she knows is it’s not good, and she’s 93 percent certain she’s about to get the it’s not you, it’s me speech in the middle of this high-end restaurant decked out with stiff leather chairs and low tables and glittering chandeliers.

Sure enough, Jaylen leans back in his seat as a server clears their dishes, swirls his glass of red wine, and inhales deeply before hitting them with a pointed “So.”

From the corner of her eye, Sage sees Anna still, her wineglass pressed against her lips. They’ve managed to skirt around the actual purpose of their dinner for, well, all of dinner. Anna had told her to expect that—something about power plays and schmoozing and Hollywood. But Sage can’t help but feel it’s just another bad sign of what’s to come.

“Before I get into all of the nuances here, let me say this,” Jaylen continues, his eyes—deep and brown and entirely too earnest—locking on Sage. “Your book is spectacular. And I have no doubt this series is only going to continue to explode when the next installment releases. Seriously, it’s going to be the next Hunger Games.”

Translation: It’s not you.

Sage swallows, a thank-you buried somewhere in the scratchiness of her throat, but Anna … Anna is being a particular type of stubborn shit when she says, “So what you’re saying is you want to option it, then?”

Jaylen sighs, a frown marring his brow as he takes a long sip of his wine. “Unfortunately, no. We’re not going to be able to move forward with the option.”

The why is on the tip of Sage’s tongue, but she keeps her jaw clamped shut, the nail of her forefinger digging into the side of her thumb.

“It’s just not in the cards for us right now.”

She blinks, her mind turning over Jaylen’s nonexplanation as if she can find some hidden meaning in it. She thought the studio having an actor in mind was promising. She thought it had meant good things. Why the sudden change?

“So … at a different time, then?” she asks, brow furrowing as she looks to Anna. Her agent’s lips are pursed, eyes glinting behind her glasses.

God, she flew all this way, and for what?

“The studio considers this a full pass,” Jaylen explains in a way that clearly says, My hands are tied. And there it is—the ending blow that’s supposed to make Sage not feel like a failure.

It’s me.

She clocks it at the same time she finally identifies the emotion that keeps making Jaylen’s sentences peak and valley.

It’s not nerves.

It’s pity.

And that … that just makes it all so much worse.

“This seems like quite an abrupt change.” Anna doesn’t bother to mask her judgment, but her voice is entirely calm. Sage risks cutting her a glance, but the only visible sign of her agent’s frustration is in the way she’s gripping her wineglass but not drinking from it.

“Trust me, I don’t enjoy this any more than you do,” Jaylen assures her. Some of that usual confidence is back in his tone, and it only grows as he adds, “But you’re an incredibly talented writer, Sage. We definitely want to keep in touch and know what you have cooking outside of the Nights universe.”

For a moment, Sage thinks she might not be able to swallow the uncomfortable laugh bubbling up in the back of her throat. She’s itching to move, to channel some of this disappointment into something that’s not her sitting here with a placid look of acceptance fixed on her face.

She can’t tell if Jaylen’s reassurances are genuine—if he really wants to read anything else she creates, or if he’s trying to soften the blow and get out of here before Anna picks apart his zero-context rejection with a fine-tooth comb. She supposes it doesn’t really matter. She has nothing to put forward anyway. It’s not like she’s had any space to think outside of promoting Nights and working on the sequel everyone is breathing down her neck for, but her brain refuses to shake loose.

She desperately wants to look to Anna and make her speak for her, no better than a lost child seeking their mother. But she manages to keep her eyes fixed on Jaylen as she says, “Thank you. I would love that.”

She’s never thanked someone for being dumped before. It feels gross.

“Well, Jaylen,” Anna sighs, finally taking another sip of her wine. “All I can say is … you’ll regret this.”

There’s no heat behind her words. In fact, it almost sounds like a pithy joke. It’s light and airy and Jaylen is grinning in a relieved sort of way and saying something about how he looks forward to exactly that. But Sage knows Anna well enough to know the small look her agent spares her is where the truth lies.

They will regret this. But right now, Sage can’t bring herself to match Anna’s confidence. That competitive edge that typically stirs in her gut is nowhere to be found.

They’ll regret this.

They’ll regret this.

She repeats it silently like some sort of mantra. Maybe if she says it enough, she’ll believe it.

4
Strategic Connections

“He’s an absolute cunt.” Anna punctuates the statement by downing the rest of her whiskey.

“Hear, hear!” Emerson says from across the table, raising her champagne glass in the air. “I love how you Brits use that word so freely. I wish we did that here. It just has a nice ring to it, you know? Cunt. Cunt. Cuuuunt.”

“Jesus Christ,” Taylor mutters into her cabernet. “I’m not drunk enough to deal with you.”

Frankly, Sage isn’t drunk enough to deal with any of it, but she’s under strict orders to not be massively hungover for her signing tomorrow. The level of alcohol she’d need to numb the frustration bubbling inside of her certainly registers on the “massively hungover” scale, so she’s shit out of luck.

The four of them are sitting around a rectangular table at some hip cocktail bar in SoHo Anna booked ahead of time, To either cheers to our success or drown our sorrows, she’d joked.

Sage can’t help but feel that even putting that second option out there might have been bad luck. Something about tempting the law of attraction or whatever. Margot could explain it if she was here.

It’s possible the alcohol is making Sage mopey.

“Listen,” Anna starts pointedly, as if she can see the slippery slope of self-pity Sage is about to slide down. “This is how this process goes. Besides, you wouldn’t want to work with a team that’s not all in on your project.”

“They were all in until they suddenly decided I wasn’t worth it,” Sage remarks bitterly. She rolls the stem of her champagne flute between her pointer finger and thumb. She hadn’t wanted Anna’s pre-ordered bottle to go to waste, but she could really use some of the whiskey that Anna has just signaled for another round of.

“They weren’t. They clearly think you’re talented but not talented enough to take a chance on,” Anna huffs.

Sage tries not to wince.

Anna doesn’t mean it to be harsh, but all Sage can hear is the undertone of not good enough dancing through her words. She thinks of the text from her mom waiting for a response and immediately takes a large gulp of her champagne.

“They were never in one hundred percent,” Anna continues, her cheeks flushed either from whiskey or frustration. Maybe both. “I’m just sorry they strung you along like this. It’s a shite way to do business.”

“I’m sorry,” Sage finds herself saying. “You flew all the way out here for no reason.”

Anna rolls her eyes. “Yes, because seeing you at Comic Con is such a bother,” she retorts flatly. “Do shut up, Sage.”

Sage snorts in a very undignified way, and for a moment—just one—she doesn’t want the floor to swallow her whole. She anchors into the present, reminds herself she’s here with some of her favorite people, and as much as tonight has sucked, she finds solace in the way their presence wraps around her like a warm blanket.

Emerson sighs and rests her chin in her palm, elbow stacked on the table. “And who knows? Maybe you’ll meet someone at Theo’s VIP party tomorrow and they’ll fall in love with you and want to learn more about Nights.”

Sage has experienced a lot of firsts in the last year. Her first book deal, her first TV appearance. But this … this might be the most jarring of them all. Because Sage can’t say she’s ever experienced a moment where the city that never sleeps has gone silent. Yet somehow, Emerson’s revelation seems to suck the sound out of the air entirely.

No one at her table moves, their gazes all fixed on Sage as if she were the one who just dropped a bomb.

It’s Taylor who finally shatters the silence.

“I’m sorry. What did she just say?”

Sage downs her champagne, hangover be damned. “Um. Theo Sharpe invited us to some VIP party thing tomorrow night. But we’re not going.” The last part, directed at Emerson, comes with a pointed punch to her words.

Taylor’s gaze darts between them like they’re a particularly perplexing math equation before she settles on Sage. “You just … forgot to mention Hollywood’s newest breakout star invited you to a party?”

Sage coughs. “I was a little distracted by”—she waves a hand through the air—“everything. It sort of slipped my mind?”

It’s only a half lie. Theo had reminded her of it just yesterday, but she was far more focused on the meeting with someone from an actual film studio than some swanky soirée that may or may not have studio executives in attendance.

And maybe there’s something to be said about her pride.

Anna looks at her dead-on, eyes narrowed behind her glasses. “Sometimes, I want to murder you.”

Emerson, who is wickedly smart but also sometimes the stupidest person Sage knows, decides to all but sign Sage’s death sentence. “You have his number. You can confirm the invite, right, S?”

And that, it seems, is officially Taylor’s breaking point. She slams down her wineglass so hard it’s a miracle it doesn’t shatter. “I cannot fucking believe you.”

Sage throws up her hands in a placating way. “He just wanted to reach out to talk damage control! Which, I will point out, he’s done none of!”

“Not much talking about damage control, that’s for sure,” Emerson mutters into her champagne.

Sage levels her with a glare. “Emerson?”

“Hmm?”

“Please shut up.”

“Yep. Got it.”

Sage sucks in a steadying breath, her gaze darting between Anna and Taylor as she tries to figure out which to appeal to. There’s a hint of amusement in Anna’s raised brows, so Sage tries her luck there. “He explained his team doesn’t usually release statements about this sort of thing but that he was working on it with his manager.” She cuts a glance at Emerson, who gives her a look that clearly reads, Tell them the rest or so help me god. “He might have also floated the idea that he owes me a drink at this party tomorrow for all of the … drama.”

There’s a long beat of silence that Sage absolutely must fill immediately. “But obviously I’m not going to go.”

“Like hell you aren’t.” Anna snorts. Sage looks desperately to Taylor, but her publicist is sitting back in her chair, arms crossed, a smug pinch to her full lips.

“You can’t be serious,” Sage protests. “I was just the subject of an online witch hunt, and now you want me to throw myself back into the lion’s den? Besides, I don’t need his pity invite. What I need is for his team to actually do something about this mess.”

Anna cocks her head. “You do realize how unlikely that is.”

Sage slumps back in her chair. “Aren’t you always telling me that if we don’t ask, the answer is always no?”

Anna rolls her eyes. “You have quite the penchant for drama, did you know that?”

“I’m being serious,” she presses. It’s the wrong choice of words, because now Anna looks serious, her gaze settling into that steely glint that Sage loves when she uses it against publishers but hates being on the receiving end of.

“You already know that connections are everything in this industry. Besides, it won’t be like the airport. These events are intentional with their photos. I highly doubt anyone will take yours.” Anna blinks, then adds, “No offense.”

“Besides, if you are photographed, it would be easy enough to spin into you hanging out with a new friend,” Taylor chimes in. She has a faraway look on her face, as if she can see the social media opportunities unfolding before them. “Maybe he’d shout out the book? He has a ton of followers.”

“How many?” Anna asks before Sage can voice her refusal.

“Three million.”

“Christ. Shite movie or not, you can’t buy that many followers. A shout-out would be nice. What’s a post among friends, anyway?”

“Right? It could ring inauthentic, though,” Taylor muses. “With Sage’s statement…”

Anna waves a dismissive hand. “She’s not a celebrity. No one cares what she has to say.”

Sage is fluent in Anna, so she knows what she’s trying to say is the statement would have held more weight if Theo had denied the rumors as well. But she can’t help the prickle of irritation that’s rapidly building into pressure on the hinge of her jaw. There’s something bearing down on her, some nebulous feeling she’s never been able to name, but she feels it lording over her now like some sort of suffocating shadow.

“True,” Taylor concedes, her eyes bright with excitement as she straightens in her seat. “And it could serve a dual purpose, I suppose. Get him to deny it without outright denying it—”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Sage cuts in, her voice sharp with more bitterness than she expected. “Do I get a say in this?”

“No,” Anna teases. Sage can’t bring herself to match her frivolity.

“I’m not playing around about this. I have principles. Asking Theo to do some random post, especially after the absolute shit show his fans caused this week … you didn’t read the comments.”

The thing about Anna is, she’s never fazed. Not even by Sage, who can be mercurial when she allows herself to ride the tempestuous waves of her emotions. So it should be no surprise that her agent remains the epitome of stoicism when she says, “You shouldn’t have, either.”

Sage feels her face flush, her skin going hot and itchy as she’s confronted with a truth she already knows.

She’s read them even though she shouldn’t have, and the ones that scream that she’s a fake, that she’s using someone for fame because she doesn’t have enough talent on her own …

They hit a bruise that’s so deep in her skin it might as well be a permanent part of her.

Slow down, Sage.

Try harder, Sage.

Want less, Sage.

Strive for more, Sage.

Any career would have thrown kerosene on the fire of her deepest insecurities, but becoming a writer? That’s a path that fuels the wildfire quite frequently. She tries to hide it behind confidence and enthusiasm and gratitude, because she knows how goddamn lucky she is, but it doesn’t change the fact that she feels like she was handed something that she could never in a million years replicate.

Something that still isn’t enough because it isn’t viable, because she might be a one-hit wonder, because …

Because years ago, when she was young and dreaming and let it slip to her dad that she wanted to be a writer, she was met with a caustic laugh as he glanced at her and Noah in the rearview.

You’re going to be providing for your sister, Noah.

Even now, after the whirlwind year she’s had, she hears it in the back of her mind like a warning bell. She can journal, she can meditate, she can pull out the tools from the therapist she hasn’t seen in over two years, but those thoughts still lodge themselves into the looping record player that is her brain, creating a chorus of doubts and fears that she’s intent on proving wrong.

The incident with Theo has only turned up the volume on the latest album of Not Enoughness. Maybe, if it weren’t for everything else, she’d be able to take it and funnel it into motivation. Or at the very least, mask it so it isn’t obvious it hurts so damn much.

But after tonight’s meeting with Jaylen, the bruise is that much fresher, and she just … can’t.

“I feel like an imposter enough,” Sage finally confesses to Anna, her voice quiet but steady. “I know I’m not really one,” she presses on, holding up a hand to stop all three of them from interrupting, “but it’s … it’s a fear regardless.”

She presses her lips together as she tries to sort through her thoughts. It feels so silly to be so obstinate about something like this. To not want to latch on to an opportunity and wring it dry, squeezing out every bit of benefit she can. To feel so fragile when she should be focusing on how incredible it is to see a dream realized.

“Using Theo … it’s wrong. And it only plays into exactly what everyone is already saying.”

“Everyone?” Anna presses, but there’s no teasing lilt to her voice now. Instead, there’s quiet understanding beneath firm resolve that says she understands, but she won’t stand for Sage settling.

“Not everyone,” she concedes. “But enough.”

Anna holds her gaze for a long moment. “I understand that. But people are going to talk, Sage, no matter what you do.”

She knows that—she does. It’s not the first time she and Anna have had this conversation, and that only makes her feel worse. She’s trying to adapt to this part of her new reality, but … she’s struggling with it.

Too dramatic, too sensitive, too—

“What if we nix the post?” Emerson says from beside her. “The party is a good idea, but let’s … let’s skip the post.” Em’s hand is cupped around her champagne flute, her face focused in what Sage lovingly calls mediation mode. She feels a rush of gratitude for her friend for knowing exactly when to step in.

Taylor looks like she wants to argue, but Anna speaks before she can. “Oh, yes, you’re going to the party no matter what. But if you’re that against asking him for a shout-out, fine. Don’t. But it can’t hurt to make strategic connections, Sage.”

Strategic connections. She wonders what Theo would make of that. What he’d make of all of this. Is this his life? People coming in and out and figuring out how he’s most beneficial to them?

She doesn’t want to feel bad for him, not with the mess she’s entangled in, thanks to him. She does anyway.

Sage tilts her head back and inhales deeply through her nose. She’s not winning this argument. “I’ll go to the party,” she finally mutters.

There’s a long pause, and then:

“I can work with that,” Taylor reluctantly concedes.

Emerson grins. “You want to come with us, Tay?”

Taylor lets out a long-suffering sigh. “For the hundredth time, it’s Taylor, and no. I wasn’t invited, and a publicist tends to make celebrities clam up at events like this.” She points a perfectly manicured finger at Emerson. “But if you fucking embarrass her in any way, so help me god, I will find a lawyer that can prevail against even your annoying ass, and I will sue you within an inch of your life.”

Emerson rolls her eyes. “Tay, stop flirting with me, we’re in public.”

Taylor scoffs, already turning to Anna to talk some sort of strategy, and Sage takes the opportunity to lean in toward her friend.

“One of these days, she’s going to have you killed,” Sage murmurs.

“Nonsense,” Emerson retorts quietly. “She’s falling in love with me. Just you wait. One day you’ll find us doing the dirty in an alcove at one of your events. It’s all part of my plan.”

Sage wrinkles her nose. “I’d really rather not see Taylor naked.”

“Your loss.”

Mom

Oct 11 5:28 PM

The signing at the bookstore was sold out!

OCT 12 9:15 PM

Mom

How did the meeting with the producer go?

OCT 12 11:07 PM

They passed. Pretty bummed—it came out of nowhere.

But excited for the signing at the con tomorrow!

The problem with not being allowed to get appropriately drunk at the celebration-turned-pity-party-turned-goddamn-pile-on is that Sage is wide awake even though it’s 3 AM and she has her Comic Con signing later that day.

Her buzz has faded, and in its place is a frenetic sort of energy that she knows spells destruction. It’s the type that, when she was younger, had her needling her brother until he snapped at her.

God, Sage, don’t you ever stop?

There was some sort of sadistic satisfaction in knowing her inner monologue wasn’t wrong. Sage has always vacillated between the fear of being too much and not enough, like an AC that can’t get the temperature right.

Too dramatic. Too mercurial. Too sensitive. Not calm enough. Not steady enough. Not normal enough.

Now, she doomscrolls, and she doesn’t even have the alcohol to blame for disregarding every grounding exercise and regulation tactic she’s learned.

It’s a strange thing to have to justify the reluctance she showed at drinks earlier to her own mind, especially with the tang of it still heavy on her tongue. But she does it. She revisits the worst of the comments and DMs, each one pelting her with a strange mixture of pain and that same grim satisfaction she got when Noah would finally reach the point of having enough.

She’s a ticking time bomb just waiting to implode, but knowing the signs has never been enough to stop her from pursuing the path to self-sabotage. It’s like her brain shuts down, and that rushing in her veins takes over, and maybe that’s why she doesn’t think twice as she opens her text thread with Theo.

Theo S.

Oct 13 3:11 AM

Any update on the convos with your manager?

She’s surprised when he responds, especially given the late hour.

He’s holding firm, but I’m working on it.

A long pause, and then:

Everything ok?

Just like that, Theo has unknowingly grabbed a saltshaker and dumped the entire contents onto her gaping wound. Because, no. Everything is not okay, and blaming Theo is easy, but she knows—she knows she’s only made it worse for herself by scrolling on her phone.

Besides, Anna was right, as she so often is: Sage may not follow pop culture, but even she knows it’s incredibly unlikely that his team will do anything about this. That’s no fault of Theo’s. And Sage … Sage knew better than to even open that damn app, and now she’s had hours to hyper-fixate on strangers who loathe her for no reason, hours that she could have been doing something productive while she couldn’t sleep, but it’s just that …

Well, it’s just that Sage will press a bruise over and over until it hurts so badly that she can’t think of anything else.

God, Sage, don’t you ever stop?

No. She doesn’t.

Her thumbs fly across her phone’s keyboard, her eyes burning as the taunts play over and over in her mind.

I know it probably sounds foolish to someone like you, but …

Your Theologians are quite clear about what a bloodsucking leech I am and honestly, it’s getting exhausting.

I don’t have someone manage my social.

Somewhere, in the logical, less exhausted part of her mind, there’s a voice screaming at Sage to abort, abort, abort. This is a part she hardly shares with those closest to her, and only once she’s sure they won’t be put off by how deeply she feels. She thought she had tucked it away after drinks tonight, but it’s still there, and to show it to Theo Sharpe of all people is a level of stupidity that Sage cannot even fathom herself.

Those three little dots that indicate Theo is typing appear and disappear at least four times before his response finally comes through.

Forgive me for being blunt, but you don’t seem like the type to get bothered by what arseholes on the internet say …

Which, for what it’s worth, is a dilemma I uniquely understand, social media manager or not.

You do recall it was me who messaged you on Instagram, yes?

You hardly know me.

How would you know if it bothers me or not?

It does, by the way. I’m not a robot.

Call it a hunch.

A feeling, if you will.

Kidding.

I have been on the receiving end of your propensity to not give a fuck.

I can extrapolate from there.

Sage is surprised at the laugh that rasps out of her. Emerson shifts beside her but doesn’t rouse from her champagne-induced coma.

I hate you for making me laugh right now.

Lying is generally frowned upon, Sage.

Sage shakes her head, a weak grin fighting for dominance against the pursed look that’s been fixed to her face since they left dinner.

She stares at the ceiling for a few long moments, thoughts whirring. She needs to sleep. So she reaches over to grab her charger on the bedside table, readying to force her eyes shut and try to find something that resembles sleep, but another message from Theo comes in before she can. Her heart does a weird thud-ump when she sees it’s a voice note.

Some emotion climbs up her throat that she can’t name, because right now she’s too consumed with how personal this feels, like she’s intruding on something she shouldn’t be, because they don’t know each other like this.

Sage cuts a glance over her shoulder, taking in Emerson’s snoring figure, before she grabs her headphones, just in case, and pops them in before taking a breath and hitting Play.

Theo’s aristocratic drawl is rough around the edges at this hour, his voice low with the sort of late-night gravel that hints at sleep just beyond a few breaths.

Erm, look, all jokes aside … I promise I’m pushing my manager on this. He’s … well, what he is doesn’t really matter, but the point is … I know people online can be cruel. I’m not going to spout the usual reassurances about your talent, because I’m sure you know all that already, and frankly, I don’t ever find it helpful to be reminded I’m talented when people are, quite literally, telling me I’m the worst actor they’ve ever seen. But … well, it probably doesn’t hold much weight when I say this to you on account of the fact I’ve just met you, but I just wanted to remind you that they don’t know anything about you. And they never will. The parts of you that matter, you get to save for the people that matter. At least that’s what I try to remind myself when I get stuck in this sort of thing. They don’t know me. My mates from university, however … they know too much. Way too much. Like I pray to god none of them ever decides to release videos of me downing shots and dancing at a club. Wow, anyway, NOT the point.

The point is, it’s helpful for me to remember that there are people who know … Theo. Not Theo Sharpe. The people online don’t know me. So what they say doesn’t hold weight.

There’s a pause, and Sage can sense there’s more that he wants to say but isn’t. Like maybe he’s reminding himself of this very fact too.

Right. I hope this helps. If not, feel free to delete it immediately and we can both forget I tried my hand at motivational speaking at such a ghastly hour of the night. Morning. Whichever. Right. I’m going to bed now. Sleep well, Collins.

Sage swallows. There’s a warm feeling starting in the middle of her chest, and she drags her lower lip between her teeth as she stares at the ceiling.

It’s genuine, the message.

Understanding.

Because of course Theo knows this feeling—of course he hurts, just like anyone else. Suddenly his previous messages are rearranging themselves in her mind.

Maybe it was never flippancy.

Maybe it was … someone trying to be a friend.

Thank you. Truly x

She totally doesn’t listen to the message again.

Except … she does.

Sleep well, Collins.

Sleep well, Collins.

Sleep well, Collins.

She does.

5
Imposters

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like you have two black eyes.”

It’s the first thing Emerson says when she walks into the room late the next afternoon. Her head is cocked, her hair windswept, and she’s frowning at Sage, who has just awoken from a much-needed nap.

“You’re too kind,” Sage grumbles as she sits up in bed. She feels post-nap soupy, having passed out as soon as she got back from the convention center. She’s used to the After Event Adrenaline Crash. It was more intense today, what with the full signing line at the Javits Center, and while it wasn’t incredibly different from the other book events she’s done, there was something about taking a seat in front of a backdrop littered with Comic Con logos that had her heart swelling.

Emerson had tried to convince her to join the shopping spree after, saying something about VIP and Theo that Sage had purposefully ignored. From the multiple bags clutched in her hands, it seems Emerson managed just fine without her.

“I have eye patches in my suitcase,” her friend says as she drops the bags and begins digging through her luggage.

“I didn’t take off my makeup before I feel asleep.”

Emerson peers over at her, her nose scrunched as she blinks her bangs from her eyes. “No offense, babe, but this isn’t your makeup.”

“You keep saying you don’t mean to offend, but I’m starting to not believe you.” It doesn’t stop her from picking up the package of eye patches Emerson tosses onto the duvet and dragging herself into the bathroom. One glance in the mirror tells her Emerson is right—it’s definitely not her makeup that has her looking this haggard. “I thought the nap would help,” she groans at her reflection.

Clearly, one good night of rest doesn’t erase Sage’s general proclivity for tossing and turning.

Emerson’s head peeks around the doorframe. “A hot shower, your cleansing routine, and eye patches. You’ll be good as new. I can order us some champagne?”

“I love you.”

“I know.” Emerson pauses. Grins. Sage freezes.

She knows that look.

“Whatever chaotic thing you’re about to say, save it.”

Emerson’s eyes go wide, the picture of innocence. “I was only going to say that once you see the outfit I picked out for you, you won’t even worry about your face. No one will.”

Sage leans a hip against the counter, her arms folding over her chest as she faces her friend. “Do you ever hear the things that come out of your mouth? Like, do they actually register in your mind, or is it just a constant stream of consciousness going from your brain to your lips?”

Emerson steps into the doorway with a scowl. “I’ll have you know I’m famous at the firm for being outstanding at oral arguments.” She pauses again, lips parted in contemplation. “I’m also great at oral—”

“I’m taking a shower now,” Sage groans, shoving a grinning Emerson from the bathroom and slamming the door in her face.

“Theo is going to love your outfit!” she calls gleefully. Sage rolls her eyes. Emerson knows exactly which buttons she’s pressing. She’s been relentless about Theo all day.

He hadn’t responded to her simple thank you, which was fine, but Sage had felt … not quite awkward, but some sort of wriggly emotion in her stomach when she woke up.

Her vulnerability looks different in the light of day—glaring and strange and just this side of too much.

Foolish, even.

Complaining to an actual celebrity about people being mean on the Internet? She physically cringes each time she thinks about it.

“Don’t forget the eye patches!” Emerson yells as Sage turns on the shower.

She flips the lock on the bathroom door. “Can’t hear you, sorry!”

The handle jiggles. Emerson’s swearing is lost to the sound of water pounding down around her as she laughs her way into the shower.

“You look hot,” Emerson remarks, her eyes scanning Sage’s reflection in the full-length mirror appreciatively. She’s lying on the bed, a plate of chicken tenders and a basket of fries pushed to the side.

Sage grins at her before taking in her reflection again. Sage may be the fashionista of the two, but Emerson outdid herself at whatever shop she’d found the short red dress that fits Sage like a glove. Her hair is a cascade of loose, dark brown curls flowing down her back, her makeup dark and sultry in a way she typically doesn’t flaunt.

At least not at a work event.

She does look hot. It doesn’t stop her from biting on her lip as she smooths her hands over the fabric.

“You don’t think the red is too flashy, do you?”

It’s another fine line she walks: wanting to stand out but wanting to blend in. Being okay with a touch of spotlight as long as it’s one she’s set up herself in a place she’s familiar with, in a crowd that feels like home.

She wonders what it’s like to not live a life of balancing opposites.

Emerson shuffles her way into the bathroom, plucking the navy blue, sequined pantsuit she chose for herself from where it’s hanging on the door. Her platinum hair is wavy in a messy, beachy sort of way that people would pay thousands for. It’s done with just a touch of sea salt spray and a talent Sage isn’t sure where Em picked it up.

“Absolutely not,” Emerson answers from the bathroom as she changes. “It’s foxy. You were born to wear red.” A few moments later she steps out, looking like a celebrity herself. She hip checks Sage out of the way so she can take in her own reflection.

“Charlotte used to say the same thing,” Sage muses.

“Ugh,” Emerson groans. “Charlotte. Don’t miss her.”

“I thought you liked her?”

“You were pining, so I had to tolerate her.”

Sage is blatantly offended. “I was not pining!”

She makes a point not to pine. That was part of the Finance Fletcher phase. Anything part of the Finance Fletcher phase had to go. Pretty boys, pining, pretending to care anything about golf, etc.

Theo is technically in the pretty-boy category, her brain unhelpfully provides.

She takes that thought and strangles it.

“I know my worth,” Sage retorts. She grabs a chicken tender and bites into it. “I ended things when I realized we weren’t on the same page and Charlotte couldn’t give me what I needed.”

Technically, Charlotte beat her to the punch, but … whatever.

Emerson makes a thoughtful noise as she applies her lipstick in the mirror. “Right. That’s why you listened to your Sad Playlist for a month afterwards.”

“Excuse, I was listening to Noah Kahan because his vibe was perfect for the book.”

“Of course, of course,” Emerson assures her in the most un-assuring way. “Don’t get grease on your dress.”

Sage frowns at her half-eaten chicken tender before tossing it back on the plate. She reaches for her discarded glass of champagne instead and downs it. “Keep it up, you’ll be going to the party by yourself,” she gripes.

Emerson’s grin is nothing short of evil. “Oh please. You know deep down you’ve been dying to go to this.”

“What, out of anything that I’ve said since Theo invited us, has given you that impression?”

“The fact that whenever anyone mentions his name, you blush like a teenager.”

“I do not!” Sage whips her head to the mirror to check her reflection. Her face is its normal olive hue, but she realizes she’s given herself away regardless.

“Interesting,” Emerson croons.

“You are, without a doubt, the worst friend in the world.”

“I’ll be sure to work that into my maid of honor speech at your and Theo’s wedding.”

“Fuck you.”

“Honestly, I’d prefer Taylor do that.”

Sage groans. “I regret ever meeting you.”

There’s a small line outside of Vibe, but aside from that, there’s nothing distinguishable about the club. In fact, if it weren’t for the bouncers and the velvet rope and the people dressed as if it wasn’t freezing outside (Sage included), she would’ve guessed they were heading into a cleared-out bodega that hasn’t seen electricity in years.

Even still … she feels distinctly out of place. The bouncer has a headset and a guest list, and while she’s used to the type of unattainable beauty and success that surrounds her in LA, there’s something about this particular queue that makes Sage feel like her skin is stretched too tight.

She shifts from foot to foot, hopping in place—the best she can in heels, anyway—and blames it on the cold.

Emerson, of course, sees right through her.

“Stop acting like you’re gate-crashing,” Em hisses from beside her.

“I feel like we are,” Sage mutters as they move closer to the bouncer. In hindsight, she probably should have confirmed their attendance with Theo. She’s been to her fair share of clubs, but she’s not exactly sure what the etiquette is when you’re invited to a VIP shindig by a newly minted movie star. Are you supposed to RSVP? Is she going to have to text Theo from outside the club like some sort of groupie and beg for entry?

Oh god. On the list of horrible ideas Sage has had—and she’s had plenty—she’s starting to think this might easily rank in the top five.

Top four.

Maybe even three.

Sage’s stomach somersaults as they reach the bouncer, and she braces herself to be turned away as Emerson gives their names, but then they’re through the door and into a dark hallway, the steady bump bump bump of house music filling the empty space. There’s another door at the end of the hall with another security guard, and it dawns on Sage that she hasn’t been somewhere with this many checkpoints that isn’t the airport, like, ever.

But this guard just nods and opens the door, and then … they’re in.

It takes Sage one scan of the space to realize there’s nothing about Vibe that separates it from any other club they’ve been to in LA. There’s a dance floor and several smaller lounge areas and two bars that stretch in an L shape across the back of the space. To their right is a lounge that sits a few steps above the rest of the club, complete with small clusters of couches and chairs and curtains. The crowd on the main floor is dense but not overwhelming, likely thanks to the exclusive guest list.

It’s all flashing lights and bass vibrating in her chest. And yet …

There’s a certain power in the air, thick and perfumed and polished, and it makes Sage feel a little woozy. She’s hyperaware of her posture, of her hands, of how her face feels like it can’t rest in a normal expression as she looks around.

What the hell am I doing here what the hell am I—

The internal loop is cut off only by Emerson’s nudge to her ribs. Her friend nods to the raised lounge.

Theo.

He’s just visible in a group of people, standing near a cluster of leather love seats, his head tipped back as he laughs at something someone has said. He’s in black jeans and a white button down—open collar, rolled sleeves—looking just polished enough for an event but not so much as to be mistaken for effort.

The ensemble is simple. But on Theo, the effect is devastating.

His blond hair is tousled, his posture relaxed as he leans an arm against the back of one of the couches. He’s got a highball glass loosely gripped in his hand, and maybe it’s the way the flashing lights—all soft, cool blues—reflect off of his skin, painting his sharp features in even sharper relief, but he looks like sin.

Sage swallows, her throat suddenly dry.

“Damn,” Emerson remarks from beside her, gaze fixed on Theo. “Can we get a content warning or something?”

Sage’s laugh sounds a bit manic. There’s something fizzing in her chest, but she shoves it down and says, “I need a drink.”

“A tall glass of water?” Emerson asks. “Because that’s exactly what that man—”

“Please stop talking immediately.”

By the grace of some higher power, Emerson does, but if the shit-eating, knowing grin on her face is any indication, she’s just biding her time until the next opportunity arises to make Sage want to melt into the floor.

Theo sees them as they’re walking up to the lounge, and he stills for a moment, his glass midway to his lips, before he gives them a wide, surprised smile. He gets to the security guard first, and with a simple nod from him, the woman steps aside to let them into the lounge.

“Fancy,” Emerson drawls by way of greeting. “Good to see you, Theo. Thanks for having us.”

“Emerson.” Theo grins, and Sage feels some sort of way that he remembered her name after their single meeting at the airport. To Sage, he says, “Collins. I’m surprised you made it.”

What Sage wants to say is that she is also surprised she made it. In fact, she’s surprised she’s making it, as in, still standing. It should be illegal for my last name to sound like that when he says it, she thinks, but instead she says, “When in Rome,” and promptly wants to die.

She turns to Emerson, fully expecting her friend—who is the one who insisted they come to this—to save Sage from her fucking self, but she’s saying something about how she needs a drink and suddenly she’s just … gone.

Sage is going to kill her. As soon as her limbs work again, she’s going to kill her.

Theo takes a sip of his drink to hide his smirk, and Sage takes a moment to look around the lounge. She’s not avoiding the temptation to track the motion of him swallowing.

She’s not.

“What?” Theo asks, following her gaze.

“Does one need a VIP lounge at a VIP party?”

He shrugs. “Quieter back here, at least.”

Sage doesn’t know if she’d call it quiet. There’s still the thump thump thump of the bass from whatever the DJ is mixing, still the swell of noise from those dancing. But there’s also a circle of security that’s keeping the lesser celebrities away from Theo and the other who’s whos, so sure. Quieter, she guesses.

“I’m missing the sounds of the screaming paparazzi.”

He drags a hand through his hair, and under the strobes, she sees the faintest hint of a flush crawl up his cheeks. “I promise, no paparazzi tonight. No photos at all, actually. Club policy. Speaking of, I believe I owe you an apology drink. Can I buy you one?”

Sage gasps. “They make you buy them here?”

“Ghastly, isn’t it?” His grin is easy and loose and utterly distracting, but then he presses a hand to the small of her back, and Sage’s brain focuses solely on that point of contact between them. “It looked like quite the turnout for you today,” he muses as he guides her forward. “How’s your hand?”

It takes Sage two more steps toward the bar to catch up to his meaning, and suddenly she’s twisting to face him fully, his hand falling from her back as she does. “You … how do you know that? Were you there?”

She doesn’t remember any sort of commotion at her signing, and if there’s one thing she’s learned about Theo in the last few days, it’s that where he goes, commotion follows.

Theo presses his lips together, something shy flickering across his face. “I have my ways,” he settles on.

She fixes him with a look.

“Fine, I was passing through the signing hall and maybe routed us by your booth.”

“And you didn’t get mauled?”

“It’s amazing what a hat, sunglasses, and a small entourage can do.”

Sage goes to point out that the hat certainly hadn’t helped the other day, but Theo nods toward the waiting bartender. “What’s your poison?”

“Gin and tonic,” she answers, her brow still furrowed as she tries to work out how he’d gotten past her without her even noticing. Then again, she does tend to focus only on what’s right in front of her, especially when work is involved.

Theo glances at his empty glass before saying to the bartender, “Make that two, mate. And if it’s not too much trouble, could you make sure the rest of her drinks go on my tab as well?” He motions to where Emerson is chatting up a woman in a fuchsia suit.

“You don’t have to do that,” Sage interjects, but he just waves her off.

“You two are my guests.” He props an arm on the bar, shifting just enough that she has to tilt her head up to hold his gaze. He’s close enough that she can just catch the scent of his cologne: something warm and sharp.

“So. The signing.”

“The signing,” she parrots, unable to stop the grin tugging on the corners of her mouth. It probably seems childish, or maybe … foolish?… to someone like Theo, but the giddiness that bubbles up in her at the mere thought of earlier demands to be felt.

“Yeah,” she breathes out. “It was … pretty surreal.”

Theo smiles, thanks the bartender for their drinks, and nods toward an empty love seat. “I wasn’t surprised to see the crowd,” he admits once they settle there next to each other.

“Oh?”

“You do know you’re not the only one who Internet stalks, right?”

“I do not Internet stalk!” Theo’s laugh is low and thrumming like the bass streaming through the speakers. “Besides,” she adds. “I’m sure it’s nothing compared to what you’re used to.”

His knee bumps against hers. “Don’t do that. Don’t downplay your accomplishments.”

It’s instinct, in a way, to deflect—to steer attention away from the thing that’s precious to her. To push back when someone gets too close to realizing how badly she wants this and how desperately she wants to keep it. But now, Sage’s self-deprecation gets caught in her throat.

She’s not often called out on it.

In fact, she doubts most people even see it for what it is.

She takes a sip of her gin and tonic to steady herself, watching Emerson work the VIP lounge like she’s on the brink of closing some deal. Sage should be out there, too. This was about networking, after all. But there’s a tug in her chest that keeps her anchored to the couch, her body swaying infinitesimally into Theo’s space.

“Okay,” she finally says.

“Okay,” Theo agrees. He hasn’t moved his leg from where it’s pressed against hers, and the warmth is distracting. He’s looking at her steadily, his eyes soft and blue in the strobes, and Sage is breathing out another Okay before she can stop herself.

They’re quiet for a long moment, and she shifts, putting a breath of space between them so she can focus.

He keeps surprising her, and it’s equal parts infuriating and alluring. Each time she thinks she has him nearly puzzled out, he goes and scatters all the carefully placed pieces.

She thinks of last night, and that thing in her stomach clenches unpleasantly. The gin burns her throat as she takes another fortifying sip, staring, unseeing, at some distant point on the dance floor. “About my texts…”

“If you’re about to apologize, please don’t,” he interrupts, drawing her gaze back to him. “If anything, I should be apologizing to you. You wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for me.”

Despite herself, a smile tugs at the corner of her lips. “Right, no, that’s exactly what I was going to say. It’s definitely all your fault.”

She’s sort of obsessed with the snort of laughter that comes from him.

“I stand by what I said, you know,” he says after a moment.

“About them not knowing me?”

He contemplates that before he says, “Yes, but also … you don’t seem the type to be bothered by what people think of you.”

Sage laughs, but it sounds a bit hollow to her ears.

She knows the impression she gives off, and it’s purposeful—a defense mechanism from years of feeling like a puzzle that wasn’t made right. She dons the strongest armor she can find, because what’s underneath is too soft, too malleable, too easily destroyed. If she can just be confident enough, be sure of herself enough, hell, be enough … then it won’t matter. They can’t hurt her.

And yet they can, and do, and then she’s left wondering if it’s her fault for not having thick enough skin, or falling short of some milestone, some thing, that would have changed their minds.

It’s only gotten worse now that she has thousands of eyes on her.

But she’s not sure how to put all of that into words—and even if she could, she’s not ready to spill all of it on Theo. So instead, she reaches for something concrete.

“I had a shitty business dinner,” she confesses on an exhale. Her pointer finger is tapping a steady rhythm on the side of her glass as Emerson, back with Fuchsia Suit, laughs heartily. “I just … spiraled from there, I guess. It’s like … sometimes, the voices are louder than others. Sometimes I can block them out, but sometimes they seep through at the worst time and all I hear is you’re an imposter, you’re an imposter.”

There’s something about carving your heart from your chest and putting it on the page for all to read that can eviscerate even the most well-trained confidence. Her old armor isn’t strong enough, but she hasn’t had time to patch it.

She’s not even sure if she can.

“And I hate even complaining about it,” Sage continues, “because I’m doing what I love and so many people would kill to be in my shoes, but I guess … sometimes … well, sometimes I think I believe them.”

Theo makes a sound in the back of his throat, not wounded, but something of the sort. Something raw and understanding and just beyond what words can capture. She turns to find him watching her steadily, the corners of his mouth turned down in a not-quite-frown, but something serious and stoic and seen.

He sighs and rests back against the couch, wetting his lips. “My brother was an incredible actor,” Theo says, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. The was hits Sage like a punch to the solar plexus. Even with the noise surrounding them, she can hear the way grief roughens his smooth voice as he continues. “He was truly brilliant, in a way that I knew I would always be compared to him. It’s typical with siblings, I think, fame or no.”

Sage thinks of Noah—of their parents. Of the comparisons and passive aggressive comments and competition neither of them signed up for.

“It used to weigh on me,” he continues, his gaze solemn as it finds hers. “But not like…” He pauses and drags in a long breath. “It’s so much worse now. Because there’s always that X factor for people—that unknown variable of what he could have been. They’re not just comparing me to what he was, but to his potential. Some finish line we never got to see. In some ways, it motivates me, I suppose. Drives me to do right by him. But in others…”

He trails off with a shake of his head.

“I’m sorry about your brother,” Sage breathes. And because there’s no use in hiding that she knows—more importantly, because she means it—she adds, “And your mom.”

He blinks. Clears his throat.

“Christ, that was maudlin.” He laughs, a sardonic smile taking over his features. He leans forward and braces his elbows on his thighs, drink dangling from his fingertips in the space between. “Sorry. I just meant … I get it. The imposter thing.”

Sage’s brow furrows as she takes him in. His grief has been shuttered away, but there are more words building behind her teeth, words that Sage isn’t sure she’s earned the right to say given how little she knows him.

She says them anyway.

“You deserve to carve your own path. Not that you aren’t doing that. I just mean … You should be seen as your own person. Not a shadow of his success, or potential.”

Something twists in her chest, but Theo smiles faintly, strands of hair brushing across his forehead as he cocks his head. He presses his knee more firmly against hers. “That might be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me, Collins.”

“Well,” she says with a light shrug, wishing desperately she could stop the flush she knows is flooding her face, “I am known for being exceedingly kind.”

“Yes, of course,” he replies gravely. “Especially to lowly men trying to catch your attention on transcontinental flights.”

Sage has redirected her own fair share of conversations to know what Theo is trying to achieve. This time she lets him. The tension breaks as Sage scoffs. “Who talks to people on planes?!”

Theo points at himself. “Hello.”

“Yeah, well, you’re weird. And I was hungover.”

The light catches the white of his smile as he tilts his head back and laughs. “I knew it!”

She shakes her head, but she can’t hide the laugh bubbling in her throat. “Shut up.”

“You should know by now that’s not quite my forte. Hence the plane. And the DM. And the texts. Wow, it sounds horrible now that I’ve listed it all out. I’m rather embarrassed.”

“Speaking of, does this DJ meet your qualifications for shots and dancing?”

“Ah.” Theo tugs at the collar of his shirt, and her eyes trace the subtle pink that’s tinged his neck. “This isn’t quite the music I was referring to.”

She raises a brow. “Oh? And what music were you referring to?”

He opens his mouth, hesitates, and opts for a long, fortifying pull of his drink. “I may be partial to nineties pop.”

“Like the Backstreet Boys?”

Theo sniffs. “Please. I have taste.”

“Okay. So, what then?”

“Britney Spears.”

She can’t help it. A laugh bursts out of her so suddenly that she covers her mouth, her shoulders shaking as she tries to stifle the sound. “You can’t be serious.”

Theo fixes her with a stern stare. “Britney is an icon.”

“No, I know, I just … sorry, the visual of you dancing to ‘Baby One More Time’ in a club is just … I can’t.”

“Nor will you ever,” he insists, but there’s a smile threatening to break through his annoyed facade. “Though I have been known to do a brilliant rendition of ‘Toxic’ at karaoke if thoroughly plastered.”

Sage waves her glass between them. “The night is young.”

Theo huffs an exasperated laugh. “Right. Now that I have well and truly embarrassed myself, am I forgiven for this week?”

Sage bites her lip.

She should go network. That was the whole point of agreeing to come to this party. Connections. Industry people. But Theo’s arm is warm against hers, and her cheeks hurt from smiling, and she can’t quite bring herself to disrupt whatever rhythm they’ve fallen into.

He’s … surprising. And so, so different from what she thought—enough that she sort of wants to learn more.

So instead, she says, “Jury is still out. Do you have any more pictures of Toothless? That’ll probably help.”

Theo pulls out his phone, and god does his grin do something strange to her insides. “What type of cat owner do you take me for?”

6
Influencers

Sage wakes up the next morning to Emerson’s voice, all sharp syllables and hard consonants, not a trace of her Southern drawl to be found. She cracks an eye open from where her face is squished against the pillow to find her friend—mostly silhouette and shadow spilling through the cracked door—pacing in the bathroom.

She registers some legal jargon, but the throbbing in her head quickly distracts her from Emerson’s phone call. She groans into the pillow, wipes at the spot of dried drool at the corner of her mouth, and reaches blindly for her phone on the bedside table.

It’s dead.

Vaguely, she remembers lying under the covers and scrolling through an article titled “The Ten Best Hikes on the Isle of Skye” until the words started to blur. She must have forgotten to plug the phone in before she fell asleep.

Theo had spent at least an hour telling her about the area of Scotland where he and his family used to escape to for quality time. “We spent nearly every summer there,” he had explained as he gazed down at a picture of him and his brother on a hike. They had their arms slung around each other’s necks, Theo squinting in the bright light of the sun, and Oliver, a head taller and hair a shade darker than Theo’s golden blond, grinning in a relaxed, easy way.

“One summer, Ollie bet me twenty quid I couldn’t beat him up to Old Man of Storr.” He’d grinned, scrolling through photos until he came across a cluster of rocks resembling the profile of a man, settled atop sprawling hills, a loch just visible in the distance. “I broke my ankle just before reaching the top. He thought I was taking the piss. Felt horrible when he realized I was actually hurt.”

“Did he drop the bet?” Sage had asked.

They were bent over Theo’s phone, so close that she could feel his answering laugh reverberating through every place they were pressed together.

“Nope. Came to collect as soon as I got home from getting my cast on.”

He’d smiled in that wide way again, and the image of it had lingered behind the eyelids she’d forced shut last night in a desperate attempt to get some sleep.

“Shit, I didn’t wake you, did I?” Emerson asks from the bathroom doorway, phone still clenched in her hand like a weapon. “There was an issue with the deposition for this case and I swear to god, if this associate tells me one more time he’s not the one who fucked it up, I’m going to fuck him up.”

Sage waves off the apology, half of her face still buried in the pillow. “Is it that same client you’ve already been having issues with?”

“Yes,” Emerson says, curt in a way she only gets when she doesn’t want to talk about something.

Sage pushes up onto her elbows, her eyes squinting as she takes in her friend. “Em.”

Emerson blows out a breath, her bangs fluttering with the force of it. “It’ll be okay. The partners are just … being a lot right now,” Emerson assures her before glancing down at her phone. “It’s 9:15, and I am in desperate need of caffeine. I’ll grab you something while you get ready?”

She drops a bottle of water and Advil on the bedside table before plugging in Sage’s phone.

“Have I told you lately that you’re my favorite person in the whole world?”

“No, and I’m feeling very neglected.”

“Emerson, you’re my favorite person in the whole world.”

“I’ll let Theo know.”

Sage groans as she rolls onto her back and covers her head with her arms. “I knew you were going to be a pain about this.”

The mattress dips as Em sits beside her. “Describe his smile again. I don’t think I quite got it the five times you explained it on the Uber ride back last night.”

“I hate you. You’re my least favorite person in the world.”

Her friend flops down on top of her with a huff. “Rude. It’s because of me that you had a fabulous night!”

“Could’ve done without the tequila shots at the end.” Sage grunts as Emerson shifts on top of her until she can press her forehead against hers, forcing her to meet her glare.

“First of all, tequila shots are tradition,” she pouts. “Secondly, it helped you make a new friend!”

Friend may be a stretch. A woman named Iris—a director, if Sage remembers correctly—happened to be standing nearby and was all too happy to partake in the round of shots Emerson had somehow goaded them all into.

They’d chatted for a bit afterward, mostly about their love of fashion and the best places to buy secondhand designer goods.

“And third,” Emerson continues, “it was the least you could do after ditching me all night for your pretty boy toy.”

Sage’s cheeks heat even as she squirms beneath her friend.

“Theo isn’t my anything. And don’t act like you weren’t having fun working the room. Did my eyes deceive me, or did Fuchsia Suit give you her number?”

Emerson blinks. “She did. Do you think Taylor will be jealous?”

“No.”

“Hope you used some of that charm on Theo,” she grumbles as she rolls off of her. “I’m going to get coffee. Say you’re sorry and maybe I’ll bring you a double shot latte with extra caramel.”

“Em, I’m sorry. I should have lied to you. Taylor will definitely be jealous,” Sage says with as much sincerity as she can muster.

Emerson flips her off as she heads toward the door. “Go shower, you demon. You smell like a bar.”

“Who’s the charmer now?”

Sage feels decidedly more human once she’s showered and dressed for her panel. Emerson comes back with caffeine and a green juice that Sage chokes down only because Margot has gotten her into the habit of doing so after a night of clubbing, and though she loathes to admit it, it helps her feel better.

Still, she definitely overslept, so she’s harried as she tugs on her black blazer and fastens in turquoise earrings, Emerson ushering her toward the door. Sage curses as she doubles back to snatch her phone, still charging by the bed, and tucks it into the back pocket of her slacks.

Taylor and Anna are waiting near the revolving door in the lobby, Taylor tracking an Uber since it’s raining, and they don’t want Sage looking like a drowned rat on stage. It’s a frenzied mess as they rush to the Javits Center, and by the time Sage is in the greenroom and saying hello to the other authors who will be on stage with her, her heart is racing, and she feels a bit sweaty.

Emerson presses a steadying hand between her shoulder blades. She doesn’t say anything, just lets Sage use her grounding touch, lets her take some of her calm and steady strength. It’s enough to open Sage’s lungs, to have her straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin before an assistant with a Comic Con badge is telling them it’s time to go.

It has to be the fastest hour of Sage’s life, because next thing she knows, the moderator is saying, “We have time for one more question.”

A woman about Sage’s age steps up to the standing mic they’ve placed in the aisle, a small, spiral notebook in hand, and clears her throat. Her long, auburn hair is curled in perfect ringlets, her septum piercing glinting as it catches the light. There’s a press badge hanging around her neck.

“My question is for Sage Collins.” Sage leans forward into her mic and gives the woman a smile. “I was wondering if you had anything to say about the new rumors about you and Theo Sharpe.”

For a moment, Sage simply blinks. The room has gone eerily still, and there’s a tingling sensation crawling up her spine that makes her sit straighter as she tries to keep some semblance of professionalism. It’s like someone has turned down the volume on reality, and when they flick it back up, it’s on the highest setting, because Sage’s laugh is loud and forced and almost makes her jump even though it came from her own mouth.

“Yeah, that whole situation was wild,” she manages to say around her pulse hammering in her throat. “But I actually shared a statement the other day, and—”

“So the pictures from Vibe nightclub last night? There’s a lot of speculation that all of this social buzz is a publicity move on your part.”

Sage’s lips part, but words have utterly failed her, caught somewhere in the maelstrom of embarrassment and confusion and anger that’s warming her cheeks as she stares at the woman. She has no idea what she’s talking about, has no clue what photos she’s referring to, because her phone was dead and she was late and …

“Sorry, but this isn’t the place for such questions,” the moderator interjects, trying to regain some modicum of control over the situation.

The woman is unmoved. “I just think readers deserve to know if an author is manipulating them. For someone who writes about embracing your true self, to be lying on social media like this—”

“That’s all the time we have for today!” One of the assistants has turned on a spare mic, and her voice drowns out whatever the woman is saying. For a terrifying moment, Sage thinks no one is going to move. But then the crowd is on their feet, and Sage is being ushered off the stage with the other authors and led through the labyrinth of hallways that lead to the greenroom.

“That was ridiculous,” one of the authors hisses from beside her. “Are you okay?”

Sage is very much not okay. Her hands are shaking, that too-light-for-her-body feeling tingling in her bones, but she manages a nod. She gets back to the greenroom, all too aware of the way the panelists are shooting her furtive looks as they mutter about inappropriate Q&A behavior.

Sage tucks herself into a corner and pulls out her phone. It takes her two tries to open Instagram because of the way her hands are trembling, and she didn’t think it was possible for her stomach to sink lower, but it does as soon as the home page loads and …

There.

Several grainy pictures of her and Theo flood her tagged photos. Their sides are glued together, Theo’s phone hanging loosely in his hand, their heads bent close. They’re looking at each other like there’s no one else in the room.

Sage doesn’t know who took these or how they did it. She doesn’t remember seeing any media types inside Vibe, and the only flashes she saw were from the club strobe lights, and Theo had promised no photos, but it doesn’t matter, because there is a photo—no, photos—and if the way they look absorbed in each other isn’t damning enough, the captions are all too happy to paint a vivid picture.

kaitslunchbox Cough cough publicity stunt cough cough
theosfuturewife This bitch is so transparent like wtf
bluecheesegirlie UGHHHHH he could do so much better whyyyyyy

The door to the greenroom bursts open and Emerson storms in, Anna and Taylor trailing behind her.

“You good?” Emerson asks. Her brow is furrowed, her Cupid’s bow nonexistent with the tight press of her lips.

A detached thought floats through Sage’s mind.

This must be what she looks like in the courtroom.

“Fine,” she lies. She goes to show them her phone, but Emerson waves her off.

“We saw it.”

“It broke mid-panel,” Taylor explains. “I didn’t think anyone would do anything with it.”

“It’s bullshit that she did,” Anna snaps. “That was a pathetic attempt by an influencer trying to get clout.” Sage tries to force her face into something she hopes resembles calm. She can’t really tell if it’s successful; she’s not really aware of her body right now.

“I know.”

“You’ve already said your piece,” Taylor adds. She folds her arms across her chest and shakes her head. “How she even got the chance to ask—”

“It’s fine.” Sage cuts her off, trying to breathe.

It’s not. It’s the furthest thing from fine, and she knows they’re trying to help, but their biting words and vehement support are making her heart race faster, and she just …

She just needs a minute, a minute to—

Her phone buzzes in her hand.

Mom flashes across the screen.

“Jesus,” Sage breathes, a note of hysteria creeping into her tone as she ignores the call.

No one pays her any mind. Anna is saying something about people being jerks and the Internet being a cesspool and other logical statements that should calm Sage down, but she’s too embarrassed to even let the words truly register, too panicked to feel anything but the need to burst out of her skin.

“Sage.”

Theo’s voice cuts through the buzzing in her head like a knife.

She swallows, her knuckles white around her phone as she finds him standing just inside the entrance of the greenroom. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his jeans, shoulders hunched beneath a navy hoodie. His black ball cap is pulled low on his head and there’s no trace of that easy, joyful look on his face that Sage found herself replaying in her mind last night.

He’s seen the pictures. It’s the only thing that can explain the dread on his face and his haphazardly incognito appearance.

Her phone buzzes in her hand again. Her mother is nothing if not relentless.

She turns the device off entirely.

“I’ll meet you guys back at the hotel, okay?” she says to her friends, her eyes flicking to Theo. She expects Emerson to argue, but whatever Emerson sees on Sage’s face must convince her otherwise, because she nods before ushering Anna and Taylor from the room, leaving Sage with a gentle squeeze of her arm.

Sage is vaguely aware of the other authors shooting them looks, their motions slowing as they try to delay their exits, but eventually they’re gone, and it’s just her and Theo.

“I am … so sorry,” Theo starts with a hesitant step toward her. “For someone to take photos and leak it at an event like that, it’s such a violation of privacy, of trust, and I can’t believe…” He trails off, scrubbing a hand across the back of his neck as he slowly closes the distance between them. Up close, Sage can see the red splashed across his cheeks just as clearly as she can hear the agitation in his rambling. It clips his words and sharpens his rounded vowels, even as he stutters his way through his apology.

He touches a hand just above her elbow. “Christ, I am so sorry. And that woman at the panel. She was so out of line, Sage.”

“Was she? It’s what everyone thinks,” Sage rasps.

His brow furrows beneath the brim of his hat. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” she insists. Her limbs feel weak as she draws her arms around herself, pulling away from Theo’s touch. “It is, because all they have to go off of is my word, my word, and then these pictures appear and it looks like I’m lying, like I’m using you, and—”

She forces herself to take a deep breath, to swallow down the mess of emotions that threatens to burst from her throat before she can think of the consequences.

But her eyes burn, and her voice trembles, and she hates it. She needs to stay calm, to stay rational, so they can think of a plan. So she can fix this.

She has to fix this.

They have to fix this.

“Sage—”

“You’ll say something now, right?” she asks, her teeth digging into the knuckle of her thumb as she shifts her weight between her feet. “I mean this is obviously a huge misunderstanding. I get you can’t control what other people do, but … it’ll help. Right?”

A muscle feathers in Theo’s jaw as he gives his head a small shake. “I tried. As soon as I saw the pictures, I called my manager, but he’s holding firm, and—”

“You can’t be serious.”

Theo blinks.

“Oh my god, you are serious. You’re just going to … what? Leave me to weather this on my own?”

The shaking has disappeared, that tingling in her veins giving way to the frustration she’s been desperately trying to wrangle.

“We never address rumors like this,” he tries to reason, and the earnestness in his gaze is enough to tell her he’s getting started on an explanation she doesn’t want to hear. Because Anna was right:

Sage is nobody. But Theo …

Theo is somebody.

“Of course not,” she retorts. “Such things are beneath you, meanwhile I’m getting fucking dragged out here by your groupies!”

Theo winces. “Look, I know people can be vicious, but I promise you, this is going to pass. They’ll move on to something new next week.”

“You were at that panel! You heard the shit she said. Do you know what this could do to my reputation?”

“They’ll get bored!” he says beseechingly. “Besides, it’s not like the exposure is exactly a bad thing.”

Suddenly, Sage wants to hit something.

“I cannot believe,” she breathes, stepping into his space, “you would even try to pull that bullshit with me. I don’t need some fake romance with you to boost my career, and frankly, I’m offended you would even suggest it.”

For a moment, Theo almost looks hurt, but Sage is too furious to backtrack.

He’d pretended he’d understood. He’d pretended he’d … cared.

Theo forces a steadying breath through his nose. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he explains calmly, like he’s talking down a child having a tantrum. “I just meant that with the virality, it increases your exposure at literally no cost.”

“No cost?” Sage laughs, the sound brittle. “I may not be a fucking celebrity, but I know enough about the Internet to know how this goes. It would cost you nothing to say something, and you know that!”

“If it were up to me—”

Sage cuts him off with another incredulous laugh as she steps away from him, desperate to dispel some of the energy that’s burning beneath her skin. “Jesus Christ, it’s incredible the lengths you will go to not accept responsibility! You do realize your manager works for you, right? Don’t pretend like you don’t hold the power here, Theo. I’m not a fool.”

Theo’s eyes flash, his carefully crafted calm facade beginning to crumble as he narrows his gaze at her. “You really have me all figured out, don’t you?” he says, an edge of impatience creeping into his tone. “Tell me then, has it ever occurred to you that there may be a reason I don’t want my team commenting on this?”

There’s mockery in his posh accent, and it makes her blood reach a boiling point.

That arrogant son of a bitch.

“I’m sure it has something to do with maintaining your mysterious image,” Sage snaps, her hands clenching at her sides.

Theo barks a sharp, irritated laugh. “Fucking hell, you are impossible.”

She feels the words like a blow.

God, Sage, don’t you ever stop?

She doesn’t.

She never can when she gets this worked up—when she’s backed into a corner and the only way out is to take some of the broken shards inside of her and cut with them.

Words are bubbling up, and she can’t swallow them back.

“I bet your manager planted that rumor about you dating someone weeks ago just to keep you interesting. Anything to keep them obsessed with Hollywood’s Newest It Boy. What am I, just the latest fodder for your news cycle?”

“Why would I even be here if that were the case?” Theo exclaims, his arms flinging wide as he steps toward her. “Why would I subject myself to you bloody yelling at me if I didn’t—”

His jaw clenches as he bites off the rest of his sentence. They’re chest to chest now, and she can feel his heaving as she glares up at him.

“Why are you here, Theo? If you’re just going to leave me to defend myself against the masses, then why—”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he cuts her off, and then his hands are on her cheeks and his lips are crashing against hers and …

Oh.

For a single moment, Sage’s mind plays Tetris with their interactions again, slotting them into a new order to help her bridge the gap between them yelling at each other and … this. But then the softness of Theo’s mouth eclipses the data entirely, and her analytical brain promptly shuts down.

The kiss is coaxing but not at all gentle, his lips warm and smooth and …

Sage’s control snaps like a rubber band that’s been stretched too far. Her hands grip the soft fabric of his hoodie as she tugs him impossibly closer, her breath coming in a sharp inhale as they part for air only to dive back in.

She’s never one to sit still, not when there’s a direction ahead of her. And though this isn’t a solution, it’s still a fix. It’s action all the same, a way to displace that frenetic energy inside of her, and her body responds accordingly.

Sage’s breath catches as his tongue swipes against hers and his thumb presses into the pulse point just below the hinge of her jaw.

She opens more for him, her hands sliding from his chest to his shoulders to the back of his neck, her fingers tangling in the strands peeking out from beneath his ball cap. Theo inhales sharply, backing her up until she hits the wall with a soft thud. The wall is firm against her back, and Theo presses against her, and all the air leaves her lungs, leaving just the taste of him—fresh and fierce—and Sage thinks …

Well, she doesn’t think at all, actually.

Cannot connect to server, 504 error code, etc. etc.

There’s nothing but Theo and his mouth and the way her skin is on fire beneath his hands.

She might just drown in the rush of something molten. It warms her blood and tightens her stomach and sends her heart pounding against her chest.

But then the door to the greenroom opens with a bang, and it’s enough to bring her brain roaring back to life. She shoves Theo off of her, her chest heaving as a group of panelists tumble through in a chorus of raucous laughter.

Theo stands stock-still, his hands raised from where they cupped her cheeks, eyes wide and lips red and slightly swollen. Sage keeps herself pinned against the wall, palms pressing into it to steady herself. Her eyes dart to the panelists, oblivious to what they’ve walked into, then back to Theo.

He takes a step back, his hands lowering slowly before he shoves them into his pockets.

“I—” Sage tries, but someone calls her name—an author she recognizes from some other conference. Sage forces herself off the wall as she waves to her, and it’s enough of a pause for her to take a breath.

Clear her throat.

Steel herself to face Theo.

But when she looks back to him, she’s met with his figure disappearing out the door.

She doesn’t chase him.

She does text him once she’s gotten back to the hotel and had a moment to breathe.

Theo S.

Oct 14 2:36 PM

Are we going to talk about what just happened?

Oct 14 3:58 PM

Theo?

Emerson has some choice words about the whole ordeal, but Sage ignores her as they pack ahead of their early morning flight the next day.

She checks her phone once.

Twice.

Five times.

There’s nothing except a stilted text from her mother in response to Sage promising to call and explain it all tomorrow.

She zips her phone into her backpack to quell the urge to keep opening Theo’s text thread.

It doesn’t help.

So she packs and stews, wonders if Theo is on a plane already, if he’s gone back to LA without saying a word.

And then it’s 7 PM and she and Emerson are waiting on their room service. Sage is trying to change her notification settings on Instagram and …

There’s a post: a screenshot of a note from the Notes app dated two days prior, uploaded to Theo’s Instagram account.

Not that it’s anyone’s business, but I’m not seeing anyone. Be kind to people on the Internet.

Sage reads it twice, her mind rapidly trying to make sense of what it all means, before her phone dings.

It was a mistake.

Something cold washes over her.

She doesn’t respond.

7
Sad Kate Winslet

Noah

Oct 23 1:24 PM

Noah

Can you PLEASE call Mom back?

Noah

She’s blowing me up because she hasn’t been able to get a hold of you.

I talked to her literally two days ago?

I’m trying to write, behind on deadline.

Will call her later.

Oct 23 5:16 PM

Noah

I think she’s “concerned”

Noah

Her daughter was recently part of the news cycle.

Noah

Speaking of …

Trying to write, Noah.

Noah

“How many words do you have now?”

Anna’s voice is tinny in Sage’s headphones. Her agent takes a sip of her tea, her face utterly calm and slightly pixelated on the computer screen.

“Twenty-five thousand,” Sage says as she taps her pen against her thigh, her feet tucked beneath her on the couch. Twenty-five thousand, and she needs at least a hundred thousand more. “Only about a third of them are good, though.”

She’s sitting in her tiny living room, her computer set on the scratched coffee table next to the second mug of coffee she’s drained. It’s early enough that the sun is still a deep orange as it starts filtering through the windows to her left, casting shadows across her already tired face. The sweats and messy topknot don’t help her look any more put together, but she knew as soon as she asked Anna to have a video call that it would be useless to try to hide her general state of disarray from her agent.

“Which part is proving difficult?” Anna asks.

Sage scrubs a hand down her face. “All of it. I just … I can’t get any words out. It’s like … I think I have an idea, but then nothing actually comes out on the page. Even when I try to let it just be bad, the words still won’t come. It’s like I’ve forgotten how to write.” She hates the way her voice tightens with anxiety, but it’s been two and a half weeks since she got back to LA, and in that time, she’s written a record low of two thousand words.

Logically, Sage knows writer’s block is a very real thing. She knows this isn’t about her being lazy, or not wanting to work. She would probably work herself into an early grave if she didn’t have friends like Emerson and Margot to remind her every once in a while that there are things outside of getting a gold star that no one can see.

She’s still trying to accept that.

The point is … she knows that whatever is happening in her head isn’t fake, or some silly excuse she’s making to sit on her couch and do nothing. She went down a rabbit hole on writer’s block when she first hit this wall before the Con. She’s read articles and Reddit threads and blog posts about how to cure it.

She’s gone to write at Urth Caffé on Melrose, her favorite coffee shop, for a change of scenery, has sought out random writing prompts to get the juices flowing, has tried starting from the end. Margot even came last week with a special water filter for Sage’s sink (It’ll help you stay hydrated and flush out toxins, S!).

Nothing’s worked. And she needs something to work, so help her god, because she doesn’t have time to break down like this. Not with her publisher making grand plans for a publication deadline she’s not even sure she can meet, not with her readers anxiously awaiting the sequel, not with booksellers already sending emails about marketing and launch plans and transparent requests just to triple check the book is still coming out next fall.

Sage doesn’t know who she is when she doesn’t have something to strive for. Now isn’t the best time to find out.

“I don’t know what to do,” she admits quietly. A siren wails in the background, and Sage licks her chapped lips. She reaches for her mug before remembering she drained it down to the dregs.

Anna’s mouth twists in contemplation. “Is there something on your mind that’s distracting you?”

The question is thick with double meaning, and it has Sage rubbing at her eyes again, sleeves of her UCLA sweatshirt pulled over her hands. She cringes at the green juice stain on the cuff.

“No,” she sighs, voice thick with exhaustion. She can’t sleep when her brain gets stuck like this. It tries to solve problems while she dozes, but really, it just circles and circles, creating new snags in her dreams until she tosses and turns and wakes up, only to repeat the cycle all over again for the six hours she lays in bed.

Lately, her mind has taken to trying to plot her sequel in her sleep. Sometimes, it feels like Cleo is haunting her—like she’s lost in the cliff-hanger Sage left her in at the end of book one and is torturing Sage for it gleefully.

“The chatter has mostly died down ever since Theo posted his statement,” Sage adds, because Sage isn’t a fool and she knows what her agent really wants to know is if she’s still hung up on the mess from a few weeks ago.

Bitterness floods her mouth, and she’s not sure if it’s at the mere mention of Theo’s name or the realization that he was right:

People would—and did—get bored.

“And there aren’t other distractions?”

Sage shifts, untucking her legs only to bring one up under the other. “What are you getting at?”

She hasn’t told anyone aside from Emerson and Margot about what really happened between her and Theo in the greenroom.

“I’m just saying you had a bit of a bump,” Anna says cryptically. “It’s natural for that to affect you.”

“I was stuck on this book before Comic Con.” Some of her frustration seeps into her tone. She pushes her sleeves up to her elbows.

Suddenly, her sweatshirt feels suffocating. She wants to tear it off.

“I just wish I could fucking write,” she grits out.

“Maybe you need a break.”

“I don’t have time for a break. My draft is due in January, Anna. It’s November first.” Obviously, Anna knows this, but Sage isn’t above reminding her.

“You don’t have time to not have the time to take care of yourself,” Anna corrects her. It’s a different kind of Anna-ism, still blunt and accompanied with a scan of Sage’s sloppy appearance, but it’s also warm and coated in something maternal. “Maybe you need a change of scenery?”

Sage lets out a strained laugh. “I was in New York City almost three weeks ago.”

Anna waves her off. “You know what I mean. Can you go somewhere? Unplug for a bit, get inspired again?”

Sage’s forefinger finds the ragged cuticle on her thumb and starts to pick. “I guess I could. I have some money set aside.”

She doesn’t bother to mention that time for such a thing is dwindling. She’s due home in a few weeks for Thanksgiving, and she guesses technically that’s a change of scenery, but Chicago won’t exactly be mind-clearing or restorative. Her parents’ neighborhood does a block party for the holiday. The thought of making small talk with their neighbors—neighbors who knew her in diapers but haven’t seen her since last Christmas—sort of makes Sage want to cry, especially because Noah won’t be there to deflect attention away from her this year.

They’re a team. Even if … even if it seems like lately, they’ve been on different frequencies.

She’s never felt the two years of age difference between them. But now, Noah and Cecelia have been trying to conceive for the last year, and Sage is single and unsure if she even wants kids, and she’s in a career he doesn’t fully understand and …

It’s different.

They never used to have to try this hard.

“I’ll think on it,” she finally says, because Anna has another meeting and she’s taken up enough of her agent’s time with her mini meltdown. She signs off with promises to keep Anna updated and doesn’t bother keeping her computer open after the Zoom meeting ends.

Sage leans her head back against the couch cushions and stares at the water stain on her ceiling. Her landlord promised to paint over it a year ago after ensuring there wasn’t any lasting damage from when the unit above her flooded, but she’s started to come to terms with it being a fixture of her home, much like her bedroom window that never quite closes.

“You could just paint it yourself,” Noah had said the last time he’d visited. “You work from home now.”

Sage didn’t know how to explain to her brother—composed and steady as he always was—that she knew she could do it, but Nights was about to come out and adding one more thing to her to-do list, even a task that would take her less than an hour, would render her completely useless for all the things she had to do immediately. Once her brain decided it had enough to juggle, it was enough, and piling on just kept Sage frozen and unable to move.

It didn’t always stop her from adding more, especially if she was intent on distracting herself from things she didn’t want to think about, but she was trying to do better.

Nights was something she didn’t want to fuck up. It was too important to get in her own way, to sabotage herself in the ways she knew she could. And yet here she was, unable to get out of her own way, anyway.

Sage lets out an aggravated groan and forces herself from the couch, grabbing her empty mug and her phone and heading to the kitchenette. It’s her favorite part of her apartment, with its sky-blue walls and checkered tile and natural light from the large windows over her sink. She pours herself another cup of coffee from the pot before shoving the mug in the microwave and reheating it.

That anxiety curling in her gut has settled a bit after having talked with Anna, if only because it felt like some form of professional confession, but she still doesn’t have any answers. She needs a plan, a checklist, something that puts her back in control.

Sage flips her phone in her hand, an unread text from Emerson flashing on the screen. She and Margot have been hell-bent on filling her weekends with activities, everything from clubs to art shows to dinners, and Sage knows exactly what they’re trying to do:

Get her out of her head.

“You have to experience life to write about it,” Margot had said, her red hair thrown in a messy bun as she all but dragged Sage away from her computer and out for a run down the Venice Beach Boardwalk.

“Technically the world I’m writing about doesn’t exist,” Sage had grumbled.

“Shh. Let the endorphins do their job.”

The endorphins, surprisingly, had not fixed Sage’s crisis. In fact, they’d nearly created another one when she’d run up on a tall, blond man who was also running the Venice Beach Boardwalk and had the exact same build as Theo.

She hadn’t been able to tell if she was relieved or disappointed that it hadn’t been him.

They haven’t spoken. Obviously they haven’t spoken, because Theo had said everything he needed to say when he issued that statement and followed it up with telling Sage she was a mistake.

It’s fine. It’s not like he’s the first person to kiss her and regret it.

It’s just …

God, she feels so stupid about the whole thing. She’d written him off as an asshole, had refused to get distracted by him, and then he’d weaseled his way in with how he so easily perceived her, and then he kissed her. He all but admitted he had feelings for her, he acted on those feelings, and then he took it back faster than she could blink.

And sure, she was the one who pushed him away in the greenroom, but she’d been startled, and it was complicated, and …

I’m complicated.

She can’t shake the thought no matter how hard she tries, can’t stop replaying just how much she’d shared with him in such a short time, just how vulnerable she’d let herself be, just how much he’d seen of her, understood, only to throw it back in her face.

It was the worst sort of whiplash, and she’s still reeling from it.

But it’s fine.

It’s better this way.

She knows it’s better this way, even though she sometimes finds herself half hoping she’ll run into him. She doesn’t even know which part of LA Theo lives in, and yet she’s constantly glancing over her shoulder, her stomach twisting whenever she sees a tall blond with a similar silhouette.

She isn’t even sure what she would do. If she’d ignore him or give him a piece of her mind. She’ll probably never find out.

The beep of the microwave pulls Sage from her thoughts. She grabs her mug, pours in enough caramel creamer to give the coffee a nice beige color, and lets her head thump against the paint-chipped cabinets.

Maybe Anna was right. Maybe she does need a change of scenery—something to truly jolt her brain out of its slumber. Not a night out, not a spin class, not the green smoothie Margot swears will give her the vitamins she needs for her brain to work.

Her mother will, of course, kill her if she’s not home for Thanksgiving. Never mind that Sage will be back in the Midwest for Christmas.

Sage rolls her neck to try to relieve some of the tension coiled in the muscles there. She has so much to do, and yet here she is, wallowing in her kitchenette like Kate Winslet’s character at the beginning of The Holiday.

Or maybe she’s more Cameron Diaz? She is in LA, after all.

She sets down her mug and reads the text from Emerson. She’s asking about trying some new restaurant, and Sage lets out a long breath as she navigates to her Internet app to look it up. She taps on the tabs to open a new one, her screen showing the forty-plus squares of windows she already has open, and pauses as one catches her eye. It’s the “Ten Best Hikes on the Isle of Skye” article she’d been reading at Comic Con. She should probably feel something about how long she keeps tabs open in her browser, but she can’t because an idea is rapidly forming.

A stupid, stupid idea that she can’t believe she’s actually considering, because it’s impulsive and foolish and …

And technically … she could escape to a beautiful, picturesque countryside like Cameron Diaz did in The Holiday. Just … not in England.

She has airline miles saved up, and it’s not like she can’t bring work with her. All she needs is her laptop and a decent Wi-Fi connection. She could probably even sublet her apartment. It’s nearing the holiday season, and people are constantly looking for a cheap place to stay as they escape colder weather.

She bites her lip, clicks out of the browser, and starts flipping her phone in her hand again as she thinks.

Surely she’s not really considering fleeing Los Angeles because she has the worst case of writer’s block known to man.

She’s not really going to do this.

Is she?

Forty-eight hours later, Sage has three new notifications on her phone:

Boarding passes for flights from LA to London to Inverness.

A message from the host of the Airbnb she’s renting for the next month and a half.

A voicemail from her mother reiterating how disappointed she is that Sage won’t be home for Thanksgiving and that they’ll see her in Chicago for Christmas.

So, yeah. She is very much going to do this.

“Is this a bad idea?” Sage asks, hands planted on her hips as she stares at a half-packed suitcase, her computer open next to it.

“No.” Emerson’s voice comes from the speaker of Sage’s phone just as Margot says, “Sort of.”

Sage flashes Margot a glare, and her friend just shrugs as she holds up a sweater for Sage to inspect.

“Pack it,” Sage says.

“Lots of writers go off in search of inspiration,” Emerson reasons. “Or shut themselves away. Or both, I guess?”

“Reassuring.”

“I do what I can. Oh! This person looks normal!” They’ve been reviewing sublet applicants, Margot having created a post on various sites. With her career in real estate, she was confident she could get Sage a subletter who wouldn’t burn her place down. Emerson offered to keep an eye on the apartment, serving as the stand-in landlord.

Sage truly has the best friends.

“Bash,” Emerson continues. “Employed, completed background check, can pay the security deposit immediately. Hmm, we might even be able to meet them before you leave tomorrow night.”

Sage can hear Emerson’s fingers tapping across her phone screen, already texting the applicant.

“Are you sure you’re okay to manage this while I’m gone?” It’s not the first time Sage has asked her this, and it probably won’t be the last. “It’s not like you don’t have enough going on at the firm.” She cuts a glance to Margot. She’s holding up one of Sage’s amethyst dresses, admiring her reflection in the mirror. It pairs wonderfully with her golden complexion. “And you have homes to sell.”

“Sage,” Emerson says seriously, “you know how much I love The Holiday. Helping you re-create the movie is the greatest honor of my life.”

“Seconded,” Margot agrees solemnly.

“You two do realize I’m going to the Isle of Skye, not Shere.”

“As long as you find your Jude Law, it doesn’t matter,” Emerson chirps. “Or your Cameron Diaz, I suppose.”

Sage huffs a laugh and hopes it doesn’t sound bitter. “I think I’m done with actor types. Thanks for the vote of confidence, though.”

She technically never really started with actor types, but her point stands. Besides, this trip is about cutting out distractions. Even if the only reason Sage learned of her idyllic escape was because of a distraction of the tall, blond, and infuriating variety.

Sage buries her face in her hands and lets out a frustrated noise. Margot puts a soothing hand on her shoulder. “I’ll make sure Emerson actually checks in on whoever rents this place.”

“Hey!” Emerson exclaims through the phone. “I’ll have you know I’m plenty responsible.”

“Tell that to the money tree I got you,” Margot retorts.

“You know what— Oh! Look! Bash can meet tomorrow!”

Margot looks at Sage and rolls her eyes in fond exasperation.

“Is 7:30 AM at Urth too early, S?”

“Yes,” Sage says dryly. “But I’ll be there. Thank you, both. Really. I’ll pay you for this.”

“Shut up,” Emerson and Margot say with creepy synchronicity.

“I don’t want your money,” Emerson adds. “I will take a book dedication, though.”

“Shit. I was planning on dedicating it to Jude Law.”

Both of her friends make sounds of protest.

“Rude!” Margot cries.

“I’m not going to miss you at all,” Emerson grumbles.

The next evening, Sage settles in the middle seat of the last row of her flight, neck pillow wrapped around her. She pops in her headphones and resolutely does not think of Englishmen, despite being en route to London.

No more distractions, she reminds herself firmly as she checks her backpack to make sure her melatonin is easily accessible.

She sends off a text to her brother to let him know she’s on the plane—a sibling ritual she refuses to admit that she loves—and then scrolls down to her earlier texts.

She pulls up her thread with Theo.

It was a mistake.

Sage swallows hard.

She deletes the text thread.

No more distractions.

And then she deletes Theo’s number entirely.

8
Single-Lane Roads

There is a 78.7 percent chance Sage is about to become someone’s favorite wild death story.

She’s made her fair share of impulsive decisions only to regret not slowing down long enough to think them through. It comes with being the type of person who is constantly moving—constantly striving—toward something. Some goal, some new hobby, some check mark on the never-ending list in her mind of accomplishments or successes that will scratch the constant itch in her brain.

And because she can’t sit still for one single second, sometimes she ends up flinging herself off a cliff before she checks to see if she’s packed a parachute.

As she drives down a narrow road somewhere in the Scottish Highlands, an ancient stone wall to her left, an oncoming van to the right, she wonders if this might be the one time she truly will meet her end at the bottom of a cliff.

Her knuckles go white as she grips the steering wheel tighter, the van barreling down the road toward her like it’s in a grand prix.

It’s not just that she’s driving on the wrong side of the road. It’s that she’s driving on the wrong side of the road, and said road is practically three feet wide, and the rental car company upgraded her to an SUV against her will. Unless she wanted to wait four hours for something else, she had to make do with driving the equivalent of a tank on road that should clearly only be one lane.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck,” Sage squeals, instinctively shifting her body toward the wall as the van drives past her, as if that will help at all. Her breath releases from her lungs as the van clears the car, and she checks her driver’s side mirror to make sure she didn’t knock it off.

At least she has a wall. The other lane is bordered by a loch, which is probably gorgeous, but Sage can’t tear her eyes away from the death trap that’s supposedly a two-lane road to really appreciate it.

She should’ve taken the train.

At least it isn’t snowing.

As soon as she has the thought, it starts to rain.

Ah, the universe. Always happy to prove it’s listening by flashing a metaphorical middle finger.

Sage frowns as she tries to figure out how to turn on the windshield wipers.

She really, really should’ve taken the train.

Sage’s GPS had her arriving at her Airbnb—a small guest cottage just outside of Portree, the most populated town in Skye, clocking in at 2,310 people—at 5:15 that evening.

It’s 7:45 when she pulls up a gravel drive to what she hopes is the right place. She can’t really see much, given it’s pitch-black outside. Her headlights illuminate a corner of a house that looks way larger than what she’s booked, but the rest is lost to the dark of night.

It’s probably the main house, she assures herself as she turns off the car. Her hopeful inner monologue isn’t enough to stop her from slumping back against the seat and letting out a long breath as she triple checks the rental app against the address she put in the map.

Everything looks right, but if her navigation skills here are anything to go off of, then there’s at least a chance she—

Someone knocks on the driver’s side window, startling Sage so thoroughly that she screams. She jerks sideways, her phone flying from her hand and knocking the Coke she swore she wouldn’t drink unless it was an emergency out of the cupholder and all over the passenger seat.

Fucking Margot and her connection to the universe. She’s controlling her pop intake even now.

Sage struggles to breathe, a hand on her chest, as she looks out the window. A woman stands in a mirror position, and Sage can see her chest heaving, even beneath the woman’s heavy jacket.

“Shit,” Sage mutters again as she stumbles out of the car. “I’m so sorry, are you okay?” She isn’t quite sure why she’s apologizing, especially because her heart is still jackhammering against her rib cage, but she has enough decency to check on a woman who looks like she’s one jump scare away from a heart attack.

“Gave me a right scare,” the woman says, still clutching at her Barbour coat like it’s the only thing keeping her standing. “Sorry. Thought you saw me coming,” she says, as if Sage hadn’t been frowning at her phone trying to figure out where the hell she is. “Wanted to make sure you find the guesthouse all right.”

Her voice is lilting, her Scottish accent sending her sentences rising and falling like a wave. Her curly gray hair is wild under the hood of her jacket, which she tugs closer to her chin. It hasn’t stopped drops of rain from settling on her light brown skin.

The deluge has eased into a sprinkle, but it’s cold enough that Sage curls her arms around herself as she says, “Greta, I take it?”

“Aye, that’s me. You’re Sage?”

“That would be me.”

Greta’s smile is kind, if not a bit mischievous. “We were starting to worry you’d driven into a loch.”

Sage winces. “No lochs. Nearly took out a wall or two, but”—she spreads her arms wide—“here I am.”

“Well, come on, then. Let’s get you situated. Did you eat? Everything in town closes ’round seven on a Sunday.”

“Um, no,” she confesses. Sage’s bloodstream is currently made up of Sour Patch Kids and three delectable sips of pop. “But I’m pretty jet-lagged, so I’ll probably just go to bed.”

It’s not like she’ll have much trouble convincing her brain it’s shy of midnight. She has half a mind to grab her phone and start using the flashlight feature.

“I’ll grab something from Edgar,” Greta insists. “Your kitchen is set with some breakfast items, but I imagine you’d want something a little heartier.”

“It’s really not a problem,” she tries, but Greta is already ushering her to the back of the car to grab her bag.

“Neither is giving you food. Come on, before we freeze.”

Sage knows stubbornness when she sees it. Emerson is, after all, her best friend and one of the most stubborn people she knows. And Sage … well, she owns a mirror. Pot, kettle, etc. etc.

So she follows Greta to a stone path she definitely wouldn’t have found easily on her own, if at all. It wraps around the back of the house, small lanterns dotting the footpath where it stretches all the way to the small guest cottage that sits a little ways down a hill. Greta walks her through how to use the keypad, even though the instructions are in the rental app, and waits until Sage flicks on the lights and puts her suitcase down before she bustles back out of the cottage to fetch food from Edgar. Sage isn’t quite sure who that is, but her host talks about him with such a familiarity that she feels like she should, so she quickly pulls up the host bio on the rental listing and gives it another read.

Ah, right. Greta’s husband.

Sage uses the few minutes alone to meander around the cottage. It’s a small but open space that’s at least twice the size of her LA apartment. There’s a small bedroom painted in soft blues and whites, a bathroom, a kitchen with a built-in bar to eat at, and a sitting area with a cozy-looking couch, a fireplace, and a small TV on an entertainment center. The back wall of the cottage—gray and brown stone—has four floor-to-ceiling windows. Sage stands in front of one, arms wrapped around herself, reflection hazy in the glass, and takes a deep breath.

This is going to be good, she tells herself. This is going to be great.

Greta comes back with some sort of stew, the smell rich and homey and warm, and it has Sage’s stomach grumbling in an embarrassing fashion as she cups the Tupperware in her hands.

Greta makes sure Sage knows how to work the gas fireplace, and then it’s just Sage and an empty cottage, wind rattling the windows.

It’s not an unfamiliar feeling, being alone. She lives by herself. But out here, where the only noise is the whistle of the wind across the hills—out here where she’s 4,996 miles away from her friends and her life—Sage feels …

Isolated.

Which is what she wanted, she guesses. A real change, something to shock her brain awake and help her focus. But it doesn’t feel like the relief she’d expected. Instead, the loneliness feels thick in the air, like something she has to swim through whenever she moves. Perhaps it’ll just take some time to get used to the weight.

Her phone buzzes in the pocket of her jeans with a text from Noah.

Glad you made it safely! What are you going to go see first? Take tons of pictures!

Sage sucks on her teeth and resists the urge to bristle. This isn’t a vacation. She knows that Noah knows that. She knows he’s just trying to connect.

She holds up her phone and snaps a quick selfie, the empty Airbnb looming behind her. She sends it along with her answer: my laptop.

The last thing she needs is to fall down a hyper-fixation research rabbit hole on how to spend free time she doesn’t currently have. She can do that once her word count gets on track.

You look jetlagged as hell.

Sage laughs. She takes another deep breath, inhaling that thickness into her lungs and letting it settle somewhere behind her sternum.

This is going to be good.

This is going to be great.

Thunder rumbles in the distance.

“Shut up,” Sage mutters to the universe.

Disaster

Nov 9 3:34 AM

Disaster

Any Jude Law sightings

Disaster

Or Cameron Diaz!

Nov 9 6:34 AM

Disaster

Hellooooo? Don’t make me call Greta and Edgar.

Nov 9 10:34 AM

Emerson.

It’s an eight-hour time difference, you utter pain.

I regret ever sharing the Airbnb listing with you.

Also what part of NO ACTORS did you not understand?

Nov 9 2:22 PM

Disaster

Jude / Cameron are METAPHORS, Sage.

Disaster

And you call yourself a writer.

Disaster

Speaking of … are we talking about your manuscript?

No.

Disaster

Good, good, so things are going well, then.

I’ve only been here four days!

Disaster

And yet you already almost killed a man on a bike when you looked the wrong way pulling out of the grocery store.

*Supermarket.

Sage shuffles out of her bedroom on the morning of her eighth day in Skye to be greeted by gray skies and freezing temperatures. She goes through her morning routine—starting the coffee brewing, grabbing a blanket to ward off the chill, staring out the window contemplating the meaning of life while said coffee brews—and wonders if today will finally be the day she has a writing breakthrough.

One week. One week solely dedicated to trying to take a hammer to the brick wall stifling her creativity and get something decent on the page, only to fight like hell for every word she pulls from the tar of her mind.

She tried relocating to a small coffee shop in town but ended up spending most of her hours there staring out the bay window and watching people pass by on the sidewalk. Her word count is still abysmally low, low enough that her spreadsheet that tracks how much she needs to write each day to reach her deadline is ridiculously off, but her brain remains too frozen to think even though she traveled nearly five thousand miles to reboot it.

But maybe today will be different.

She lets out a sigh as she takes the first sip of her coffee. She hasn’t quite adjusted to the bitterness of drinking straight espresso, but if she pours some water in it and stirs in enough sugar to give Margot (and herself) a heart attack, it sort of tastes okay. It’s caffeine, and she needs it to bury her brewing panic as she tugs her laptop toward her while she settles on the barstool in the kitchen.

For a moment, she simply stares at her draft, a blur of black words on a white screen that should resemble something coherent but just makes the buzzing in Sage’s brain hum louder.

That’s fine. She can ease into it with some admin work. Just a few minutes to get warmed up, then she’ll throw on a Pomodoro timer and get going.

It’s fine.

She opens a new tab on her browser, intent on making that buzz recede.

The next thing she knows, there’s a knock on her door that has her dropping her phone as if she’s stolen it. She glances at the clock to find three hours have passed and she’s done nothing but create a few rudimentarily designed book quotes she’s going to post on Instagram.

She also unlocked a new level in the baking game she plays Noah in.

It’s their favorite form of communication. So, like, it’s very important she keep up with it.

Sage twists in the barstool, her back cracking after sitting in the same position for so long. Another knock sounds.

“Coming!” she calls, glaring at her laptop screen like it’s personally offended her, because it has. She slides off the stool and pads to the door. A burst of freezing air hits her as she opens it, and there’s Edgar, blinking owlishly, his face red from the cold.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Um.” She glances back at her laptop, feeling as confused as Edgar looks. “Writing?”

He bats the word away with his hand. “The match!”

“What?”

“Scotland versus England!” he yelps, his voice increasing in volume and octave. “Pride is on the line!” His eyes are shining with fervor, and for a moment, Sage thinks he might grab her by the shoulders and give her a vicious shake. Maybe she needs one. Maybe she’s actually asleep at her computer and this is some strange, midafternoon dream.

“Sorry, what are you talking about?”

“The. Match.”

Sage looks down to see a jersey beneath his jacket, stretched across his portly figure. He beams with pride as he follows her gaze.

“Ah,” Sage says, leaning against the doorframe. “There’s a soccer match on?” Edgar’s mouth pinches, and she hurries to correct herself. “Football! Sorry, sorry. There’s a football match on?”

“Not just any match. It’s the qualifiers,” he explains, as if this has any meaning to her.

“Right.”

“Right. So you’ll join us, then?”

Sage likes Edgar. She truly does. But sometimes, she feels like they speak two completely different languages. “You’re … going to the match?”

Edgar looks at her like she grew a second head. “We’re watching the match. Greta’s fixing food for it. It doesn’t start until later. You have a few hours to wrap up whatever you’re working on.”

“Oh.”

It’s amazing, really, how versatile a single word can be. Because Sage doesn’t mean oh, as in, Oh, I understand. She means oh, as in Oh, how do I explain I need to be working even though my brain is empty?

She probably shouldn’t writer’s block dump all over Edgar. He doesn’t deserve it. So instead, she says, “Gosh, Edgar, I really wish I could, but I just hit my stride, and this will probably take me all afternoon.”

She feels a bit guilty for lying through her teeth, especially given most of what she’s written over the last week has been her forcing choppy sentences onto the page that she knows she’ll have to cut. But maybe simply saying it aloud will manifest some burst of brilliance.

Edgar’s brow furrows again, as if he knows what she’s thinking and he seriously doubts her capabilities. She can’t say she blames him.

“You’ve been typing away for days,” he remarks.

“I’ve taken in some sights. I saw the houses.” He cocks a brow, and Sage waves a hand in the general vicinity of town—or where she thinks town is, anyway. “You know, the colorful ones by the harbor.” Edgar still doesn’t seem convinced. “Besides, I have time. I’m here for a month and a half,” she continues.

“The match is only today.”

“Go blues?” she hedges, glancing down at Edgar’s jersey. He shakes his head in dismay.

“You’ll work yourself to death if you’re not careful.”

There’s an America/capitalism joke somewhere in there that’s ripe for the taking, one that buries the uncomfortable itch that’s starting at the back of Sage’s neck, because she actually hasn’t really accomplished much at all since she’s been here, and that’s the whole problem. But she doesn’t know Edgar well enough to pluck the quip from the branches of her mind and actually say it, so instead, she finds herself making some vague promise to get out of the cottage soon.

Edgar leaves, and Sage …

Well, she knows she really couldn’t have asked for better people to be renting from. Edgar and Greta might be perhaps a little too aware of her comings and goings, and too involved in … everything … but she doesn’t mind it as much as she thought she would. It’s nice to know that if she were to actually drive into a loch, someone would at least know to search for her body.

But it’s not enough to get her to stop staring at her laptop and watch a match with them. Sage has an entire book to write. Besides, there’s something about purposefully not writing that feels even worse than how much she’s accidentally been not writing today.

She doesn’t choose avoidance; avoidance chooses her. Or something.

Sage sighs as she grabs her laptop and settles on the couch. She exits out of the Internet browser, puts on her Do Not Disturb settings, and pulls up her manuscript, the cursor blinking on the last tweak she’d made. She weaves her fingers together and flips her palms, flexing her hands.

“Let it be bad,” she commands herself.

It’s a game she tries to play when she finds herself fighting with every single word. How fast can she write five hundred words of complete trash? It’s the only way she knows how to break out of a rut. Sage never settles for bad. Not unless doing so means she wins something else. It works … sometimes. If she can turn the perfectionism off—which is admittedly rare—she can get herself to at least get something down.

“Let it be bad,” she repeats softly.

And then she begins to type.

9
England vs. Scotland

Sage isn’t sure where her newfound motivation has come from, but she clings to it as she dives back into the manuscript. Predictably, it lasts no longer than thirty minutes. Or at least that’s how long she thinks it lasts. She really has no clue, because the next thing she knows, she’s blinking open her eyes, her laptop hanging perilously off the edge of the couch. One glance out the windows tells her it’s …

Actually, it doesn’t tell her the time at all, because it gets dark at like 3 PM, so all she knows is it’s sometime after that.

“Shit,” Sage swears succinctly.

Her head is heavy in the way it gets when she’s woken up at the wrong time, her brain cottony and throat dry. She scrubs a hand down her face, puts her laptop safely on the coffee table, and reaches for her phone.

4:24.

She groans as she flops back on the couch.

Her own writing put her to sleep.

Excellent.

Her father’s face, lined with age and worry, floats to her mind. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” he’d asked when she’d told him she was handing in her notice. The echo of his question is in her ears now, and Sage grabs a throw pillow and screeches into it to drown it out.

Okay. No more writing today, then.

That’s fine.

She’s fine.

She hauls herself off the couch, tugs on boots over her fuzzy socks, and grabs her rain jacket. Rain wasn’t in the forecast, but if she’s learned anything in her short time here, it’s to always expect to be wet. She feels a bit guilty as she strides to her car, throwing furtive glances at the main house like some fictional heroine trying to sneak past her guards.

It’s not that she doesn’t want to spend time with Edgar and Greta, it’s just that …

She doesn’t want to spend time with Edgar and Greta. Not when there’s an ache in her jaw from the stress she’s trying to outrun.

Sage makes it to her car—which she’s taken to lovingly calling Hank the Tank since it took her three tries to park it in the minuscule space at the grocery store—and hops in undetected. She quickly fumbles with her phone to find some music, and then she’s off. She doesn’t have a destination in mind. She’s merely following her body’s urge to vacate where she was for somewhere new. It’s not until she hits the main road that leads through Portree that the idea strikes her. Her grueling yet unproductive writing schedule hasn’t exactly allowed for a quintessential pub experience, and, well … a beer could be nice.

She almost ditches the thought when she arrives in town to see the small parking lot absolutely full. She circles three times, letting out a sardonic laugh as it starts to rain, and is just about to call it quits when a spot opens up. Sage parks Hank in one try and tugs her hood up before braving the walk.

The air is biting, her boots clipped on the wet asphalt of the parking lot as she stalks across it, eyes fixed on the battered building with chipped white painted bricks that supposedly is the best location for a pint in town. Bitter wind whips in from the harbor, nipping at her cheeks.

Sage runs the last few feet, shouldering the door of the pub open. A rusty bell rings as she stumbles across the threshold, but she can barely hear it over the noise inside. She takes a deep breath and tugs off her hood, letting the heat of the space wrap around her like a grounding hug. It’s loud, and it smells a bit like beer and rain, a wet sort of warmth permeating the crowded space, but she can’t bring herself to leave. A rustic mahogany bar stretches the length of the left side, and on the back wall is a stone fireplace, the fire set in the grate a welcome sight as she shivers. The space is small, but it’s packed with people in soccer jerseys crowded around the tables scattered throughout.

There’s a TV fixed over the bar, and she catches the score in the top left corner as she nudges in. Zero-zero.

“What can I get you?” a bartender asks, drawing her attention away from the screen.

Sage orders the lager on tap. She closes out and keeps her hands tucked into her sleeves, cupping the cold glass with the fabric of her jacket as she nods her thanks to the woman and heads toward the fireplace. It’s equally crowded at the back of the pub, especially with the larger TV they’ve set up in the back corner, balanced precariously on a stack of wooden crates—an obvious addition just for the game. She ducks behind a group of fans grumbling about offsides, weaving through bodies as she nears the leaping flames. She’s just about to let out a sigh of relief for the dry warmth already seeping into her bones, but then she takes in the figure before her.

Sage lurches to a stop, her beer sloshing over her sleeve-covered hands. Her heart jolts before she can think logically, her breath catching in the space where her neck meets her collarbone.

Jesus Christ, Sage. Not every tall blond is Theo.

The man is facing the fire, one hand tucked into the pocket of a black peacoat that stretches across his back, his blond hair disheveled and curled slightly over the collar. He seems to be the only one who’s not completely enraptured by the match.

Theo Sharpe, her brain reminds her, is thousands of miles away, so if her body could go ahead and catch up so she can flip the switch on her fight-or-flight, that would be great.

Embarrassment heats her face as Sage forces her shoulders away from her ears, a short breath releasing with them just as a collective groan comes up from the crowd.

Goal, England.

The man at the fireplace turns, his eyes darting to the TV, and Sage hasn’t even fully caught her breath before she loses it again.

Everything stops. Or more accurately … Sage stops. Stops moving. Stops breathing. Stops thinking. And maybe that’s what catches his eye—a stiff figure in a sea of fans who are shifting and shouting and cursing. Because suddenly, he’s turning all the way around, blue eyes locking on her as his lips part in shock.

This can’t be possible.

This can’t be possible, because of all of the bars in all of the countries on all of the fucking continents, what are the odds that Theo Sharpe is standing in front of her, looking like he’s seen a ghost? He blinks, and her mind is still trying to reject what’s in front of her when he opens his mouth, his voice curling around her name with a mix of surprise and certainty.

“Sage.”

Sage did wonder what she would do if she ever saw him again. Now she has her answer:

She flees.

She doesn’t get far.

She takes an immediate step back, her shoulder clipping a raucous fan. The man jerks away with some choice words, and she stumbles, but Theo latches on to her forearm before she and her beer can go flying.

“Easy,” he scolds the fan, as if Sage wasn’t the one who plowed into him. That hint of protectiveness shouldn’t do anything to her insides, but she’s had a lifetime of stomach issues to reconcile the fact that her body often does whatever the hell it wants, and right now something in her stomach is swooping at the way Theo’s voice roughens.

The man is saying something to Theo about being far from home and watching the match in his own damn pub, but Theo simply turns his back and positions himself between the man and Sage. He frowns at her. “You’re here.”

He sounds as if he’s trying to convince himself of the fact, despite his fingers still being wrapped around her arm. She can feel that touch like a searing brand through the thin fabric of her coat that’s made for LA rain.

He hasn’t asked her why, but it doesn’t stop Sage from blurting out, “Writer’s getaway.”

She pulls herself from his hold. Distantly, she registers a couple nearby is eyeing them surreptitiously, and she isn’t sure if it’s because Theo is Theo Sharpe or because she’s certain she looks two seconds away from passing out.

She doesn’t have time to sort through it, though, not when Theo’s saying, “Right,” as his cheeks, already pink from a combination of the cold and the empty beer in his hand, darken.

“Why aren’t you in LA?” Sage tries her best to keep the accusation from her voice—she really does—but it’s there anyway.

He rubs the back of his neck, his lips twisting in a sort of grimace as he says, “Erm. I was just there for a few meetings. I actually live in London.”

He glances around, as if such a confession will get him thrown out of the pub, and Sage takes that brief moment to snap her open mouth shut.

London.

She thinks about the weeks she spent in LA simultaneously hoping to run into him and dreading it and feels like the worst sort of fool. How is it that she’s kissed this man, but didn’t even bother to confirm where he actually lives? Isn’t that one of the most basic questions to ask someone? Why did she just … assume he’d be where she was?

Well, he is, that ever-unhelpful voice in her head provides, and Sage promptly slaps a muzzle on it.

“My family still has the cottage here,” Theo is saying. “I don’t know if I mentioned that? It’s been years since I’ve been here but after I got home, I…” He cuts off his rambling, his jaw shifting as his gaze darts away from her for a moment before locking on her again. There’s something there—something familiar that Sage recognizes in her own reflection recently.

Theo is trying to outrun something, too.

“Anyway. I have some things that need taking care of,” he settles on awkwardly. “So I’m here.”

“So you’re here,” Sage echoes, because it’s all she can bring herself to do. Thankfully, a roar erupts from the pub—goal, Scotland—and it flips Sage’s higher brain functions back on at lightning speed.

“Great,” she says as she glances around for a table to set her beer down on. She can’t find one, so she shoves it at Theo instead, the amber liquid splashing over the lip and onto the sleeve of his coat. “I have to go.”

She hardly waits for him to fully grip the glass before she’s turning on her heel and heading to the door without a backward glance. She pushes through the crowd, her heart climbing up her throat like it needs to get out just as desperately as she needs to leave this pub. She yanks up her hood as she pushes open the old wooden door with more gusto than necessary, unsurprised to see that the rain has become more of a steady downpour.

Fuck her inadequate raincoat, fuck her assumptions on where he lived, and fuck whatever cosmic urge had her deciding she wanted a beer.

She never wants a beer.

Sage heads out into the rain, boots splashing through the puddles that now fill the potholes that form a broken path to her car.

There’s another burst of noise from the pub as the door behind her opens. She hears Theo call her name over the rain, but she ignores him, eyes fixed resolutely on Hank the Tank. He calls after her again, his voice closer this time, and then his hand is on her bicep and he’s tugging her to a stop. “Just, fuck, just wait a moment.”

He’s soaked, his hair plastered to his forehead, rain dripping off his nose, but he doesn’t seem to care. He takes two long breaths to gather himself. “How … why are you here?” He has to raise his voice a bit because the rain is pounding now.

“I told you,” she urges. “Writer’s getaway.”

But Theo just shakes his head, water droplets flinging from his hair. He’s looking at her hard, his hand still latched on to her arm. He’s standing close enough that she can practically feel the heat emanating from him, and it has her pulse ticking up into a rapid rhythm, like a hummingbird trapped behind her rib cage.

His throat bobs as he swallows. “Can we talk?”

Sage looks pointedly around at the utter deluge they’re standing in, and Theo looks like he can’t decide whether he should be irritated or amused.

“Come to mine. I can drive us, I’m just a few minutes from here…” He trails off, his gaze following Sage’s as she inadvertently looks toward Hank. She’d like to believe it’s because she’s grown fond of the SUV, but really, she knows it’s because she can’t imagine anything worse than being in an enclosed space with Theo right now.

He clears his throat. “Follow me over, then.”

Sage should say no. That’s what the far corner of her mind, the one labeled Self-Preservation, is screaming. But then Theo steps even closer, breathes “Please,” and it’s somehow audible over the downpour. His proximity makes her head spin.

“Just … give me a moment to explain myself,” he continues. “Afterwards, if you never want to speak again, I’ll understand.”

He holds her stare, and despite the way her throat goes dry, Sage can’t actually believe the nerve of him. She’d wanted to talk after he dipped out on her in the greenroom, but he’d made it clear there wasn’t a conversation to be had. Now he wants to chat?

Why?

It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. Except it does, because she hates unanswered questions. Her brain loops enough without having to puzzle things she doesn’t have all the pieces for.

“Fine. I’ll follow you over to your place.”

Theo’s brows shoot up in surprise. He clearly didn’t think she would give in. But he recovers quickly, shoving his hands in his pockets and giving her a nod. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

10
Complicated

The Sharpe family’s vacation cottage is gorgeous in the most unassuming way. It’s nestled in the middle of what looks like rolling hills—at least from what Sage can see in Hank’s headlights. The outside of the home is a mixture of bright white stucco and aged wood, and there’s space for a garden and a fire pit with a picnic table for the warmer months.

The house is dotted with several black-trimmed windows, illuminated by the uplighting the Sharpes must have installed at some point, and the inside feels open and airy and warm all at the same time. The hardwood floors are scuffed in a well-loved way, the walls adorned with various photos Sage tries to not get caught looking at as Theo leads her through the mudroom and into the living room. The furniture there is mostly worn leather that looks like something she’d want to sink into on a rainy day like this. The couches and armchairs are complete with cozy-looking throws, and there’s a wood burner that has fresh ashes in it. The kitchen sits on the other side—open concept—and it’s right around there that Theo stops and turns back to her, a hand pushing his wet hair off of his head.

“Right. Do you mind if I change?” They’d shed their coats and boots on the way in, but he’s soaked. Sage tries not to focus on just how much she can see with his gray sweater plastered to his skin like that.

“No, go ahead.”

He nods once and starts for the kitchen before he pauses and turns back to the living room. “I’ll just…” He trails off as he darts across the space and piles logs into the wood burner. “Right,” he says again as he straightens and takes in the flames. “Are you cold? Do you want a jumper or something?” He strides back across the living room, a whirlwind of nervous energy.

“Theo.”

“Yes to the jumper?”

“Theo.” He freezes at the insistence in her voice. “I’m fine.”

He opens his mouth to retort, but he catches himself. She watches the tense rise and fall of his shoulders with the deep breath he forces.

“Right,” he says one more time, but it’s quiet this time. Calmer.

“Go get changed,” she urges. “I’m fine out here.” And then, because the moment is filled with so much tension that she has to resist from squirming, she adds with a tight smile, “I promise not to snoop.”

He waves her off. “Snoop away. It doesn’t bother me in the slightest.”

Sage doesn’t—not really—but she does allow herself to take in the framed photos sitting on top of the old wooden sideboard nestled against the far wall. There’s an array of family shots—a few of what Sage assumes are Theo’s parents, and various pictures of Theo and Oliver around the island. Most of the photos are of the boys from when they were young, but there are a few of them in what looks like their late teens or early twenties.

There aren’t any after that. Of anyone.

“We tried to come out here about a year after the accident,” Theo remarks as he walks up beside her, as if he knows she’s reached the end of the timeline. He picks up the last photo—one of him and Oliver with gummy smiles and sweat-slicked hair glinting in the sun—and frowns down at it. “It was too hard for Dad. Too many memories, I suppose.”

He returns the photo, and Sage’s gaze catches on a small enamel pin.

“The American flag?” she asks.

Theo laughs. “Mum was American. She insisted we have a tiny flag in the house in honor of her roots—this was Dad’s compromise.” He hands her a bundle of clothes. Sage raises her brows at the gray Cambridge sweatshirt and black sweatpants.

“At least put on the jumper,” he sighs. “You’re wearing short sleeves and it’s bloody freezing.”

He has a point. She hadn’t thought to change when she’d left the cottage, having been so focused on getting out and away from her drab draft, and even though the house is warm, a chill has settled into her bones after standing in the rain.

“Cambridge?” she questions as she tugs on the sweatshirt. She leaves the sweatpants on the table.

“I went to university there. Studied English,” Theo explains as she follows him to the sunken leather couch, staunchly refusing to think about how his scent surrounds her: a mix of the sharpness of his cologne and the crisp smell of what must be his detergent.

“Where did the acting come in?”

“Footlights. It’s a drama society there.”

“Mm.” She settles on the sofa, tucking herself into the far corner, but if Theo picks up on her leaving ample space between them, he doesn’t let on or seem bothered. “When was the last time you were here?”

“A couple of years ago. Dad wants to sell it. I offered to come prepare it for the sale. There’s quite a bit to pack up, and I didn’t think he would … well, I don’t want anything to be missed,” Theo explains.

“Oh.”

It’s an empty response, but she doesn’t know what else to say to his revelation. There’s not a moving box in sight, and the house seems perfectly maintained for having been dormant for years. She has a million more questions, but she swallows them all.

Theo braces his elbows on his thighs, hands clasped between his knees. His gaze is wary as it cuts to her. “Before I get into all of this … I want you to know that none of it is an excuse. My behavior at Comic Con was reprehensible, and while there’s an explanation for it, that doesn’t make it all right. I shouldn’t have—” He cuts himself off with a shake of his head. “Well, let’s just say there’s plenty I regret. But I’m grateful you’re willing to listen.”

She is willing to listen because she hates not having the answers. But Theo has also already told her she’s one of the regrets, and hearing it again isn’t something she’s looking forward to.

But she nods, and Theo sucks in a steadying breath as he fixes his gaze on the coffee table.

“I don’t know how much you know about the film industry, or my place in it,” he says slowly. “My family’s place in it.”

Sage twists the sleeves of the sweatshirt around her hands. “Given I didn’t know who you were on the plane, I think we can assume I know very little.”

He grins crookedly, but the levity disappears as quickly as it comes. “My father used to be an agent. One of the best, actually. He represented a ton of big names back in the day.”

She cocks her head. “Does he represent you?” She doesn’t remember reading anything about Theo’s dad on Wikipedia. Then again, she’d exited the tab right after she’d read about the accident, so it’s entirely possibly she’d missed it.

“No,” he responds softly. “He stepped away from that side of the business a while ago. He’s a manager now.” He lets that hang for a moment, and Sage, with her propensity for filling any sort of silence, closes that gap for him.

“He’s your manager.”

“Indeed.” Theo sighs as he leans back against the couch, shifting slightly so he’s facing her. “He managed Ollie, too. Before…”

The sentence hangs again, but this time, she doesn’t need to finish it.

Grief carves firm lines:

Before.

After.

“He wants the best for me. And he has a lot of opinions on how to get it. What films I should take, what we should share with the press. Christ, even what rumors should be allowed to flourish.” His mouth twists in frustration, and something in Sage’s chest tightens.

“Your dad planted those relationship rumors?” She had flung that accusation in frustration, in anger. She hadn’t really thought his team—god, his father—had purposefully lied in order to drive buzz.

Theo’s laugh is hollow. “No. But he doesn’t feel strongly about us stopping them, especially if they … how did you put it? Keep me interesting?”

There’s something hot pooling in Sage’s gut. Shame isn’t quite right, but the sickly feeling trickling down her throat and into her stomach feels an awful lot like it.

She had said that, hadn’t she? Worse, she’d accused him of going right along with it. But there’s an obvious ache in his eyes that tells her he despises being packaged for the press as some sort of fascination.

She’d hit his own bruise, then, just like his fans had hit hers.

“He didn’t used to be so hands-on,” he continues. “Back when I was taking smaller roles, just trying to carve out my space in the industry, he wasn’t so involved. Or maybe he was—maybe Oliver got the brunt of it because he was the one with the career taking off. I don’t know. Ollie always had a thing for shielding me from the worst of the world.” Another hollow laugh, one that clearly says, And look what happened anyway.

Sage twists the sleeves of the sweatshirt tighter.

“Things have been tense since this summer. We disagree a lot. A few weeks before Comic Con, we got into it over my next project. We’ve never argued like that before. We didn’t speak for a few weeks.”

Theo swallows hard. “Things got better. I see where he’s coming from now, and I think he sees where I’m coming from, too. The point is … it’s difficult for me to push back on my dad because I’m…” He shakes his head. The crack in his voice mirrors the one in Sage’s chest as he says, “I’m his second chance. He didn’t get to do all of this with Oliver—not like this. And I can’t … I can’t take something else away from him.”

The words are like a knife, carving out Sage’s anger and leaving room for overwhelming sadness. There’s so much to unpack from what he’s told her, so many implications that settle like a weight. Her mind is already deconstructing each sentence so she can rebuild them with arguments against the burden Theo shouldn’t have to carry.

It’s not fair. It’s not right.

But it isn’t her place to say so.

“So at Comic Con,” Sage rasps, “when you said you were pressing your manager about making a statement, you were arguing with your dad.”

Theo inhales deeply through his nose. “More or less. I don’t know that I’d say we were arguing, but it started heading that way and I just … I froze. Again, it doesn’t excuse my actions. I just wanted you to understand that it’s, well, it’s more complicated than typical manager-actor relationships.”

An echo of Sage’s vehemence comes to her mind. You do realize your manager works for you, right? Don’t pretend like you don’t hold the power here. I’m not a fool.

Well, she certainly is one now.

Sage’s mouth makes several false starts as she tries to sort through her mess of thoughts. She has so many questions. She finally lands on the one that perhaps would have solved this all before it started.

“Why didn’t you just tell me this when we were arguing in the greenroom?”

Theo’s knee bounces a nervous rhythm as he looks up at the ceiling. “It certainly would have been easier, wouldn’t it? I wish I had a rational reason. It’s just … it’s a lot to lay on someone? Especially in the heat of the moment.” He looks as though he’s testing the words as he speaks them. He wets his lips. “It’s … complicated enough to figure out my own feelings on the matter. I don’t enjoy talking about it. Not when…” He clears the gravel from his throat. “Not when there’s so much grief involved.”

His fingers twist together in his lap, his shoulders hunched where he’s slumped against the corner of the couch, and as his eyes meet hers, Sage realizes something.

For the short time she’s know him, Theo has always been polished, even with his haphazard disguise that day in the greenroom. It’s in the way he holds himself. Shoulders back, chin level, gaze piercing. But now …

Now he looks completely unsure of himself, like a single word could shatter that polished mask so thoroughly he might not be able to put it on again.

“I can understand that,” she says softly.

Gratitude washes over Theo’s face, but he presses on quickly. “All of that aside, it also tends to bring up nepotism.” The corner of his mouth twists down, even as his eyes widen earnestly. “Which is completely fair, of course, and I could rant passionately about my disgust with it and how I try to carve my own way. But sometimes, it’s just easier when people don’t know. They can’t make assumptions.”

But she did. She made a lot of assumptions, flung a lot of accusations.

Sage isn’t perfect by any means. She can’t always get a read on people. But she doesn’t think she’s ever been this wrong before.

“I know something about wanting to prove your worth,” she admits. Perhaps if she had shared that earlier, he wouldn’t have felt the need to keep this from her.

Then again … why would Theo have confided in her? She was just some person he’d met and spent some time with. Their … whatever it was … didn’t equate to this level of vulnerability.

“I’m sorry if I caused more trouble between the two of you,” she says, toying with a loose thread on the cuff of her sleeve. She knows she shouldn’t feel responsible, because she hadn’t known, but rocks of guilt plunk into the pit of her stomach anyway.

“Christ, Sage, you have nothing to apologize for.” The vehemence in his voice draws her away from her thoughts. She looks up to see Theo frowning at her, his eyes bright as he shakes his head. “I told you to give you context, not because I blame you in any way. I should have posted as soon as the first pictures leaked. I apologize that it took me so long to get my head out of my arse.”

She feels the tension in her shoulders loosen slightly. His assurance eases her guilt, but there’s still a heaviness that sits on her chest that makes her smile feel forced as she says, “At least he finally got on board.”

“Er,” he laughs awkwardly as he rubs the back of his neck, a complicated array of emotions flashing across his face. “He didn’t. That wasn’t an approved statement.”

For a moment, the only thing Sage can think to say is a quiet, “Oh.” She shifts slightly in her seat. “Um. What changed? Why suddenly go against what he was advising?”

Theo chuckles, the sound tense as he massages his hands. “I figured … posting it was the least that I owed you.” Pink dusts over his cheeks and down his neck as he admits, “I wrote it that night you texted me—the day before the party? I shouldn’t have held on to it for so long, but, I meant what I said in the greenroom. I had other reasons aside from my father. We’d had that night at the club and I guess I might have, I don’t know, started thinking that maybe it was better to hold off…”

Sage’s heart stumbles as she realizes exactly what he’s implying.

Theo looks up at the vaulted ceiling again, as if the words he’s searching for are written on the exposed wooden beams. “It was selfish. And then the photos leaked, and we were arguing, and I couldn’t believe that you didn’t see what I thought was so obvious, so … I kissed you. I understood it was a mistake as soon as those panelists barged in and you looked like you wanted to flee.”

Sage frowns, her teeth digging into her bottom lip as she tries to formulate a coherent sentence. “You’re technically the one who fled” is what she lands on.

He laughs, but it sort of sounds like a groan as he hangs his head. “You still are bloody impossible, do you know that? Of course I fled. Christ, Sage, you had just shoved me off of you, and I was rapidly realizing how presumptuous and rash I had been. I knew how much you loathed the consequences of just rumors about us dating. It’s not like you would ever entertain the actual idea of being with me. And that’s not to mention the fact that I live in London and you’re in LA. And yet I kissed you anyway. I issued that statement because it was the only way to help, and after all of that, it was the least of what I owed you after the mess I had made.”

“Oh.”

It seems her vocabulary has been reduced to an elementary level, because this isn’t at all what she expected him to say. Theo looks at her, but she can’t hold his gaze and try to fit these pieces together, try to reconcile what she’s been telling herself for weeks and what Theo is telling her now.

She watches the rain as it drips down the windows, her fingers endlessly toying with the sweatshirt cuffs. Theo lets the silence grow between them, as if he knows that if he lets it linger, Sage will finally speak.

And she will. Not just because Sage has rarely met a silence she hasn’t broken, but because she can already feel the words bubbling up in her throat.

She releases the cuffs of the sweatshirt only to curl her fingers around the edge of the couch cushion. “I was startled,” she admits. “When they walked in. It wasn’t that … I kissed you back.”

He shifts closer, but he doesn’t touch her.

“I know. I was a coward. I also think a part of me knew I had already buggered this up quite thoroughly, and I wasn’t quite sure how to fix it.”

“Telling me I was a mistake was definitely the answer,” she deadpans, the fight draining from her body, leaving something far more fragile behind.

“I didn’t say you were a mistake. I said it was a mistake,” he insists. “And saying so was a selfish act of self-preservation.” A muscle in his jaw flickers as his gaze darts down to his hands before finding her eyes again. “I’m not … I’m not always great at facing things head-on. It’s a terrible quality. And one I’m working on.”

She doesn’t know what to say to that, so instead, she makes another confession of her own. “I thought you lived in LA.”

He must know already with the way she’d asked why he wasn’t there when they ran into each other in the pub. But there’s a small furrow to his brow as he asks, “Would that have changed anything for you?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “It doesn’t really matter, does it? You don’t.”

And perhaps that’s what it really boils down to—no matter what, they would have ended up here: five thousand miles apart, wanting different things.

He glances back down at his hands. “Suppose it doesn’t.” He takes a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling with the movement. “For whatever it’s worth, I truly am sorry.”

“For whatever it’s worth, so am I. I shouldn’t have said those things to you in the greenroom.”

“I deserved it,” he reassures her.

“No. You didn’t.”

For a long moment, they simply sit there, eyes locked. She can feel something building in the space between them, but it’s shattered by a rumble of thunder that has Theo glancing toward the windows before checking his watch. “I didn’t realize how late it’s gotten.”

Sage rocks to her feet. She knows a dismissal when she hears one.

“Do you want me to drive you back?” he asks as she makes her way to the mudroom. “You can get your car in the morning.”

“No, I’m fine. Thanks, though.”

She tugs on her boots, Theo watching in her periphery, and it’s a moment longer before he stands, one hand dragging through the back of his hair as he considers his words. “I realize this is quite presumptuous of me, all things considered,” he finally says, “but … well, I’ll be here for the next few weeks. If you need a tour guide or anything…”

Sage nearly stumbles as she straightens in surprise. “Um…”

“Of course, I completely understand if you’d rather never see me again,” Theo rushes on quickly.

“I don’t—”

“I did tell you I’d get it if you never wanted to speak to me—”

“Theo—”

“I apologize, I shouldn’t have—”

“Oh my god, shut up.”

Theo’s rambling immediately ceases. He looks a little like she’s slapped him, with his wide eyes and parted lips. But then he laughs, and it’s loud and boisterous and …

Theo smiles, and something inside of her burns.

“Sorry,” he chuckles. “It’s just … I don’t think anyone has told me to shut up like that since I was a kid.”

“Well, maybe they should,” she retorts, but her own grin is impossible to hide. He’s looking at her entirely too fondly, so she busies herself with grabbing her jacket as he walks to the mudroom.

“What I was going to say is that I really need to write while I’m here,” she says carefully.

“Ah,” Theo replies, crossing his arms as he leans against the wooden frame of the entryway. “Right. The writer’s getaway. And how is the highly anticipated sequel coming?”

The question is light, innocent even, and though she tries, she can’t hide the way her shoulders tense. Theo frowns at the movement. “That bad?”

“I fell asleep today working on it.” He winces. “Exactly.” She blows out a hard breath, sending the strands of hair that frame her face fluttering. “I can’t get anything worthwhile down on the page. I thought I knew how I wanted the story to go. But now … I don’t know. It’s a disaster. I feel like I’m going to scream.”

“Mm. What’s that quote from that movie about Van Gogh?” His brow furrows as he tries to recall it. “‘There’s a lot of destruction and failure at the door of a successful picture.’”

He looks at Sage expectantly, but she just stares back. “At Eternity’s Gate,” he says, as if that’s supposed to ring a bell.

“Never seen it,” she confesses.

“Seriously?” Theo gapes at her. “It’s a beautiful and heart-wrenching depiction of artistry.” At her blank stare, he shakes his head. “We really need to work on your exposure to decent film.”

“Many have tried and failed. Just ask Emerson.”

He shrugs. “Maybe you’d find it inspiring.”

“This trip was supposed to inspire me,” she grumbles.

“How long have you been here?”

“Just over a week.”

“And how much time have you actually spent away from your computer?”

“Excuse you.” She shoots him an affronted glare. “Plenty.”

Theo fixes her with a look that says he knows she’s lying, and it’s far too familiar, so she goes to tug off his Cambridge sweatshirt instead of thinking about how he seems to get her, and how much she liked that in New York.

“Keep it,” he urges with a shake of his head. “It’s even colder out there now, and your jacket is hardly suitable.”

She wants to argue on behalf of her thin raincoat, but he’s right. So instead she says, “How else will people know you went to a fancy school?”

Theo rolls his eyes. “You can give it back the next time I see you. I’m sure we’ll be running into each other. It’s not as though Portree is a particularly large town.”

He’s being just shy of coy, but she lets it slide, just as she lets him walk her to the door. Before she heads out into the never-ending downpour, he says, “I’ll … I’ll see you around. Drive safe, all right?”

She tugs up her hood and darts into the rain, spinning on her heel to walk backward toward Hank. “I’m always safe!” she calls out before promptly stumbling over a piece of gravel.

She can just make out Theo shaking with laughter. She can’t hear it over the rain, but the way his head tilts back and his smile stretches wide warms something in her anyway, wrapping around her snugly like the scent that lingers in the fabric of his sweatshirt.

11
Brick Walls & Icy Falls

Sage wakes up with the sort of energy that would have her actually looking forward to a spin class with Margot. It has her fingers tapping a random rhythm on the counter as she makes her espresso, and even though she spent most of the night tossing and turning and replaying Theo’s explanation in her mind, she feels wide awake.

And not in a good way, if her reflection is any indication. Her hair is more of a frizzy crow’s nest, and though the microwave window isn’t an accurate depiction of her face, she can already tell there’s no eye mask in the world that would help her dark circles.

She heads to the bathroom and splashes some water on her face before she tugs a comb through her strands and tries desperately to quiet her looping mind.

She wanders back into the kitchen, picking up her phone on the way. There are fifty-two missed texts in her group chat with Emerson and Margot, all in response to the fifteen-second voice message Sage had sent that simply said, So, A Thing happened. I ran into Theo. He’s in Skye.

She’d only caught the first twenty before she’d fallen into a fitful sleep. She swipes the notifications away, navigating instead to her new text thread with Theo.

+44 7946 555813

Nov 13 10:32 PM

+44 7946 555813

Thank you again for hearing me out.

+44 7946 555813

In case you need a place to clear your head while drafting:

+44 7946 555813

Fairy Glen | Uig | Isle of Skye, Scotland

Nov 13 11:46 PM

Of course.

Wow, this looks gorgeous. Thank you!

She’d waffled on her response for a solid twenty minutes, trying to find the balance between not being dismissive but not being tempted to open a door she knows she won’t be able to close.

She isn’t sure any response would have felt not awkward. But, whatever.

She sighs as she sets her phone on the counter and glances toward the window. It’s looks cold—the type of cold that has her digging out the heavier jacket she packed but hadn’t bothered to unearth yet.

She still hasn’t hit her target this is what I need before I let myself go explore word count, but she knows herself well enough to know there’s no way she’s going to get any writing done when she feels like this.

There is also the fact that Emerson had sent her a very threatening So help me god, if you don’t send me a picture of something in the next few days that isn’t your pathetic attempt at reheating frozen food, I’ll make Margot send you studies on fresh air and the brain text.

So. Yeah.

What was it she said to Theo in New York?

When in Rome.

“Sightseeing today?” Greta asks as Sage trudges out of the cottage in her boots and beanie. Her host is carrying a bundle of logs up to the house, a pair of pink fuzzy earmuffs stuffed over her curls.

“Figured I’d go see the Fairy Glen. See if it inspires anything.”

Greta fixes her with a stern gaze. “Don’t go moving the rocks. Tourists love to do that. There’s no luck in it.”

Sage holds up three fingers. “I won’t, I swear it.”

Her host eyes her closely, as if waiting to detect a lie, before she relaxes. “I’m glad you’re getting out. Brains need to breathe.”

She reminds her of Margot. Maybe Greta has books on energy alignment, too.

“Certainly plenty of air out here,” Sage remarks. It bites at her cheeks, and she sucks in a burning lungful of it, that buzzing in her veins receding slightly.

“Good time for exploring as well,” Greta remarks, falling in step beside her. “Snow’s coming soon.” She pats her on the arm. “I’ll make sure you have extra blankets.”

Sage’s throat feels inexplicably scratchy as she swallows. “Thanks, Greta.”

Greta gives her arm a squeeze before tottering off toward the main house.

“Morning, Hank,” Sage murmurs as she slides into the SUV.

Hank’s some sort of hybrid, so he doesn’t roar to life in greeting, but she feels his presence nonetheless. She tugs her phone out of her pocket and looks up the directions. “Ready to go for an adventure?” she asks as she hits Play on the music.

Noah Kahan’s “You’re Gonna Go Far” comes blaring through the speakers as if in answer, and she lets it play on as she starts down the road. The glen is about thirty minutes away, just enough that by the time she turns onto the one-lane road, taking in the rolling hills and sheep farms that line the way to the glen, she’s feeling more settled than she has in days. There’s something about a drive that always helps restlessness seep out of her. It’s forward movement—a thing she’s doing even if she’s just zoning out on the winding roads of Calabasas as whatever artist she’s hyper-fixated on that month croons through her speakers.

Sage hops out of the car and pulls her coat closer around her as she wanders down the dirt path of the Fairy Glen.

She hasn’t exactly traveled the world, but she’s seen her fair share of beautiful places. From driving up the 1 and taking in the ragged cliffs of Big Sur to party crashing with Emerson on a riverboat on the Seine the summer after they graduated, she’s no stranger to breathtaking sights.

But this …

This is one of the most gorgeous places she’s ever seen.

Hills stretch in all directions, each a different shape and size, creating a sort of whimsical, Alice in Wonderland–type of feel to the place. It’s like someone has turned up the contrast on the world around her, the green of the grass so vibrant it almost hurts to look at it.

Sage finds a basalt topping on one of the hills—“Castle Ewen,” Google tells her—and she climbs up to it so she has an unobstructed view of the sprawling landscape. She can see everything from here: the narrow path she stumbled on and the gray-and-white rocks interrupting the hills and the unique formations of the stones that form spirals in the grass.

While Google says there’s no actual lore attached to the place, it’s obvious how the Fairy Glen got its name. It really does look like someplace a mythical creature would inhabit.

It makes Sage feel giddy—childlike. She loved stories about the fantastical when she was a kid. Magic and dragons and fairies and knights. It makes nostalgia ache in her throat despite her never having been here.

She inhales another lungful of the cold air, letting the wind whip rogue strains of her hair across her face. “Dammit, Theo,” she mutters.

For all of the urging that fresh air is good for the brain, she wonders if too much of it actually addles the mind. There’s no other logical explanation for what she does next.

[PHOTO]

She doesn’t even have time to consider what the actual hell she’s thinking before Theo replies.

+44 7946 555813

Nov 14 11:45 AM

+44 7946 555813

Young Theo was convinced all of the tooth fairies lived in that glen.

I wouldn’t have argued with him on it.

+44 7946 555813

I didn’t know you knew how NOT to argue.

BYE THEO.

+44 7946 555813

Don’t trip. Again. You don’t have an emergency contact here, and something tells me Emerson wouldn’t appreciate the phone call.

Sage pauses, all too aware of the smile threatening to break through the press of her lips. It’s too easy. Talking to Theo, teasing him—it’s too easy.

But she knows better now. Knows it’s leading nowhere, and maybe that makes it better. Maybe that makes it okay.

It’s like … an olive branch. Things like space and distance seem to be nebulous in this town anyway, so they are basically, sort of, practically, neighbors. It wouldn’t do her any good to not be friendly with Theo.

Besides. She has to add his number back into her phone anyway.

[Contact: ICE Theo Sharpe]

Charmed.

The peace from the Fairy Glen clears the buzzing from her mind, but it doesn’t last nearly as long as she hopes.

She has a feeling it has to do with the missed call from her mother. The mere sight of the notification makes her shoulders tense.

She hasn’t been avoiding her parents. It’s just …

She’s been avoiding her parents.

Aside from a few texts over the last few weeks, she hasn’t talked to them, except for the disastrous I’m Not Coming to Thanksgiving phone call. It is, quite possibly, the worst time for Sage to break her silence. But the longer she puts this off, the worse it’s going to get. It’ll nag at her thoughts and tug on her conscience and fortify her mother’s commitment to being angry for far longer than either of them have time for.

Sage didn’t come by her stubbornness on her own.

Even still, it takes thirty minutes and another cup of oversweetened espresso before Sage has enough resolve to call her back.

She puts on her happiest voice when her mom answers. “Hey, Mom!”

“I finally caught you,” her mom says. Sage can hear the telltale signs of a morning just getting started back home—the old coffee machine percolating in the background, the jingle of their border collie Rex’s collar as he follows Mom around the kitchen, hoping for an early breakfast. It’s almost enough to make Sage feel homesick.

Almost.

But then her mother jumps right in with “So. Have you found the inspiration you were searching for?” and it sounds just this side of condescending. Sage is already forcing a steady inhale through her nose.

“Still a little stuck, but I’ll get there.”

“I’m still not sure what Scotland has to do with your book. Doesn’t it take place in America?”

“Postapocalyptic North America,” she impulsively corrects. “And it’s, um, not about the location. It’s about getting some space to clear my head.”

Her mother hums noncommittally, and Sage swallows the urge to explain it further. It doesn’t matter how she breaks it down—she might as well be speaking a foreign language.

Her mom’s in finance, her dad in engineering, and both are hardcore traditionalists.

Data, facts, figures. Promotions, pay raises, pensions. Those are the things her parents know. This is uncharted territory for them, and one that they don’t trust not to swallow Sage whole and spit her back out in a mess of failure.

“This isn’t some Eat, Pray, Love thing, is it?” her mom teases.

Sage closes her eyes and counts to three. “This is important, Mom.”

“Oh, honey, I know.” She sighs. “Look, I wouldn’t blame you if you needed it, though. With all that drama a few weeks ago.”

She bites the inside of her cheek, hard. It’s amazing how moms have this innate ability to find the two things you don’t want to talk about and put them at the top of the call agenda.

Her parents aren’t ones for social media or pop culture, but they follow Sage. They saw the statement she had to post. They saw the photos she was tagged in.

And while her parents don’t know the half of it, that’s never stopped them from fully forming an opinion regardless.

The comment eats at her more than it should, something akin to guilt stirring inside of her as she thinks of last night. No distractions, she’d promised herself. And yet she’d followed the biggest distraction in the world straight into his family’s vacation home.

Her mom goes three for three when she adds, “I saw your Instagram story today. The pictures were so pretty! I’m glad you’re taking some time to relax.”

The words themselves aren’t condemning, but they have Sage’s shoulders moving ever closer to her ears. “I just worry,” her mom continues. “You work so hard. I hate to see you so stressed that it drove you across the ocean.”

Sage resists the urge to point out that she doesn’t remember her complaining when Sage was bringing home award after award in school. Or working toward a promotion at the fintech start-up.

She closes her eyes and wills herself to stay calm. “That’s not…” She wets her lips. Tries again. “Don’t worry. I’ll take a true break when this draft is done.”

She can hear her mom gearing up for … something.

An argument, maybe.

Advice, probably.

Some more mixed messaging, definitely.

Sage changes the subject.

“How’s Dad?”

“Oh, he’s fine. Had a couple of late nights in the office lately…”

It works like a charm. Her mom spends the next thirty minutes catching her up on her dad, their work, and the neighbors, and Sage figures it’s been enough time that she can cut in and gracefully bow out by making an excuse about needing to get back to work.

“All right,” her mom acquiesces. “But really, Sagey, if you want to come home, you can always change your trip. We’re going to miss you at Thanksgiving.”

This time, she can’t hold back her retort. “Is Noah changing his plans, too?”

Her mother huffs. “Noah has to work Wednesday and Friday, Sage. He can’t fly out from Seattle just for the day.”

Of course. Noah has to work, and Sage should change her trip, because it’s not like she has a deadline or anything.

“I know it sucks, Mom,” she says instead, feeling a mixture of relief at heading off an argument and regret at not standing her ground. “Christmas will be great.”

“It will be,” her mom confirms. It almost sounds like a threat. “You’ll have to show us all of the pictures from your vacation.”

Sage grits her teeth and presses her fist to her mouth, biting back a scream. “I’ll talk to you soon, okay?” she manages to say.

They hang up after that. Sage folds her arms on the bar and lets her head drop on top of them, letting the silence of the cottage build around her.

“Why isn’t it ever enough?” she groans to the empty space.

It doesn’t have the answers, either.

The first time Sage threw up at school, it was because a friend had spread a rumor that she was obsessed with a boy in their class. She was so embarrassed by that first evidence of too much too much too much it had, quite literally, made her sick. She supposes that should have been the first indication that her brain and stomach weren’t quite typical, but it would take years for her to figure that out.

Anyway.

The second time Sage threw up at school, it was because she’d failed a chemistry test. She was so distraught that when she went to her next class—French—the stern-faced, stoic teacher, Monsieur Moreau, had immediately hugged her.

That’s the thing about being an achiever in a family of achievers.

Achievement is expected. The norm. And Sage, in her eagerness to please, has always made it look easy. You couldn’t see the anxiety unless you were looking at her bleeding cuticles. You couldn’t sense the overwhelm unless you picked apart why she was crying over getting a B+.

You couldn’t see the stress unless you were awake at 3 AM with her, when she’s shaking and trembling from her latest night terror about not being enough for the people that life tells her are supposed to love her just as she is.

Sage has spent enough of her last decade in and out of therapy to know that there’s nuance in all of this—something about expectations versus reality and parents being human and having to come to terms with who their kid ends up being versus who they wanted them to be.

But … it used to be easier. Back when she was working toward something her parents understood. Back when she was ignorant to how hard she strived to be what they wanted her to be because she wasn’t sure how else to matter.

The awareness haunts her, and sometimes she wonders if it’s worse knowing what she knows.

Either way … she knows the triggers, and the conversation with her mom was one that’s laid on top of others that have been steadily building over the last year. It sticks with her, a lingering shadow over her shoulder as she opens her laptop and puts on her noise-canceling headphones to drown out the roaring silence of the Airbnb.

She ends up deleting more words than she writes.

Emerson calls that night and asks if Sage wants her to dial in Margot. Sage says no.

She loves Margot. But right now, she needs Emerson. Just Emerson.

She puts her laptop away and pours wine and subjects herself to Em’s millions of questions about The Run In that she didn’t answer in the group chat because it means, for a little bit, that she doesn’t have to feel the frustration that presses against her sternum.

“So let me get this straight,” Emerson says in a way that makes it clear she’s about to recount everything Sage has just told her. “Theo doesn’t live in LA, he lives in London, but he just so happens to be in Skye right now because he’s clearing out his family’s vacation home, and you ran into him in a pub last night only to go back to said home with him and listen to him confess that he’s in love with you but knows it could never work for some reason I can’t actually fathom because y’all’s logic is nonexistent?”

Sage takes a sip of her wine and sinks further into the couch and the comfort that comes from feeling like Emerson is right beside her, gossiping as they would be if they were sprawled on top of her bed at home.

“You took some creative liberties, especially with the end there, but that’s the gist of it.”

Emerson lets out a long breath. “What are the odds?”

“Don’t ask.”

“You calculated it, didn’t you?”

“No.” Sage draws out the vowel.

“You did. I know it.”

“I like data.”

“You are such a nerd!” Emerson’s cackle is tinny through the speaker of Sage’s phone, set next to a bowl of popcorn on the coffee table, but it’s warm and familiar and it makes Sage grin. She takes another sip of her wine and lets some of the tension that sits between her shoulder blades bleed into the couch. There’s a thick, knitted blanket tossed over her sweatpant-clad legs, and a soft, worn Cambridge sweatshirt thrown over her long-sleeved shirt. The sleeves are rolled to her wrists, the smell of it still something decidedly male.

She’s cold. It’s soft. It means nothing.

“He’s already texted you, hasn’t he?” Emerson asks.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sage retorts airily.

“Oh, this is too good!” Emerson croons. “What are you going to do?”

“About what?”

“About Theo, obvi.”

Sage tosses a handful of popcorn into her mouth. “There’s nothing to do about Theo. We’re … friendly.”

“You’re friendly.” Emerson says the word with so much implication Sage can’t stop the snort of laughter that bubbles up in her.

“Yes?”

“Friendly…”

“For a lawyer, you take an awful long time to get to the point.”

“It’s because I charge by the minute,” Em quips. “I’m serious, though, S. How are you going to be friends with Theo? It’s so obvious you two want to jump each other’s bones.”

Sage chokes on her wine. “I do not! And I never said we were going to be friends. I said we’re friendly.”

“Semantics.”

“Semantics are quite literally my job,” she deadpans. Emerson makes a noncommittal sound, and Sage plows on before her friend can gain steam. “Look, he’s only here for a few weeks. I doubt I’ll even see him much, but it’ll be nice to not have the urge to flee if I happen to run into him in town.”

“Seeing as you fled the entire country because of him, I’d say that’s progress,” Emerson snorts.

Sage stills, her grip tightening reflexively on her wineglass. She can feel the energy shift on the line immediately—can feel the way she shifts it as she says, “That’s not … I didn’t leave LA because of him.”

There’s a long pause before Emerson replies. “I know. I was teasing.”

But Sage’s stomach is tightening, and she puts the wineglass on the table so she can run both hands over her heated cheeks. “It was about the book.”

“I know,” Emerson urges. “Babes, it was a joke.” There’s a click as Emerson takes her off of speaker, her voice suddenly close and serious. “Hey. What’s going on?”

Sage swallows, but there’s a lump in her throat and the echo of her mother and her implications and Sage’s own damn inner monologue about wasting time and being lazy and failing and …

“I’m still stuck,” she admits quietly. “I’m still stuck, and being here feels stupid. Like I’ve talked myself into some sort of vacation that I don’t deserve, and—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Emerson cuts in. “Where is this coming from?”

Sage inhales deeply.

Writer’s block. A day off. The panic she doesn’t have time for trying its best to make itself heard.

“My mother,” she finally says. “Sort of. I don’t know. It was there before I talked to her, but … I’m just frustrated today. Sorry.”

Emerson doesn’t laugh, and she doesn’t let Sage deflect. She leans in, incredulity coating her voice as she demands, “Val thinks this is a vacation?”

“She was joking,” Sage says sardonically, a little swoop of guilt following because so was Emerson, and Sage is rubbing it in a bit, and it’s shitty, because Emerson really was joking, and she had no idea the land mine she was about to step on. “Sorry,” Sage mutters again. “It’s a sore spot today.”

“Clearly,” Emerson teases in a way that only she could get away with before shifting back into the type of tone that means business. “S, you’re not out there frolicking through the fields. And hell, even if you were … you’re there because a change of scenery helps with blocks like these. I know, because you and Margot have sent me eight hundred articles about it.”

Sage’s laugh is weak. “It’s real. Except Margot’s research is decidedly fitness focused.”

“That’s because Margot is part of a pyramid scheme for some secret health empire we don’t know about yet,” Emerson says dismissively. “The point is, I know it’s real. And you know it’s real. So whatever stick Val has up her ass, it’s her stick. Leave her to deal with it. You have enough on your plate. And before you say it,” Emerson continues, as if she knows Sage is primed to argue, “I’m not even talking about Theo. I’m talking about work. You’re stuck. You’re doing what you need to do to get out of it.

“You’re not lazy, you’re not broken, you’re not whatever other negative thing your busy, brilliant little brain is trying to sell you on. Okay?”

Sage’s eyes burn. “Okay,” she whispers, even though she doesn’t fully believe it. She wipes at her nose before she remembers she’s wearing Theo’s sweatshirt. It’s enough to startle her out of her emotions, enough for her to shake her head and let out a wet laugh. “I just got snot on Theo’s sweatshirt.”

“Kinky.”

“Gross, Emerson.”

“What?” Emerson laughs. “You’re the one wiping bodily fluids on his clothes.”

Sage joins in, and she’s really laughing now, the type that makes her stomach ache in a good way. When it fades, it does so into a long, steady silence that comes with years of knowing someone and being content to simply share their space, even if it’s from thousands of miles away.

“You know what’s wild?” Emerson finally muses.

“Hmm?”

“He chased you out into the rain.”

“He did,” Sage confirms on an exhale. They let that settle, a sort of awe expanding across the five thousand miles between them. “But,” Sage adds, “he was just desperate to get it off his chest.”

“Oh, I think he’s desperate to get off, all right,” Emerson drawls.

Sage snorts as she’s sipping her wine, the liquid burning in her nose as she tries to swallow. “God, don’t you have work to get back to? A pressing case? Emails? Anything?”

“That call-end button works both ways, S.”

“Thanks for the reminder. I’m hanging up now.”

“Wait!” Emerson exclaims. There’s a long, dramatic pause, and then, “He looooves you.”

“Goodbye, Emerson!”

“Fine, fine. I can only milk this salad for so many minutes, anyway. The last thing I need is for Randolph to get on me for not tracking enough billables.”

Sage’s nose scrunches. She’s heard this particular partner’s name a lot in the last two months. “He still has a stick up his ass, huh?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.” Emerson sighs. “Somehow, I’m responsible for the nightmare of a client he brought in. Never mind the fact that they’re a train wreck in their own right and anyone who has a single brain cell could have seen that.” Emerson pauses. Huffs. “Whatever. I shouldn’t be talking to you about this. It makes the firm look bad,” she adds with mock sincerity.

“Friend hat is on,” Sage reminds hers. “I’m only your client in the hours it takes to review a contract. And even that can’t revoke your best friend privileges.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Emerson chides, but Sage can hear the reluctant smile in her voice.

“What’s that? Sorry I can’t hear you over the client always being right, or whatever.”

Emerson giggles. “I really should go.”

“Okay. Tell Randolph I hate him and his porn-star stache.”

“Tell your friend if I were into guys, he’s probably the guy I’d be into.”

Sage’s laugh bursts from her chest, her head tilting back with the force of it. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love me. Hugs!”

And with that, she hangs up.

If Sage has learned anything about writing professionally, it’s that every word counts, and when you’re this deep in a block, you’ll take whatever you can get. If she has to claw her way to 150,000 words by writing 200,000 horrible ones just to be able to draft something decent, she’ll do it.

She’ll do anything.

Which is perhaps why she finally stops suffocating the panic that’s been simmering beneath the surface.

She can, on occasion, wield urgency like a weapon, using it to slice through her to-do list faster than she ever thought possible.

So she lets the panic rise and mix with the remnants of frustration from her call with her mom, that lifetime need to prove herself spurring her to type away at her keyboard come hell or high water.

She redoes her drafting calculations, gives herself a new daily word-count goal, and spends two days drill-sergeanting herself through writing sprints, only to end up deleting 80 percent of what she gets down.

When she wakes on the third morning post Mom Attack, that panic is no longer a carefully controlled motivator. It’s a thickness in her throat and a fluttering of her pulse and a mind that races in the most unproductive of ways.

Sage forces herself to pack up her things—and brave the snow Greta correctly predicted—to go into town and write somewhere new.

It’s been falling off and on for hours, but instead of coating the hills in beautiful blankets of white, it’s become the type of slushy mix that makes her bones cold. She waits until the afternoon in the hopes that the sun and rising temperatures will get rid of any ice, then says screw it. Years of driving through the slick suburbs of Chicago in the winter were not all for naught.

Even still, the drive into Portree takes twice the amount of time because she’s not a maniac and is hell-bent on proving to herself that she still remembers how to drive in such conditions.

On the opposite side of the road.

That only has one lane.

She makes it into town in one piece. It’s fairly empty, the only people out and about those who are hanging the holiday lights and setting up the Christmas tree in the center of the square. It’s easy to find parking to accommodate Hank, and Sage makes quick work of darting across the street and ducking into the pub where she’d fled at the mere sight of Theo.

They haven’t spoken since the Fairy Glen. It’s fine, she keeps reminding herself. Being friendly doesn’t require constant communication. It doesn’t require communication at all, actually.

The pub is blissfully empty aside from an older gentleman at the far end of the bar with a book. The only sounds in the space are the clink of glasses as the barkeep puts them away and the low hum of some song Sage doesn’t recognize on the radio. She slides into a space at the bar and nods a greeting to the keep.

“Okay if I work here for a bit?” she asks the woman as she tugs out her laptop.

“As long as you’re ordering, you can work here all day, lass.”

“In that case, I’ll take a pint of the cider.”

The crisp drink warms her from the inside, and her fingers tingle with nervous anticipation as she looks at her draft.

She refuses to sink into a wordless hole. She refuses.

Sage spends two hours hunched over her laptop, but … the words won’t come. It’s worse than the other days, because this time, instead of typing only to delete her work, she can barely even get a sentence down.

She tries rereading what she has, tries skipping ahead to another scene, tries picking at her outline.

Nothing.

She tangles a hand in her hair, that pressure in her chest spreading to her limbs.

Writing isn’t like any other job Sage has had before. She has always—always—been able to white-knuckle her way through, her whirling mind be damned.

She’s been stuck before, sure, but never like this.

And perhaps it’s worse because before, she’d write. She doesn’t know what to do now that her outlet has become blocked. When that thing that was a hobby before it was a career—that was another form of therapy for her too-fast mind and her too-big emotions—becomes a brick wall.

The panic rises.

And rises.

And rises.

She calls it quits after another half hour, her neck aching as she drags her laptop off the bar and slips it into her bag. She trudges out of the pub, her mind tripping over itself as she tries to figure out where she’s going wrong.

Is it the story itself?

Does she need to start over completely? Does she even have time to do that? God, the words she would need to clock daily to reach her deadline if she did that would be … unattainable.

What if—

For a moment, Sage attributes the lurch in her stomach with the anxiety that’s clawing up her throat.

But then her arms are pinwheeling as her feet try to get their purchase beneath her, and it’s too late, and her brain rapidly registers ice and falling and fuck.

The blue of the sky is the last thing she sees as she lands on her back, her head whacking against the ice-slicked cobblestones and knocking her out.

12
Flesh Wounds

Of all the sights Sage hoped she might eventually see in Skye, unsurprisingly, Portree Community Hospital didn’t make her mental wish list. And yet here she is on a gurney in a space that’s cordoned off by curtains, her head throbbing and her eyes blinking rapidly under the too-bright lights. Given how hard she hit the ground, it’s a miracle she remembers it at all.

They’ve given her pain medicine, so she still feels a bit groggy, enough so that she doesn’t immediately realize the agitated sounds echoing down the hall is someone asking after her.

“Sage Collins. Where is she?” Her mind seems to be running at half speed, because it takes far longer than it should to place the voice when there’s only one person who says her name like that.

The curtain is ripped back, and there’s Theo, and he looks …

Well, Theo looks sort of like he’s the one that slipped on ice and knocked his head against the cobbles. His face is pale, his hair mussed in the way that evidences his fingers have been running through it, and there’s a wild sort of look in his eyes as he meets her gaze.

“Theo?”

“Christ,” he breathes. “Are you all right?”

“I’m…” She wants to say “fine,” but she’s actually not entirely sure. She thinks she’s okay, but she has no idea why he’s in the ER—or how he knew she was here to begin with. She blinks again against the grogginess that feels like a film over her eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“They called me.” Theo scans her as if he can pick out her injuries.

“What?” She struggles to sit up further, suddenly hyperaware of how she’s sprawled out on a gurney under fluorescent lights and Theo, even in his panic, looks like he just stepped off the set of a film with his perfect-fitting peacoat and dark-wash jeans. “Why?”

“I’m your bloody emergency contact, Collins.” His voice is strangled, a muscle in his jaw jumping as he drags his fingers roughly through his hair.

“Oh my god,” she breathes. She’d changed his contact as a joke. And now …

“Oh my god,” she repeats. “I—” She’s cut off by a nurse stepping into the room.

“Miss Collins,” she greets as she bustles in. She pauses and beams at Theo. “Ah, I see your friend has arrived.”

There’s a familiar look in the nurse’s eyes. It’s the same one Sage saw on the flight attendant on their plane to Comic Con. This time, Sage knows exactly what it means.

God, she hopes the NHS has some equivalent of HIPAA. She can practically see the headlines now.

THEO SHARPE RUSHES TO BEDSIDE OF HOSPITALIZED “FRIEND” SAGE COLLINS

Theo folds his arms and fixes his full attention on the nurse. Sage doesn’t know that she’s ever seen him look so serious. “Is she okay?” he asks.

“I’m fine.” Sage’s reassurance is met with a glare.

But the nurse simply chuckles. She preens a bit underneath Theo’s rapt attention but remains professional as she says, “We call emergency contacts just on a precautionary basis. Sage hit her head, but her concussion test came back all clear. She just needs a bit of rest and some ice. Paracetamol would do her some good, too, once her pain medication wears off.”

The nurse is all saccharine smiles, and it only makes the growing awkwardness in the room more evident. Theo hasn’t moved from his stern stance, so unlike the alluring persona Sage is embarrassed to admit she’s seen him don in interviews and on social media, and Sage feels helpless and small lying here beside him like this.

“You’ll want to take it easy for the next few days,” the nurse instructs Sage. “No vigorous activity, and perhaps limit work if you can, especially on the computer.”

That panic she’d felt at the pub returns, distracting her momentarily from Theo’s irritation. It sends her pulse ratcheting up so quickly she can feel it in her throat. She doesn’t have time to limit work.

Her eyes start to burn, and she clamps her jaw tight, as if she can literally bite back the ridiculous urge to cry.

She knows, she knows it’s because she’s overwhelmed—that she’s had a bad day and all she needs is a minute and she’ll be fine—but her addled brain doesn’t want to listen.

“… you’ve had a fall, so be patient with yourself if you’re feeling a little low energy,” the nurse is saying. “If anything changes tonight, you come back here. Blurry vision, headaches, vomiting.” And then, as if she hasn’t just instilled fear in them both, she gives them another beaming smile. “I’ll just go get your paperwork, and we’ll have you discharged. Won’t be a moment.”

And with that she strides out of the room, leaving a full silence in her wake. Theo lowers himself into the plastic chair against the wall, movements stiff and eyes fixed blankly on a point across the room. Sage tries to get comfortable on the bed, an impossible task when the tension in the air is nearly as painful as the throbbing spot on her head where she whacked it on the pavement.

Beneath her anxiousness, she feels so awkward she could die. She can’t tell if it’s just embarrassment, or the fact that this is only the second time they’ve seen each other in person since Comic Con and it’s only because he was called to her bedside as if they were …

Anything.

Sage swallows and reaches for her best defense.

Deflective humor.

“You did warn me about tripping. I never do listen.”

The only acknowledgment Theo gives her is the twitch of the corner of his mouth, but it looks more like a grimace than it does the smile he’s trying to force. The silence grows, and it presses against Sage’s skin until she feels like the only relief she might find is by crawling out of it. She tries to take a deep breath—tries to lighten that pressure swelling like a balloon in her chest—but the air smells like antiseptic, and the constant beeping and murmuring of the ER floats its way through the curtain, and it simply reminds her how ridiculous this entire situation is.

Theo is all sharp edges and rigidity, from the straight stack of his spine to the lethal line of his jaw, every bit of him like a rubber band stretched too far, just waiting to snap.

“You don’t have to stay,” she mutters as she buries her hands into the scratchy sheet beneath her. The tangle of it between her fingers is surprisingly soothing, and it’s enough to have her sitting a little straighter as Theo finally breaks his staring contest with the wall.

“Do you not want me to?” The question is wary. “I suppose your hosts could come pick you up, but—”

“I can walk to my car,” she interrupts. “I don’t think it’s that far.”

She doesn’t have a concussion, the pain meds aren’t that strong, and …

And she hates feeling like this. Like she can’t take care of herself.

Like a bother.

“Is this because the nurse recognized me?” Theo asks with a frown. “Of all the places for someone to leak a story, it’s not going to be the bloody hospital. Besides, people mostly leave me be here—”

“It’s not about that,” Sage insists, her grip tightening against the sheets. “It’s … there’s really no need for anyone to be here,” she finishes with a murmur.

There’s a beat of silence, and she’s not entirely sure how she expects Theo to respond, but it certainly isn’t the irritated scoff that slices through the quiet, or the shake of his head. “Fucking Christ, Sage—”

“Why are you upset with me?!”

It takes her muddled mind a moment to catch up with her mouth—to realize she’s blurted out the question that’s been nagging at her since he burst into the room. Once it does, she feels her cheeks heat, but Theo merely freezes, his mouth opening and closing once, before he croaks, “What?”

He’s finally holding her gaze, but now Sage can’t bring herself to hold his. She clears her throat and twists the sheet tighter and stares at her lap instead. That burning sensation is ruthlessly pressing behind her eyelids, and if she cries now, she might just fling herself back down on the sidewalk and stay there.

“I didn’t ask them to call you,” she forces out, aiming for anger and falling shy of it by a mile as her wavering voice betrays her. “I changed your contact name as a joke, and I forgot to change it back. I didn’t even know—”

“Hey.” She startles a bit as he sits on the bed next to her, his hands warm as they slide over hers. She hadn’t even heard him get up from the chair. Theo takes a moment to unwind the death grip she has on the sheet before he gives her hands a squeeze. “Sage, I’m not upset with you.” His eyes are wide and blue and earnest as he peers down at her. “I was panicked. I got the call, and they said you were hurt, and I just…” His throat bobs. “I’m trying to take a breath, here. I don’t do well with emergency calls. Or hospitals, for that matter.”

Oh.

Oh.

Of course Theo, who lost both his mom and his brother in a car accident, doesn’t do well with emergency calls or hospitals.

“Shit,” she breathes. “I am so sor—”

“If you bloody apologize to me—”

“I’ll change your contact right now,” she hurries on, reaching for her phone only to realize she’s not sure where it is. “I didn’t even think about—”

“Don’t.” Theo cuts her off, squeezing her hands to keep her still. “Suffice it to say I’m glad you put me in your phone that way. I just…” He trails off, looking a bit lost. But then he’s sucking in a breath and pressing on. “I was panicked. It’s not like the accident happened here, but … still.”

There’s still an apology building on her tongue, but Theo tilts his head, his brow furrowing in gentle confusion as he asks, “What happened?”

Sage lets out a trembling exhale as she leans back against the pillow. “I was leaving the pub and slipped on ice.” Despite the circumstances, he arches an amused brow, and her answering laugh is weak and wet. “It wasn’t like I was drunk. I had gone there to try to write. I thought maybe a change of scenery might help, but…” The growing lump in her throat has her trailing off.

Sage tilts her head back and blinks hard against the bright light of the fluorescents and the stab of pain where the pillow brushes the bump on the back of her skull. The graze of Theo’s thumb across her knuckles reminds her that he’s still holding her hands. She should pull away. But the touch grounds her against the wave of emotion she can’t seem to outswim.

A tear slips out, and she huffs a bitter laugh at the ceiling. “It’s so stupid. This whole trip was a change of scenery, and I’m still no closer to where I was when I left weeks ago. I still can’t get my head to work.”

“Oi,” Theo cuts in, drawing her gaze to him. He gives her a soft smile. “Go easy on that beautiful head of yours. It already took a beating today.” Another tear escapes, and he brushes it from her cheek. “You’re allowed to have bad days, Sage.”

But it’s not just a day, she wants to argue. It’s weeks and weeks, and what if this isn’t a phase but is proof that she can’t do this, that she never should have tried in the first place?

A year ago, she was scared of never being brave enough to live the life she wanted. Now that she’s done it, she’s terrified it’ll slip between her fingers like sand, and the only thing she’ll have left is proof that who she is and what she wants aren’t viable.

“You’re not what your brain achieves in a day,” he says quietly. “You’re not what your brain achieves at all, actually.”

And that … that is exactly what she is so afraid of. What she has always been so afraid of. Because if she’s not that, what the hell is she? What’s left of her, if not a long list of achievements and the next thing she wants to tick off her to-do list?

But she can’t say all of that to Theo—not when she’s on the precipice of a breakdown so severe it would surely have the nurse forcing her on bed rest for far longer than a few days. So she tries to fix her mouth into something like a smile. She’s not sure he buys it, but he doesn’t push. He just brushes his thumb across her knuckles a final time before he lets go of her hands.

“I apologize for how I came in here,” he murmurs. “I didn’t mean to be an arse.”

Sage rubs at her face. “I thought we weren’t apologizing.”

“You are not apologizing. I, on the other hand, can do whatever I want.”

She lets her eyes flutter shut as she takes a deep, steady breath, the corner of her mouth lifting with far less effort this time. “There’s that movie-star pretentiousness I knew you had in you.”

Theo laughs. “Would now be a bad time to mention your stereotypical traits? There’s something to be said about a Californian thinking she can handle winter in Scotland.”

“I’m from Chicago,” she grumbles.

“You certainly had me fooled.”

Sage opens one eye to glare at him, but it only makes his teasing smile grow. “Aren’t you supposed to be nice to me? I’m injured.”

“Oh, now you’re injured,” Theo scoffs. “There’s no need for anyone to be here,” he mocks in a high-pitched, uncanny American accent.

Both of Sage’s eyes open now, because that deserves a proper glare. “You’re not funny.”

Theo grins. “You are. I’ll walk to my car, she declares, as if she’s not high on painkillers.”

“I’m not high!”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

She shakes her head as a breath of laughter escapes her, wincing as the pillow rubs against that spot.

“I am sorry,” she insists after a moment. “When I changed your contact, I didn’t even consider what that might … bring up for you.”

Theo’s shrug looks casual enough, but she can still see the lingering tension in his body. “How would you have known?”

It’s kind of him to try to assuage her guilt, but … “I feel like any sensitive person would have known that?”

He levels her with a look. “Now you’re just giving me opportunities to take the piss.”

“That expression is so gross,” she says with a scrunch of her nose. Theo rolls his eyes, and it’s a weird thing to find attractive, but it roughens up his typical polish in a way Sage really likes.

“Vile American mind,” he mutters.

The nurse comes back in with discharge paperwork and firm instructions on icing and paracetamol and a far less firm “Have a good evening” that’s mostly directed at Theo. The tension in Theo’s jaw is gone, and the blue of his eyes is lighter, but there’s still a stiffness in his shoulders as they walk down the hall toward the exit.

Sage nudges him softly. “Say paracetamol.”

“Why?” he asks, blinking down at her suspiciously.

“Because I want to hear it in your accent.” She nudges him again. “You’re not going to deny a distressed maiden her one request, are you?”

He huffs an incredulous laugh. “I’m fairly certain you’re the one causing distress.” She narrows her eyes at him, and Theo smiles that damn smile, his hand broad and warm where he presses it to the small of her back. There’s not a hint of that tension left to be found in his shoulders.

“Come on, you heathen,” he says. “Let’s get you some paracetamol.”

Theo drops her off with a promise to come and get her so she can pick up Hank the Tank tomorrow. There’s an awkward moment where he just sort of … stares at the house, and it’s enough to have Sage stiltedly asking if he wants to come inside.

“No,” he says, blinking as if coming back to himself. “Thank you but … you should get some rest.”

Part of her is relieved. It’s been a long day, her head hurts, and really, she wants to just go to bed and maybe read something on AO3 tagged hurt/comfort so she can cathartically sob into her pillow.

She gets out of the car and moves toward the path, but she looks over her shoulder as she hears Theo roll down his window to say, “Set an alarm on your phone for midnight.”

“Why?”

“So you can call me and reassure me you’re not dying.”

“That’s a horrible joke.”

His lips tip into a sardonic smile. “Who says I’m joking?”

“God, Theo.”

He winks, and with his tousled hair and easy smirk and arm lounging on the frame of the open window, he looks every bit the movie star he is. “That’s dark humor for you, love. Comes with the trauma, I’m afraid.”

Sage tries to trick herself into thinking she feels absolutely nothing about Theo calling her love. He’s English—it doesn’t mean anything. It’s like how she calls Emerson and Margot babe.

The problem is she feels so much about it that she can’t fool her brain even when it’s full of painkillers and emotional angst, so instead, she smothers said feelings beneath soup and the glass of wine she’s sure the doctor would not approve of.

She almost neglects all of the A&E’s instructions and tugs out her laptop, but she knows that’s the equivalent of shoving herself off the fragile edge of composure she’s been clinging to all day, so she refrains. She ends up in bed on the early side, too drained for the read or the cry, and just barely remembers to set her alarm before she drifts off.

It startles her out of a dead sleep at midnight.

“Fuck,” Sage gasps, her heart pounding as she reaches for her phone. She turns off the shrieking alarm and blearily tries to find Theo’s contact card, eyes burning in the blue light.

“How are you feeling?” is how he chooses to answer. His voice is low and smooth, a balm to her rapid pulse.

“Wonderful,” Sage mumbles, not awake enough to refrain from collapsing back against her pillows. She whimpers at the stab of pain in her head. “Having to wake up from a deep sleep is definitely on my list of top ten evenings.”

There’s a rustling sound, like sheets of a bed. “Care to share the others?”

“Can I go back to sleep now?” she whines.

Theo chuckles. “Humor me.”

“I’m not telling you about my sexcapades while I’m half asleep.”

He must be drinking something, because he promptly chokes. “That’s not … is that how you rank your life experiences?”

“Don’t act scandalized,” she argues. “You honestly expect me to believe that’s not how you’re ranking your experiences?”

His inhale—deep, as if he’s clinging to the last threads of his composure—crackles across the line. “How did we get here?”

“You insisted I wake myself up and call you at midnight.”

“A request I’m thoroughly regretting, I assure you.”

Sage giggles, the sound half-lost to the pillow squished against her cheek. “Now that’s something we should talk about: top ten nights you regret.”

She swears she feels his considering hum. “I think all of those would fall under my uni days.”

“Really? None since you’ve reached stardom?”

There’s a slow grin in his voice as he says, “The NDAs preclude me from sharing.”

“You haven’t made me sign one,” she realizes aloud. Her brow furrows slightly as she turns that over in her mind.

He trusts her.

Something warm settles in her chest at the thought.

“Though I guess if one of us has an embarrassing story they don’t want shared, it’s the one who slipped on ice today,” she adds.

Theo goes quiet for a long moment. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft. Gentle. “I didn’t think that was embarrassing.”

Sage stares into the darkness of her room, her teeth digging into her bottom lip. Her own voice quiets to match his. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way.”

“No,” he cuts in immediately. “I know. I just … I was happy to be there for you.”

Sage tries to bite back her smile, but it fights its way through regardless.

She nestles further into her pillow, her fingers curling tightly around her phone. “Thank you for coming when they called you. I’m glad you were there.”

Theo takes a slow breath, and she matches the pace of it subconsciously. “As am I,” he murmurs. Sage lets her eyes close. She’s all too aware of how soft their voices have become, as if they’re lying side by side, unwilling to disrupt the quiet of the night.

A comfortable silence settles in, and she’s tired enough that she might just fall back asleep. She’s not sure how long they linger there, but her voice is more of an exhale when she finally says, “Theo?”

“Hmm?”

She wants to be surprised he waited for her to hang up first. She isn’t.

“I feel okay. Really.”

She hasn’t been through what Theo has been through. And though it can’t possibly compare … she knows a thing or two about worry. About anxious brains and fixation and the thoughts that don’t let us sleep.

He clears his throat, but the emotion is there anyway. “Good. Sleep well, Collins.”

“Good night, Theo.”

13
Powerless

“I’ve been thinking about something.”

Sage raises a brow over her mug, the sugar rush not enough to shake how strange it is to see Theo sitting at the bar in the guest cottage’s kitchen. His arms are folded on the countertop, the sleeves of his navy cashmere sweater pushed to his elbows, a pair of aviators perched on his hair, which is still damp from his shower.

Something has shifted.

She noticed it as soon as she opened the door to the cottage and Theo, with his cold-flushed cheeks and soft sweater, grinned and gave her a simple, one-armed hug that had the crisp scent of his aftershave settling over her.

Something has changed. Something small but monumental and she thinks it’s the type of thing that can’t be undone, because once someone’s seen you in a hospital bed and gotten you the European version of Tylenol and made you call them in the middle of the night because they’re worried about you …

Well, you can’t just pretend to be merely friendly after that.

Oh my god, Sage had thought as she led him into the cottage, trying not to stare at how utterly relaxed he seemed. We’re friends.

She’d immediately blurted out something about finishing breakfast, and Theo had simply nodded and settled at the bar, slotting right in as if spending the morning together is a perfectly normal occurrence.

He looks dangerously good sitting there, and dammit, Emerson may have been right.

Sage glances down at her jeans and thick, olive-green cable-knit sweater and suddenly regrets not bringing more of a varied wardrobe. She was clearly aiming for function, not fashion, when she and Margot packed.

“Sage,” Theo says, the corner of his mouth ticking up.

“Hmm?”

“Did you hear me?”

Sage takes another fortifying sip of her coffee. “Yep. You’ve had thoughts.”

“May I share them?”

It’s so proper, so considerately put, that she finds herself wondering what it looks like when he isn’t. She’s seen glimpses of it—roughened vowels and clipped sentences and a glint in his blue eyes—but she finds herself considering poking at him a bit just to see more.

She waves a dramatic hand for him to continue.

That corner of his mouth goes higher.

“I think we need to revisit your exposure to truly great cinema.”

That’s … not at all what she was expecting him to say, and it’s enough of a surprise that she almost—almost—refrains from needling him.

“That’s what’s keeping you up at night? The fact that I’m not a cinephile?”

Theo props his head on his fist. “Did I say it was keeping me up at night?” he asks lightly.

“There was a we in there, so I gathered it from the subtext. Trust me, I’m an author. I know words.” He rolls his eyes, and it only encourages her further. “You should have come to me about this,” she says with mock solemnity, setting her mug down so she can give him her full attention. “How many nights have you been tossing and turning thinking about how I’ve never seen The Matrix?”

Theo’s jaw drops. “You’ve never seen The Matrix?”

“Oh, I forgot you didn’t know that.”

“Should I have known that?”

Sage shrugs. “I tend to keep it in my fun-fact reservoir.”

“Trust me,” he mutters darkly. “There’s nothing fun about that fact.”

She laughs and grabs her mug off the counter, taking another long sip as her eyes shift to the windows. The snow had tapered off yesterday and hadn’t ever blanketed the landscape.

“I don’t really do movies,” she reminds Theo as she blinks herself back to the present.

He pinches the space between his brows, a sigh heaving from his lungs. “Please never say do movies in my presence again.”

“So fragile.”

“The fragilest,” he shoots back in a mocking, Valley-girl voice that has Sage readying to mock him right back. She does not sound like that. “And it doesn’t matter that you’re not a cinephile,” Theo continues before she can say anything. “But…”

He hesitates, his gaze dropping to the granite as he rubs a hand across the countertop. “From one artist to another, sometimes a new medium helps when you’re stuck.”

Just like that, he’s flipped the switch on their tit for tat at dizzying speed.

His words are halting, almost like he expects her to challenge him calling himself an artist.

Sage, naturally, wants to press him on it. But not to tease.

She wants to assure him she takes his input seriously—takes him seriously.

But instead, what comes out is “I have trouble sitting still.”

Theo looks up with a quirk of his brow. “Read on a treadmill, do you?”

“It’s different,” she insists. She isn’t entirely sure why she’s resisting. She’s not in any position to reject creative help right now. It’s just …

“I don’t want you to get your hopes up. As I’ve said, many have tried to expand my film literacy. All have failed.”

“Yes, yes, ‘Just ask Emerson,’ I know.” He sighs.

“What’s your solution, then? Tie me up and force me to watch your favorites?”

Theo pauses, his lips parted in contemplation as Sage’s words finally register in her brain.

“Not quite what I had in mind,” he muses, a smirk like sin tugging at his mouth, “but I could be convinced.”

Sage bites the inside of her cheek to keep her face in check as she shakes her head. She can feel heat crawling up her neck and flushing her cheeks, that charge between them building so quickly that she wonders if she might just vibrate right out of her skin if Theo keeps looking at her through half-lowered lids, as if he’s elaborately imagining what she just described.

Sage swallows hard.

Maybe she should go back to the ER. Maybe her head isn’t okay. She’s having trouble remembering things like friendly and five thousand miles of distance and mistake.

But Theo clears his throat, and the tension snaps. Sage grips her coffee mug tighter, and he shoots a pointed look at it. “You do realize coffee isn’t breakfast, yes?”

“In a rush to get out of here?”

“Not at all, I just can’t help but notice your meal is lacking, you know, food?” She grabs a granola bar from the box on the counter and gives it a little shake. Theo’s nose scrunches. “That’s hardly better. I truly can wait if you want to make something.”

Sage makes a show of opening it and popping a bite into her mouth. “I’m not much of a cook.”

“Noted.”

“So are you going to give me a list of movies or…” she asks around another bite of granola.

“I have a plan,” he says loftily.

“A plan.”

He grins and leans in, his arms braced on the countertop. “If I send you a list, you won’t complete it. But if I tell you one movie at a time, there’s a higher chance you’ll actually watch it.”

“Why?” Sage asks with a frown.

“Because your curiosity will get the best of you. Knowing there’s a single film that you should be watching? It’ll haunt you. Why this one? What makes it special? What are you missing?”

Sage blinks at him. He’s absolutely read her for filth.

There’s something about being seen so immediately that spreads a tingling across her skin, a mixture of surprise and curiosity and excitement. It’s an addicting cocktail of emotions she hasn’t felt in …

God, she doesn’t know how long.

She grins. “You’re weird, has anyone told you that?”

“Many times.” He shrugs. “But I always appreciate the reminder. You ready to go?”

“Are you not going to tell me the film?” She drains the rest of her coffee, and when she lowers her mug, there’s a satisfied smirk on Theo’s face.

“Look at that. She’s already curious.”

Oh, she hates him. She goes to tell him as much, but he says, “Start with Donnie Darko.” And then he hops off the barstool and tugs on his coat, his body already angled toward the door. “Shall we?”

Sage shakes her head. He has no idea what he’s just done.

Sure, she’s driven by her curiosity, but she’s more inspired by her stubbornness, and she refuses to let Theo win, especially because he so clearly wants to. Her brother can attest that Sage has a lifetime of practice in the battle of wills, and she’s not about to fold to Theo. He can use his little reverse psychology scheme all he wants.

There’s absolutely no way that Sage is watching Donnie Darko.

Sage watches every minute of Donnie Darko.

As soon as she sees the film features both of the Gyllenhaal siblings, she texts Margot and Emerson.

The 3 Best Friends That Anyone Did Have

Nov 18 10:04 PM

[Picture of the television screen]

Justice for the red scarf.

M

Disaster

Wait why TF are you watching Donnie Darko??

She’s too distracted with—engrossed in?—the film to respond. She’s pretty sure she hates it. Or maybe she loves it? She’s starting to wonder if that’s the whole point—these complicated emotions and holding space for both, etc. etc.—and, well, she has a sneaking suspicion Theo knew she would feel this way, just like he knew she couldn’t resist her curiosity.

And that just adds to the conflicting feelings bubbling up inside of her, because what the hell?

She finishes the movie by some miracle and spends the rest of the night tossing and turning, going in and out of some weird sort of wine-induced fever dream starring giant rabbits and Theo. Taylor Swift makes an appearance at one point, too.

She wakes up the next morning feeling mentally hungover and a little crabby and a lot creatively confused. There’s a text from Theo waiting for her.

So?

She knows exactly what he wants to know, but the thought of that fond exasperation she knows will tug on his face is too good to resist, even if she won’t be able to see it.

So?

Fine. I watched it.

It was weird, but good?

But still weird. Like gave-me-nightmares weird.

She refuses to acknowledge Theo knew exactly how to get her to cave and watch the film in the first place.

Do you know how rare it is to create a film that can continue to be dissected for two decades? People STILL argue over its meaning and whether it has any at all (it does, by the way).

And the portrayal of teen angst! It’s the complete antithesis of what the industry typically puts out (patronizing, stereotypical, etc.)

(Please note how I have yet to gloat about being right about not sending you a list…)

Sage rolls her eyes. As if acknowledging not gloating isn’t gloating.

It was a one-time thing, but noted, appreciated, blah blah blah.

Such brilliant prose from the writer.

Next movie: The Princess Bride.

One-time thing.

You’re not going to recommend your own film?

That would be terribly gauche, Collins.

It is, in fact, not a one-time thing. It actually becomes a bit of a new routine. She spends her mornings rereading her draft. She doesn’t love any of it, but … she forces herself to at least try.

When her head starts to hurt, she goes for a walk or drives into town for a change of scenery.

And when it gets dark, instead of moving to the couch and balancing a glass of wine and her laptop, she settles down in front of the television and reluctantly watches whatever Theo’s recommended.

The Princess Bride, Little Miss Sunshine, Creed—she gets through all of them in the next three days, and it’s not lost on her that she’s watched more films in seventy-two hours than she has in seventy-two days.

She’s not sure why it feels different now when she sits down to take one in. Maybe it’s because she’s found a middle ground between working and not. She’s not simply watching … she’s studying.

Sometimes, she sends Theo her reactions in real time. Others, she waits until he prods, and even then, she can’t help but tease him and shrug him off until he’s practically spamming her phone with hot takes on directorial vision and acting methods and a whole host of other things Sage has to Google just to make sense of. She even has to silence her phone one afternoon when he won’t stop, because she had an idea for a scene and was trying to capture it before it disappeared.

She doesn’t get anywhere on it, which isn’t his fault, but he still apologizes profusely when she messages him three hours later, and then he drops the next recommendation.

He seems to think she’s finally ready to watch At Eternity’s Gate.

Sage would rather go streaking in the biting cold than admit to Theo that she’s been curious about it ever since he quoted it that night. Yet as she settles down in front of the TV that evening, she doesn’t quite feel in the mood to watch it.

It’s Thanksgiving tomorrow. Right about now, her parents are throwing their all into their chocolate pecan pie—a block party favorite. There’s a heaviness on her chest when she thinks about it. It’s not like she wants to be in Chicago right now. But knowing something isn’t right for you now doesn’t always make you miss it any less.

She FaceTimes Noah instead. He answers on the third ring, his image slightly pixelated, but she can easily make out the blindingly boring beige walls of his office behind him.

He grins as he sets his phone against his computer. “You look cozy. Where’d you get the sweatshirt?”

Sage glances down at the Cambridge lettering across her chest. She’d totally forgotten she was wearing it. “Um. My hosts lent it to me. It’s supposed to snow and they didn’t want me to be cold.”

It’s a half-truth. Edgar had stopped by earlier with a basket of shortbread and to confirm Greta had brought enough blankets.

“If the power goes, you come up to the house,” he’d instructed.

Sage had motioned to the mountain of blankets on the couch. “I think I’ll be fine.”

She’s buried under said mountain now, her fuzzy-sock-clad feet tucked under her legs, half-eaten carton of microwavable mac and cheese balanced precariously on her knee.

Noah shoots her a skeptical look, but he lets it go as he leans back in his chair. It’s midday in Seattle—1 PM, if Sage’s quick mental math is right—but Noah already looks over it. Yet the collar of his shirt is perfectly starched, his wavy brown hair wrangled into compliance with gel.

“Long day?” Sage asks.

“Aren’t they all?” Noah deadpans. He looks exhausted, Sage realizes. His recently formed crow’s feet are more pronounced, as are the bags under his hazel eyes. Usually, Sage would chalk it up to his demanding job, but this seems different.

“Have you already dealt with the grocery store rush for tomorrow? Turkey secured?” She knows Noah needs a thorough warm-up before talking about his feelings. If he talks about his feelings. Sometimes it seems like she got all the emotions and he got all the reason.

“We’re just going to order pizza, actually.” Noah sighs. “Cecelia isn’t up for some big thing, and honestly, neither am I.”

Sage makes an understanding sound. “I’m going to miss playing Neighbor Bingo with her this year.”

Cecelia invented the game at her first Collins Thanksgiving. It’s equal parts drinking game and traditional bingo, but with a touch of Cards Against Humanity vibes.

But, like, with real people.

Sage had already liked her brother’s new girlfriend, but she fell in love with her while watching Cecelia throw back a shot of tequila while whispering, Bingo, bitch, after Mrs. Gramberly, their parents’ ninety-five-year-old neighbor, told Noah she was disappointed he was off the market.

Noah brings a hand up to his head, his fingers curling into a fist before he can give in to the urge to tug them through his hair. “Yeah. She’ll miss it, too. She’s … stressed. We had that doctor’s appointment last week. They want us to see a fertility specialist.”

Sage’s heart drops. It feels like someone has thrown a bucket of ice water on her, and she nearly upends the mac and cheese as she scrambles to sit up.

“Shit, Noah. I totally forgot that was last week. I’m so sorry.”

He’d mentioned it weeks ago, but with her impromptu flight across the ocean and her growing panic over her draft and Theo … it had completely slipped her mid.

Noah shrugs, his eyes drifting to his computer screen before fixing on her again. “Is what it is. How’s it going over there?”

Sage swallows, her hand tightening around the edge of her phone. She doesn’t know if he doesn’t want to talk about it or if he’s mad, and it makes her feel itchy. She knows she’s not his first phone call when it comes to this stuff, and she understands why, but …

She’s not sure if he wants her to push now.

“Um. It’s going,” she tries. “What are the next steps now that you guys need to see a specialist?” She’s not sure he even hears her. Not with the way his brow is furrowed and his attention is slightly to the left of the camera.

There’s the telltale clack of his keyboard, his frown deepening before his gaze flicks back toward her.

“They gave us a referral. We’ll call and set up an appointment and then we’ll see. We’ll probably wait until after the holidays.”

He looks away again. Types. Doesn’t look back. “Noah.”

“But the writing is going okay?” he asks distractedly. “Getting away has helped?”

Sage sucks in a breath. This time, she lets the redirection stand. “Not quite. The ideas aren’t flowing like I thought they would.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “That sucks.”

His words are stilted, a clear discomfort clipping his consonants. Noah takes his role as her older brother very seriously. He’d never admit it, but she knows he hates that he doesn’t know how to help her with this.

Sage feels the distance between them like a physical ache.

She isn’t sure when it started, but she thinks …

Well, she thinks she might be to blame. She isn’t sure that Noah knows how to support this version of her. Not when he’s spent thirty years knowing another.

The signature dundunk of a Teams message coming through sounds in the background, and Noah’s eyes flick back to the screen. He sighs heavily. “Sorry. My boss is on me about this proposal.”

Sage’s nose scrunches. “It’s the day before a holiday.”

Noah shoots her a wry smile. “Bet you miss having your own evil overlord, huh?”

“Sometimes, actually.” The admission tumbles out of her unexpectedly. She doesn’t want to go back to her old life, but … yeah. Sometimes, she misses when things felt steadier.

Grass isn’t always greener, etc. etc.

She rubs the cuff of Theo’s sweatshirt between her fingers as Noah makes his I Want to Say Something But I Think I Should Refrain face. The silence is thick and uncomfortable in a way it never used to be.

They’re saved by the ring of his office line. Noah’s mouth pinches as he ducks to mute it. “I should probably go,” he says as he comes back into frame. “But I’m glad things are going well out there. I’m proud of you for taking this trip.”

He’s missed the point entirely, but … his pride still sends a warm glow washing over her regardless. There’s an ingrained need in her to have Noah’s approval—like it matters more than everyone else’s.

“Thanks, Noah. I’ll call again soon, okay? Give Cecelia a hug for me. Enjoy your pizza tomorrow.”

“I will. Love you, Sage.”

“I love you, too.”

He hangs up first, and the silence that fills the cottage is a tangible weight against Sage’s skin. It settles heavily in her heart as she stares out the window.

Finally, the snow begins to fall.

Did you cry?

Theo’s text comes just as she’s getting into bed.

I didn’t get to watch it, actually.

I was preoccupied.

She’d spent the better part of the night soothing herself with fan fiction from her favorite romance book. Not that he needs to know that.

Wait, did YOU cry?

Of course I did.

Let me know what you think when you watch it x

Sage lets her phone fall against her chest as she stares at the ceiling. Maybe it’s the lingering loneliness after her call with Noah. Or maybe, she’s simply running out of excuses. She picks up her phone and sends off a text before she can second-guess herself.

We could watch it together if you’re free tomorrow?

I can make us dinner.

I owe you a thank-you for saving me last week.

Lovely. But … I’LL make dinner.

But that ruins the thank-you?

Please don’t take this the wrong way, but letting me cook is thank-you enough.

There’s a right way to take that?

See you at seven?

A) 7 is fine

B) Don’t think we’re just going to ignore what you said

Got to prep for a meeting with a mentee, see you tomorrow.

THEO.

She thought she’d be nervous, having Theo over again. And while there was a fluttering in her chest that made her forgo her third cup of coffee for the day, now that he’s here, the sleeves of his black Henley pushed up to his elbows as he searches for a pot to prep the sauce for the tikka masala he swears is going to change Sage’s life, looking for all the world like he belongs in her kitchen … Sage cannot find a hint of discomfort in her body.

There are several other emotions warring for her attention, but she tries to keep those at bay. It hadn’t helped that he’d shown up with a tote bag of groceries, including chicken that had apparently been marinating for twelve hours.

It was equal parts adorable and surprisingly nerdy in a way Sage can uniquely appreciate, and it had heat spreading through her as she’d grabbed them both beers—her only contribution to dinner—and followed him to the stove. Theo demanded she stay out at the risk that her “inability to boil water makes their dinner go to pot,” so she’s sitting on a barstool, beer bottle in hand, listening to him rave about his favorite Indian restaurant in Shoreditch as snow falls gently outside. It’s been off and on all day, picking up just enough that Theo had to brush it from his hair as he walked in earlier.

A fire flickers in the fireplace in the living room, adding to the cozy atmosphere that has Sage hugging a knee to her chest as she watches him.

“So you’re a mentor?”

Theo keeps his focus on the cutting board, his knife flashing in the firelight as he steadily dices an onion. “I am. I partner with an organization who helps new actors navigate the industry.” He scrapes the onion into a pot that’s simmering with oil. “I’m not naive of the privilege I hold, especially with my father being connected in the business. If I can pay it forward by helping others who don’t have those connections … it’s the least I can do.”

“That wasn’t on your Wikipedia page,” Sage teases, but there’s a warmth in her chest that bleeds into her words, and she’s sure Theo can see it on her face as he gives her a small half smile.

“I don’t like to broadcast it. It’s not some big secret or anything, but … it’s not about PR, you know?”

“Yeah,” Sage says softly. “I get that.”

She wonders how his father feels about that—not leveraging the opportunity with the press—and if that’s one more area they fight over.

She nearly asks, but Theo looks so relaxed, moving about the kitchen with an ease that speaks to a love of cooking, and she doesn’t want to sour the mood. So instead, she says, “So tell me about the recipe.”

“Nicked it off the owner of that restaurant, actually,” he says with a fond grin, his hair sweeping across his brow as he sautés the onion. “Lovely bloke. Asked if I’d sign something for his niece and offered the recipe in return since I’m always ordering it.”

“I didn’t take you for a creature of habit,” Sage remarks through a sip of beer.

Theo pauses, his lips pursed as he considers this. “I suppose I am in some ways and am not in others. My job sort of demands I be flexible, and I like experiencing new things.” He glances down at the pot. “But this? I could eat this every day and never have a single complaint.”

She raises a brow. “You’re really hyping up this meal.”

“It’s a meal that deserves proper hype.”

He starts adding an array of spices, a warm aroma beginning to seep through the kitchen. Theo moves quickly, his brow furrowed in concentration as he sprinkles them in without measuring a single one.

“Not much of a Thanksgiving dinner, though, is it?” he muses.

Sage shrugs. Her parents are likely at the block party already.

“I’m not disappointed,” she admits. Theo hums as he stirs. He adds a few more ingredients and then adjusts the temperature on the stove.

“There,” he remarks, as he steps back. He washes his hands, and Sage tracks the way he rubs the towel over his long fingers to dry them. “It just has to thicken a bit, but in the meantime—”

With a simple click, they’re plunged into total darkness.

For a long moment, they sit in the type of silence that only comes when every single electronic device in the house is off, the flames of the gas fireplace casting the kitchen in a dim light.

“Bollocks,” Theo mutters. “Your hob is electric, isn’t it?”

“Um,” Sage says eloquently, before a giggle begins to force its way up her throat. Then it’s out of her mouth, the sound slightly unhinged as she buries her head in her hands and dissolves into full-on, uncontrollable laughter. “Oh my god,” Sage stutters, wiping tears from her eyes. “I’m so sorry, it’s just … I should have expected this. Edgar did warn me about the power.”

Theo grins and shakes his head as he looks to the windows. “Makes sense,” he remarks, nodding at the landscape. Sage follows his gaze to see that at some point, the light snow shower has become far more blizzard and is blanketing the rolling hills in a thick layer of white. It’s already built up against the floor-to-ceiling windows and shows no sign of slowing down.

“Wow, I didn’t even notice it picked up like that,” she remarks.

“Me neither.”

She turns to see Theo pouting at the remaining ingredients on the counter. “You could put them in the fridge?”

“I don’t want to spoil the rest of your food by opening it,” he mumbles.

The groceries he’d ruin are actually in the freezer, but she doesn’t feel the need to correct him. “You could put it outside? Natural refrigerator?”

That pulls Theo out of his pity party. He raises an unimpressed brow, his arms folding across his chest as he leans against the counter behind him. “How on earth have you not poisoned yourself yet?”

Sage is grateful for the lack of light as an embarrassed flush warms her cheeks. “I may or may not do one of those pre-made meal kit things at home.”

“Oh my god,” he groans. “You pick it up at the gym too, don’t you?”

“No!” She straightens, her hands tightening around her beer. “I pick it up at the spin studio my friend Margot talked me into joining,” she says primly.

“You truly are hopeless.” He grins. Sage hops off the barstool and makes her way to the cupboard.

“You’d be hopeless if it weren’t for me,” she corrects, opening the doors with a flourish to reveal the packaged snacks she’s stuffed away.

Theo steps up behind her, and he’s so close that she can almost feel the way his chest vibrates with the contemplative hum he makes. Her stomach tightens, her body leaning back ever so slightly, as if primed to get closer whenever he’s near.

“Are you planning on making the apple-and-cinnamon porridge over the fire? Seems advanced for you.”

She shifts her elbow to nudge him in his ribs. “There are chips! And hush. I’m the chef now.”

“God help us.”

She spins around and he’s right there, which she knew, of course, but the proximity has her stumbling back into the cabinets as her feet get tangled with his. Theo’s hands shoot out to steady her, and they’re warm and large on the dips of her waist.

Sage swallows.

It does nothing to ease the way her pulse picks up a relentless rhythm in her throat.

“Do you want food or not?” she asks.

There’s no way he buys her attitude, not with the way the words come out light and breathless. And yet Theo pretends to think on it for a moment.

Then a smirk, devastating as it is dangerous, tugs on his lips. His fingers press in, and Sage tries to remind herself to breathe.

“If I vote not, does that mean there are other options?” A quiet huskiness roughens up his smooth vowels, and it has Sage swallowing against the dryness that’s suddenly parched her throat.

Oh god.

She feels like the room is spinning, and it’s not the beer, it’s Theo and the way he’s looking at her, all darkening eyes and blatant want, and she can’t look away.

Her hands find his waist, because she feels like if she doesn’t grip something, she’ll rotate off right with the earth, which is surely leaving its gravitational field.

Theo’s head dips closer to hers, his body swaying slowly into her space, and she wonders if he even knows he’s doing it, or if he simply can’t resist the pull between them, either.

And yet he pauses … waits.

Gives her time to pull away.

She doesn’t.

His breath brushes across her lips as he whispers her name.

“Sage.”

It sounds like a plea.

And yet it still takes her a moment to fully realize what he’s asking. To calculate the distance from point A to point B and arrive at a conclusion that maybe has been inevitable ever since she ran into him at that pub.

Or maybe since he first looked over at her on the plane.

She tugs slightly on his belt loops. It’s all the confirmation Theo needs as he surges forward, his lips capturing hers in a kiss that’s deep and raw and heated.

It sends Sage’s blood roaring.

Her back hits the cupboard with a soft thud, her breath snagging in her chest as he presses against her. His body is warm and firm, and her fingers trail up his sides and over his shoulders, as if she can memorize the contours of his lithe muscles and the way heat radiates through his shirt.

A moan slips from her as Theo nips her lip, and the sound has his fingers bunching in the fabric of her sweater as he pulls her closer. Desire rushes through her as his tongue meets hers, tightening her stomach and her grip on his arms and—

A booming knock on the door slices through the moment like a knife.

They both startle, Theo jerking backward as Sage’s head whips back against the cupboard.

“Ow.”

“Shit,” he breathes, his hand coming to cup the back of her head, the other still on her waist. “Are you all right?”

His words are breathless, his eyes still dark, and Sage can’t help the way her forehead falls against his chest as a hiccupping laugh escapes her.

They can ignore it, right? Surely, they can ignore it.

Another knock sounds, and Sage sags in resignation.

“Expecting someone?” Theo asks, the words vibrating against every place she’s pressed against him. There’s an amused smile dancing through his tone.

“No,” she admits with a frown, her pulse struggling to find a regular rhythm. It feels like an effort to move away from him, but she carefully maneuvers herself out of his grip, the cold rushing in as she heads to where the banging has started up again. “It’s probably…”

She swings the door open. “Edgar.”

“Power’s out,” Edgar says, flashlight in hand, as if Sage isn’t standing in the dark, lit only by the flames of the fireplace. Greta stands behind him, all gray curls and bright eyes.

Sage immediately tries to smooth her hair with one hand, the other adjusting her sweater.

“She knows, Edgar,” Greta tells her husband as she shoves forward with a cluck of her tongue. “We have the generator running if you’d like to come up to the house,” she offers Sage. “There’s plenty of room, and…” Greta trails off as her gaze slides over Sage’s shoulder.

Theo is standing a few paces behind her, his lips still red from their kiss. But there’s an unreadable look on his face as he stares back at Greta, and it has apprehension washing over Sage.

“My god,” Greta says. “Theo Sharpe.”

Shit.

Sage’s heart drops, her fingers tightening on the door as she faces her host. It isn’t the first time someone has recognized him in Skye, but it is the first time they’ve been so direct. Sage’s mouth pops open to say … something. She hasn’t quite figured it out yet. But then Theo is stepping up to her side and Greta is stepping forward and there’s a thwack as she smacks him on the chest and Sage is …

Confused.

Sage is very, very confused.

“How long have you been loitering in my guesthouse without coming to say hello? I know your mother taught you better manners.”

Theo ducks his head. “Greta. Edgar. Sorry about that. I’ve been a bit … distracted.” His eyes flick to Sage for the briefest of moments. “It’s really good to see you both.”

“How many years has it been, lad?” Edgar chimes in, his handshake vigorous.

“Nine.”

Theo’s answer is so immediate it pulls Sage up short. She cuts him a glance, noting the way his smile is fixed. Tight.

Greta just nods. “Nine years and not looking a day older than the last time we saw you and Ollie hiking up in the hills.”

There’s an awkward pause—a tension that says no one knows quite what to say after that. The fire casts dancing shadows across the panes of Theo’s face, accentuating his sharp edges.

Sage finds herself stepping into him, her shoulder brushing against his arm as she says, “We’re actually just about to sit down to dinner…”

“Yes, of course,” Greta replies hurriedly, her gloved hand gripping Edgar’s jacket sleeve and tugging. “Theo, how long are you in town for?”

“I haven’t quite figured that out yet.”

Sage ignores the flood of uneasiness that brings her.

“At least a few weeks,” he continues.

“Excellent. You’ll have to come by for dinner.” She gives Edgar another tug. “Come on, dear.”

“But won’t you two be cold?” Edgar asks, his bushy brows furrowing into a frown as he peers into the dark cottage.

“I’m sure they’ll think of some way to keep warm, Edgar,” Greta retorts. She throws Sage a wink, and Sage promptly wants to die.

“Thankyouforcheckingonushaveagoodnight,” she rushes out before she slams the door. She lets her head fall forward against the wood, the breath whooshing out of her in one long exhale.

“Thanks,” Theo murmurs. She turns to find him watching her warily. Sage nods, shifting uncomfortably under the silence that fills the cottage. The heat from earlier is nowhere to be found despite the way the fire burns merrily. Instead, there’s a heaviness forcing its way into the room, an awkwardness that demands to be felt.

“You didn’t…” She trails off, careful to be sure there’s no hint of accusation in her words. “You recognized the house. The day you dropped me off here.”

“I did.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

His shrug is half-hearted. “I wasn’t sure if they still lived here. Maybe part of me even hoped they didn’t. They’re lovely people. Even sent flowers when Mum and Ollie died. I just … I haven’t seen them since…”

Theo clears his throat, his hands sliding into the pockets of his jeans. “It’s complicated,” he finishes. He shifts his weight between his feet.

“They won’t say anything to anyone,” he continues. “About me being here. In case you’re worried. Like I said, people here leave me alone for the most part.”

Sage’s lips part, but no sound escapes her.

“Theo,” she finally forces out.

“I saw your face,” he says, cutting her off gently. “When Greta first recognized me.”

“That wasn’t—”

“It’s fine, Sage,” he says, entirely too earnest. “Truly. I just … didn’t want you stressing about it.”

She was, is the thing. When Greta had first recognized him, she was. But then everything else had unfolded, and her worry had shifted tracks so fast it had nearly made her dizzy.

She’s not thinking of Greta. She’s thinking of Theo, and the tension in his jaw, and the way he looks like he wants to make himself smaller.

“Are you okay?” Her question is soft. Careful.

Theo rocks back on his heels.

“Yeah. I’m good.” He glances to the window, to where the snow has become a relentless wall of white. “Erm. Do you … do you want me to go? Before the snow gets too bad and I can’t drive home?”

Sage pauses.

Oh.

That thought actually hadn’t even crossed her mind.

She tugs her bottom lip between her teeth as she considers him. Does he want to go? Is that why he’s offering?

He scans her face, and something softens in him at whatever he finds there. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he confesses quietly.

“Theo.” Sage lets the gravity of him draw her closer. “I’m not going to throw you out into a snowstorm. Unless you want to leave?”

She has to be sure.

“Absolutely not,” he says resolutely. He grins, but the gesture doesn’t quite ring true. There’s a distance in his eyes, even as he teases her with, “I was promised crisps for dinner.”

Sage sees it for what it is. He’s redirecting, trying to dispel the obvious discomfort that lingers in the wake of Edgar and Greta’s visit.

She closes the distance between them, her hand brushing against his side as she moves back toward the kitchen.

“I have a better idea.”

14
Never Have I Ever

“Never have I ever seen The Matrix.”

“Cheap shot,” Theo mutters, taking a sip of his beer.

They’re sprawled out on the floor on a mound of pillows they’ve situated in front of the fireplace. An array of snacks and meat and cheese Sage swiped from the fridge (much to Theo’s chagrin) are on the coffee table behind them, a half-empty six-pack beside them.

The heaviness is starting to dissipate, and Sage isn’t sure if it’s helped along by the beer or the fact that they’ve lit every candle they could find, casting the room in a soft, soothing glow, but either way, she can see the way the tension has seeped from Theo.

She’s also hyperaware of the scant inch between their shoulders as he rests his back against the coffee table, a blanket pulled over them both.

His lips purse, and then he grins. “Never have I ever written a book.”

Sage shoots him a glare. “Ass.”

“You started it.”

“What are you, five?”

“Yes. Drink.”

Sage takes a sip. “Fine,” she mutters. “Real revelations.”

“Fine,” he parrots. “Go on, then.”

She shifts slightly, turning so she can see him better, and bites the inside of her cheek as she considers what to share. “Never have I ever had detention.”

“Really?” he crows, eyes lighting up as he takes a quick sip of his drink.

“Why do you find that so surprising?”

“I suppose I just figured that mouth of yours would get you into trouble.”

She pauses at that, a retort caught somewhere in her throat. There’s a slight flush that runs from his cheeks down to the skin that’s visible where the first undone button of his Henley is, and her gaze lingers there before flicking to his lips and then his eyes again.

She doesn’t clock that she’s taking a nonmandatory sip of her beer until she stills, mouth pressed against the lip of the bottle.

“Maybe,” she finally concedes. “But it’s also gotten me out of trouble.”

A slow grin tugs at his lips. “That does not surprise me in the least.”

She feels her face heat, and she takes another fortifying sip. “Your turn.”

“Right,” Theo says smoothly, as if he’s completely unaffected. “Never have I ever … gotten a concussion.”

“Why do you think I’ve gotten a concussion?”

He shrugs. “Just a feeling. I did pick you up from the hospital with a head wound.”

“Hey!”

She shoves him slightly as a deep laugh bursts from him. It scrunches his eyes and widens his smile, and it has Sage’s own stretching further even as she says, “That one doesn’t count.”

“Like hell it doesn’t! It was a valid entry. I don’t have knowledge of your medical history, but again, based on the damage you inflict when you walk…”

She shoves him again. “Pick another.”

“You’re just telling on yourself, love.”

Sage glares.

“All right,” he sighs, but he looks entirely too fond for her to buy his exasperation. “Never have I ever…”

He trails off, his brow furrowing in contemplation. There’s a long pause, and then his head tilts as a faraway look clouds his eyes. His voice is soft—distant—as he says, “Never have I ever regretted telling someone I love them.”

Sage knows her brain moves too fast. She knows that she’s often too focused on the next thing, too caught up in whatever 2x speed thoughts she’s having—that sometimes she misses what’s unfolding in front of her. The glimpses that tell her to stop. To pay attention.

Like right now.

She’s so lost in thought, so focused on trying to win a game she can’t win because that’s not even how it works, that she almost misses Theo taking a long sip of his beer even though it should be her deciding whether to drink or not, his eyes fixed resolutely on the fire.

Sage sets her drink down pointedly next to her, the soft clunk drawing his attention, and for the first time in a very long time, she embraces the silence.

Theo lets it linger for the span of three breaths. Then he smiles, but it looks more like a grimace.

“Your turn,” he tries.

“Theo.”

He takes another sip. “Out of things you’ve never done?”

“Theo.”

“It just came out. I don’t … we don’t have to talk about it.” There’s a nervous jerk of his hand through his hair and Sage, with that nagging fear of too-muchness that’s had her clamping her mouth shut for years, knows these signs better than she knows almost anything.

But she’s not going to let him do it this time—tuck away the complicated parts of himself. So she lets out a breath and says, “It’s not nearly the same but … never have I ever not had a panic attack after scoring lower than an A in school. Never had I ever?” She shrugs. “You get it.”

It’s delivered with a sort of blasé bravado she definitely doesn’t feel, but it’s also raw and it’s what she has to offer.

She hopes it makes Theo see it’s okay.

She takes a purposeful sip of her beer with her confession—a signal that the game has changed.

Theo’s eyes are a vibrant blue as they bore into hers. Slowly, he brings his own bottle to his lips. His throat bobs as he swallows.

“I cried after my first botched audition. And the second.”

Sage sips. “I’ve had night terrors since I was eleven.”

Theo sips. “Sometimes I feel like I’m watching myself from a distance. Like I’m not even really experiencing anything.”

And god, it’s morbid, but it’s real and it’s messy and he isn’t shying away from it.

“Sometimes I think I’d be happier if I weren’t an author,” Sage confesses, and she’s so taken aback by how easily the admission comes that she forgets to take a sip.

“Sometimes I know I’d be happier if I weren’t an actor,” Theo answers immediately, his lips lifting in a sad smile.

She sucks in a long breath, holding it until she can feel the pressure against her ribs.

“But we do it anyway,” she says on an exhale, tilting her bottle toward him.

“But we do it anyway,” he agrees, and he clinks his bottle against hers. They both take a long sip, and when Theo places his beer aside, he leans back against the table and shifts so his arm is pressed to hers.

“I’m deathly afraid of needles,” he offers as he looks down at her with a crooked grin.

Sage laughs. “I’m allergic to pineapple.”

Theo lifts a brow. “There’s a very immature joke here about bodily fluids—”

Sage chokes on her beer, her head whipping to the side as it sprays from her mouth. “Fuck, Theo!”

His laugh bounces off the walls of the living room, rich and full and carefree. She pauses their game so she can get napkins and clean up her mess.

He helps, because of course he does.

And when they collapse back down on the pillows, a comfortable silence falls over them, soft and calm like the falling snow they watch through the window.

Sage’s gaze moves to where Theo’s arm rests against her leg, the press of his shoulder a grounding touch against her own. Maybe it’s the quiet of the moment, or maybe what they’ve just shared has emboldened her. Either way, she lets her gaze flit across his profile as she says, “Can I ask you something?”

He hums his consent.

“You mentioned you and your dad argued over your next role. How so?” She hadn’t wanted to push him, but … she’s curious. The more Theo pulls back his layers, the more she finds herself wanting him to keep going until she sees what’s at his core.

Theo lets out a long breath as he tips his head back and takes in the dancing shadows the fire casts on the ceiling. His throat bobs as he swallows. “My dad wants to focus on more mainstream roles. Things similar to Legends. He’s convinced that’s the path forward—that the exposure would be unbeatable.”

“And you don’t agree?”

“It’s not that I don’t agree,” he sighs. “I’m just not sure I want to box myself in like that. I’d love to do something different. Some out-of-the-box indie film, maybe. Something that forces me to grow as an actor. I don’t want to be one thing.”

“And your dad doesn’t get that? Wouldn’t he not want you to be typecast?”

Theo lets out a humorless chuckle, his head rolling to the side as he takes her in. “You’d think as much, wouldn’t you? I don’t think he sees it that way. And I suppose it isn’t. It’s not as though he thinks I should only be in blockbuster action flicks, or anything. But big studio, big budget—that’s where he wants me focusing. It’s safer. More reliable. Anything else is simply me faffing about.”

Theo sighs and straightens, reaching for his beer. He takes a long sip. “He’s so fixated on making this work. On making sure I ‘make it.’ That I get to take advantage of the opportunities that Oliver never did. That I get to keep doing my dream.” He frowns at the window, his shoulders slumping as he stares at the snow. “How do I argue against that?”

The question is so soft, so vulnerable, that Sage’s hand clenches around her beer bottle as something in her chest aches. It must get exhausting—trying to outrun the ghost of his brother. Carrying the weight of a life unfulfilled. Sage lets herself settle against him a bit more, lets him know she’s willing to hold some of that weight, if he’s willing to share it.

“I don’t know,” she admits quietly. “But as the president of the My Parents Want a Different Path for Me club, I do know that you deserve to choose your own direction. It’s your career, Theo. Your dream. Your life. Living it for your dad … it’s only going to cause resentment.”

Theo looks at her, his eyes darting across her face as if he can uncover some truth she’s kept pressed into her skin. “You’re not just here because of your book, are you?” he finally asks.

Perhaps it’s obvious, what with her breakdown in the ER and the chicken tikka masala on Thanksgiving and the fact that she’s thousands of miles away from where she’s supposed to be today.

“No.” She exhales. “It’s not just about the book. Things with my parents have been complicated ever since I left my job to write full-time,” she explains. “Before that, even. I think I was just … naive to it back then. We don’t really speak the same language. I don’t think we ever have. My brother is far more their idea of what their child should be.”

She had thought it would be better once the book came out, and that just showed how naive she still was. For all her talk of stepping into her own life and being true to herself and finally releasing her expectations, she’s still here, quietly hoping for validation she’ll never receive, because they don’t know how to give it.

“You probably shouldn’t be taking advice from me,” she admits with a self-deprecating laugh.

“I can’t imagine anyone better to take advice from, actually,” Theo responds softly. “You’re quite a force to be reckoned with, Collins.”

She tilts her head up to meet his gaze, her stomach swooping at how close he is. She can see the tangle of his long blond lashes, and the way the firelight reflects in his irises as his eyes dart to her lips then back up.

His brow furrows slightly, his shoulder slipping behind hers as he leans in closer. “I cannot believe you thought I called you a mistake.”

“You literally said—”

“Don’t do that,” he says, and if his tone isn’t enough to have her falling silent, his fingers brushing against her cheek as he moves a strand of her hair out of her face is. His hand slides behind her head, his fingers carding through her strands as he tilts her head back.

Something pulls tight in her stomach as she meets his stare, and in the firelight, she can just make out how his eyes darken beneath her gaze.

Theo’s tongue wets his lips, and Sage …

Sage can’t wait another damn second.

“Never have I ever taken this long to kiss—”

Theo ducks his head and kisses the words straight out of her mouth.

“Bloody hell you are impossible,” he groans, his hands tightening in her hair and tugging her closer.

“So you’ve said,” she says with a breathless laugh before his lips find hers again. She brings her hand to his face, the hint of stubble there scratching against her palm as she cups his cheek and Theo angles her head just so, his tongue sliding against hers.

Sage pushes herself up to her knees so she can get even closer, and Theo uses a hand on her hip to tug, and the next thing she knows she’s in his lap. Her knee hits his beer bottle and sends it rolling, but neither of them care.

She’ll deal with the mess later.

If she bothers to deal with it at all.

Theo’s mouth is on hers again in the next instant, his hands warm as they slide beneath her sweater.

“Fuck,” he bites out breathlessly. His eyes are blazing with want as they meet hers. He ducks his head and kisses down her neck. Sage’s breath stutters from her lungs, a soft moan slipping from her as he sucks a mark into the thin skin at her collarbone.

Desire slams into Sage so hard she can hardly breathe. She grabs his Henley and tugs him closer, buttons be damned, as she finds his lips again.

“What do you want, Collins?” he murmurs against her mouth, his polished vowels drenched in deep, raw desire. His hips buck up and a shudder rakes down her spine. “Whatever you want, I’ll—” He cuts himself off with a groan as Sage moves her hips in retaliation. She feels like her skin is on fire, like her palms are burning as they slip beneath Theo’s shirt and trace his skin. She pushes his shirt up and over his head, desperate to get closer to him.

“I want you,” she breathes against his lips as she tosses the garment aside. She can feel his grin before he tugs on her bottom lip. “I want…” She trails off as he pulls her sweater off, his hands trailing up her sides and to her breasts. He kneads her through the lace of her bra and Sage can’t help but dig her nails into his chest as she scrambles for something to anchor her.

“Use those words, Collins,” he teases as he slips her breasts free of the cups. “I know you have plenty.”

Sage tries—she really does. But then his tongue is doing something against her nipple and she can hardly think. He unclasps her bra and tosses it aside, and then they’re chest to chest and Sage is content to let the fire ripping through her consume her entirely as Theo kisses her to within an inch of her life.

He lowers her back onto the pillows beneath them with a gentleness that makes her breath catch, and for a moment, he simply gazes down at her, his hair a mess from where she’s run her fingers through it. There’s something about the way he’s looking at her that has Sage’s throat clogging, and Theo cocks his head, as if he senses it.

“Do you want to stop?” he asks, his chest rising and falling with his jagged breaths.

She shakes her head. She’s never wanted anything less. “Do you?”

He tugs his bottom lip between his teeth as he gives her a grin, his touch light as it drags from her shoulders to her ribs to the waistline of her jeans. She shivers as he traces a finger beneath it. “Quite the opposite. In fact…” His motions are slow and smooth as he flicks open the button of her jeans and drags the zipper down. “I’d really like to take you apart right here in front of this fire.”

Distantly, in the gravitational field that the earth has since left, there’s a thought of how this is a horrible decision. But Theo slips a hand into her jeans and cups her, his fingers pressing firm against the lace that covers her aching core, and she suddenly can’t think of anything at all except more.

“So do it, then,” she taunts breathlessly.

Sage, for all her needing to be prepared for each and every thing in her life, is entirely unprepared for the way Theo rises to the challenge.

His fingers slide against her slick skin, and Sage gasps as he takes up torturously slow circles against her clit. Her fingers dig into his shoulders hard enough that she’s sure to leave marks, but Theo just chuckles breathlessly as he swallows down the whimpers he’s pulling from her.

“Theo,” she pants—pleads. He takes mercy on her by sliding a finger inside of her, but it’s still not enough.

He adds another finger and crooks them just right, and Sage’s breath catches again in her throat. Her hips rock forward, her hands trembling as she fumbles with the button of his jeans. A broken sound escapes her as Theo removes his hand to help her, but it’s worth it to see his pale skin in the firelight.

It’s just one more thing she’s unprepared for: how absolutely devastating he looks, all taut skin and lithe muscle as he crawls back on top of her.

Sage instantly reaches between them and takes him in hand. Theo groans at the first touch of her palm against his cock, his hips bucking just the slightest bit, as if he can’t resist.

His lips find hers once more as she begins to stroke him, his inhale sharp against her mouth as she flicks her thumb over the head.

“Not going to last long if you keep doing that,” he pants against her lips. Sage grins, but she releases him, cupping his face instead so she can deepen their kiss.

“Do you have a condom?” she asks, her heart racing in her chest. She wants him, damn near may well need him.

“Does it look presumptuous if I do?” Theo retorts as he reaches for the wallet in the back pocket of his discarded jeans. He holds up a foil packet between two fingers. Sage pushes herself up as she takes it from him, her other arm winding around his neck as she meets him in a messy kiss. “I really don’t care,” she mumbles against his mouth before she pulls away to roll the condom on him.

Theo’s laugh gets choked on another groan, and then he’s guiding her back down against the pillows, his eyes fixed on hers as he slowly slides into her.

Sage’s breath goes full and tight in her chest, her head tilting back as pleasure pulses through her.

“All right?” Theo’s question comes through gritted teeth, but his eyes—dark with pleasure—are fixed on her face, tracking every minuscule reaction.

Sage slides a hand into his hair, her fingers tangling in the strands at the back of his head as she drags him back in for a kiss. It must suffice as an answer, because Theo gives a confident roll of his hips, and Sage …

Sage is lost to the way he feels as he picks up a steady rhythm, a soft Christ falling from his lips before he captures hers again.

Every single one of her senses is focused on Theo, Theo, Theo. From the touch of his hands to the movement of his hips to the solid weight of him above her, he overwhelms her entirely until her only thought is that she can’t remember the last time she felt this good.

Theo brings her to the brink, one hand tight on her hip and the other tangled in her hair, and for a moment he keeps her suspended right there, as if he knows exactly how to draw out her pleasure.

But then he presses his forehead to hers, his voice low as he says, “Let go, Collins.”

She does.

The pleasure that’s been pulling taut in her stomach snaps as she flies over the edge. Theo stills above her, and Sage wraps her arms tight around his trembling shoulders as he follows.

15
Casual

“Oh my god, you slept with him, didn’t you?!”

Sage hits the volume button on her phone as Emerson’s voice comes screeching through the speaker. “Say it louder, Em, I don’t think the entire island heard you.”

“My entire office certainly did,” Margot chimes in.

Sage buries her face in her hands and groans. “Margot, for the love of god, put headphones in. Why are you even at work? It’s Black Friday.”

“Tell that to Bart. No rest in real estate,” Margot mutters. “Also, I was kidding. I’m in a conference room with the door closed. Besides, I read a study that said constantly wearing headphones can hinder your ability to make connections and find solutions. They’re bad for your brain.”

“This conversation is bad for my brain,” Sage gripes.

“You know what’s good for your brain?” Emerson interjects. “Sex. Which you had with Theo. Let’s get back to the point of this call, shall we?”

“The point of this call was to hear how your Thanksgivings went, actually.”

Margot sighs dramatically. “It was fine. Emerson made her famous punch and her neighbors got so drunk they almost burnt the turkey. Everyone loved my autumn salad.”

“Ordinary holiday, then,” Sage remarks.

“Yep. We’re going to the club tomorrow. Ten bucks Emerson spends the whole time whining about how no one can hold a candle to Taylor.”

“Well, they can’t,” Emerson grumbles.

“She drunk texted her last night,” Margot adds.

“Emersonnnnn,” Sage whines.

“See, wouldn’t you rather be talking about Theo now?” Emerson says. “Spill. Is the sex good?”

Sage’s face heats, and she whips her head around the cottage. It’s empty—she knows it’s empty, because despite the grief she just gave Margot about working, she’s been sitting here for over an hour trying to write, alone, but still.

“I’m not answering that when Margot has me on speakerphone in her office.”

“Ooooh, it’s really good, then,” Emerson croons. “Theo Sharpe. Who would have thought?”

“Let’s not broadcast his name, yeah?” Sage says a little tightly.

“Oh right,” Emerson retorts sheepishly. “We can call him TS. Or Sharpey?”

“Or just Theo,” Sage offers, unable to help her amused smile.

“So. Is it … casual?” Margot asks, her voice careful.

Sage stills, her grin going from light and easy to fixed and frozen in the span of a heartbeat. “I mean,” she says, running her thumb over a spot on the counter, “we didn’t exactly break down the Ts and Cs. But we both know what this is.”

She had woken up this morning warm and sated and wrapped in Theo’s arms, and he had looked at her like he remembered exactly what sounds he had made her make and was willing to give it another go.

But they hadn’t. He had a meeting with a real estate agent he had to get to, and with the roads safe enough to drive, he didn’t have an excuse to cancel.

So he’d left, and they hadn’t talked about it, and it’s fine.

Sage has done Casual enough to know there doesn’t have to be a whole conversation about it.

A long, pointed silence follows, and Sage feels that space between her shoulder blades cinch.

“You sure about that?” Emerson asks softly, as if she knows Sage has found herself staring off into the distance several times today thinking about how for all that she’s done Casual, there’s never been Casual with someone like Theo.

It makes her skin itch a bit. Makes her want to take back the things she shared on the floor and tuck them back beneath that armor she dons to keep the softest parts of her safe.

“Yes,” she answers. “I’m sure. He doesn’t even know how long he’s here for, and even if he did, I’m only here until the twenty-second.”

Her chest tightens as she realizes that’s a month away. It only gets worse when she adds, “This doesn’t change anything in the long run.”

“Sex changes everything, babes,” Margot sighs. “But hey, who doesn’t love a good holiday fling?”

“I wish I was having a holiday fling,” Emerson adds grumpily.

Margot snorts. “How do you expect to have a fling while you’re still hung up on Sage’s publicist?”

Emerson is quiet for a long moment. “I guess I would need the fling to be with Taylor,” she finally says.

Sage grins as her friends continue to bicker, her heart twisting with homesickness. She’s not ready to leave yet, but …

“I miss you two,” she says, interrupting them.

“We miss you!” Margot says earnestly.

“Yeah, but probably not as much as Theo misses that hot bod of yours. It’s been what, twelve whole hours since he’s—”

“And on that note,” Sage interjects, “I have to go continue writing. It was so good catching up with you, love you both, bye!”

She hangs up to the sound of her friends laughing, her own lingering smile filling her with warmth. She loves how she can feel their presence wrap around her, even from five thousand miles away.

ICE Theo Sharpe

Nov 24 12:30 PM

ICE Theo Sharpe

Don’t think I’ve forgotten about At Eternity’s Gate.

And here I’d thought I got a homework pass.

ICE Theo Sharpe

A snow day is no excuse to miss an assignment.

But professor, the power was out!

Surely you can make an exception, sir?

ICE Theo Sharpe

Fucking hell, Collins.

What?

ICE Theo Sharpe

Nothing.

ICE Theo Sharpe

Just trying to squash whatever just happened in my brain when you called me “sir” before I have to hop on Zoom with my agent.

ICE Theo Sharpe

Not to abuse a metaphor but I’m happy to hold office hours tomorrow. Come watch it then?

Should I wear my schoolgirl skirt?

ICE Theo Sharpe

Stop before I embarrass myself.

Nov 24 3:45 PM

ICE Theo Sharpe

Do you actually have one?

No.

Though I did go through a bit of a dark academia aesthetic for a while.

ICE Theo Sharpe

Jesus Fucking Christ.

ICE Theo Sharpe

3 PM? I don’t want to tempt fate and try dinner.

ICE Theo Sharpe

But I’ll have crisps.

ICE Theo Sharpe

Practically a dinner in your books, anyway, eh?

Just for that I’m calling them chips all afternoon.

ICE Theo Sharpe

Uncultured swine.

ICE Theo Sharpe

See you tomorrow.

There’s a small chip of paint missing from Theo’s front door. Sage knows this because she’s been staring at it for the last three minutes. She should knock.

Obviously.

She’s working up to it.

She’s just feeling preemptively awkward and nervous because the last time she saw Theo she saw a lot of Theo.

She cuts off her line of thinking before it can commandeer her better sense and convince her to do something irrational, like back him into a wall as soon as he opens the door before she even says hello. She’s not a total sex-crazed heathen.

Yet.

The wind whips across the croft, and Sage rocks back on her heels, her hands digging further into her jacket pockets to fight off the cold.

So she should probably just … knock.

She gives herself another long inhale before she stretches her fist toward the door. She doesn’t make it halfway before it swings open and reveals a confused Theo.

“Is the doorbell broken?” he asks, ducking his head through the frame to stare at the black-plated button Sage hadn’t even noticed was there. He presses it, his mouth twisting when chimes echo throughout the house.

Sage coughs.

Theo raises a brow.

“There’s a chip on your door,” she finally says, forcing her face into mock solemnity as she glances at it. “You know, in case you want to paint over it before you take pictures for the listing?”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s a fondness in the tilt of his lips as he tugs her inside. “Good thing you took time to thoroughly inspect it. The estate agent missed that entirely.”

“How’d that go?”

He shrugs as he takes her coat and hat. “He wasn’t my cup of tea.” The words come easily enough, but there’s a tightness to them that has Sage nudging him with her shoulder.

“No?”

“Nope.”

Sages rolls her lips inward.

“Because of one missed paint chip?” she hedges gently. “Tough crowd.”

“Oh yes,” Theo says mockingly as he leads the way into the living room. “I’m notoriously difficult to please. Just ask Ok! magazine.”

So they’re not talking about the house, then. That’s fine.

“What’d you do?” she asks as she follows after him.

“Returned a dish at a restaurant because it had walnuts. I’m allergic.”

Sage clucks her tongue. “Celebrities these days. So self-absorbed, worrying about things like anaphylactic shock.”

Theo tosses a grin over his shoulder, and it’s so easy, so natural, that Sage wonders why she was worried about this in the first place. He ducks into the kitchen and returns with a bottle of red wine and two glasses. “I was thinking red to go with the crisps.”

“I don’t think you have enough flavors,” she muses as she picks up one of the five different-colored chip bags spread out on the table.

“I noticed you only had one flavor in your cupboards,” Theo says by way of explanation. “You have to have the full experience.”

Her nose scrunches. “Marmite? Seriously?”

“Don’t knock it until you try it,” he says loftily as he plucks the bag out of her hand and gets started on opening the wine.

“I’m suddenly concerned you’re trying to kill me.” Sage sinks into the cushions and smiles her thanks as Theo hands her a glass. “Death by wretched crisp flavor,” she says in a poor imitation of his accent.

“Trust me,” he murmurs as he settles next to her, his arm pressed snug against hers, lips pulling into a slow smirk. “Of all the plans I have of what to do with you, that certainly isn’t one of them.” His eyes dip to her mouth for the briefest of moments before he drags his gaze to the TV, where the opening scene of the movie is paused. “Ready?”

There’s a hint of his soap and cologne in the air, and it takes all her self-control to not lean into it, to not burrow into the warmth of his side where it’s pressed steadily against hers. To not say, “Forget the movie entirely.”

So no, she is certainly not ready. But she’s never shied away from a challenge.

“Go for it.”

Sage actually manages to focus on the movie—which, again, is typically a feat in itself, but even more so with Theo lounging next to her just within reach. But she can’t not pay attention to what’s unfolding on the screen, not when it twists something in her so tightly that it brings her to tears as the final credits roll.

She drags the sleeve of her sweater across her eyes, the motion drawing Theo’s attention. He catches her wrist, his head ducking to meet her gaze.

“All right, Collins?”

She tries not to think about the concern on his face or the earnestness that he infused into three simple words, because if she does, she might lose it entirely.

“I’m fine,” she sniffles. “I just … it was beautiful. And achingly sad. But beautiful.”

There’s still a worried crease between his brows, but he gives her a tentative smile. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

Sage can’t help but rasp an incredulous laugh. She didn’t just enjoy it. Her thoughts are whizzing through her mind, a dust storm of creativity kicked up because the yearning she feels was painted for her across the screen, and it’s plucked at her deepest heartstrings in a way that reverberates throughout her entire body.

“Are you certain you’re all right?” Theo looks nervous, enough that Sage ignores the lines she’s trying not to cross and breaks his hold on her wrist only to interlace her fingers with his so she can squeeze his hand in reassurance.

“I am,” Sage murmurs. “It just … made me remember why I write, I guess.”

Theo merely swipes his thumb across her knuckles, and the casualness of it has the butterflies Sage has come to associate with his touch taking flight in her stomach. “And why is that?”

She leans her head back against the couch, her eyes finding the ceiling as she sniffles. For once, she’s not trying to avoid the question. She just wants to explain it properly. To get it right.

“I’ve read my favorite book at least fifty times,” she finally begins, her gaze tracing the plaster above them. “And yet I still remember the first time. I remember…”

Sage takes a stuttering breath, and Theo waits, because Theo is Theo. He doesn’t press, he doesn’t rush; he gives her the space she needs without making her feel like she’s swimming in it alone.

When she meets his gaze, his eyes are bright and patient and so, so blue.

“I remember feeling like someone understood all the things that stay jumbled up in my head and finally gave me the words to explain them to myself.”

For someone who relishes in the safety of the attention she curates, Sage often feels alone. Different. Like she doesn’t quite fit. Perhaps it comes from a lifetime of trying to fit herself into a mold that was never designed for her in the first place.

But then there was a character on a page who was saying …

Learn to love yourself through me. It will be okay.

It made her feel a little less like she was moving through life just out of arm’s reach of everyone else. A little less like maybe she was crafted nearly right but somehow turned out very, very wrong. A little less like she’d be searching forever for the words to explain the way her oversized heart and racing brain work, because someone has already done it, and that means somewhere, someone understands.

Sage swallows.

Theo waits.

“I write because one time I picked up a book and it made me feel less alone. And I think I can help others feel less alone, too,” she says.

She feels that way now. She’s no Van Gogh, and she would never presume to face the struggles he wrestled with in his own mind. But the artistic yearning? The desire to be understood? The ability to see the world differently and love it and hate it because it’s isolating until it isn’t?

That she understands.

And being understood in art—seeing yourself and your struggles and knowing you’re not alone …

It’s so lovely it’s almost painful, so cathartic she nearly has to prepare herself for each and every time she reimmerses herself in something that makes her feel this way, lest the cleansing rub her raw.

It is, quite possibly, the best feeling in the world. And the one she most wants to give to readers.

She turns to face Theo more, her hair staticky against the back of the couch. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Why did you pick these films?”

There’s something nudging at that brick wall in her brain. Not a hammer, but something, nonetheless, trying to break through the cracks she’s tried to force since she’s been here.

Theo shifts, tugging their hands into his lap as he pivots to face her more fully. “Well, you’ve already heard me wax poetic about Donnie Darko, and clearly you see the genius of At Eternity’s Gate, but the others … I chose The Princess Bride because I love the wit; Little Miss Sunshine because of how it sheds a light on family dysfunction in such a real way. Creed for its grit and its unapologetic emotionality. The acting and directorial vision are incredible.” He lifts a shoulder. “I guess if I had to choose something they all have in common, I’d say … passion.”

Sage … Sage can relate to chasing passion. To letting fervor fuel you for no other reason than there’s something inside of you that needs to get out. When she wrote the first part of Cleo’s story, she knew she was crafting something that would help her excavate her heart from what the world had asked her to bury it under. That’s why it flowed so well—because with every word Sage typed, she grabbed the shovel and dug through the layers she had unknowingly buried herself under.

The expectations of her parents …

The need to fit in …

The desire to be loved …

… all because she was determined to reach whatever was at the core of her.

She threw her all into it, every single ounce of her.

But now …

Well, now she just feels like she’s forcing it. Chasing a deadline, racing against the clock, trying to appease readers, the criticism of the reviews she never should have read leaking into her prose. Cleo deserves better than that. Sage deserves better than that.

She deserves this: tears in her eyes, heart climbing its way from her chest to her throat, insides rubbed raw. She deserves the achingly beautiful pain of experiencing something—of creating something—that touches the parts of her that haven’t seen the sun in ages.

That makes her think even when it hurts. Even when she doesn’t have the answers.

And Theo … Theo deserves that, too.

She doesn’t know what that looks like for him, but she knows without a doubt that he deserves it.

Sage draws in a breath. Lets it out. She swears she can feel a piece of that brick wall in her mind fall away.

“I think that’s what I’ve been missing,” Sage muses. “Passion. It sounds so obvious when I say it out loud.” Her brow crinkles as she tugs her bottom lip between her teeth. “Like something I shouldn’t have been able to forget in the first place. But suddenly there was this pressure and I just … got lost, I guess.”

Theo hums in contemplation. “People spend years caving to the demands of others,” he murmurs. There’s something loaded there, but he continues on before she can unpack it. “I’d say your days in the wilderness were quite brief, all things considered.”

“I’m not out of it yet.”

She doesn’t even realize it’s become instinctive to diminish her hope until she blurts out the words.

What has she done to herself? When did her drive, her ambition, her dreams, become so warped by fear?

“Aren’t you?” Theo asks lightly. His smile is soft, his eyes knowing. Something in Sage’s chest swells.

It feels a little bit like reading her favorite book for the very first time.

And that … terrifies her.

But she lets herself lean into him a bit more. Lets her grin grow wide as she takes in the hint of self-satisfaction on his face.

Sureness looks so damn good on Theo.

“I know what you’re doing,” she says through her smile.

“I’m quite sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“So smug.”

“I didn’t say anything!” he exclaims, eyes wide and dramatic and innocent.

“You didn’t need to! It’s written all over your face.”

The next thing she knows he has an arm around her waist and he’s tugging her into his lap. Her breath escapes her in a rush, her palms landing flat on his chest as she tries to keep her balance. Theo tips his head back, his eyes scanning her face as he takes her in.

“I seem to remember you being very keen on this face just the other night,” he teases, his hand curling around her jaw. The pad of his thumb skims her lips, and Sage’s heart stutters in her chest.

“Bold of you to assume it was your face that was doing it for me,” she quips, her voice just this side of breathless.

“That’s not the insult you think it is, Collins,” he mutters just before his mouth finds hers. He tastes like red wine and a hint of salt and Theo, and Sage lets herself get lost in it.

The kiss is long and languid, as if they have all the time in the world. Perhaps here in this bubble they’ve created, thousands of miles away from responsibilities and reality, they do.

Either way, Theo takes his time. From the way he moves his lips against hers to the way he peels off her layers of clothes, to the way his fingers trace her bare skin—every bit of it is slow and measured and indulgent. It’s enough to slow Sage down, to convince her to stay in the steadily building heat instead of race through it. She sinks down on him inch by inch until she’s settled fully in his lap, and even then, she remains unhurried, her hips moving in swivels. Theo tosses his head back, and Sage traces the column of his throat with her lips, and his hands settle lower on her hips as he keeps her movements steady and deep. It’s intoxicating—gluttonous in a way she doesn’t think she’s ever allowed herself to be before. It overwhelms her senses, makes her feel like Theo is everywhere, like every inhale she takes has a bit of him attached to it.

It lingers.

In the aftermath, when the glow of sex has them breathless and warm and tangled together on the couch. In her car on the drive back to the cottage with nothing but Noah Kahan’s crooning voice for company. In her bed, when she swears she can still smell Theo’s cologne even though she’s showered.

It lingers, and Sage can’t decide if it’s carving out a space in her chest to settle there or to leave it empty and aching by the time this is all over.

16
Breakthrough

Sage can’t sleep.

It’s 11 PM, and having dragged herself out of bed, she’s on the couch, her laptop glowing where it sits on the coffee table. She snaps it shut and turns on the TV with a heavy sigh.

She flips lazily through Netflix, skimming over the few shows she keeps on rotation, the few films she revisits when she needs a distraction. None of them feel like enough to keep her out of her head.

There’s something to be said for how she’s reaching for Theo’s preferred leisurely activity to soothe her, but she absolutely cannot examine that. Not when she can still feel the ghost of his lips against hers. Not when she’s wondering if maybe they should have had the Casual talk, if only so her heart gets the hell on board.

Sage lets out an aggravated noise.

A Christmas movie, then. She’s usually hardwired to feel festive as soon as Halloween passes, but given everything that’s been going on, she’s behind.

She’s a few letters into typing the name of her favorite holiday flick when something catches her eye.

No—someone.

Oliver Sharpe is staring just off-screen, frozen in time on the thumbnail image of what Sage assumes is his final film, because he looks the same age as the last photo she’d seen just the other week in the Sharpes’ home.

Sage swallows.

In a bout of morbid curiosity or masochism—or both—she’d watched Theo’s summer hit a few days after Comic Con. She’d drawn the line there, unwilling to be so pathetic as to make her way through the rest of his filmography. She’d been curious, though, about the films that had been stepping stones to get him where he was today. The ones people ignored, as if he hadn’t been putting in the work for years. By now, she could probably recite Theo’s IMDb better than Emerson. But Oliver’s …

She hadn’t looked into Oliver’s at all.

Sage hovers over the thumbnail, her eyes scanning the description of the film. She should click back to the home page.

She doesn’t.

She does heave the mound of blankets off of her as she pads into the kitchen and pours a knuckle of the scotch Edgar recommended, downs it, and pours another. Then, before she can talk herself out of it, she sits back down and hits Play.

Seeing a movie in this way is still a new enough experience to scratch Sage’s constant itch for novelty. But this time, she’s not just studying the plot, or the speech cadence, or the setting. She’s studying Oliver, her eyes narrowed and chin resting on her hand as he steps onto the screen.

Sage may know next to nothing about film, but she knows that even at such an early stage of his career, he is—was—mesmerizing. He throws his entire self into the role, his expressions communicating more than his dialogue ever could, his face shifting subtly to display the roller coaster of emotions his character is experiencing, and Sage can’t stop watching, can’t stop dissecting, can’t stop her mind from cataloguing just how far ahead of the other actors—the more seasoned ones—he was.

There’s always that X factor for people—that unknown variable of what he could have been. They’re not just comparing me to what he was, but his potential, Theo had told her.

If his last movie is any indication, Oliver would have been a star. A supernova. She can easily envision the listicles: The 10 Biggest Actors to Watch Now.

#1 Oliver Sharpe.

Sage sits in silence once the movie ends. The credits are rolling and there’s an ache somewhere behind her sternum that feels so familiar she can almost taste the name of it. Her finger taps an unintelligible rhythm on her leg, the silence around her ringing as she lets that feeling rise to her throat.

Theo is talented. She could see that in the first five minutes of Legends. She doesn’t believe, for a single moment, that he can’t match Oliver line for line. Maybe even surpass his trajectory, if he wanted. And yet …

What do you do when your greatest might never live up, not because it can’t, but because people’s imaginations are boundless, and so the comparison is impossible? When your own father’s imagination, his dreams for his lost child aren’t just being projected onto you, but are impossible to reach because they’re filtered through grief and loss and chances unfulfilled?

What about Theo’s dreams? What about his wants?

She thinks of his deflection about the real estate agent. About the way she hasn’t seen a single moving box or hint that he’s readying to sell his family’s home.

She thinks of how he tucks things away whenever they risk tangling in the thorns of his grief.

She thinks, and she aches.

She leans her head back against the couch, her mind whirling.

Margot often waxes poetic about the universe. About strings of fate and vibrational frequencies and manifestation and the art of attraction and a whole host of other things that often leaves Sage with a bemused smile on her face because she’s always approached her own life in far more concrete terms.

Facts and game plans and odds—those have been Sage’s guiding light for as long as she can remember. Even when the data is against her. Especially when the data is against her.

But that’s never extended to thoughts like maybe there’s a reason she and Theo crossed paths again. But as she sits basked in the light of the TV, her eyes stinging as she’s faced with a context that makes the picture she holds of Theo so much more, she can’t help but let her mind drift there now.

A different sort of what-if for her overactive brain.

What if the inspiration she so desperately needs is matched by the encouragement he’s so desperately looking for.

What if in helping her get unstuck, he’s helping himself, and vice versa.

What if I’m making all of this up because I want there to be a reason for even thinking about Theo this much, she thinks sardonically. Because what if she’s been lying to herself when she says things like friendly because she’s known, all along, that being friends with someone like Theo Sharpe is impossible.

Casual. Casual. Casual.

She repeats it like a mantra, like a spell warding off the desire to shuffle closer to the edge of the precipice she’s on and leap. To take these questions that have flooded her mind and tug out the answers. To snap new pieces of his puzzle into place not because she found them hidden in TV screens and articles or her own assumptions, but because he willingly handed them to her without hiding behind edges he may fear are too sharp.

To know him—truly know him.

What if.

What if.

What if.

She doesn’t know.

She picks up her phone.

Are you up?

Wow.

Never would’ve had you pegged as the booty call sort.

Sage snorts a laugh and hits the Call button. Theo answers on the first ring.

“This isn’t a booty call,” she says before he can get a word in. She can nearly hear the stretch of his smile across the line.

“I wouldn’t object. Though I would have recommended you stay had I known you were this insatiable.”

Heat licks down her spine at the low drawl of his voice, but it’s tempered by her fixation on the word stay. She pushes it away and tries to focus.

“Not why I’m calling,” she reminds him lightly.

“Right,” Theo says easily. A long silence fills the line, but it’s not the type that typically has Sage squirming in the stillness. Instead, it’s comfortable, something to curl into. She sinks further into the couch cushions, her fingers toying with the cuff of his sweatshirt she’s not sure he remembers she has.

Her breath is deep as she sucks steadying air into her lungs.

“I watched Oliver’s last film.”

There’s a pregnant pause, and then:

“I think most people have?” Confusion draws his sentence up at the end, and Sage rolls her lips inward.

“No, like … tonight,” she corrects him. “I watched it tonight.”

“Ah.” She hears Theo shift, and she imagines him straightening from whatever lounging position she’s interrupted. But his voice is calm and unbothered as he says, “Sorry, why do you say that like you’re confessing to a crime?”

Sage shrugs even though he can’t see her. She feels like she peered in on something she shouldn’t have and cracked something open in herself in the process. It’s rubbed her raw in a way that lingers just like the feeling of his hands on her.

“I sort of feel like I should have asked before I did it.”

“Collins,” he says earnestly. “It’s out there for the public to see. And … it’s quite good.”

She huffs a laugh. “It’s great,” she admits, her eyes fixed on the blank TV screen. She bites her lip. “I watched yours, too. Legends, I mean. After the Con.”

“Did you?”

“You’re amazing, Theo. Truly.” The words press against her chest as she releases them, as she tries to impart some of the truth that’s stirring inside of her.

It feels important to her that he know this.

That he believe it.

“You’re passionate, and visceral, and…” She sucks in a breath. She can feel the avalanche of words threatening to burst from her—every single quality that has nothing to do with his acting.

Kind.

Funny.

Patient.

Safe.

“And incredible,” she finishes, her voice cracking gently against the word. “You’re so incredible, and I just … I wanted to make sure you know that.”

She can feel the way her cheeks flush, the echo of too much in the back of her head.

God, Sage, don’t you ever stop?

She doesn’t. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe Theo can handle some of her edges, too.

Theo clears his throat, but there’s still something rough in his voice when he speaks. “Thank you, Sage. That…” He clears his throat again.

“Just … thank you.”

There’s a strange sort of peace about her when she sits down in front of her laptop the next morning. Her mind is quiet in a focused sort of way, her fingers hovering over her keyboard, tapping lightly with anticipation as she stares at her manuscript.

Sage chews on her bottom lip as she thinks.

She closes out of her existing draft.

Slides on her headphones.

Turns up the volume so the binaural beats are heavy and steady in her ears.

And then, with an untitled, blank page in front of her … Sage begins to write.

Theo

Nov 26 3:13 PM

I’ve forgotten what the world outside of my computer screen looks like.

Theo

How many words today?

4329

Theo

So specific.

A new beginning to the book.

Theo

Excellent!

Theo

Nov 28 10:30 AM

Theo

[Picture of a flyer for the Santa Dash]

Theo

I took the liberty of signing you up.

Hilarious.

Theo

Have to force fresh air on you somehow.

Have you been talking to Margot?

Theo

How Fresh Air Impacts Your Brain.pdf

OMFG you’ve been talking to Margot.

Theo

We may have exchanged a few DMs.

Theo

[Screenshot of a group chat with Emerson and Margot]

I … have no words.

The 3 Best Friends That Anyone Did Have

Nov 28 4:47 PM

STOP DMING WITH THEO

Disaster

Aw come on, Mom!!!

Disaster

Can we keep him? Pleeeeease?

M

Did he send you the fresh air study?!

Awsdfjdaif I hate you both so much

Theo

Nov 28 10:03 PM

If you stab someone in the chest but don’t hit their lung or heart … they can survive, right?

Theo

Erm, why would you think I know anything about that?

You stabbed the bad guy in Legends!

Theo

I’m so concerned in this moment that I truly don’t know where to begin.

Theo

You’re familiar with special effects, yes?

Thanks so much for your help.

NHS_study.pdf

SUCCESS!

Disaster

Nov 30 6:55 PM

Disaster

[5 Min Voice Message]

Disaster

Listen whenever you want a writing break. It’s low stakes work gossip

I’m 30 seconds in and already know this isn’t low stakes.

Asfkjasdklfj Randolph is a DICK.

I’m FaceTiming you in 5

Disaster

But you’re writing!

Shut up and get your fuzzy blanket

Disaster

ilysm

Theo

Dec 1 4:44 PM

I did a thing.

[Screenshot of an email to her editor with an attachment New direction—first 20K words]

Theo

Bloody brilliant.

Theo

How do you feel?

Relieved? Terrified? Excited?

Theo

You are incredible.

Theo

Care to celebrate?

What did you have in mind?

Theo

Ever visited a beach in the snow?

Does the Chicago lakefront count?

Theo

Not quite.

Theo

BRAES BEACH
Website | Directions

Theo

Tomorrow? 11?

You’re really pushing this fresh air thing.

I suppose I deserve a break, don’t I.

Theo

Theo

Who are you and what have you done with Sage Collins?

There’s something otherworldly about standing on Braes beach when it’s covered in snow. It’s nothing like standing on the shore of Lake Michigan, ice under her boots and the city on the horizon. Here, there’s nothing but white and gray and hidden wisps of tan from the tall grass that peeks through the snow on the slope behind the beach. The shoreline curves toward small costal cliffs dusted in whites, and under the bright gray sky, the water looks dark and cold, the wind sending small caps rippling across the top.

She and Theo stand somewhere in the middle of the beach, and it’s like standing at the edge of the world and realizing it just keeps going, keeps stretching somewhere far beyond what you can even comprehend. Sage feels small here. Like a speck in the ever-sprawling landscape. A smudge on the map that can only be seen if you zoom in to the highest magnification until there she is, thick black jacket zipped up to her chin and stiff snow gloves that cover the hands she has shoved in her pockets, a gray beanie pulled over her hair.

She glances at Theo. He’s donning much of the same attire—a thick black ski coat and black gloves and black beanie—but instead of looking like an overstuffed s’more, he, naturally, looks like he stepped out of an advertisement for a snowboarding retreat. He’d peppered her with questions about the new beginning to her book on the drive over, but he’s grown quiet since they’ve been out on the beach.

Mercurial like the waters before them.

Sage sucks in a lungful of cold air and lets the steady wash of the ocean against the rocks that escaped the snow soothe her. “How’d the new real estate agent visit go?” she asks.

“Fine, I guess,” he says, his gloved hands finding his pockets as he gazes out at the sea. Sage digs the toe of her boot into the snow, relishing in the satisfying crunch it makes as she twists her foot and contemplates his nonanswer.

“Did you like her?” she tries, the question light and innocently curious. It’s not at all weighed down by the angst that flits through her whenever she thinks about how Theo might return to London at any point.

The twenty-second is less than three weeks away. It suddenly feels like mere days.

“She was all right,” he mumbles, his jaw tight as he stares at the rolling sea.

“Just all right?”

Theo shifts. “She says the house needs a lot of changes if we want to get top dollar for it.” The words are bitter, but he doesn’t follow them up with anything else.

Sage is prepared to leave it alone. It’s clear he doesn’t want to talk about it. But then Theo’s shoulders are rising as he sucks in a breath, the air in front of him clouding on a long exhale as he says, “It’s foolish, isn’t it?”

The question takes her by surprise. She isn’t quite sure what he’s referring to, and her silence stretches long enough that he looks over at her. His irises are like fractured ice as he meets her gaze. “Wanting to keep the house,” he clarifies. “It’s absurd. Dad doesn’t even come here, and I … I haven’t been here in years.”

“It’s not foolish,” she reassures him gently. “You have a lot of great memories here. I get why you wouldn’t want to let that go.”

“But I should,” Theo argues. “It’s just a house. It’s not them. I shouldn’t feel anything about needing to update it or putting a price on it or … letting it go.”

The grief is thick in his voice, but at least he’s not burying it, so she leans into him and lets him feel the press of her arm through their thick coats. “It’s not that simple.”

His frown deepens as he turns back to the horizon. “It should be. I’ve done all of this before. Dad sold the house in London after they died. I was at uni, and it made sense. It was too big for just him anyway. This shouldn’t be any different.”

Sage waits him out. There are more words bubbling up in him, she can tell. Sure enough, Theo shakes his head, squinting at the gray ocean.

“Years of bloody therapy and I’m losing my mind over a fucking house,” he huffs. “As if keeping it is going to keep them closer.”

“I would imagine all of the therapy in the world wouldn’t make you miss them any less,” Sage murmurs. “It’s normal to want to hold on sometimes. Especially to this.”

Theo’s gaze traces the horizon, as if he can find the answers written in the line where the sea meets the sky. “Oliver would have sold it,” he says quietly. The bitterness in his voice has slipped away into something far more resolute and certain. “He would have sold it just to be done with the drama of it.”

Sage takes a moment to take him in. The sharp cut of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the slight downward twist of his lips. He looks so young out here, where the landscape towers over them in a blur of grays and blues and whites. When he’s standing next to her like this—bundled up on the snowy beach, shoulders hunched against the cold, eyes wet from the wind and the barrage of emotions he tries to keep at bay—it’s easy to forget he’s Theo Sharpe, the actor.

Right now, he’s just Theo—a twenty-nine-year-old who wants to shed his grief but can’t.

“Maybe,” she finally concedes. “But you’re not Oliver.”

She wonders when the last time was that someone reminded him of that. If the way he blinks hard and sniffs before clearing his throat is any indication, it’s been a while.

“You’re allowed to want things, Theo. Things just for yourself. Even if they don’t always make sense.”

Theo’s laugh is wet and sad and lined with a skepticism that makes her uneasy. Maybe she overstepped, pressed too hard on someone else’s bruise. She opens her mouth to try to fix it, to assure him that this one does make sense, and really, what does she know anyway, but he turns to her before she can get the words out and says, “In that case … I think I want to stay for a while longer.”

“Really?” she stammers, her tongue tripping over itself as her brain scrambles to switch tracks.

Theo shrugs. “Mum always wanted to do Christmas here. We never did. Maybe I can convince Dad to come out for a bit. Either way … it’s been nice, to slip away from my life for a while. To not have to worry about being photographed or bumping into a fan when I’m not in the mood to talk. I can be standoffish when I’m not in the right headspace. I’m constantly afraid someone will mistake me having a bad day with me being a total prick. It’s been a relief to not have to worry about it. Even if it’s just for a little while.”

Just for a little while.

She should remember that.

She needs to remember that.

It’s too easy to lose sight of it in the quiet and raw moments like these.

She swallows hard and drags her gaze back to the sea.

“Reality does seem to have a way of forcing itself to be remembered, doesn’t it?” she muses.

“It does,” he agrees softly. There’s a rustle of fabric and then he’s tugging on the pocket of her jacket, pulling her around so she’s facing him. Sage tilts her head up, her eyes squinting against the bright gray of the sky. “But for now,” he continues, his hands sliding to the small of her back and pressing in, “I just want to be here.”

With you.

He doesn’t say it, but it’s there, written in the lifted corner of his mouth and the fresh clarity in his gaze and the firm squeeze of his arms as they wind fully around her waist, caging her in against him.

“Okay,” she agrees, because frankly, it’s where she wants to be, too.

Just for a little while.

The cold lingers on their skin when they get back to Theo’s. Sage feels it as she shoves his coat aside and slides her hands underneath his sweater, her back thudding against the door as he presses against her and kisses her like she’s the oxygen he needs.

The cold lingers, but Theo’s touch … Theo’s touch is pure, unadulterated heat. His hands grip her waist as he pins her firmly against the wood, his mouth swallowing down the moan he drags from her as he pushes a thigh between her legs.

She has his jacket off in the next instant, her hands frantic as they hike up his sweater until it joins the growing pile of clothes on the floor right there in the entryway.

She doesn’t know when her own jacket joined the mix. Or her hat. She doesn’t care. Because Theo’s fingers are skimming her sides as he pulls off her sweater, his lips tracing a blazing path down her neck and then her chest as he removes her bra, and then …

Theo lowers himself to his knees, his grin sinful as he works her denim and underwear down her legs and tosses them aside.

His fingers are soft as they graze up her thighs. He slides a hand beneath one of her legs and guides it over his shoulder, and the heat becomes something molten as he leans in and flicks his tongue against her center.

Sage’s breath catches, her head thudding back against the door as she splays a hand flat, as if she can grip the wood and keep herself steady. Theo presses in further, the flat of his tongue gliding against her, and Sage can’t stop the soft whine that falls from her lips.

Her hand drifts to his hair, her fingers curling in the strands as she tries to anchor herself to something amidst the waves of pleasure brought on by Theo’s mouth.

She tries not to pull, god she tries, but then he’s sucking on that bundle of nerves and her fingers tighten instinctively as she arches up into the heat of his mouth.

His moan vibrates against where she’s most sensitive, and it has another cracked sound stuttering from her chest.

“Fuck,” she whimpers, her eyes squeezing shut. Her pleasure is building at a dizzying speed, and she can’t help the way her hips move. She can hardly get enough air in her lungs, and it makes his name breathy and desperate as it falls from her lips, an exhaled Theo that’s a pitch higher than her usual voice.

Her teeth dig into her bottom lip hard as he flicks his tongue once more before pulling away. “I love it when you say my name like that,” he pants, his fingers digging into where he holds her leg. His eyes are bright and his lips are swollen and glistening and his hair is mussed and he looks …

Devastating. He looks devastating on his knees like this.

Sage shuts her eyes and leans her head back against the door as she tries to catch her breath. She barely feels Theo lower her leg, but as she blinks her eyes open he’s standing, his mouth a breath away from hers.

“Still with me, Collins?” he drawls as she meets his gaze.

She gets the thing about his name. Because hers is drenched in desire, the s snaking down her spine as if he were trailing his fingertips there.

She leans forward to capture his lips in a long, hot kiss.

“Bedroom,” she mutters against his mouth. “Now.”

She can practically taste Theo’s answering grin.

His hands slide around to cup her backside, and the next thing she knows he’s lifting her, her legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as she lets out a surprised laugh.

Theo swallows it down as he kisses her again, her back pressing into the door as he drags his lips against hers. A whimper falls from Sage’s lips, and it spurs Theo on. He moves them off the door, navigating the halls with ease as he carries her to his bedroom. Sage hardly spares the room a glance. She’s far too distracted by Theo’s sharp inhale as she nips at the skin beneath his ear and the way he slowly lowers her to the bed.

He pulls back, and for a moment, she thinks he’s reaching for the button of his jeans. But he pauses, his eyes dragging down her body as he takes her in. She should be cold, lying there naked, but Theo’s gaze makes her skin burn.

His eyes meet hers, and beneath the heat darkening his stare, there’s something else.

Something far softer—a mix of desire and awe and vulnerability, as if he’s letting her see just how much he wants this.

Wants her.

His chest is heaving, that telltale flush blotching his skin, his hair a mess and his lips kiss-swollen and red and parted as he holds her gaze.

Sage has never seen Theo look like this—has never seen him look at her like this.

Slowly, she pushes herself up, her hand sliding across his jaw as she cups his face. Her thumb swipes across his cheek as she presses her forehead against his, her breath slowing as it releases in a steady exhale.

The desperation that fueled their touches in the foyer bleeds into something else entirely. It clogs Sage’s throat and makes her fingers tremble.

Theo lays a hand over the one on his cheek, the other sliding to her waist as he holds her steady.

The moment stretches, suspended in time as they breathe each other in.

“All right?” he finally asks, his voice low.

Sage nods as her fingers slide into his hair. The strands are soft and slightly tangled from the wind at the beach.

“Are you?” she whispers.

Theo nods, his grip tightening on her waist. She finds his belt loop and draws him impossibly closer as she tips her head back to kiss him.

It’s soft and languid and it has Sage’s heart pounding.

“What do you want, Theo?” She presses the echo of his question from their first night together into his lips and feels the way it steals his breath.

“You,” Theo rumbles, his voice rough as he lowers her back onto the bed. “I want you.”

Sage doesn’t hesitate as she flips open the button on his jeans. Theo sheds the rest of his clothes, and then he’s above her again, his hands tracing blazing paths down her skin, and that desperation comes flooding back.

But this time, it’s not fast and frantic. It’s slow and deep and steady, just like Theo’s thrusts when he finally slides into her.

When he finally takes what he wants.

Sage comes undone beneath his hips and his hands and his lips, her pleasure sharp and all-consuming. Theo follows, and through her blissed-out haze, she hears her name tumbling from his lips like a prayer and its answer all wrapped into one.

“Did I tell you my friend Margot is a real estate agent?”

Theo’s fingers pause where they’ve been tracing unidentifiable shapes against the bare skin of her shoulder for …

She isn’t actually sure how long. Long enough that the light gray sky outside Theo’s bedroom window is deepening to charcoal.

“No,” he finally says slowly. “Should I be concerned you’re bringing up your mate when we’re basking in the glow?”

Sage laughs and pushes herself up on her elbow so she can gaze down at him. “I think the glow has faded. We’ve been lying here for at least an hour.”

Theo smiles, unrestrained and bright. “I still think you’re glowing, love.” His hand slides from her shoulder down to the small of her back, and goose bumps flush across her skin at the touch.

She steadfastly ignores the way she shivers.

Focus, Collins.

“Stop distracting me,” she chides. “Margot. Real estate. This is important.”

“All right,” Theo acquiesces, but his hand stays warm and steady on her back. “What about it?”

Sage wets her lips, her eyes flicking over his face. He’s got his arm tucked behind his head, and he looks so relaxed, so at ease, she’s loath to ruin it.

She swallows. “Obviously she’s not an expert in the market here, but … she could still give you some advice. About what really needs updating and what an agent might just be pushing to drive the price up.”

Her hand falls to the center of his chest, her finger tracing the groove there. “I don’t want to overstep. But she’s really good, and she’s honest to a fault. She won’t sugarcoat, but she also won’t jerk you around.”

When she looks back up at him, she finds a small divot has formed between his brows, but she doesn’t know what it means.

She’s about to ask him when he says, “Really?”

“Um.” Sage hesitates, her finger stilling on his skin. “Which part?”

Theo huffs a laugh and pushes himself up, the hand behind his head coming to cup the one she has against his chest. The blankets pool at their waists, but Sage can’t take her gaze off the way his eyes are so brilliantly blue yet soft at the same time.

“Really to her being completely honest. She’s not going to spare my feelings because we’re…” His words seem to catch up to him, a flush crawling up his neck as he trails off.

Sage tries not to flinch away from the way Casual rears its head like a warning bell. Instead, she splays her palm flat. Lets his heartbeat ground her.

“No,” Sage assures him. “She won’t lie. Not about this. It’s too important.”

He’s too important.

And Margot … Margot will know that. She’ll know as soon as Sage makes this request. She’ll know, and Sage won’t have the answers to the questions she’ll undoubtedly ask.

But that’s a problem for Future Sage. Right now, Theo is hurting, and she can help, and she doesn’t quite care what comes next as long as she can do something to help ease the burden he’s carrying.

Theo’s gaze flicks over her face, searching. She’s not sure what it is he’s looking to find, but he must see it written in her expression, because his brow smooths.

He leans in, his lips soft as they press against hers.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

Margot gives her a knowing look when they FaceTime her, but she remains a consummate professional. Theo walks her through the house, and Sage follows behind him, something warm settling in her chest as she watches the tension continue to bleed from him as Margot assures him he definitely shouldn’t redo the kitchen, and no, he doesn’t need to sell all of their furniture his mom picked out and hire a staging company.

That warmth follows her back to her Airbnb, giving volume to the voice that wonders why they still don’t stay the night.

She knows why.

Her phone starts buzzing with rapid notifications that signal Margot and Emerson have gotten started in the group chat.

The 3 Best Friends That Anyone Did Have

Dec 2 7:45 PM

M

Well well well.

M

@Sageybaby, didn’t you two look …

M

Glowy

Disaster

WTF.

Disaster

Did y’all FaceTime without me?!

Disaster

SERIOUSLY?!

I asked Margot to take a look at Theo’s house.

He’s having trouble with the Realtors here.

Disaster

…

…

… because that’s casual

Don’t.

Disaster

Fine.

Disaster

Can’t believe you didn’t FaceTime me in.

M

You’re not a Realtor?

Disaster

I’m a FRIEND

M

Annnnd???

Disaster

Hate y’all.

Disaster

Okay but wait can we talk about me inviting Taylor to Christmas?

Disaster

@Sage how do I calculate the odds she’ll say yes? And then, ya know, marry me.

I’m muting this thread.

M

LOLOL

Disaster

RUDE.

Disaster

Sage.

Disaster

Saaaaage.

Disaster

Saaaaaaaaaage.

M

Ooof. Muted.

17
Downbeat

When Sage and Noah were younger and thick as thieves—before things like jobs and life paths and adulthood added their strain—they used to spend hours playing video games together. It was one of those rare things that they both loved: Noah because he was obsessed with anything on a screen, and Sage because she was obsessed with anything that brought her closer to her brother.

Mario Kart was one of their favorites, even if Noah always won.

But one time, Sage was in the lead. It was the final lap, and she could feel the sweet thrill of victory climbing up her throat as she stared at the screen so hard her eyes burned.

She tackled the hardest curve, let out a shout of joy, and blinked.

In that brief moment her eyes were closed, Yoshi hit a banana peel and sent the cart spiraling out of control.

Noah took the lead and won.

Sage had cussed so loudly their mom had heard from the kitchen. She’d been grounded for a week. But at least she’d learned a life lesson.

It’s never really the tricky curves.

It’s the fucking banana peels.

It starts, as it so often does, with an email.

She did, in fact, silence the group chat a few days ago, but that was more because she needed to focus on writing. She’s been on a roll. She’s just wrapped up another productive drafting session when her editor’s name appears in her inbox.

A smile stretches across Sage’s face, and she clicks on the reply to her first act with a flourish to usher in the tidings of joy and good cheer that surely await.

The email is brief.

To the point.

Dec 8

Hi, Sage! Thank you so much for sending. It’s so exciting to dive back into the world of Nights! That being said, something feels off to me about starting this way. Maybe it’s a bit too downbeat? I don’t know that readers will resonate with it. I think they’ll be eager to jump right back in with Cleo, too. Not bringing her in immediately feels like a missed opportunity. Is there rearranging we can do here?

Let me know if you want to talk it through. Here to help!

Marie

Sage’s back aches as she slumps a bit on the barstool.

She wasn’t expecting effusive praise from Marie, but a flat-out this isn’t working has her pulse ticking up unexpectedly. She’s finally found her rhythm with the new direction. She can’t afford to start over again.

Sage rolls out her neck. She’ll sit with this for a bit. It doesn’t have to mean anything more than she makes it mean, and she refuses to make it mean that her progress has been a waste. That the story that’s been swirling around in her brain, fed by movies and fresh air and Theo, isn’t worth telling.

Sage minimizes the email, but her phone ringing stops her from doing much of anything else. She frowns as her dad’s face flashes across the screen.

Her dad never calls out of the blue. He’s a CEO down to his very bones. He needs a calendar invite and a confirmation text, and you better give him three days’ notice.

“Hey, Dad,” she greets, closing her laptop. “Everything okay?”

“Hi, hon.” Her dad’s deep voice fills her ears, and she relaxes a little at how normal he sounds. There’s no underlying panic, no blaring sirens in the background, no indication that someone is dead or dying or some other catastrophe. “Everything’s fine,” he assures her. “I just wanted to go over some Christmas things with you if you have a sec?”

In hindsight, Sage should’ve known that there was another shoe and it was about to drop. But as it stands, her brain is murky from work and the disappointment she’s trying to keep in its buffering pattern, so instead she leaps right into what can only be described as an expertly laid trap.

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“You remember Paul Jensen? We worked together back at Piege. He heads up the analytics team there now.”

Sage can confidently say that she has no fucking idea who Paul Jensen is, but a murky picture of a mediocre old man floats to mind anyway as she drags herself off the counter stool and pads her way over to the light switch. She flicks it, squinting in the suddenly bright kitchen, and says, “Sure, I remember Paul.”

“Well, he wants to get together for dinner over the holidays, and I’d love for you to be there. I know you’re all set to fly in on the twenty-second, but he’ll be leaving to see family then, so I was thinking perhaps you could come home a bit early, and we do something the nineteenth? I’d be happy to cover the change fee for your flight.”

Sage frowns as she leans a hip against the counter, her gaze finding the darkening late-afternoon sky. She’s mulling over a polite way to ask why the hell he wants her at a dinner with his former coworker, but it turns out she doesn’t need one.

Her dad plows on. “He’s looking for a senior-level analyst, and, well, he’s used to me talking you up, so he was keen to meet you when he learned you’d be home for Christmas.”

He chuckles good-naturedly, and Sage is so gobsmacked that it takes her a solid seven seconds to speak. Surely, he can’t be saying what she thinks he’s saying. She must be misunderstanding him, must be still stuck halfway in work, her mind firing at half speed as she reacquaints herself with the world outside of her laptop.

“Dad,” she says slowly. “I have a job.”

It shouldn’t be a revelation, but apparently it is, because her dad is quiet for a long moment. “Well, yes,” he finally concedes. “But your mom said that isn’t going well, and the trajectory for this position is really something, Sage. It could be a fast track to a chief data officer position, and you already know how—”

“Dad,” Sage interrupts. There’s an edge to her tone this time, and it’s enough for him to fall silent. Her fingers tingle as she grips her phone tight. “My … my job is going fine,” she stammers. In the light of the email she just received, it almost feels like a lie, and the fact that doubt is rushing back in so quickly, so easily, nearly makes Sage sick.

Sick, and angry.

Her jaw is tight, that tingling feeling spreading from her fingers to her arms and legs, and she’s shaking her head and continuing on before she can even think about the words pouring out of her mouth. “Just because I’m stuck on my next book doesn’t mean it’s not … Dad, Nights was a Times bestseller. Do you know how rare that is? Do you understand what that means?”

Sage loathes knowing it holds some sort of power over her, that it’s some sort of marker that she can point to when she feels like a fake. But people think it means something, and she’ll be damned if she doesn’t use it as a data point her parents so clearly need to see that what she’s doing is something real, and because of that, it …

It means everything.

“I’m very proud, Sagey,” her dad reassures her, but it feels more like a pat on the head, a there, there instead of a true acknowledgment. “But I know this career has been volatile, between the movie studio and your trip to escape the pressure—”

“That’s not—”

“And I just think,” he presses on in that aggravatingly calm but firm way, “that some stability might be good for you.”

This cannot be happening.

Sage knows her parents. She knows what they value and what they don’t understand. But this … this feels like a manifestation of her worst fears and deepest wounds, laid out in a phone conversation that she feels like she’s witnessing instead of participating in. It’s like she’s sitting on one of the exposed beams above her, watching as her shoulders curve in and her knuckles turn white.

For all the way her brain catastrophizes, she can honestly say she didn’t see this coming. And that is so much worse.

If she knows the hurt is imminent, she can brace for impact. She can ignore the throbbing in her chest and instead fixate on the fire that fuels her to do better.

She can’t do that when she’s blindsided like this.

“What about what I think is good for me?” Emotion mounts in her voice, and she knows better than to let it show, to give him a single iota of an indication that she’s feeling too much. He taught her to negotiate, after all. To remain levelheaded in the face of an outburst so she could win. But she can’t help it. Anger is searing her throat and clenching her muscles and suddenly she’s off of that beam and thrust right back into her body as her vision goes red.

“When have I ever given you and Mom the indication that I don’t want this with every fiber of my being? God, you two are so … you’re so obsessed with what you want for me that you can’t even see that I’m out here fighting for my dreams. It’s like you don’t even fucking care!”

“Do not speak to me like that—”

“Why? Why should I even entertain this conversation when it doesn’t show me an ounce of respect?”

“We’re just trying to help, Sage,” her dad insists. “Ever since you’ve taken this detour, you’ve become—”

“It’s not a detour!” The words bounce around the cottage as she begins to pace in short, jerky steps. She doesn’t need him to finish his sentence—she can’t stand for him to finish his sentence. She’s not sure they’d come back from it if he did. “This is who I am, Dad,” she grinds out, rubbing a furious hand across her tear-stained cheeks. “I’m sorry it’s not who you and Mom want in a daughter, but this is me.”

Her dad sighs, and it’s heavy and condescending and Sage thinks she seriously might scream, or throw up. “Honey, we love you. We just know you have so much potential, and we don’t want that to go to waste.”

Potential.

Waste.

Not enough.

Never enough.

“I have to go,” Sage forces out, hating her voice for the way it trembles.

“Sage—”

“I have to go, Dad.”

“Okay. Fine. We’ll revisit the dinner another day.”

“No.” She shakes her head, furious at the way her chin trembles and the ache that gnaws at her chest and, god, everything, because how is it that she’s an adult and yet she’s still crumbling like a child before her parents. “I’m not coming to that. Honestly, at this point, I don’t know that I want to come to Chicago at all.”

The words slip out before she can stop them, but once they’re out in the open, unearthed from the same place she’s buried years of hurt, she finds she means them. The last thing she wants is to go back to her childhood home to suffocate even more under the weight of her parents’ disappointment. She’s doing it well enough from 3,500 miles away.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” her dad scoffs.

“I’m not,” Sage shoots back. “My work you’re so concerned about needs to get finished. If you’re so worried about my job, surely you understand I need to do what I need to do, right?” It’s petty, absolutely, and she’ll regret stooping so low when she’s come down from the height of her anger, but for now, there’s a sick sort of satisfaction in twisting his own logic and shoving it right back on him.

“You can’t be serious. You’re coming home.” The words are so resolute, so decided, that Sage immediately prickles at them.

Home.

Even still, she takes a breath to check in with herself, a sweep from head to toe, lingering when she gets to the pit of her stomach. She feels nothing but the certainty of a firm decision.

She is serious. She’ll go back to California, or crash Emerson’s holiday like she did one year in grad school when her parents went abroad, something—anything—that’s not a week of arguing for her right to be who she is.

Her heart is pounding so hard it makes her throat throb, but she forces herself to swallow. To remember that despite his words—despite the way she feels reprimanded and controlled—she’s not a child. She can make decisions for herself—has been—and she can do it without their approval or understanding.

Sage closes her eyes.

“I’m serious, Dad. I’m sorry. I just need some time.”

“Sage.”

There’s anger lining his tone now, real and heated, but she’s decided.

For the first time in her life, Sage hangs up first.

Sage feels a bit like she’s been run over by every character in Mario Kart, twice, when she finally drags herself out of bed the next day around noon.

There’s a missed call and a text from her mom. Sage doesn’t need to listen to the voicemail or read the message to know what she has to say.

There’s also a call from Anna, which Sage assumes is to talk about Marie’s email. The silver lining of yesterday’s debacle: She completely forgot that her editor didn’t like her new direction for her book.

Sage forces herself to do one of the at-home yoga workouts on some app Margot made her download before she left and hasn’t opened since she got here. It should feel good to move her body, but her brain is too fuzzy, her thoughts hopping frequencies and enduring bursts of chatter and static without ever settling on a channel. She white-knuckles her way through the flow sequence, and she may not be a yoga aficionado, but she’s been to enough sessions with Margot to know that’s definitely not how one is supposed to approach their practice. She ends up skipping Shavasana entirely and taking a shower instead, hoping the hot water will steady the buzz beneath her skin.

It doesn’t.

The buzzing persists, blurring the minutes into hours as she moves through the day on autopilot until a text from Theo snaps her out of her detached haze.

SOS.

Need your input at the house if you’re free?

Sage frowns, the static cutting off in her mind as a pulse of worry shoots through her, bringing her attention into sharp focus.

Yeah, sure. I can be there in 20.

Everything ok?

She bites her lip and swipes over to the group chat. There’s more of Emerson joking around about asking Taylor for Christmas, and a recap from Margot about a few follow-up questions Theo had about the house, but nothing out of the ordinary.

Oh, yes. Sort of? I’m not injured or anything.

I’m being dramatic it’s fine.

But it is an SOS technically so get over here.

That was the worst reassurance I’ve ever gotten?

I’ll explain when you get here.

Door’s open.

Brace yourself—it’s a mess.

A mess is a complete understatement.

“What have you done?” Sage asks as she stares at the bags and bags of Christmas decor that cover almost every surface of the living room. Theo hums, the sound muffled by the branches of the fake Christmas tree he currently has his head buried in as he tries to secure two sections together.

“I wanted to be sure—fucking Christ, it won’t fit—that there were enough decorations.” The tree gives a dangerous wobble, and Sage lurches, like she’s going to rush across the room and help, but she can’t, because she can’t even see the floor with all the bags and garland and … is that glitter?

There’s a click, and Theo lets out a victorious sound as he emerges from the middle of the tree, which is finally standing upright on its own. “There,” he says, stepping back and dusting his hands on his jeans before propping them on his hips. “That looks all right.”

He takes in the towering tree—which completely blocks one of the windows—before he turns and scans the living room, his brow furrowing at the various bags. “Do you think it’s not enough?”

Sage chokes on the laugh she tries to swallow. She manages to mask it as some sort of coughing fit, but it doesn’t really matter because Theo is still frowning at the decorations as if it doesn’t look like an entire Christmas shop threw up on his living room.

“Theo.”

“Hmm?”

She waits until he meets her gaze before she motions to the mess. “What’s happening?”

His lips part, but no words come. Instead, he gives her a soft, shy smile she’s never seen on him before. He takes a moment and then says, “My dad said he’d come for Christmas.”

Oh. Sage can feel her own mouth forming the vowel, but the sound stays stuck in her throat where a sudden rush of emotion is building. It drips through her, warm and syrupy and achingly tender as Theo, all wide eyes and open features, wets his lips and gives a sheepish laugh.

“I may have gone a bit overboard.” He looks around the room, a blush tinging his cheeks pink, and gives a loose shrug. “I just wanted it to be…”

“Perfect,” she says, her vocal cords finally firing. She clears her throat against the emotion still clogged there. There’s an inexplicable burning in her eyes, and she blinks against it, even as her chest aches at the quiet joy—the hope—that’s settled over Theo’s features. She’s simultaneously so happy and so, so sad.

“It’s going to be perfect,” she clarifies.

“You think so?” he asks, his head tilting back so he can take in the tree again. The question is so soft, so vulnerable, that she can’t do anything but step over the bags, carving a path through the mess and to his side.

She follows his gaze to the top of the bare tree and tries to imagine what it will look like when Theo is done with it. “Yes,” she insists. “I do.”

She wants to say more—wants to tell him how happy she is that his dad is coming, how much he deserves this. But the words are tangled in the back of her throat with her own pain, which feels so selfish, but Theo doesn’t seem to notice.

He’s looking down at her with that shy, hopeful smile. “Help me decorate it?”

His quiet joy presses itself into her skin, raw and aching and beautiful and terrifying. “Of course,” she murmurs, her eyes scanning his features. She thinks this is how she’d like to remember him forever.

At ease. Happy. Hopeful.

Not Theo Sharpe.

Just Theo.

“I’d love to.”

It’s late when Sage finally gets back to the cottage. She drags herself into the bathroom, scrubbing at the glitter that’s caked on her hands from hanging ornaments all afternoon. Her tired-eyed reflection stares back at her in the mirror, the energy she’d summoned to be present with Theo long gone.

There had been something soothing about working side by side with him today. Untangling tinsel and decorating the tree and placing random Christmas figurines on every discernable surface had blanketed her heartache with …

Well, not joy. But something far more than a simple distraction. She’d managed to find contentment for a few hours, because Theo was so damn happy, and that made her happy.

There were, of course, moments he caught her staring off, that static crackling in her mind. The last time, a concerned frown had clouded the easy joy she wanted to keep on his face, so she’d quickly plastered on a smile and reassured him she was fine, just a little tired from so many days of deep drafting, so pass her another ornament, would he?

He hadn’t pressed her on it. But then she’d gotten the text from Noah, and it had her energy plummeting so fast that she knew she had to leave. She didn’t want to ruin today for Theo. Not when he’d spent hours regaling her with tales of Christmases past, his eyes bright and grin easy as he told her story after story about how he and Oliver used to drive their parents to distraction as they tried to catch Father Christmas, but how he’d always suspected that his mom actually adored it.

Sage lets out a long breath and slumps sideways against the bathroom wall, her temple resting against the plaster as she digs her phone out of her pocket.

Talked to Dad. Call me when you can.

She knows exactly what this is. Noah has been tagged in. Her parents have been doing more of this over the last year, leveraging her and Noah’s closeness to use him as some warped form of mediation. It never works. Sage bitches about their parents, Noah mumbles his passive agreement in solidarity, and Sage tries not to be irked by how unbothered he can remain about all of it.

Or how they never ask her to reason with him.

Sage pushes off the wall and pads her way into the bedroom, not bothering to change out of her jeans and sweater as she flings herself onto the mattress and dials Noah.

It rings twice before he answers.

“You’re not coming home for Christmas?”

Sage blinks. That was … abrupt.

“Hi, Noah. It’s so good to hear from you. How’s Cecelia?”

“Cut the shit, Sage,” her brother sighs. “I talked to Dad earlier. He told me everything.”

Sage rolls her eyes, her mouth pinching tight. “Did he? What about the part where he’s trying to get me a job? You know, when I already have one?”

“He told me he wanted you to consider a job, and then you freaked out and said you weren’t coming home for Christmas,” he counters.

Well, that was reductionist of him. Not that she’s surprised. Sage doesn’t bother to point it out to Noah. Instead, she stares at the ceiling and pulls out their dad’s favorite negotiation tactic:

Silence.

“Look,” Noah finally exhales after a few long moments. “I know you guys have your shit, okay? But … can’t you set it aside for the week?”

A phone rings in the background on Noah’s end, the sort of blaring tone that should have been left in the ’90s but somehow still exists in the type of offices where suits are required and pensions are offered. Noah is calling her from work, then.

“Dad and Mom have done nothing but voice their distaste with who I am. Why would I want to subject myself to more of that?”

“Just ignore them, Sage,” Noah urges. Impatience sharpens his tone, and it has Sage sitting up, her body swaying slightly as the blood rushes from her head.

“I shouldn’t have to,” she argues. “You don’t get it. You don’t have to deal with it. You’re not subjected to endless critiques and pointed comments about how you’re a failure.”

“He didn’t call you a failure.”

“It’s fucking implied, Noah!” Why can’t he see that? Why is he taking their side?

“So you’re just going to throw a tantrum, then?” Noah snaps. “That’s really how you want to deal with this?”

Sage jerks back as if she’s been slapped. Noah may show what could be called a mild disinterest in playing negotiator between her and their parents, but he’s never done this.

“I’m not throwing a tantrum,” she says tightly. “And what do you care, anyway? This has nothing to do with you.”

“Like hell it doesn’t. Mom is beside herself. Who do you think is fielding those texts, Sage?” he huffs, his own anger mounting. “Who do you think has to deal with the fallout of this over the holidays now that you’re pouting like a fucking child? You do realize that you’re leaving me to deal with them alone, right? I have enough shit on my plate without taking on yours as well!”

Sage is off the bed before she even registers that she’s moved. “You are kidding me,” she snaps. “I don’t remember you having concerns when it was me who was supposed to hold down the fort over Thanksgiving.”

“That was different,” he scoffs.

“Oh, of course it was! It’s always different for you, that’s the whole problem!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!”

They’re just shy of yelling now, but Sage can’t bring herself to diffuse the mounting tension, can’t think of anything but the words that are flying up from where she’s locked them in her chest and is finally, finally letting them free.

“It means you’re the goddamn GOLDEN child, Noah!” she yells. “You’re Mom and Dad’s pride and joy, and it’s so fucking sickening to be reminded of it every single time I talk to them! God, the fact that you can’t see that, the fact that you buy into it by doing their dirty work like this is fucking pathetic!”

“Oh, fuck off,” Noah bites out, his voice level but edged with a rage she knows he’s forced to keep in check given where he is. “You’re the one who’s pathetic. All you do is bitch and whine about Mommy and Daddy not being fair. Grow up, Sage.”

Noah hangs up, and Sage …

Sage doesn’t realize she’s crying until she can’t make out her phone screen through her tears. She manages to lock it before she chucks it as hard as she can at her pillows, letting out a frustrated scream that reverberates through the empty cottage. She crawls under the covers, jeans and all, and hugs a pillow to her chest. She doesn’t bother to try to temper her tears of frustration. Instead, she lets them flow, lets them soak the pillowcase beneath her cheek.

It’s hours before she’s able to fall asleep.

When she does, the guilt that’s settled in her stomach chases her into her dreams, turning them dark and lonely and bitter. They bleed into her consciousness when she wakes the next morning, and she finds it’s no different—reality.

It feels the same.

It all feels the same.

18
Free Fall

Theo

Dec 9 2:13 PM

Theo

I might have underestimated how much glitter sheds.

Theo

Christ, it’s in the bedroom.

Theo

The BEDROOM, Sage. How?!

Dec 9 4:18 PM

Theo

Buying a new set of pots and pans solely for the purpose of cooking Christmas Lunch is going overboard, right?

Theo

Never mind don’t answer that.

Theo

I already know.

Dec 10 11:11 AM

Theo

Everything all right?

Theo

You haven’t finally driven into a loch, have you?

Dec 10 3:30 PM

Theo

Collins.

Sorry, got caught up in work.

Do NOT buy those pots and pans.

Theo

Theo

I’ll cook you chicken tikka with them?

Dec 12 1:14 PM

Theo

Margot wanted me to send you this:

Blue Light and Its Impact on the Brain

Dec 12 2:35 PM

Theo

She said, “She’s more likely to read it if you send it.”

Theo

I think she’s wrong, but I’m flattered regardless.

Dec 13 9:18 AM

Theo

I’m seriously going to come over and force you to take a break, Collins.

She’s been ignoring Theo’s text messages.

To be fair, she’s been ignoring everyone’s text messages, but Theo seems to be the one who’s caught on, and she doesn’t think he buys the sorry, been buried in work excuse she tries to use.

Sage knows what it means when the static in her head becomes less “hopping frequencies” and more “angry horde of bees.” That frenetic energy that she tends to keep trapped in her mind is readying to wire itself throughout her body and beg to be dispelled, only to reject any possible idea she comes up with to get rid of it.

Emerson calls it Itchy Brain.

Sage calls it hell.

She goes for walks only to turn around at the end of the driveway, sends nonresponse responses to her friends and her agent and her editor, ignores the growing number of DMs from readers she usually tries to stay on top of, rereads the last few chapters she’s written but doesn’t absorb any of it, writes some more only to end up with disjointed sentences and half-formed paragraphs. Decides to revisit her outline to see if she can’t tackle Marie’s feedback only to delete and reinsert the same bullet five times. Tries to read for inspiration but can’t focus on the text. Turns on a movie only to turn it off in the first fifteen minutes.

All while time moves agonizingly slow and far too fast.

Hell.

Complete and utter hell.

She’s been in it for five days.

Today’s version finds her at her laptop, eyes aching from the blue light as she tries to force words from her brain and onto the page. She’s wasted another day in limbo, hopping from thing to thing to try to satisfy the way her mind itches. She feels like if she can just finish something, then maybe it’ll be the momentum she needs to eject herself from this never-ending purgatory.

She doesn’t finish anything. She hardly even cracks four hundred words, even though she can feel them buzzing around inside of her, right along with that swell of energy that wants out but refuses to budge. It would be better if she felt drained. If she felt like she had nothing to give. But she doesn’t. The energy wants to create, wants to work, wants to lose itself in the frenzy of a hyper-fixation, but it won’t latch on to anything long enough for it to stick.

Sage props her head in her hands, her fingers tangling in her hair by her temples. She tugs until it hurts. Her mind sharpens with the pain, and it’s such a blessed relief, even though it doesn’t last for longer than a few seconds.

The quiet recedes. The buzzing floods in. Sage’s eyes prick with frustrated tears. Her pulse hammers in that point just below the hinge of her jaw, and she swears she can hear it in her ears.

Pound. Pound. Pound.

It takes her a moment to realize the sound isn’t just the blood beating against her eardrums. Someone is at the door. She feels unsteady on her feet as she walks to it, like her body is half here, half somewhere else entirely. She tugs it open, a gust of cold air sweeping through and stinging the bare skin of her shoulders and arms, exposed by her tank top.

“Theo?”

He’s standing on her doorstep, hands shoved into the front pocket of a black hoodie. A baseball cap is pulled low on his head, but it’s not enough to hide the concern in his gaze as he looks her over.

“What are you doing here?” she asks hoarsely. She can’t remember the last time she spoke aloud. Yesterday? The day before?

“I’m sorry to just turn up out of the blue, but I…” Theo trails off, his brow furrowing as he scans her face. “Can I come in?”

“Sure.” She nods. “Of course.” She steps aside and he moves past her, the soft cotton of his sweatshirt brushing against the thin fabric of her tank top. There are goose bumps on her arms from the cold, and she runs her hands over them as she nudges the door shut and follows Theo into the kitchen. He’s standing at the bar, one hand resting on the counter. She blinks as she takes in the various sheets of paper and mugs that are littered across it, wincing when she notices the empty bag of chips that sits on the far corner.

“Um.” She scoots forward and shuts her laptop, her hands tingling as she shuffles the papers together into a hastily formed stack. “Is everything—”

“Are you okay?” Theo interjects. She turns to find him frowning at her.

“What?”

“Are you okay?” he repeats, enunciating each word. His gaze sweeps over her again, and it takes a moment, but Sage’s brain finally processes what she must look like, standing barefoot in a pair of baggy sweats and a tank top, hair messy and piled in a bun on her head. She tucks a few loose strands behind her ear and shifts her weight, her arms folding across her chest.

“Yeah,” she assures him, something itchy and hot crawling up her skin. “I’m fine.”

Theo’s frown deepens. “It’s just…” He wets his lips as he sucks in a long breath through his nose. “I thought maybe it was the whole Christmas-decorating thing, but now I’m wondering if there’s something else going on.”

Guilt unfurls in Sage’s gut, but it’s muted beneath that buzzing that has her shifting her weight again. “No,” she says with a shake of her head. “I mean, no, it wasn’t … Decorating for Christmas was great. It’s not … I’m fine. It’s just been a weird couple of days. I’ve been trying to figure out how to redo this draft after some feedback from my editor and it’s not really budging, and there’s this thing with Noah, but it’s not … I just think I’m…” Sage trails off as she clocks she’s rambling and has no idea what she’s actually trying to get at.

“I’m fine,” she finishes.

Theo steps closer to her, his touch gentle as he places a hand on top of hers and pulls. Sage glances down. She’s gripping her arm so tightly that her skin flushes red in the shape of fingertips when she allows him to pull her hand away.

“Can we sit?” he asks, his chin jutting toward the couch. Sage’s antsy body screams its resistance, but she nods and allows Theo to steer her to the couch. He sits opposite her, perched on the edge of the coffee table, elbows braced on knees that bracket hers.

“What’s going on?” he murmurs.

“Nothing.”

“Sage—”

“No,” she cuts him off with a shake of her head. “I mean … that’s just it. Nothing is actively happening. I’m not … I’m not feeling weird about decorating the other day, or upset … I mean, Marie’s feedback was disappointing, and there’s shit going on with my family, but this isn’t that. It’s…” Sage tangles her fingers together on her lap, her knee bouncing as she searches for the words to explain.

It’s like she’s stuck in fucking Mario Kart, spinning wildly with no idea how to right herself so she can cross the finish line. She can feel the yearning to keep racing forward, to move, but no matter how hard her thumb presses the toggle, she’s just spinning, spinning, spinning.

“Emerson calls it Itchy Brain?” she finally says. “It’s like all of the energy gets tangled in my body and everything buzzes but nothing helps. I can’t get it out, and I’m really tired but also really antsy and I want to do things but I can’t so I get agitated and restless and my brain itches but…”

She trails off again, swallowing down some of that energy that wants out and is trying to get there through her words.

“Nothing can scratch it,” Theo fills in for her.

Sage glances down at where her forefinger digs into the cuticle of her thumb. “Yeah,” she says. “Exactly.”

It’s rare that Sage allows herself to be seen like this—all jittery parts and restless energy and that relentless buzzing in her veins. People see it, but not really. They see the outcome of it. The work accomplished. They see it when she can channel it, when she can harness that endless rush inside of her and force it into something that shines so brightly they can’t see the imperfections that got her there.

They don’t see it like this. Bouncing leg, shredded cuticles, exhaustion that she can’t shake because she can’t stop but nothing will satisfy the way her brain itches. No matter what she throws herself into—work, a movie, a puzzle, a book—nothing helps, and it has her wanting to peel back her skin and step out of her body for a while, if only to get a break.

“It happens from time to time,” she mutters. “Sometimes without a trigger, but sometimes when things throw me for a loop? When I don’t … deal with them.”

Theo places a hand on her thigh, his touch warm through her sweatpants, and the pressure is enough to still her leg. His eyes trace the panes of her face, like her features hold the map he needs to navigate this—to navigate her.

Sage forces a swallow, her throat rough and dry. She feels cracked open in the worst way. It makes her want to pull back, to shove off the couch and move, to pull herself together and make sure Theo knows she’s fine, she’s just having a bad day—few days—and honestly it could be worse, even if the thrumming in her veins makes her want to tug her hair from her skull.

But before she can even attempt damage control, Theo squeezes her thigh once and stands, the space immediately going cold as he walks out of the living room.

For a wild moment, Sage’s too-fast brain leaps to the worst possible conclusion:

It’s too much, he’s leaving, and he’s not even going to say anything before he does, because of course he’s not, why would he? He’s … he’s Theo, and she’s a mess, and the last thing he needs is to be dealing with this.

She tamps down the urge to go after him, her nails digging into her palms as she curls her hands into fists. But then she blinks, and he’s back, pressing a cool glass of water into her hands as he sits back down on the coffee table. His knees bracket hers again, his hands a grounding touch as they settle on her legs while he says, “Drink it.”

Sage takes a long gulp, the cool liquid soothing her throat. Theo tracks the motion of her swallow before his eyes fix on hers once more. “When did you last eat?”

“I had a banana this morning,” Sage rasps before clearing her throat. “And coffee.”

“Ah, coffee. An essential food group,” he murmurs, squeezing the space just above her knees. Sage manages a breath of laughter, but it fades as quickly as it comes.

“Nothing sounds good,” she admits, staring down at where his hands are resting, his thumbs having taken up soothing circles. They stay like that, quiet for a few long moments, before Theo reaches beside her and grabs her phone from where she’d abandoned it on a couch cushion hours ago.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he says as he turns it off. “You’re going to go shower, and I’m going to fix some pasta.” Theo moves his hands to her waist and tugs her up, his fingers digging into the space above her hips, as if he knows to keep his touch firm. “We’re going to eat, and then we’re going to watch a film until you pass out.”

He gives her two long breaths to refuse, his gaze steady on her, waiting. That frenetic energy in her immediately wants her to object, because nothing that he’s suggested scratches that itch that keeps sizzling in her mind, but there’s something about someone else deciding for her that keeps her protests locked away.

When she doesn’t refuse, Theo nudges her toward the hallway before he walks off toward the kitchen.

Her shower is quick, the warm water soothing. It doesn’t quite calm her racing brain, but it does ease some of the tension that coils itself around her muscles when she gets like this. She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she tugs a brush through her wet, tangled strands. Her eyes are bright, but her face looks gaunt. Even with her freshly washed face, her skin still pink from the shower, she looks harried. She tugs on a fresh pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt, too simultaneously keyed up and exhausted to care about making an impression on Theo.

That ship set sail as soon as he stepped into the cottage.

Besides, it’s not like Sage has made much of an effort with her appearance since arriving in Skye. She’s been far too focused on other things.

On Theo.

Sage finds him in the kitchen, one hip leaning against the counter as pasta boils on the stove. His hat’s abandoned on the counter, one hand tucked casually in the pocket of his jeans, hair brushing his brow as he peers into the pot.

He looks soft, so strangely domestic, that something in Sage’s chest twists in on itself, especially as he glances up at her and gives her a half smile.

Her body moves toward him without her ever giving it permission to do so, but her brain kicks in just as she reaches the far burner. She stops just shy of his space, her weight shifting between her feet as she reaches for something to fill the silence, but Theo just grips the front of her sweatshirt and tugs her into him.

“Nice jumper,” he remarks. Sage glances down at the Cambridge lettering. She hadn’t even realized this was the one she put on. When she looks back at Theo, he’s still smiling. “You should keep it,” he insists before she can say anything. “Looks better on you, anyway.”

His arms circle her tightly, and it dawns on her as she lets her head fall against his chest that Theo isn’t holding her like she’s going to break. He’s holding her like he knows she’ll fly away if he doesn’t keep her anchored. He presses her to him firmly, and each point of contact seems to drain some of that frantic energy out of her as he grounds her. She doesn’t question it, not as she feels her body settling into his, the warmth of him covering her completely.

He keeps her there, pressed against his chest, heartbeat steady beneath her ear, even as he releases one arm to stir the pasta. He doesn’t move her until it’s time to drain the water, and even then, his hands are back on her in seconds, long fingers splayed across her waist as he tilts his head toward the kitchen cupboard. “Bowl or plate?”

“Bowl,” Sage answers with a scrunch of her nose. “I’m not a heathen.” Theo’s low laugh vibrates against her, and he gently shuffles her out of the way as he grabs two bowls and plates the food. Sage fills two cups of water, and then they’re back on the couch, a blanket pulled over them and two steaming bowls of pasta in their laps.

“I cued up a film,” Theo says, settling back with the remote. “Figured we could continue to improve your cinematic education.”

She doubts she’ll be able to pay attention, but it doesn’t stop her from saying, “Quite,” in a horrible imitation of his accent. Theo nudges her shoulder, but he doesn’t pull away, instead keeping their sides fused together, tethering her to the here and now as he starts the movie and they dig in.

“Wait,” Sage says as the opening credits roll. “You said we were improving my cinematic education.”

“I did.”

“… This is Shrek.”

“Well spotted.”

Sage snorts a laugh. “I’ve seen it.”

Theo grins. “Then you know what an uplifting and brilliant movie it is. Now hush, Collins, it’s starting.”

It takes Sage a bit, but she manages half her bowl of pasta—a success, if her past dinners in times like these are any proof. Usually she’s lucky if she finishes a piece of toast.

That surging in her veins is still there, but it eventually settles when Theo tugs her down with him, his arms locking around her waist, leg slotting between hers. She’s tucked in tight, her back to his chest, his body like a warm, weighted blanket that pushes the rest of that buzzing down until it bleeds from her bit by bit.

She’s not paying attention to the movie, but not because her mind is still churning. Finally, her lungs are loose, her breath slow and easy, eyes heavy. She lets herself sink into the warmth, lets Theo keep her here, a firm foundation against the battering winds.

Later, when he gently shakes her awake, his voice a murmur against her ear telling her she should go to bed, Sage doesn’t think about crossing lines or keeping up walls. They’ve obliterated them all, anyway. She just reaches out her hand, her fingers linking with his, and makes a simple request.

“Stay.”

Sage wakes up slowly, her brain crawling into the land of the living before her eyes can be bothered to open. Her body feels heavy in the way it does after a night of deep, undisturbed sleep, and she burrows into the sensation, her muscles relaxing against the mattress. Theo’s arm is a steady weight around her waist, his chest flush against her back, legs tangled with hers.

She turns carefully in his hold, and Theo lets out a noise of discontent, his face scrunching as he buries his cheek further into the pillow. His breath hitches, his hold tightening around her waist as he pulls her impossibly closer, then evens out, his chest rising and falling steadily as he settles back into sleep. His hair is a mess, and Sage curls her hand into a fist to keep from dragging her fingers through the soft strands. He looks far too peaceful for her to disrupt him, so she allows herself another few moments to simply take him in instead.

The gray light of morning illuminates his features, from the blond of his lashes to the fullness of his lips, parted slightly as he sleeps. Sage swallows and lets her head fall against his chest, his skin warm against her temple, his heartbeat steady against her ear.

Her mind is quieter this morning, that buzzing in her veins not quite gone but receding steadily like the tide. The fact that there’s nothing casual about the way her heart swells in her chest is left exposed with the rocks and sand as the water goes out to sea.

Mistake. Mistake. Mistake.

The mantra appears in her mind unbidden, but instead of hearing it in a deadpan tone she never actually did hear from Theo, it’s a whisper in front of a fireplace just before his lips found hers.

I cannot believe you thought I called you a mistake.

She wonders what he would call her now.

Theo’s arm tightens around her just before she feels the soft press of his lips against the top of her head. “All right?” he rasps, his vowels slurred with sleep.

“Mm-hmm,” Sage says as she nuzzles deeper into his hold.

“How’s the buzzing?”

“Quieter.”

“Good,” he murmurs, the words vibrating against her. His fingers take up steady strokes up and down her back, the motion light and almost mindless. Sage closes her eyes and focuses on his touch.

“I’m sorry I worried you,” she breathes. Theo’s hand pauses, and suddenly he’s pushing her back, his hand cupping her jaw as he forces her head up to meet his gaze.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he assures her. His thumb traces her bottom lip, his eyes soft in the morning light. “You can talk to me, though. If you want.” His fingers trail slowly across her jaw and up her cheek. He skims her temple—brushes her hair back—before retracing his path with painstaking gentleness.

“You mentioned stuff with your family,” he prompts. His touch settles lightly over her collarbone, sending a pleasant tingle up her spine.

She lets her eyes flutter shut, lets the sure curl of his fingers over her shoulder tether her to the quiet peace they’ve created as she lets out a long breath.

And then she tells him.

About the conversation with her dad and the decision to stay away for Christmas. About the argument with Noah and the jealousy that finally made itself heard and the guilt that’s been lingering since, because maybe she should have been more clued in to what he was going through, too. About the phone call with her mom after the Fairy Glen.

She tells him about gifted copies of Nights that went unread and dreams that were dismissed in the name of practicality and rationality and a girl who wanted to be normal, so she folded herself into a mess so tangled she’s still trying to undo it, even now.

Theo holds her and listens and doesn’t say a word, not even when she lets some of her most jagged edges show. He holds her and he listens and he stays, and when she’s talked herself into exhaustion, he kisses her, slow and thorough, his hands bunching in the back of her shirt as he presses every inch of her against him.

“So what are you going to do?” he asks some time later, when he’s lying on his back and Sage’s head is pillowed on his chest, their limbs tangled together in a mess she doesn’t want to undo. “Spend Christmas with Emerson?”

“I hadn’t actually gotten that far, to be honest,” she confesses into his skin, her gaze fixed on the window. Rays of sun pierce the cloud cover, dotting the hills like soft spotlights. “I just know that I don’t want to be in Chicago this year.”

Theo is quiet for a long moment, and then he says, “You could stay.”

Sage stills, but Theo’s fingers weave into her hair and he tugs slightly, prompting her to meet his gaze. “You could stay,” he says again, as if she didn’t hear him—as if she isn’t replaying the suggestion over and over in her mind. “With me.” Sage blinks and he rushes on, his face flushing as he does. “I don’t want to exacerbate things with you and your family. I just meant … if you’re truly not going home…”

“I’m not.”

His fingers drag through her hair, gently untangling the strands. “Then stay.”

Sage rolls off of him, using her elbow to prop herself up as she gazes down at him. Theo simply lies there and lets her look.

“But your dad … doing Christmas here is a big deal for you two. I don’t want to intrude.”

“Honestly? You’d be helping more than you’d be hindering. It would be nice to have someone there to help diffuse the tension. It’s … going to be a lot. For both of us.” His mouth pinches as he registers his words. “Wow, I’m not selling this well, am I?”

He’s not. So it makes no sense that Sage is actually considering it, especially when there are things like five thousand miles and fans and …

And in the light of morning, those look less like reasons and more like excuses, because there’s another list in her mind, and it says things like conversations on the couch, and Never Have I Ever, and hospitals, and pasta, and crisps and wine, and …

Oh.

Oh.

Sage’s heart trips, the way it might if she was standing on one of the sea cliffs and considering diving into the waters below. It’s the windup right before free fall. The teetering seconds just before you realize that even if you wanted to turn back, you can’t, because you’ve already taken one step too far.

Everything has already changed.

Theo’s throat bobs, his fingers curling around the back of her head as if he can keep her here.

She thinks maybe he can.

“Stay,” he breathes.

Her stomach swoops.

“I’ll stay,” she murmurs.

It plunges.

Free fall.

19
Merry Little Christmas

The 3 Best Friends That Anyone Did Have

Dec 16 8:55 PM

@M can you send me your recipe for that roasted beet & goat cheese salad you made at Friendsgiving last year?

M

!!!!!

M

I’ve been waiting for this moment for so long.

M

Recipe Link: A Salad You Can’t BEET

Disaster

Before you combust, M …

We all know Theo is going to be the one making it.

Literally no one is talking to you.

A SALAD YOU CAN’T BEET STOP IT.

Horrible pun. Booooo, throw tomatoes.

Disaster

[Literally no one is talking to you.]

Theo is. HE doesn’t silence chats.

Did he order the turkey? He seemed stressed about that.

M

Oooh yeah, did the co-op have any left?

STOP TEXTING THEO

Disaster

HAHAHAHAHHAHA HE’S OURS NOW, BITCH

M

I also have a great, whole grain carrot cake recipe.

Should I send it to him? I know he was looking for a dessert!

You two are the bane of my existence.

Disaster

I love it when you talk dirty to me.

M

Same.

“Grab some butter, would you?” Theo asks as he rests his arms on the handle of the shopping cart and squints at the list on his phone.

“How much do we need?”

“Probably about a kilo.” Sage lifts a brow. Waits until Theo blinks up at her. He rolls his eyes. “Two packs. Come on, data analyst, keep up.”

“My computations only work in the imperial system.”

“Such a nerd.”

“Thank you!” she chirps as she goes in search of the butter.

It’s Friday, the twenty-second—the day Sage was originally supposed to be on a flight to Chicago—but instead she’s standing in the middle of a packed co-op with the rest of the shoppers scrambling to prepare for the holiday weekend. She’s reached a sort of moratorium on arguing with her parents, trading novel-length texts for short, stilted ones to schedule a FaceTime for Christmas morning so they can at least see each other. For all they know, she’s staying in Scotland alone.

Noah, on the other hand, had remained brief and to the point.

I’ll miss you.

She couldn’t tell if it had helped or only deepened the hurt. Perhaps both. She knows they have a longer conversation coming—a larger, heavier one that they’ll both hate and then appreciate in the end—but she doesn’t have it in her to have it yet. She has a habit of putting things off. Of pretending the problems don’t exist and focusing instead on ones she either creates on her own or knows she can easily fix.

She glances over her shoulder, watching as Theo murmurs to himself while scanning the grocery list on his phone.

She’s been putting off thoughts of what happens next with him, too. They’ve spent the bulk of the last week together, Theo reading through scripts and Sage fiddling with her draft until they both give up the pretense of being productive and get lost in each other instead. They haven’t spent all their time in bed; they did manage to make it to the Fairy Pools and Old Man of Storr.

And while they didn’t have dinner with Greta and Edgar, Theo did drop off some Christmas cookies he’d baked, and they’d visited with them for at least an hour.

Sage loved hearing the stories about the trouble Theo used to get into around the island. She smiles as she thinks of how they made his cheeks flush, even as a grin tugged at his lips as Greta regaled Sage with tale after tale.

Sage grabs the butter and makes her way back to Theo. He’s barely made it three feet, but instead of squinting at his phone, he’s frowning up at the shelves from beneath the pulled-low brim of his ball cap as if they’ve personally offended him.

“They don’t have the brand I like,” he pouts.

“Sorry?”

“The thyme,” he mutters, his arms folding across his chest as he glares at what looks like a perfectly acceptable jar of thyme to Sage. She reaches across him and plucks it off the shelf, her face scrunching to mimic Theo’s furrow as she does.

“You’re sort of a control freak, did you know that?”

“From the mouths of babes,” he scoffs, his hand latching onto her wrist and tugging so she’s pressed against him. “This thyme isn’t good.”

“It’s the only one they’ve got. Do you want it or not?” He purses his lips, and Sage grins. “Come on, Theo. Thyme’s a wastin’.”

“Oh my god,” he groans. “That was horrible.”

She laughs, and Theo grins and ducks his head, and she’s tilting hers up to meet him, not a care in the world, but—

Theo freezes.

Pulls back.

Looks at her with wide eyes and a tight smile.

“Sorry,” he coughs. His hand drops to the cart, pink streaking across his cheeks as he shakes his head. “Probably not the wisest place to be doing that.”

He glances around, and sure enough, a teenaged boy is gawking at him as he shops with his mom. He murmurs something to her, and the mom looks over at Theo before tugging her son away.

The thing is, neither of them spare Sage a glance.

Actually, no.

That’s not the thing.

The thing is that Sage hadn’t even thought about the implications of going out in public together when Theo had grabbed her suitcase from the back of Hank, tossed it in his bedroom, and promptly declared they had to go to the supermarket before it became chockablock with people.

She had spent a few minutes debating with him about which version of the English language was more utterly ridiculous, but that’s beside the point.

She hadn’t thought about it—chockablock or no. They’ve been so insulated here, so in their own little world, she’d just … hopped into his car and readied their shopping list without considering the consequences.

And ironically, it wasn’t anyone else who reminded them. Theo was right—people here leave him alone.

It was Theo who just brought them back into reality, and she finds her lips parting but no words surfacing because …

Because Theo put space between them, and she has no right to feel any sort of way about it, but she does. She does, and the middle of the grocery store isn’t the place to dissect that, so instead she forces a shrug and says, “Another thyme, then.”

Theo nudges her, his laugh bouncing off the perfectly acceptable jars of herbs that line the shelves.

“Bloody impossible,” he mutters, but the smile on his lips gives him away. His phone dings, and he fishes it out of the back pocket of his jeans as Sage takes over pushing the cart.

“Sure, sure.” She waves him off. She has no idea what they’re looking for next, but she takes the lead anyway, stumbling a bit as the cart wheel sticks to the floor. “You keep saying that,” she says as she recovers, “but I’m not sure you actually mean it.” She reaches the end of the aisle and looks both ways. “Where to now?”

Theo doesn’t answer.

Sage turns to see him still standing in front of the dried herbs and spices.

No, not standing.

He looks … frozen to the spot. His head is bent as he gazes down at his phone, and with his hat, she can’t see his expression, but she knows from the rigid line of his shoulders that something is wrong. He doesn’t move as she approaches—doesn’t acknowledge her presence at all, even when she calls his name.

Sage abandons the cart and steps to his side, her fingers curling around his forearm, public space be damned.

“Theo,” she says again. “What is it?”

He lifts his head slowly, his jaw tight and his eyes clouded over. He swallows. Tucks the phone back in his pocket. Clears his throat. But the gravel is still there when he says, “He’s not coming.”

Sage is too focused on the tension lining his face to connect the pieces. She frowns, her mouth moving to question him, but Theo shakes his head. “My dad,” he clarifies, his round vowels clipped. “He’s not coming.”

A lifetime of being a bookish nerd means Sage is well practiced at picking up subtext. Not coming isn’t can’t come, which means this … is a choice.

A horrible, selfish, rage-inducing choice that has something fierce and protective unfurling in her as she tightens her hold on his forearm.

“What the fuck?”

“Quite,” he mutters, infuriatingly composed.

“Why?” she demands. Theo fixes his gaze ahead, his chin lifting slightly as he stares unseeingly down the aisle.

“Some business thing came up, I guess.”

“Theo.”

“It’s f—”

“It is not fine,” Sage interjects. “It’s—” She swallows her words when his gaze cuts to hers, because that firm grip on his mask slips, just for a second, giving her a peek at the devastation he’s keeping just below the surface.

“Can we not do this here?” he requests, a plea woven through it. “Please? I just … not here.”

It breaks her heart a little.

A lot.

“Okay,” she agrees. She squeezes his arm once before letting go. “Okay,” she repeats. If Theo doesn’t want to talk about it, they won’t talk about it. But she’s not sure what else he wants, because he’s just standing there, looking lost and close to tears, and it makes Sage’s chest ache.

She wants to fix it.

She has to fix it.

“New plan,” she says, nudging Theo to get him moving toward the cart. “Christmas mash-up.”

Confusion pinches the space between his brows as he frowns warily at her. “What?”

“You pick some of your favorite traditions, I’ll pick mine, and we’ll mash them together and make something totally messy that reflects the state of our lives right now.”

For a moment, she fears she’s gone too far, because Theo merely stares at her. But then his shoulders are dropping and his head is tilting back as he huffs a laugh. “How is that any different from what we were doing?”

“Be serious,” Sage deadpans. “Neither of us are choosing turkey.”

He gives her a bemused smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he shakes his head.

“Christ, Collins,” he breathes. “I am so bloody glad you stayed.”

“Did you know he based his accent in this off of Sean Connery?” Sage says as she breaks a corner off the gingerbread house they’re supposed to be decorating and pops it in her mouth, eyes fixed on the TV.

It’s Christmas Eve, and her chosen tradition is watching Jim Carrey’s How the Grinch Stole Christmas. It’s her and Noah’s favorite. They’ve watched it every single Christmas Eve since it came out, and there’s something about the “Holidayhoobiehwhattie” of it all that makes Sage giddy. It’s extra and overkill and she and Noah love to quote it, even when Christmas is, say, nine long months away.

It always made them feel … close.

And while she’d been overcome by a wave of bittersweet nostalgia and longing when the opening credits had played, that sting of sadness has faded slightly as the movie continues on. Perhaps it’s because she’d swallowed her pride and texted Noah a picture of the title as it scrawled across the screen.

A bit passive of her, really, but it counted for something, because he’d replied with a GIF of their favorite scene and the quote beneath it, and it’s silly, but it felt like the beginning of an olive branch.

An olive twig, she supposes.

“I did know that,” Theo murmurs, drawing her attention from the screen. His tongue pokes through his teeth as he draws scalloped frosting lining the roof of the gingerbread house.

This, obviously, had been his chosen tradition. Except it wasn’t really a tradition at all, because when she’d asked what the story was behind it, he’d simply shrugged and said, I’ve just always enjoyed making them, but I haven’t done it since primary school.

So they’d made pizza (an actual Sharpe family tradition) and uncorked a bottle of wine and settled in front of the TV with a gingerbread house kit and Jim Carrey, and Sage can’t remember the last time she felt this content.

“He also had to undergo CIA training to endure the makeup process,” she remarks. She reaches for another piece of gingerbread, and Theo smacks her hand.

“Oi! Knock it off. You’re ruining the house!”

“It’s supposed to be eaten!” she argues as Cindy Lou Who holds up a flashlight the size of her head and begins to sing. It distracts Sage from the gingerbread long enough to say, “She was on Gossip Girl.”

Theo laughs. “Is this what it’s been like watching movies with me these last few weeks?” he asks lightly, his eyes bright with mirth.

“Worse.” She sniffs, going back in for the piece she’d abandoned. She’s too quick for him, and she hums in victory as she snatches it and pops it into her mouth before he can stop her. “You’re far more pretentious.”

Theo smears frosting on her cheek, and Sage throws a gumdrop at him in retaliation, and Cindy Lou sings on as Theo lunges for her. Sage is only slightly embarrassed by the squeal that bursts from her as he wrestles her to the ground.

“Hey!” She laughs, her fingers reaching for the gingerbread house. She swipes them through the frosting and drags her fingers across Theo’s jaw in retribution.

“You’re a nightmare.” Theo chuckles, his hands pinning her wrists to the floor by her head. Sage’s heart stutters in her chest as she looks up at him. He’s all messy blond hair and flushed cheeks and bright eyes, the frosting on his jaw doing absolutely nothing to hide how effortlessly handsome he is.

And just like that, Sage forgets about the movie and the gingerbread house and anything that isn’t getting her lips on Theo immediately.

He clocks the shift in her demeanor, giving her a sly smile before ducking his head to kiss her.

He stops just before her lips, and Sage bites back an aggravated sound.

“Maybe we should wait,” Theo taunts, kissing the corner of her mouth. “We shouldn’t make more of a mess.” He moves to her cheek, his tongue laving up the frosting there.

Sage tilts her head to give him better access, her hips pushing up against his. “You started it,” she breathes, but the teasing lilt of her voice is lost to a gasp as he rolls his hips down. Theo finishes licking the frosting from her cheek, his grin smug as he stares down at her.

It takes only a second more before he breaks.

He tastes like vanilla and sugar and red wine when he kisses her, and Sage chases that combination as she licks into his mouth, her hands weaving into his hair and mussing it up further.

They kiss until she’s dizzy with it, until they have to pull away to catch their breath and shed their clothes. Even with the cold lingering outside, Sage feels like her skin is on fire as Theo runs his hands over wherever he can reach as he starts to take her apart right there on the floor.

He pins her wrists again as he slides into her, like he knows she wants to be completely consumed by him. And with the way he keeps himself pressed close, his spine rolling like gentle waves as he moves his hips, he does.

He consumes her entirely.

Sage comes with Theo’s name on her lips and her fingers gripped tightly in his, her body trembling in the wake of her pleasure.

Later, Theo gapes at the frosting in his hair, and Sage finds a piece of candy cane in hers, and they both lament the mess until it drives them under the warm spray of the shower, where they lose themselves in each other all over again.

And when they finally crawl under the covers of Theo’s bed, Sage wonders if this—pizza and wine and broken gingerbread houses and unfinished movies—is her favorite tradition yet.

Sage wakes up to the smell of cinnamon rolls. She buries her face further into the pillow, inhaling deeply as Theo’s scent wraps around her fully, and lets herself breathe in the peace of Christmas morning, the kind that comes with knowing there’s a long day of slow indulgence stretching ahead. It’s tinged with a hollowness in her chest, followed by a sinking sensation as she thinks of her family.

In a few hours, they’ll be up and crowded together in the kitchen, an open tin of Garrett’s popcorn on the counter that they’ll snack from as Noah makes an egg casserole. Their parents will go about their morning routine of sipping coffee and doing the crossword. Cecelia will join them, much to their chagrin, but she’ll be so damn nice about it that they won’t tell her that her hovering and shouting out incorrect answers bothers them. She’ll grow bored and make Bellinis, and Noah will shoot his wife soft and unguarded smiles that used to make Sage think someone had hijacked her brother’s body.

And Sage …

Sage will be 3,551 miles away, wondering if her absence is really felt at all.

“Morning,” Theo says from where he’s leaning against the doorframe. A pair of blue-and-black-checkered pajama pants sits low on his hips, a plain white undershirt stretching across his chest and highlighting the slight cut of his biceps where it cups his arms.

“Hi,” Sage greets. “It smells good.”

He makes his way to the bed and perches on the edge of the mattress, his hand warm where it settles on her bare back. “They’ll be ready in a bit. Can I entice you with coffee?”

“You can always entice me with caffeine—you know this.”

Theo’s fingers trace shapes on her spine as he lets out a quiet laugh. “That I do.” His expression goes impossibly softer, his chin jutting to her prone form. “Do you want to talk about it?” Something warm unfurls in her chest at the simple question and what it reveals about him—about them. About her, maybe, too. Sage loves to be seen but hates to be perceived. But she doesn’t feel that way with Theo. Not anymore. Maybe not ever. Not truly.

“I was just thinking about my family,” she murmurs. She slides her hand along the sheets until it finds his free one and tangles their fingers together. “It’s strange, not being with them today. I don’t regret not going, but it’s still … achy?”

Theo makes a soft sound of understanding, his thumb brushing across the edge of her own.

“I was thinking about what they’ll be doing in a few hours,” she continues, “and I realized I don’t really have a role in it. I’m just sort of there, and this year I’m not, and it just made me feel like … I don’t know … maybe they won’t miss me at all.”

Which isn’t even the point. Sage isn’t staying away to punish them or prove something with her absence. She’s doing it for herself, because she needs the space. They both need the space—her and her parents. But the thought intrudes anyway, and it makes the inner corners of her eyes sting a bit.

Theo brushes a kiss to the back of her hand. He’s quiet for a long moment, reflective in his own way, and when he finally speaks, it’s not a long soliloquy of reassurance, but something simple and pointed, like he knows that’s all she can take.

“You, Collins, are entirely missable.”

Sage bites back a smile, her teeth digging into her bottom lip. “As romantic as that was, that word doesn’t mean what you think it means.”

“Who’s insufferable now?” he mumbles as he ducks down and presses his mouth to hers in a kiss that is entirely too short. “Now come on,” he urges, tugging on her hand. “Up you get.” His eyes glint mischievously, his brows furrowing as he dons an eerily perfect Jim Carrey mocking Sean Connery while playing the Grinch accent. “There will be no sad faces on Christmas.”

“Please stop immediately. That was so creepy. I hated every second.”

“I’m an actor, darling,” he says as he heads toward the kitchen, grinning over his shoulder. “Comes with the territory.”

Sage gives herself thirty whole seconds to deal with the way her face burns with that new term of endearment before she finally shucks off the covers, throws on a pair of sweats and one of Theo’s T-shirts—white, with three navy lions on the top right corner—and joins him in the kitchen.

He’s busy pouring coffee into mugs, but when he turns around, he stills, his eyes raking over her slowly. The corner of his mouth pulls tight as he shakes his head.

“I don’t consider myself a possessive man,” he remarks, his voice like a rumble of distant thunder. “But seeing you in that shirt might be the thing to prove otherwise.”

Sage smiles and takes the coffee he offers before immediately setting it aside and occupying herself with Theo’s mouth instead. It’s nearly as effective as caffeine in bringing her to life. The timer for the cinnamon rolls goes off some time later, when Theo has her seated on the counter and is kissing her deeply, and she has half a mind to tell him to forget breakfast and drag him back to bed instead, especially when he pulls away with red, swollen lips that slide into a lazy, sated grin.

The self-control she exhibits when she lets him step back and tend to the cinnamon rolls could win medals.

It’s worth it in the end. The pastries are delicious.

They eat an unreasonable number, and Sage makes Bellinis in an unintended homage to her sister-in-law, who sends her a text at 6 AM Chicago time to wish her a merry Christmas, and they sprawl out on the couch and watch Polar Express and play an old, dusty Candy Land Theo’s mom brought from the States that Theo unearths from the sideboard. Theo makes lunch—turkey, because he’s stubborn and insists that they can’t have a proper Christmas Day without it—and they field awkward FaceTime calls from their families as they wait for it to cook. Sage takes hers in front of a nondescript wall in the hopes her eagle-eyed mother won’t notice she’s not in the Airbnb she’d previously FaceTimed her from, but it ends up being completely unnecessary. They’re barely on the call long enough for her mom to notice much at all, including the fact that Sage is wearing an English football shirt.

Noah makes an appearance, and there’s an awkward tension the entire time, a sort of we all know that we’re fighting but are going to pretend for the sake of a Hallmark holiday that we’re not, and Sage knows this is going to be a Thing for a while but decides as she hangs up that it’s a Future Sage problem.

They eat too much food—again—and end up in front of the wood burner with one too many open bottles of wine afterward. They’re readying to indulge in them anyway on the couch when Sage’s phone buzzes with a FaceTime from Emerson.

“Merry Christmas!!” Emerson screeches as the call connects. Margot’s square fills the bottom of the screen, and she cranes her neck as if she can see past where Sage holds the phone.

“How did the salad turn out?” she asks in lieu of a greeting.

“We didn’t make it,” Theo answers as he ducks into view with an apologetic smile. “Thanks for the recipe, though.”

“Theo. Looking dashing as ever.” Emerson grins.

“Likewise.” His shoulder rests against Sage’s as he settles next to her on the couch. “Happy Christmas.”

“What have y’all been up to today?” Emerson asks. She gives them a pointed look. “And keep it PG, would you? There are little ears around.”

A pillow comes careening into view, smacking Emerson upside the head. “My ears are not that small!” someone snaps from just off camera. Someone that sounds a lot like …

“Taylor?!” Sage exclaims. Taylor peeks in over Emerson’s shoulder, a resigned look on her face.

“Merry Christmas, Sage,” she sighs. Her eyes drag to Theo, giving him a curt nod. “Sage’s famous friend.” She glances down at Emerson, who’s lying on her stomach on her bed, her ankles crossed in the air behind her. “I’m going to go get started on the cake for later,” she murmurs. She hesitates for a brief moment before she drops a kiss on Emerson’s head and exits the frame, leaving Sage gaping at the camera.

“Did you know about this?!” she demands, looking at Margot.

“We all knew about this,” Margot says with a shrug. “Well, sort of.”

Before Sage can ask what that means, Theo gives Emerson an appreciative nod. “Took my advice, did you?” he says with a grin.

“Wait a fucking minute,” Sage interrupts, whipping her head to Theo. “You knew?”

“I knew Emerson might have opened a door with her drunk texts a few weeks ago, and I may have advised on how she could … walk through it. I hadn’t heard how it went, though,” he says lightly, as if he hasn’t been embroiled in a dating scheme with two of Sage’s best friends without her even knowing.

“Theo had some great advice,” Emerson confirms. “It worked.” She pauses, a strange look crossing over her face before she gives her head a small shake. It’s gone in a blink, replaced by Em’s usual bravado.

“Obviously,” she adds with a sly grin.

Margot’s brows flick up, but Sage is still too busy reeling to unpack whatever that was. She looks between Theo and her friends, her lips parted in disbelief.

“I thought this was a joke!”

Emerson sniffs. “Shouldn’t have muted the group chat.”

“I checked the group chat,” Sage insists.

“We moved it to the other group chat, babe,” Margot explains as Emerson bobs her head in agreement.

And that’s …

Well, that’s just …

Sage doesn’t really have the words for what that is.

Emerson launches into some update about how, exactly, Taylor ended up with her for Christmas, which Sage is only half following because apparently, so much of what she thought was a joke and a way to get on her nerves was real and she’s trying rapidly to fill in the gaps. But Theo sits beside her with a soft smile as he listens to her best friend ramble, nodding along and interjecting at the perfect places, slotting himself right into her life as if he just … fits.

He catches Sage looking at him, his brow lifting in a subtle what as Emerson wraps up her monologue.

“I want in,” Sage pouts.

“See!” Emerson yelps. “I told you she’d cave if we created enough FOMO!”

“I despise all three of you,” Sage grumbles, her brow furrowing as she sinks into the cushion. Theo drapes a reassuring arm over her shoulder while Margot tuts through the screen.

“That’s very bah humbug of you.”

“Dreadful Christmas spirit,” he agrees with a smirk. He winks down at her, then takes the phone so she can rest her arm.

“Is this what the group chat is going to be like? Because if so, I take it back, I want nothing to do with it.”

“Too late.” Emerson’s voice is muffled, the crown of her head—which is the only thing visible on the screen—eclipsed by a notification as it flashes across the top of Sage’s phone.

Emerson added you to the Instagram group chat: Theo & the Chickmonks.

“I didn’t choose the name,” Theo vows, wide-eyed and sincere.

“Mm,” Margot hums. “But you didn’t change it, either.”

It’s ridiculous—all of it—and it makes Sage feel a ridiculous amount, too. Warm and full and aching in a different way than she did this morning, so damn far from casual, which she’s known for longer than she’s cared to admit.

But now it’s staring her in the face and making her think ridiculous things, because when they end the call and Theo kisses her on the couch beneath the lights of the Christmas tree until she’s dizzy and wanting and desperate, she thinks there isn’t much she wouldn’t trade for this. There isn’t much that would keep her from wanting to do this for longer than four weeks plus some unplanned, extra days.

She’s breathless by the time he carries her into his room and lays her down in his bed, but he ignores her pleas for more.

He takes his time.

Like maybe, he’s thinking there’s not much that would keep him from her, too.

Reality has always had a way of rushing in for Sage. Of making itself known, especially in the height of her bliss. She’s a dreamer being constantly shaken awake, desperate for the next time she drifts off so she can lose herself again.

Theo’s side of the bed is cold the next morning, but Sage lingers in the warmth of the sheets as her thoughts stir, hazy and crawling toward the front of her mind like morning mist.

The twenty-sixth has always been a time when that frenetic energy she somehow manages to trade for a day of ease and slowness retakes its place in her brain, front and center.

So she expects the barrage of thoughts. But it’s worse, because the list isn’t just filled with the typical angst she gets when another year has passed and there’s still so much she wants to do.

No, this time it’s topped with a sublist, titled FIGURE IT OUT, and all of the bullets are written like questions.

• Five thousand miles?

• Fans?

• Mistake?

Her brain crosses out that last one as soon as it appears.

She finds Theo sitting at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around an empty mug, gaze fixed on the snow-dusted hills that stretch on farther than they can see. He offers a soft, closed-lip smile when she approaches, his arm sliding around her waist and tugging her down into his lap, and she can tell by the way his eyes find the window again that he’s turning over the points on his own list. She lets her cheek rest against his temple. Lets the gray morning settle over them. Lets silence reign.

“I have to be back in London for New Year’s Eve,” Theo murmurs sometime later, the words rumbling against where they’re pressed together. Sage lifts her head and finds his gaze.

She knows. They’ve talked about it. Theo has an event—some sort of brand-hosted New Year’s Eve party he has to show his face at. Sage has her own flight out on the thirtieth, back to LA.

They’d bought themselves an extra week. That had always been the plan.

But Theo is looking up at her, his stare vulnerable and unwavering as he says, “Come with me?”

Sage lets out a laugh of surprise, or maybe disbelief. “What?”

But Theo doesn’t laugh. He just wets his lips and looks at her with those impossibly blue eyes and says again, “Come with me,” like it’s simple and easy and there aren’t a million and one things they need to figure out, their New Year’s Eve plans the absolute least of them.

Sage’s hands slide from where they’re resting on his shoulders, settling on his chest, and she can feel the steady beat of his heart beneath her palm, strong and certain.

“There’s a red carpet of sorts that I’ll have to do, but I can meet you inside after,” Theo says as if he’s planned this. “I’ve already been assured there won’t be any photos inside, and this time, I mean it. It’s all very strict. There are plenty of people who will be in attendance who don’t want their privacy invaded. I talked to my publicist, Jan, and my dad, and—”

“You have planned this,” Sage interrupts on an exhale.

He talked to his dad—before he’d canceled his trip? After?

Theo’s throat bobs. “Yeah. Yes. I figured it was better to be prepared before I asked you.” His hands flex where they rest on her hips, as if she’s a known flight risk. Maybe she is. Because when he presses on, he does it in a way that’s clear that he’s thought about this, and not just thought about it, but prepared his argument thoroughly.

“It won’t be like it was at Comic Con. I … I can make sure we’re left alone. That you’re left alone. People do it all the time. They keep entire families out of the spotlight—”

“I’m supposed to be in LA,” Sage breathes. It’s a quiet fact, but it takes a wrecking ball to Theo’s rehearsed logic. For a moment, he simply blinks at her. Because he knows—he knows she’s not just talking about her flight on the thirtieth, or the date she has with her couch and a pint of ice cream on the thirty-first, but all of the days after that, too.

Because he’s talking about the very same.

He’s not preparing for a single night at a single party, but days and weeks and months of separating the public and private parts of his life.

But she’s in LA. Her life is there. Her apartment and her friends and her routines, no matter how much she loves to break them. She loves LA. It’s her place. Her home.

She’s in LA and he’s in London, and reality is rushing in, bulldozing over weeks of ignorant bliss, constructing arguments against the things she wants but isn’t sure it’s possible to have.

“Don’t do that,” Theo says. “Don’t pretend like this isn’t … like we aren’t…”

There’s a knot pulling tight in Sage’s chest, insistent beneath his earnest gaze and the way he searches for the threads of an argument she’s already tugged apart.

She shifts on his lap, but he grips her tighter, holding her in place. “Don’t.”

“Theo,” she tries. “It’s not that I don’t … You know that I…”

Words have never failed her so thoroughly, but she can’t seem to get them past the boulder that’s lodged itself in her throat. Because while Sage has been staring her bullets down, Theo has gone through his own, has addressed every single one.

He cups her face, tilting her head down so she can’t look away.

“Come with me,” he whispers. “Come with me so I can kiss you at a ridiculous party at a ridiculous hour, and we’ll … we’ll figure out the rest as it comes. For now, just … just come with me.”

If Sage has learned anything about herself in the last thirty years, it’s that she likes to be prepared. In control. One step ahead.

Unless.

Unless there’s something she wants, and it’s right in front of her willing to be taken. Then …

Well, then she flings herself off a cliff before she checks to see if she’s packed a parachute.

Nights. Skye. Theo.

She sucks in a steadying breath.

“Okay,” she says.

“Okay,” Theo whispers.

“Okay.”

20
A Rush of Reality

They leave for London the next day. Sage doesn’t even want to think about the change fee from changing her flight again. Theo, ever the gentlemen, insisted he handle their flight to London, though.

Heathrow is crowded and loud and jarring after the peace of Skye, but Theo navigates it all with ease. He’s got his hood tugged up and sunglasses on, a disguise they don’t discuss but know is necessary, and it’s sort of ridiculous, but it works. They make it to the car Theo hired undisturbed, and then they’re driving the hour into the city while Theo holds her hand and rattles off the spots he wants to show her the week she’s here: the Indian spot in Shoreditch and Saint Dunstan in the East and Spitalfields Market.

She’d moved her flight home to the third. It still doesn’t feel like enough time. She’ll go back to LA, and she’ll get back to work on the draft she’s been trying to fix since Marie’s email, and Theo …

Well. They’ll figure it out as it comes.

The rain holds off until they arrive at his flat in Hackney, and then the skies open up just as they’re getting out of the car. A rude sort of Welcome Back to Reality from the universe.

It doesn’t matter.

They rush inside in a tangle of suitcases and jackets, laughing so hard they can see the evidence of it on the air that clouds in front of them as they tumble into the lobby.

“I’m shocked you handle your own luggage,” Sage teases as they crowd into the elevator. She pushes her rain-soaked hair from where it’s plastered to her cheeks.

Theo rolls his eyes. “Yes, I’ll know I’ve really made it when I never have to pick up a bag myself.”

His flat is on the top floor, all the way at the end of a long hall. He looks a bit shy as he goes to unlock the door, and Sage wonders how many people he lets see this. She feels touched and sad all at once.

“Right,” Theo says as he pushes the door open and gestures her inside. “This is me.”

The space is large and open, warm, with worn wooden floors and tall windows. There’s a bookshelf stacked with more movies than Sage has books, and photos on the walls, and an old signed poster of one of the English football players, and a basket full of fuzzy throw blankets that sits in the living room next to a leather sectional.

“I love it,” Sage says as she steps farther into the space. There’s a large kitchen with a massive granite island on the left. A small eating area sits behind the living room, and behind that is a hall that she imagines leads to the bedrooms.

She turns slowly on the spot, her attention snagging on the gallery wall behind his TV. She steps closer to it, her brow furrowing as she takes in all of the photos.

“Who’s this?” she asks, pointing to a photo of Theo and a man who looks to be about their age. They’re standing in front of what looks like a cathedral.

Theo steps up behind her, close enough that she can feel the heat of him at her back.

“Ah, that’s my mate James,” he says. “We met at Cambridge.”

“Was he one of the friends who witnessed your Britney Spears club nights?”

He lets out a long sigh. “Yes.”

Sage tips her head back to grin at him. “Can I meet him? Like, right now?”

“Well, he’s in Dubai, so no. He’s a consultant. He’s always traveling for work.”

“Maybe I’ll start a group chat with him.”

Theo’s nose scrunches as he winds his arms around her waist. “God, I loathe to think what would come of that.”

She opens her mouth to retort, even as she leans back into him, wet clothes and all, but something brushes against her legs. She startles, but Theo just grins and follows her gaze down to the small black cat peering up at her.

“Toothless!” She immediately untangles herself from Theo’s hold and scoops up the cat. Toothless lets out a surprised meow, but he nuzzles against her immediately, as if he doesn’t even care her shirt is soaked through.

Sage is instantly obsessed.

“Theo,” she coos, shifting to cradle Toothless like a baby. The cat starts to purr. “I love him.”

Theo lifts an amused brow. “He’s quite cuddly, isn’t he?”

Sage nuzzles her cheek against his soft fur in wordless agreement. “You know, I never asked why you named him after How to Train Your Dragon.”

Theo’s smile is fond, even as that distance she’s come to associate with his grief clouds his eyes like a film. “Oliver and I were obsessed with the books,” he explains. “Mum used to read them to us. And when the movie came out, we made a whole big deal of it.” He blinks, and some of that haze clears. “I couldn’t watch the film for years after he died, but then I met this hellion, and the name came to me instantly. I brought him home and rewatched the movie with him.”

He scratches the top of Toothless’s head. “It fits him,” he finishes with an easy shrug.

Sage smiles, her fingers brushing Theo’s arm as she steps past him.

“I can’t wait for him to sleep with us tonight,” she says as she wanders into the kitchen, Toothless’s purr like the low hum of an engine.

“That won’t be happening.”

“What? How could you deny this?” She cuddles Toothless closer, so their faces are squished together, and pivots to face Theo.

“He has a bed.”

“Okay, and? So do you. He’s probably desperate to try it out.”

Theo rolls his eyes. “I’m sure he slept there the entire time I was away.”

“See! He’s used to it. He has to sleep with us.”

He shakes his head as he grabs their suitcases and starts down the hall. If she didn’t know any better, she’d swear he mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like cock-blocked by my own fucking cat.

Theo comes back in sweats and a T-shirt with a towel for Sage, and Sage relinquishes Toothless so she can wrap her arms around him instead, because he looks so soft, so Theo, and she didn’t know why she expected everything to be drastically different here, but she did.

She’s glad to find it isn’t.

He tips up her chin and kisses her soundly, and Sage thinks that she might be content to do nothing but this the entire time. Screw the sights. She can see them another time.

“Maybe you’re right,” she breathes when Theo pulls away. “Maybe Toothless should sleep in his own bed.”

“Speaking of beds,” he murmurs as he presses a kiss to the hinge of her jaw. Heat zips down her spine, and she tilts her head back to give him more room to work. “You still haven’t seen mine. Shall I show it to you?”

“That was a horrible line.” She means to sound more admonishing, but Theo nips at that spot between her neck and shoulder and then soothes the bite with his tongue, and she can’t stop the breathy sound that leaves her when he does.

“It was,” he agrees against her skin. He takes a step backward toward the hallway, his hands tugging her with him. “But did it work?”

He takes another step.

“No,” Sage breathes.

It’s a complete and utter lie.

She follows him.

Of course she follows him.

300 likes
sagecollinsauthor So long, Skye. You were everything.

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Readandcoffee Okay but like Nights sequel WHEN?!?!

Yourmomsucks09 anyone feel like she’s tryin to be an
influencer now? First celeb parties and now a fancy
winter holiday?

bookslyn99 @yourmomsucks09 it’s giving “I have a celeb sugar daddy” for sure.

endlesstbr @bookslyn99 your misogyny is showing

Dec 27

Sage wakes up alone.

Well, not alone. Toothless is curled up in Theo’s spot next to her. She slides a hand across the sheets to scratch his head as she blinks the heaviness of sleep from her eyes. A glance at her phone tells her it’s just after 9 AM, so she sighs and shucks off the covers.

Theo is always up so early.

She stumbles slightly as she jostles into a pair of pajama pants and tugs on a sweatshirt to ward off the chill. Then she’s out of the room, the wood floors cold against her bare feet as she pads down the hallway toward the kitchen.

She hears Theo before she sees him. He’s murmuring, quick and urgent, and she doesn’t realize he isn’t on the phone until she’s out of the hallway and it’s too late. Theo’s back is to her, his arms crossed as he stares at the man who stands just inside the door.

Sage lurches to a stop, and the man’s gaze moves past Theo to her.

“You have company,” he remarks, his voice clipped as his eyes rake over her.

Blue, like Theo’s.

Theo’s eyes.

Ollie’s hair.

Theo’s jaw.

“Sage,” Theo breathes as he twists around to meet her. His throat bobs. Sage wraps her arms around her chest, and the man’s gaze darts to the lettering on her sweatshirt.

Theo’s sweatshirt.

“Sage,” Theo says again. He sucks in a breath, as if he’s rallying his strength. “Meet my father, Archie Sharpe.”

Archie may have Theo’s eyes, but he’s mastered the art of keeping them unreadable in a way Theo hasn’t. Because as he stares at Sage, she can honestly say she has no idea what that look on his face means.

“Dad, this is Sage Collins. She’s—”

“The author,” Archie fills in. He raises a brow at his son. “Bloody hell, Theo, when you said you were bringing a date for New Year’s Eve I wasn’t expecting this.”

Before Sage can even unpack what that’s supposed to mean, he adds, “If I recall correctly, you were quite adamant that you two weren’t together?” He looks back to Sage. “You both were.”

“Dad,” Theo warns.

“What?” He slides his hands into the pockets of his gray slacks. “I’m just trying to stay apprised of what’s going on. If there’s something we need to get ahead of in the press—”

“Dad.”

Sage takes a step back. “I should leave you two to—”

“No,” Theo interrupts, his hand grasping for her. She’s too far away for him to reach, but she stills anyway, especially as desperation twists his words into something clipped and tight as he pleads, “Just … wait.”

He inhales deeply through his nose as he turns back to his father. “You should have called before just coming over here.”

Archie chuckles, and there’s not an ounce of humor in it. “Clearly. But no matter. I was just dropping this script off.” He pops open the briefcase Sage hadn’t noticed in his hand and tugs out a thick stack of ring-bound papers. “Given you seem intent on ignoring your emails, I thought I’d hand deliver it. They’re eager for a response, son.”

“Jesus, Dad, it’s three days after Christmas.”

“You know how the Americans are. Always eager to take advantage of an opportunity.” His eyes slide to Sage again, and she bristles at the implication. She’s not even sure he’s purposefully making it, but it doesn’t matter. That thing in her chest goes tight anyway, and if the way Theo is looking at her says anything, he knows it.

“You should go,” Theo says to his father. “I’ll call you about”—he lifts the script with a defeated air—“all of this.”

“Call Jan while you’re at it,” Archie instructs. He motions between Theo and Sage. “If this gets out after all of that vehement denial, it’s going to make Comic Con look like a breeze.”

“There won’t be any press,” Theo grits out.

Archie sighs. Suddenly, he looks tired. Sad, even. “Be realistic, Theo. It’ll save you so much disappointment.” And then he straightens. Smooths his hand down the lapels of his sports coat. Gives his son a nod.

“Sage,” he mutters to her. “Lovely to meet you.”

And then he walks out the door, leaving nothing but bitter silence in his wake.

“Fuck,” Theo swears under his breath. He turns to face her, eyes wide. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea he was coming over.”

Sage tries to gather her thoughts—she really does. But there’s a heaviness in the flat that wasn’t there before, and she’s having trouble paying attention to anything other than the fact that she feels like she shouldn’t be here.

“There won’t be any press,” Theo reiterates.

Sage wets her lips and curls the sleeves of his sweatshirt around her hands. “What…”

“I promise you,” Theo says as he begins to close the distance between them. “I’ve already talked to Jan, and I—”

“I don’t know that that is the most important takeaway from what just transpired,” Sage carefully interrupts. She doesn’t even realize it until she’s said it, but it’s true. There’s so much to what Archie just unloaded on them, and Sage isn’t even sure how to sort through it all when Theo is standing before her looking so … lost.

His brow furrows, his head cocking as he says, “What do you mean?”

“Did you miss the part about Americans and our penchant for taking advantage of people?”

His shoulders drop slightly. “He doesn’t think that about you,” he insists. “His wife—my mum—was American. He had thirty years of teasing her about it. He doesn’t even know you.”

And that … that might be the very point, Sage thinks. He doesn’t know Sage or her intentions, and after all of that, she’s not keen to sit down and discuss it with him.

She’s not even sure she’d have anything to say.

Figure out the rest seemed like a Future Sage and Theo problem. Not a “one day after they land” problem. But it’s like his dad came in and threw cold water on them, startling them both awake from whatever dream they’d extended from Skye.

Sage swallows, her eyes finding the ceiling, and blinks hard. Suddenly, her throat feels tight.

She’d thought Archie had known she was coming. Why didn’t Theo …

“Why didn’t you tell him it was me you were bringing?”

Theo runs a hand through his hair as he lets out a frustrated breath. “Because I knew that’s exactly how he’d react.” He moves to the kitchen island and drops the stack of papers there. “He’d make it a thing, and it doesn’t have to be one.”

It does, though, Sage wants to argue.

It is.

“Theo. Maybe we should—”

Talk about it is what she plans to say. But Theo whispers a soft hey, like he knows she’s on the precipice of a spiral. He steps into her space, his hands warm as they take hers. “I already got it all worked out with Jan. It’s going to be fine. I promise.”

The words building in her throat—the ones that say it isn’t just about New Year’s Eve, but everything else—won’t come. Not when Theo’s gazing down at her with those bright eyes that never seem to be able to mask what he’s really feeling.

“Trust me,” he says, the hope in his voice reflected in his irises.

She wants to trust him. She does trust him.

“Okay,” she breathes.

He squeezes her hands and nods toward the kitchen. “I have to go to a fitting in about an hour and a half, but … how does breakfast sound? I can make a fry-up?”

He’s doing that thing he does—compartmentalizing the messy. Tucking away the grief and the tangles.

She shouldn’t let him.

But suddenly, everything feels so fragile, and she doesn’t want to be the one to make the wrong move.

To shatter it.

“Sounds great,” she says, and she hopes he can’t hear the uncertainty in her voice. “How can I help?”

498 likes
theosharpeswife rewatching THAT SCENE in Legends.

@theosharpe, I would die for you

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maddiesgotsnacks THE THIGHS
legendaryfanfic ugh I miss himmmmm. Why hasn’t he posted anything lately?!

hotpotato @legendaryfanfic because y’all literally bullied a friend of his???

legendaryfanfic @hotpotato omfg they weren’t even friends she literally SAID she had just met him. We’re just protective! people use celebrities all the time!

Dec 29

Theo’s been fiddling with his cuff links—Bulgari, yellow gold with black onyx—for the last fifteen minutes. They’re in the back of a nondescript black SUV with a posh leather interior, and though he looks utterly relaxed in his black, single-breasted Savile Row dinner suit—long legs sprawled out in front of him, jacket unbuttoned to accommodate his lounging—his fiddling gives him away.

“Do you get nervous for these?” Sage asks, drawing his attention from the rain-slicked, double-tinted window. They’re crawling through traffic, the city alive with New Year’s Eve fervor despite the wet cold.

“Not really,” he admits. He picks at the cuff link again, and Sage raises her brows as she tracks the motion. He follows her gaze down, and flashes her a sheepish smile. “Ah. I guess tonight’s a little different. I just … want it to go well.”

He looks at her from beneath his lashes, and with his hair styled to look tousled in nearly the exact same way Sage knows it looks when he just wakes up, the effect is absolutely devastating.

She glances at the seat in front of her, where Jan the publicist is typing away on her phone, the incessant clicking a strange sort of backing to the low music the driver has put on. She’s been trying to give them the illusion of privacy, and Sage appreciates it, especially as she reaches for Theo’s wrist and squeezes, a silent reassurance.

“Feeling all right?” he asks.

He’s been doing this quite a bit—checking in with her. Reiterating the plan. Running through the logistics just one more time so she won’t be surprised. By the time they met Jan in the entryway of his flat to go through the run of show for the evening, Sage could’ve recited it word for word.

They haven’t talked about Archie’s visit. She’d gone to shower after their breakfast and when she’d come back, Theo had left for his stylist appointment and the script was gone with him.

But the aftertaste is still there.

It followed them to the Indian restaurant in Shoreditch and on the double-decker tour bus she forced him on, disguises firmly in place. It snuck over her shoulder in front of Big Ben and hid in the courtyard of Saint Dunstan in the East.

It’s left a cloud hovering over them these last few days, and no matter how much she knows Theo wants to ignore it, she’s not sure how much longer they can.

Figure out the rest as it comes, he’d said.

Well, it had come. Archie had all but brought it through Theo’s front door three days ago, and yet … here they are, still pretending reality isn’t breathing down their necks.

It makes tonight feel like a strange sort of test.

She wonders if that’s why Theo looks like it’s his first red carpet.

“Yeah,” she finally answers. “Feeling fine.”

He slides his wrist from her hold so he can interlace their fingers together, his thumb taking its usual path, up and down the side of hers. For a long moment, he simply takes her in, his eyes moving from her curled hair to her dark-red painted lips to each and every place the champagne chain mail dress she’d found at Harrods hugs her beneath her wool topcoat.

She’d dubbed the cost yet another Future Sage problem—a new habit, it seems. She knows she’s going to regret it when her credit card statement rolls around, but for tonight, it feels worth it. Especially when Theo leans in, his long, lithe figure stretching across the seat until his lips are nestled against her ear, and murmurs, “You are, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

Her cheeks heat, goose bumps pricking her skin as he places a light kiss to the hinge of her jaw. There’s a hint of a smirk on his face as he pulls back, as if he knows just how affected she is.

Sage reaches for nonchalance and falls short of it by a mile as she says, “High praise, given you once shared a red carpet with Natalie Portman.”

Theo’s smirk only grows as he settles back in his seat, her hand still firmly clasped in his. He presses his mouth to the back of it, lips soft, stare heated. “Remember that time you claimed you didn’t Internet stalk me?”

“It was Natalie I was looking into.”

“Right, right.” He contemplates that for a moment, then shrugs. “Can’t blame you for that, honestly.”

“Five minutes out,” Jan calls from the front. There’s a pause, and then her clacking picks right back up.

“Thanks, Jan,” Theo says. He gives Sage’s hand a final squeeze before he releases it, his spine straightening as he smooths his hands down the front of his jacket.

He does this thing, Sage has noticed. Transforms in the span of two steady breaths, shifting from Theo to Theo Sharpe right before her eyes. He sits a little straighter, smiles in a way that’s a bit more practiced, a smirk more than a grin, closes it off so you can’t read the emotions behind it.

But they’re in his eyes.

They’re always in his eyes.

It’s fascinating to watch, but Sage’s favorite part is when he comes back to himself. When his shoulders drop and his jaw loosens and his smile goes big and wide and easy. When he closes the door on the outside world and lets himself just be.

When he puts down Theo Sharpe and becomes Theo again.

The car slows, and Sage feels her heart leap in anticipation. She’ll be brought through a secondary entrance of the venue, and Theo will join her after he walks the red carpet and poses for the paparazzi who are strictly contained to a single area along the main entrance.

He looks at her, his fingers toying with the cuff link again. “I’ll meet you inside in just a bit,” he says. The car stops, and Theo glances to the window behind her. “Ready?”

She’s not. But beneath that calm mask he’s plastered on his face, there’s worry. She sees it written clearly in his stare. So she says yes and goes to lean across the seat to give him one last kiss, but the door at her back swings open, stopping her in her tracks.

That was foolish of her.

They’d discussed this—being careful tonight, cameras or no.

Taking it slow.

Trying it out. A test.

She moves back. Gives him a closed-lip smile. “See you in there,” she says softly. And then she’s out of the car and she’s being whisked through a side door, an assistant leading her through a security check and a maze of halls she doesn’t really keep track of because the place is a labyrinth.

They end up in a ballroom of sorts, the space dimly lit with blues and pinks and purples. The assistant takes her coat and disappears, and Sage takes it all in.

There’s a champagne tower on a table and waitstaff in white sequin jackets passing out hors d’oeuvres and a table full of silent auction items that she can’t actually see through the throng of people already milling about. She feels a little uncomfortable, a little out of her element, but she swipes a glass of champagne, sends up a prayer of thanks that the tower doesn’t come tumbling down, and weaves through some truly beautiful people to get to the auction table, where she spends her time pretending to mull over what to bid on when really every single item is more than her entire advance for Nights.

Theo finds her frowning at a picture of a bungalow in the Maldives.

“That looks nice,” he says as if it’s an outfit he’s fond of and not a 200,000-pound vacation. He’s standing just behind her, the heat of him brushing against her back, and Sage has to actively try to keep herself from leaning back against him.

“You’d look good in the Maldives,” he muses.

“Sounds like a ploy to get me to wear fewer clothes.” She tilts her head so she can catch his smile. It’s still the one he uses for the cameras, but she likes it anyway, so it doesn’t matter. “How was it?”

Theo shrugs as she turns to face him properly. He has a coupe of champagne in his hand, and he takes a sip before he answers. “Honestly, you’ve done one red carpet, you’ve done them all.”

“Ah, yes, of course,” she teases, just to see that fond exasperation cross his face as he rolls his eyes. His fingers skim against hers, a quick touch, there and gone in an instant.

“Shall we?” He gestures ahead of him, ever the gentleman, and Sage lets the movement pull her from the edges of the room and into the thick of it all.

It’s a lot of small talk and greeting people she can’t remember the names of and fixed smiles that make her cheeks hurt, but honestly, she’s having such a nice time watching Theo that it’s not difficult to bear. He’s enigmatic and suave and funny and engaging, and he might still have his public face on, but he’s still so captivating that Sage has a hard time paying attention to much else. He catches her staring once, and his smile slips—becomes a little softer around the edges, a little shier, a little wider—before he recovers and throws himself back into the conversation with a fervor she’s only seen when he’s obsessing about things like directorial vision and emotional recall capabilities and outer tactics.

He introduces her as his friend who’s in town, makes sure she’s included, makes sure to bring up Nights and any other parallel she can latch on to, and she finds herself keeping up easily as the conversations shift between work and the mundane.

It’s like any other networking event, she realizes, and it’s strange that she didn’t think of it like that before, but it is.

And that simple realization has her wondering what it would be like—to not just follow the gesture of his arm but hold his hand. To kiss him in a room full of strangers and not worry who might be watching or what they might think. To not dart through a side entrance or back door. To make one stop at a venue instead of two.

Maybe it’s the champagne and the lights and the rush of being in a crowd she doesn’t know, but she doesn’t … well, she doesn’t think it would be impossible. Doesn’t think that Archie had it totally right.

They could figure it out.

They could do this.

“Theo Sharpe,” a voice drawls, cutting through her reverie. There’s a sudden itch at the back of Sage’s mind, but she doesn’t realize what it is—doesn’t know it’s because she recognizes that voice—until she turns around and sees Jaylen Hammel standing before them in a wine-red tuxedo.

The last time Sage saw the studio exec, he was shredding her dreams while sipping an overpriced merlot. He’s lost that pitying look, and maybe it’s because it takes him a moment to even register who she is.

There’s a pause, but then his eyes light up in recognition as he says, “Sage!” just as Theo says, “Jaylen.”

Theo cuts her a glance. “You two know each other?”

“We do, we do,” Jaylen answers jovially, as if they’re the best of friends. He bumps his cheek against Sage’s in an air-kiss before giving Theo’s hand a firm shake. “I didn’t realize you two know each other.”

Clearly, Jaylen had not been caught up on his gossip blogs over Comic Con. Or maybe he had, because he slides his hands into his pockets, grinning at Theo like the cat that caught the canary. “Honestly, though, this makes so much sense,” he says.

Sage’s stomach clenches, and Theo …

Theo shifts his body away from her, as if it might stop the assumptions Jaylen is already forming.

“Good holiday?” Theo redirects, slowly mirroring Jaylen’s relaxed posture. But there’s a rigidity in the space between his shoulders.

“Oh yeah, it was great,” Jaylen says affably. “Would have been better if I knew what it would take for you to come on board with us, though,” he adds with a wink. “I would have thought you’d want to see that movie made, Theo, unless you’re planning on shopping it somewh—”

Theo interrupts him with a laugh, and it’s so unlike the warm, bright sound Sage knows. It’s tight, and higher pitched, and riddled with tension.

“I’m figuring some stuff out,” he sidesteps. “Besides, I’m still on holiday for a bit.”

Jaylen holds up his hands in a gesture of innocence. “Hey man, I get it. No mixing business and pleasure, right?” he says with another wink. His gaze darts between them, and and there’s a new itching at the back of Sage’s mind that’s becoming more of a burn, like her body is catching on faster than her thoughts can.

“I do have some new material I think you’d be great for, though. I’ve passed it along to your agent and your dad.”

“Yeah, he’s sent it on,” Theo mutters.

“Excellent!” Jaylen grins. “Do let me know if you’re entangled with anyone on this one before you let me down, eh? Remember, man, you’re a priority for us.”

It shouldn’t take Sage so long to put the pieces together. But her brain is humming, and there’s that feeling she gets sometimes, like someone’s cracked an egg over her head and the yolk is slowly dripping down her skull, and it’s making it hard for her to breathe, let alone think.

The studio had an actor in mind. But then they’d pulled a complete one-eighty seemingly out of nowhere …

… at around the same time Theo was arguing with his dad about his next role.

This can’t be happening.

Surely this can’t be happening.

“Excellent,” Theo says through a stuck grin.

Jaylen claps him on the shoulder. “Sage,” he says with a nod. “Can’t wait to read the sequel. I know it’ll be brilliant.” He looks between them again and huffs out a laugh.

And then he’s gone, disappearing in a crowd of glitter and sparkles and jewel tones.

For a long moment, they simply stand there, Theo with a frozen look on his face and Sage trying not to bend to the screaming in her head.

She thinks she might be sick.

“It was you,” she breathes. “You were the actor they wanted for Nights.”

She grips her glass tighter so she doesn’t drop it.

That crease between Theo’s brows deepens, and for a brief moment, Sage thinks maybe she’s completely misread the situation. She wants to have completely misread the situation, because if she did, then it means Theo hasn’t been keeping this from her for months, hasn’t been encouraging her and helping her with her sequel all while privately thinking her art wasn’t actually worth it, hasn’t been practically lying to her, and—

And.

It’s in his eyes.

It’s always in his eyes.

“It was me,” he confirms, his voice strained.

It’s not even midnight yet—they still have an hour and change to go. But with those three simple words, Sage’s fantasy bursts, leaving nothing but cold reality in its wake.

It’s 11:45 and they’re back in Theo’s flat.

She’d tried to convince him that he should stay at the party, that she would take a cab, but Theo wouldn’t hear of it. So he’d summoned Jan and she’d called his driver and here they are, one tense, silent car ride later. Theo leans against the granite countertop of the kitchen bar, arms folded, and Sage stays perched on the edge of the leather couch, the low light of the living room lamp Theo turned on winking against her dress.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she finally asks.

His gaze is fixed on the hardwood floor, and he keeps it there as he says, “It was before I knew you.” His jacket is discarded on the bar next to him, his collar undone, and in the dim light of the floor lamp that illuminates the open space, he looks gaunt.

He meets her gaze slowly, jaw tight, eyes stoic. “It means nothing about what I think about your work,” he rasps. “It just wasn’t a fit for me. They’ll find someone better suited, and—”

“They dropped it,” she interrupts.

“What?”

“They dropped it. When you turned it down, they dropped the project entirely. He told me at Comic Con.” Sage can’t shake the monotone from her voice. She doesn’t know how else to deliver the news other than directly. Plain facts, no emotion despite the fissure of hurt that’s opening into a yawning chasm somewhere behind her sternum.

Theo stares at her, lips parted. “That was your shitty meeting. Christ, Sage, I had no idea.”

She grips the edge of the leather. Digs her nails in. Let’s some of the hurt and frustration seep into her tone as she says, “Yeah, well, neither did I.”

Theo pushes himself off the counter and takes a single step toward the couch. “It’s not … it’s not personal. Honestly, it has nothing to do with you, I just don’t want—”

“It has everything to do with me, actually,” she cuts in. “It’s my work. My career. It might not seem important to you, but—”

“That’s not fair,” Theo interrupts, hurt flickering across his face, there and gone in an instant. “You know that’s not what I meant. Don’t … don’t put words in my mouth.”

“Well, I have to fill in the blanks somehow,” she snaps, and god, that pain she feels, hollow and aching, is rapidly turning into something hot and pressing and bitter. “You’re not exactly forthcoming.”

“Oh, piss off,” he bites back. “What was I supposed to say? Hi, Collins, wonderful to be getting to know you, but just so you know, I turned down an offer to be tied to the film adaptation of your book. Fancy having a drink with me?”

There’s just enough mockery in his words, just enough condescension, to strike a match against the flint of anger in Sage’s chest. “So you kept it from me in the hopes that it wouldn’t ruin your chances to get in my pants? Charming.”

“Bloody hell, Sage, you know that’s not true!” He runs an irritated hand through his hair, fingers snagging in the product his styling team had carefully placed just hours ago. “You know that those types of roles aren’t what I’m after, that I’m trying to move away from big-box studios like that, and—”

“Are you?” she demands, as she pushes off the couch. “Because Jaylen Hammel seems to think he’s getting you on board. Have you shared your sentiments with him?”

“You know it’s not that simple,” he grits out. There’s a flush spreading across his cheeks, and anger in his gaze, and Sage meets it head-on with her own.

“Right,” she breathes. “Sure.”

“My dad—”

“Don’t,” she seethes. “Don’t even try.” She’s pacing, the wood cold on her bare feet.

“You can’t be angry with me for doing exactly what you’ve been encouraging me to do this entire time,” he mutters darkly.

“But you’re not,” Sage snaps, whirling to face him. “You’re still catering to your dad, who won’t even consider what you want! Jesus, Theo, he couldn’t even be bothered to come for Christmas, and yet he shows up here with a fucking script that you don’t even push back on!”

Her eyes are stinging, and her anger is mounting, and she’s plowing recklessly ahead before she can stop and think about the words flying out of her mouth. “You’re so intent on keeping him happy, but he doesn’t give two fucks about you!”

Theo lifts his chin, eyes bright and lips twisted into something furious and hurt. “I know it might be difficult for you of all people to grasp,” he spits, his voice trembling. “But I don’t have a brother to pick up the slack anymore. So forgive me if I don’t share your views on abandoning the only family I have left.”

He’s not yelling, but the words are quick and biting; they cut right into her softest, most vulnerable parts with a ruthless precision. Sage takes a step back, nearly stumbling over her abandoned heels, her chest caving in on itself as she stares at Theo. He blinks, and that twist of his mouth vanishes.

“Shit,” he breathes. “I didn’t mean that.”

“You did,” she insists quietly. “You think I’m being selfish.”

She’s doing it again, she realizes. Putting words into his mouth. But she can read between the lines. It’s always been her blessing and curse. “Don’t hold back now,” Sage says bitterly when Theo remains quiet. “Better to get it all out in the open, isn’t it?”

“Fine,” he bites out, his fingers tugging at his tie. “You want me to be honest?”

She doesn’t. She really, really doesn’t. She’s not sure she’ll survive it.

But Theo is sucking in a breath and squaring his shoulders and there’s a steeling resolve to him as he says, “Is this really about me not taking the movie? Or is this about Jaylen implying that I was going to be shopping it elsewhere?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you being buried under the weight of opinions that don’t fucking matter!”

Sage reels back, her mouth moving soundlessly before she finally finds the words to express her incredulity. “You expect me to be happy that people think I’m using you?”

“No, Collins,” Theo asserts. “I expect you to not cave to people who don’t fucking matter.”

“You have no idea what it feels like when people suggest that I am where I am because of you.”

“Don’t I?” he demands quietly. There’s a subtle brokenness in the dip of the question, and it only gets thicker in his voice as he shakes his head and says, “Christ, you’re obsessed with getting validation from people who will never give it to you. And it’s suffocating you. I mean, Sage, you’ve achieved incredible things, and it still isn’t enough! It’s never going to be enough because you want everyone to love you, to tell you that you’re good enough, that you’re worth it, but you don’t even believe that you are! You’re chasing something that doesn’t exist, and you’re running away from everything real to get it.”

Theo blinks, and his eyes are wet, but he’s not done. “You know what the worst part is?” he asks, the words trembling across the space between them. “You’re so scared of people making assumptions about you—of them judging you without actually knowing you—but you do the exact same thing.”

A tear slips down his face. “You wrote me off the moment you met me. And I don’t think you’ve ever actually stopped.”

There’s something fragile inside of her, something tender and sacred, and it feels like it’s one breath away from shattering. But her mind is latching on to something he’s just said, connecting another piece in a puzzle she never wanted to build.

The moment you met me.

“Did you know who I was on the plane?” she rasps.

Theo sucks in a shaky breath, and that fragile thing tips precariously.

“No.”

“When,” Sage demands. “When did you realize it was me?”

Theo’s throat bobs. “When I left the airport. Emerson said your last name, and I put the pieces together on the ride to my hotel—”

“Oh my god.” Her trembling hand covers her mouth as she turns away from him. She seriously thinks she might be sick.

She remembers thinking his insistence she come to Vibe was out of pity after the paparazzi scandal. She never thought it might be because of something that happened before they ever actually met.

“Oh my god,” she says again.

“Sage—”

That fragile thing shatters.

This was never going to work. It was so stupid to even let herself try.

“You were right,” she mutters, turning back to face him. “This … this was a mistake.”

For a long moment, Theo simply looks at her. She can see the argument building behind his parted lips, the wetness in his eyes giving way to something that looks like indignation, but then …

Then there’s a burst of honking on the street below, and cheers from the surrounding flats, and they’re dragged ruthlessly into reality.

It’s midnight, and the streets of London are alive with people celebrating as another year begins.

But here, in a flat five thousand miles away from home, Sage knows without doubt it’s not a beginning she’s facing.

It’s an ending.

Theo’s expression shutters, and Sage …

Sage cannot stand to be in this living room for another second longer.

“I’m going to bed,” she waves a hand toward the guest room. Theo doesn’t say a word as she turns and makes her way to it.

She closes the door behind her and lets her head thump back against the wood.

She can still make out the cheering on the street as, finally, her tears fall.

21
Wants, Needs

If there’s a day Sage would not want to live over again, it’s January first. And yet as she stands on the curb and stares up at her apartment, the LA sun warm on her skin, she’s forced to reckon with the fact that she still has eight more hours before the calendar finally puts this one to bed.

Time zones. They’re a real bitch.

She trudges into the building, exhaustion heavy in her bones as she leans against the mirrored wall of the elevator and waits to get to her floor. The subletter had moved out before Christmas, and Emerson had let her know the apartment was in okay shape this morning, when Sage had sent a monotone voice message to the group chat explaining what had happened and that she didn’t want to talk about it.

She’d hardly slept last night. She gave up trying around 6 AM London time. There’d been some momentary panic when she realized her suitcase was in Theo’s room, but when she’d crept out of the guest room, she’d found him at the bar in the kitchen, dark circles under his eyes and a cold cup of tea in hand.

“You’re leaving.”

It wasn’t a question, but a confirmation. When she’d nodded, he’d simply slid off the stool, grabbed his keys, and left the flat.

It had cost Sage a fortune to change her flight again, and between that and the fucking dress, her credit card is under significant duress, but she can’t find it in herself to panic—not when she arrives at her door and is so relieved to be home she could cry.

She’s been trying to keep it together—trying to keep her tears at bay until she’s back here, and even now that she is, she’s afraid of what’s going to happen if she lets herself feel this hurt.

It’s too deep. Too heavy. Too strong.

She fiddles with the keys, jiggling the lock that sticks, and then she’s inside, her lungs releasing as the door shuts behind her. It smells like home—like caramel candles and dry California air—and she has half a mind to sink down to the floor right there in the entryway, but she pauses when she spots two figures on the couch.

“Welcome home,” Emerson says softly.

“Good flight?” Margot asks.

Sage stares at her friends, her keys hanging loosely in her hand. She takes in the place again, sees that they’ve cleaned it from top to bottom, erasing any trace of the subletter. They’ve lit her favorite candles and opened her favorite window and have a bottle of wine and three glasses waiting on the coffee table, and suddenly Sage is crying big, fat, ugly tears, her keys clattering to the floor as her best friends rush for her.

Their arms form a fortress around her as she leans against them and sobs.

“We’ve got you, babe,” Emerson whispers, her lips pressed right above Sage’s ear.

“Always,” Margot promises.

So Sage lets herself go—lets herself crumble and break.

She lets the hurt sweep her under.

But Emerson and Margot are there, making sure she doesn’t drown.

It’s Margot who gets her to eat.

It’s Emerson who gets her to talk.

She’s silent as Sage fills in the gaps, from Christmas to Heathrow to Archie to New Year’s Eve. She doesn’t say a word until Sage is talked out, and even then, she’s uncharacteristically quiet.

They’re on Sage’s couch two days later, cuddled together the way they used to in college when one of them had a particularly horrible day: Sage with her head on a pillow in Emerson’s lap while her friend runs soothing fingers through her hair.

“Do you really think he wanted you to come to Vibe because he didn’t take the role?” Emerson finally asks.

Sage has had two and a half days to think about it.

The picture of the dedication page of her book. The voice text. I wasn’t surprised to see the crowd.

She’s had sixty hours to remember it all. Three thousand six hundred minutes.

She’d gotten there in the first sixty-two.

“No,” she finally confesses. “No, I don’t.”

It gets harder before it gets easier. And even then, there are periods of it being harder again. Sage tries to throw herself into some semblance of a routine—writing, exercising, cleaning, distracting—but Theo’s words float back to her anyway.

When she’s scrubbing the stovetop for the fifth time that week, it’s buried under the weight of opinions that don’t matter. When she’s shredding her first act to meet Marie’s edits, it’s want everyone to love you. When she’s pedaling for her life in spin class, Margot shooting her worried looks from the bike beside her, it’s wrote me off the moment you met me.

And when she sits down for a video call with Anna in the exact same spot she was in three months ago, it’s running away from everything real.

It’s been two weeks since she came home, and beneath her hurt and her anger is a clarity so sharp that it stings.

Theo was right.

She doesn’t want Theo to be right.

“Oh, babe,” Anna sighs when the call connects. “You look awful.”

Sage lets out a broken laugh, because it’s so Anna to say something so brutally blunt and yet make it sound like concerned care.

“I feel awful,” she admits. She scrubs a hand across her face. Tears are already pricking dangerously behind her eyelids, and she thought she’d cried herself out, but apparently there are hidden depths to her tear ducts that she didn’t know about.

Anna frowns, and there’s so much worry in her gaze—even through the computer screen—that Sage has to bury her head in her hands to stop from breaking down entirely.

“What do you need, Sage?”

What do you want, Collins?

She wants to stop burying herself in work to avoid the tangles in her own mind. She wants to know her worth isn’t connected to what she does. She wants … time.

Sage sniffles, her shoulders rolling back as she lifts her head and takes a steadying breath. “I need to push the deadline for the sequel.” Her voice trembles as she says it, but she keeps her chin lifted, her gaze direct.

Anna blinks. “Okay.”

Sage waits for her to continue, but nothing but a crackling silence follows.

“O … okay?”

“Okay,” Anna repeats. There’s a slight furrow to her brow that indicates she’s not exactly sure why Sage is shaking like a leaf. “Did you have a date in mind?”

“Um,” Sage says, and her voice trembles harder. “I didn’t … I didn’t actually get that far.”

Vicious relief is slipping down her spine, and it’s making her feel a bit dizzy. A traitorous tear slips down her cheek, and it has Anna leaning forward to peer more closely at her through the camera.

“Sage,” Anna says softly. “It’s just a deadline.”

“I know,” Sage sniffs. “I … I just feel like I’m letting people down, but I—” She cuts herself off as more tears begin to flow. Gives herself time to breathe. To collect her thoughts.

To remember what she wants. What she needs.

“I want the time,” she finally finishes. “I need the time.” Not just to give the book room to breathe, but to give herself a moment to breathe. To adjust to the changes she’s made over the last year. To learn how to rebuild her armor in a way that doesn’t suffocate her.

“Then we’ll get you the time,” Anna says. “I’ll set up a call with Marie and we’ll figure it out. These things happen, Sage. It isn’t the end of the world.”

Sage nods and tries to believe her.

“Sage?” Anna presses.

“Hmm?”

“I’m proud of you.”

Sage lets out a wet laugh, and god, of course Anna says the things she doesn’t know she needs to hear until she hears them.

“Thank you,” she says, voice thick with emotion.

And then, because she means it …

“I’m proud of me, too.”

Sage addresses the deadline first by sheer necessity. There’s the emotional call with Anna, followed by the call with Marie and the PR team, and the social media announcement about the sequel’s delay, and the disappointed comments that are drowned out by the overwhelming support of her readers as they assure her they’ll wait.

Take your time, one of them says on her post. We want to read the version you’re proud of.

It’s terrifying, and relieving, and a lot—enough that she sets up regular sessions with her therapist again.

Sessions that are long overdue.

It gives her the momentum she needs. The momentum, and the headspace—a blessing and a curse. In the end, though, it’s an easy choice, deciding which hurdle to tackle next.

She boards a flight to Seattle.

To Noah.

Seattle at the end of January is a lot like London, Sage thinks, as she takes in the cloud cover that completely obscures the rest of the city from view. There’s a constant drizzle of rain, and it wets the window she gazes out of, the hum of Noah’s electric fireplace the only noise aside from the brewing coffee.

There’s a twist in her chest as she thinks of those last few days of December, but it’s not as painful as it’s been this last month. There are moments when it is—when her lungs tighten and her eyes go hazy with tears. But slowly, it’s becoming less acute. Less overwhelming.

Maybe it’s because she’s had so much else to contend with.

Noah joins her at the window, his head tilting as he takes in the endless stretch of gray. “Cecelia loves it when it’s like this,” he muses. His cheek caves in in the way it does when he doesn’t agree with something. “I think it’s depressing as fuck.”

Sage huffs a laugh. “Cecelia is far too bubbly to let things like the weather affect her.”

Her sister-in-law had been up and at ’em first thing this morning, all bright smiles and breezy excuses about needing to run errands. Sage knows she’s trying to give her and Noah some space so they can talk in private. Sage had gotten in late last night, late enough that they’d silently agreed to table any heart-to-hearts until they were both rested and re-caffeinated.

As if on cue, the coffee maker beeps, and she follows Noah to where he’s laid out two mugs. They fix their coffee in silence, Sage’s heart warming as she finds her favorite brand of creamer in the fridge. Noah always makes sure it’s stocked when she comes to visit. They settle in the living room, Sage on the firm gray couch, Noah in the boxy black armchair, and there’s an awkward pause as they sip their drinks.

“I’m glad you came up,” Noah starts, taking Sage by surprise. He clears his throat, hands wrapped firmly around his Booth School of Business mug, and looks at her with quiet determination. “I really missed you at Christmas. It wasn’t the same without you.”

Sage opens her mouth, but Noah presses on. “I’m not saying that to make you feel guilty. I’m just … telling you how I feel. I missed you.” The words are stilted and awkward on her brother’s tongue, but he’s trying so damn hard, and it makes Sage want to try, too.

“I missed you, too,” she murmurs. “And I’m sorry. For leaving you to deal with the fallout of all of that alone. And for what I said—about you being the golden child.” She sets her coffee on the table and rests her elbows on her knees, her hands clasped in front of her. “That was unfair. I was hurt, and jealous, and I made it your fault. But it isn’t. This is about me, and Mom, and Dad.”

Noah inhales, deep and slow. “I didn’t exactly make it easier for you. I let them drag me into it. I should’ve been there for you instead of coming at you like that. I overreacted. I was upset that you weren’t going to be there and maybe a little pissed that I wouldn’t have anyone to temper Mom and Dad’s relentless questions about kids.” He grimaces. “Which, I guess, is what you were going to deal with at Thanksgiving, in a way.”

His gaze is earnest as it meets hers. “I’m sorry. I’ve just … missed you. In general.”

“Me too,” Sage replies. “I know that we’re not … quite in lockstep anymore. But you can talk to me, you know? About trying for kids. I may not get it the way your other friends do, but I can still be there for you.” She rubs at a spot on her jeans as she sucks in a breath. “And I can—will—be better at that. Being there for you. I’ve been caught up in my own shit a lot lately.”

Noah gives her an understanding smile. “I get it. It’s okay.” He leans back in his seat and props his ankle on his knee. “I’m jealous too, you know. Of you.”

Sage can’t help the way her mouth pops open. “What? Why?”

Noah shrugs a shoulder. “Why wouldn’t I be? You’ve always known exactly who you are, Sage. And sure, maybe it’s different from who Mom and Dad want you to be, and maybe for a while there you tried to fit in, but you never did. Not really. And that’s … pretty cool. I wish I had that type of confidence in myself. That type of self-assurance. You know who you are and what you want, and you don’t let anyone convince you otherwise. I admire that about you. A lot.”

She blinks at him, her mind wrestling with what he’s just told her.

She’s always had this singular view of things—of herself, of Noah, of their bond—and Noah has just come in and shattered it into a kaleidoscope of colors she hadn’t even known existed.

“But I’m not,” she blurts out. Noah gives her a questioning glance, and Sage shakes her head. “Confident. I … I think I just pretend to be. But really, I’m scared. I’m scared, and I feel lonely, and I look for validation in places I shouldn’t.”

The words rush out of her, and they’re tinged with a memory of a curt English accent. Sage shoves it away, focuses on Noah as he says, “Like Mom and Dad?”

“Sure. And, you know.” She shrugs. “The entire Internet.”

Noah laughs, and Sage smiles, but she starts picking at the skin of her thumb. She grabs her mug to redirect her energy.

“I care too much about what people think,” she continues quietly. “I pretend not to, but I do. And I…” She swallows. “I let it keep me from the things I actually want.”

Noah cocks his head. “Why do I feel like we’re not just talking about Mom and Dad anymore? Or the Internet?”

“Because we’re not,” she admits with a sigh.

For all of their closeness, she and Noah don’t really talk like this—about relationships and feelings. But her brother is looking at her expectantly, like maybe they could.

So she tells him about Theo, about falling in love and the way her heart feels like it’s taken a beating. She tells him about deleting Theo’s number and any trace they’ve ever talked and how much she regrets that she doesn’t have those messages anymore.

She tells him about how much she misses him.

She tells him about things she’s only starting to address in therapy because they feel like the worst parts of her brought to light.

“You could DM him, couldn’t you?” Noah says when she’s finished. “If you want to fix things between you two…”

“I don’t know that I can right now,” Sage admits. “I feel like … like I still have a lot to work on before I’d be ready for that. If I’d be ready for that.”

Noah settles back in his chair and takes a long sip of his coffee. “Maybe. But you don’t have to be fully healed to let someone love you.”

Sage can’t help it—her eyebrows shoot up as she stares at her brother. “Did you end up on pop psychology Instagram or something?”

He laughs. “No. But maybe that’s where Cecelia got it. It’s something she said to me once, and it stuck with me.”

They should talk about the deeper stuff more, Sage realizes. Perhaps they would’ve figured out some things far earlier if they had.

“Okay,” Noah sighs as he straightens. “I can’t help with the Internet, or whatever you’re unpacking in therapy, or your boyfriend. But I can help with Mom and Dad. If you’d like.”

Noah is just full of surprises today.

She’s hardly talked to her parents since she’d gotten back to LA. She isn’t even sure where to start, honestly. Her therapist had suggested a sit-down, but tackling that with Noah, as nerve-wracking as it’s been, had seemed like a better starting point.

“You can?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Noah says in a voice she hasn’t heard in quite a while.

It’s the one he used to don when Sage was getting picked on at school, the one he used when he caught it happening in the hallway and confronted the bully right there in front of the lockers.

It’s deep, and warm, and protective, and it wraps around Sage like a hug.

“Yeah,” he says again. “I can.”

It takes another two hours for them to write down exactly what Sage wants to say. He’s patient as she hems and haws, attentive as she explains each point to him, focused, like he actually wants to understand. And when she’s finally ready to FaceTime them, he’s the one to pull out his phone. The one to dial their parents. The one to start the conversation.

“Hey, Mom and Dad. Do you guys have a few minutes?” he asks. “I need to talk to you about something.”

He pushes the phone back—rests it against the ceramic bowl on the kitchen table so Sage is in the frame, too. His arm falls across the back of her chair, grounding and sturdy, every bit the big brother she’s known and loved for her entire life as he says, “We both do.”

It doesn’t fix everything.

But it’s a start.

Enough of one that when Sage boards her plane back to LA Sunday evening, she feels lighter than she has in a long, long time. She sends Noah one last thank-you via text and goes to switch her phone to airplane mode before she pauses.

She gives herself three seconds to think on it, and then she sends a separate message to her mom, letting her know she’s on the plane and will let her know when she lands.

The immediate love you she gets back feels like it carries far too much weight for just two simple words.

It doesn’t fix everything.

But it’s a start.

For now, that’s enough.

22
Here. Now. Always.

Google Alert: Norvelle Management signs “Legends” star

Theo Sharpe.

Feb 3

M

Feb 5 11:00 AM

M

Wait so … are Emerson and Taylor spending Valentine’s together or not?

I need to know if we’re doing GALENTINES on the 14th or if she’s going to be too busy being in love!

I honestly have no idea what’s going on with them.

Emerson has been weirdly secretive about it?

M

Ah love. So complicated.

Tell me about it.

From: anna.jones@literaryhouse.com         Feb 21

To: irisbanks@fafilms.com; sage.collins@gmail.com

Subject: Re: Nights Film Inquiry

Looping in Sage here as discussed on our call. Sage, I hear you and Iris had quite the time at Vibe in New York. Who would’ve thought tequila shots would make you so endearing.

Shall we set up a call to talk next steps? When are you both free?

From: irisbanks@fafilms.com         Feb 15

To: anna.jones@literaryhouse.com

Subject: Nights Film Inquiry

Hi Anna,

My name is Iris Banks. I’m a director, and I had the pleasure of meeting Sage at one of the Comic Con after-parties. She’s a hoot. I bought her book shortly after, and must say, I adore it. I know the sequel is in the works, but I’m wondering if the film rights are still available? Would love to talk to you about an option if so …

Best,

Iris

The Internet, Parasocial Relationships, and You: Why More Celebrities Are Ditching Social Media | TIME Magazine

March 11

Sage signs the film option contract on April 2.

Emerson and Margot are there with champagne and cupcakes and those annoying party blowers that make way too much noise for their size. Anna sends flowers, and Iris sends a handwritten note telling her how excited she is to take on the project, and all Sage can think is that Theo would love her and her directorial vision and—

And god, she wishes she could call him. Wishes she could find the words to say all the things she wants to say.

Emerson and Margot leave later that night, and Sage stares at her phone and doesn’t DM Theo. But she does pull up her manuscript.

Marie’s early input is only making it better, even if they still don’t totally agree on the opening. But Marie has ceded to Sage there, especially given how much she loves the middle and understands the direction more.

It’s your story, Marie had said on a call just the other week. I trust you.

Sage trusts her, too. She’s making a few changes to act one—trying to meld their visions a bit more. It’s working. She’s on track to meet her new deadline next week—will probably even have time to spare.

It’s late, and she really doesn’t need to be picking at it, but she scrolls back to the very beginning, to the blank page that says Dedication to Come.

She highlights the text.

Deletes it.

Writes the words she’s been thinking for months.

She closes the document and tugs a blank piece of paper from her printer.

And then she begins to write.

“To Sage!” Her dad holds up his glass of wine and smiles at her from across the small fireside table. “We’re so proud of you, honey.”

“Here, here!” her mom says. They clink glasses, and Sage allows herself a small smile as she sips her cabernet.

It’s early May—almost time to start drinking pinot grigio. They’d had perfect weather for it, actually, last week. But tonight, there’s a cool breeze that ripples across the garden patio of A.O.C., Sage’s favorite wine bar, so she pulls her jacket a little tighter and lets the warmth of the fireplace and the bottle of red they’re splitting fill her.

“Thank you,” she says, that smile still on her lips. “It really means a lot that you guys came out to celebrate with me.”

“We wouldn’t have missed it,” her mom vows.

“A film option is a big deal,” her dad adds, as if Sage doesn’t know. “I was reading about how adaptations work, and did you know…”

Sage settles back in her chair and lets her dad ramble on. He’s trying a little too hard, but they all are, if she’s being honest. It’s taken intentional work on all their parts to get here.

It still isn’t perfect.

It might never be.

Sage can still see the tension in her mom’s face whenever Sage talks about the editing process for her sequel, which has just begun. And her dad still has to give advice—he’s just shifted it to the career she’s actually in.

And Sage …

Sage has had to learn to be honest and ask for what she wants, and accept that she and her parents are different, will always be different, and that’s okay.

Asking them to come to LA after she’d signed the option agreement was a huge step. She’d felt oddly vulnerable about it—had even run it by Noah to make sure she did it right, before she remembered it wasn’t a project she was getting graded on.

But she’d done it, and they’d happily booked it across the country to celebrate with her just weeks after she’d sent off the final contract with her signature.

“Any thoughts on casting?” her mom asks with a lift of her brows.

Sage laughs even as a ghost of that old ache—faded, but not gone—echoes through her.

“I don’t think I get a say, Mom.”

It’s been strange, stepping into the film world. She’s been reminded constantly of Theo in the smallest of ways. Like when she’s in a meeting and someone says a term she’s shocked she recognizes only to realize she’s heard it out of Theo’s mouth before.

Or when someone makes a comparison to a movie she’s heard him talk about, or even seen with him.

“Speaking of actors…” her mom tries, and Sage levels her a look.

“Don’t.”

“I’m just wondering if you two have reconnected in all of this.”

“No. And I really, really don’t want to talk about it.”

Telling her parents about Theo had been her therapist’s suggestion. Something about establishing a stronger relationship with them by sharing things that aren’t just work related.

She very much regrets taking her therapist’s advice. But then her mom fixes her with a shrewd stare and says, “Well, it’s his loss,” and suddenly, she finds it all deeply, deeply funny.

There’s just something about hearing her mom shit on an A-list actor like he’s just a boy that broke her heart that makes her laugh.

“We’re both to blame,” Sage murmurs as she sips her wine. It’s not the first time she’s said it. Knowing her parents and their propensity to latch on to things, it probably won’t be the last.

The conversation moves away from actors and film and into softer territory—things like her parents’ travel plans (Detroit in June to see her dad’s college roommate, Seattle in July to spend Fourth of July with Noah and Cecelia, who’s pregnant) and Sage’s friends (Margot hit top Realtor this month at her firm, and Emerson finally got moved off of clients that Randolph manages. Sage considers filling her parents in on Emerson and Taylor, but … she doesn’t have time to recount that saga tonight).

It’s steady, and easy, and a little awkward at times, but not in a way that suffocates her. Sage feels less on guard—less like she has to be on at all times. And that’s pretty amazing, all things considered.

They finish dinner, and Sage’s parents insist on taking a shared Lyft that drops her off at her apartment before they go back to their hotel, and she doesn’t argue, because her parents are her parents, and she knows worrying is how they show their love.

She hugs them goodbye and reaffirms she’ll be in Chicago in August and then she’s back in her apartment, warm and sated and content. She changes into comfy clothes and eyes her laptop, her teeth digging into her lip as she contemplates working on her edits she got back from Marie last week. She’s got three weeks to wrap them up, and she’s making okay time so far, but she could take another look at it …

No.

It’s after eight, and Sage put in a few hours this morning even though it’s Saturday, and she’s made so much progress on not being so all-or-nothing lately, on finding meaning in things that aren’t words on a page or opinions of people she’ll never meet.

So she shoves her laptop under her bed and makes her way to the living room, where she flops down on the couch and pulls up a movie.

She’s been trying to watch a new one every so often—usually while her laptop is propped on her knees while she edits or scrolls Pinterest. She hasn’t learned how to fully sit still. But that’s okay. She doesn’t ever fully stop, and she’s learning to accept that about herself.

Sometimes Margot and Emerson will join, and sometimes Sage will use it as time to decompress alone. She’s been on a sci-fi kick as of late, and maybe that’s why she pulls up The Matrix.

Or maybe it’s because Theo, who is never far from her mind, is that much more present after her dinner with her parents.

She’s been putting this one off.

The thought of watching it had always felt like closing the door on something she doesn’t want to close the door on. But maybe she should. Maybe it’s time.

She starts the movie and then remembers she was supposed to text Emerson to let her know she’d survived dinner with her parents. She fires off a text that says she did, in fact, make it out alive and is now safely home, and then hits Play.

She’s not even a third of the way in when someone knocks on her door.

Sage frowns as she pauses the screen, Keanu Reeves glaring at her in a perfect still, and checks her phone.

Coming over, Emerson had sent more than twenty minutes ago. Sage had been too entranced to notice.

She tosses her phone on the cushions with a sigh and pushes off the couch, wondering why the hell Emerson doesn’t just use the key she refused to give back after watching over the subletter.

She swings open the door, ready to ask just that, but the words die in her throat.

Theo Sharpe is standing in her doorway, hands shoved into the pockets of a worn leather jacket, looking just as devastating as he did the day he walked out of his flat so he didn’t have to watch her leave.

“You’re not Emerson,” she breathes.

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Well observed.”

She never has quite been able to capture the roundness of his vowels in the loops she’s been playing in her head for the last four months. The sound of them now has that old ache ripping open in her chest faster than she thought possible.

“She gave me your address,” Theo continues by way of explanation. His hands fidget in the pockets of his jacket, nervousness flickering across his face as he rocks back on his heels. “Do you mind if I come in?”

“Right,” Sage stammers, immediately stepping back and opening the door wider so he can pass.

Theo steps past her, and Sage takes a moment to close her eyes and breathe as she shuts the door before turning to face him. He’s stopped just inside the entryway, his eyes scanning the small space as he bites the inside of his cheek.

Seeing Theo in her apartment is nothing like seeing him in the cottage in Skye, even if he looks every bit LA in his white T-shirt and faded jeans. There’s four months stretching between them, and it makes Sage simply stand there and watch as he takes in her place—her velvet navy couch and TV stuck on Keanu’s face and chronically open windows that take up the left-hand wall, a small writing desk shoved beneath them.

Slowly, he turns to her, his hand withdrawing from his pocket. He holds up a folded square of paper pinched between two fingers.

“Got your letter.”

“Oh.”

She wants to say more, but her heart is clogging her throat, and she doesn’t quite trust her vocal cords to push past it.

Writing—writing has always been the way Sage gets out of the tangles in her head. Maybe, she thought, it would work for the tangles in her heart, too.

She’d sent it weeks ago—overnight, because she needed to know when it arrived.

Theo glances down at the paper, a wry smile twisting his lips. “I can’t say I expected fan mail from you.”

And because Sage is Sage, she can’t very well leave that alone.

“Would we call that fan mail?”

Theo’s eyes flick up. “You sent it to my publicist.”

She did.

“I did,” she confesses. “I didn’t keep your address. Jan’s care of was the only thing I could find listed.”

“You’ve heard of phones, yes?”

“I am familiar with the concept.” She folds her arms across her chest and resists the urge to dig her nails into her biceps. He’s smiling at her, but there’s something beneath it that’s telling her they can only take this bit so far. So she sucks in a breath and holds his gaze and says, “I couldn’t call you. I made sure I couldn’t call you.” She waits to make sure he understands before continuing. “And I felt like a DM was … not the right medium for what I had to say.”

Not that she’d expected him to see it even if she had. He hasn’t posted anything since December. Nor has he been photographed. Not since the red carpet on New Year’s Eve. She’s embarrassed about how many times she’s looked at those photos. But they were easier to see than the ones on her phone, easier to look at Theo Sharpe than Theo and acknowledge that she’d lost them both.

Theo is silent for a long moment before he nods, a muscle in his jaw flickering as he glances back down at the paper. “It’s a beautiful letter,” he murmurs. The corner of his mouth twitches up as his eyes meet hers once more. “Anyone tell you that you should be a writer?”

She laughs. It’s soft, and breathy, but it’s a laugh all the same, and it makes Theo smile.

“You know, I think I have heard that.” Sage swallows. Tightens her hold on herself.

“I needed you to know that you were right,” she explains, because she owes him that. At the very least, she owes him that. “About me. About my need for validation, and approval, and … a whole host of other things.”

There’s the barest self-deprecating laugh on her exhale—a habit she hasn’t quite been able to kick, therapy or no, and Theo clocks it immediately.

“I shouldn’t have said what I said that night.” He takes a step toward her, his eyes wide and serious and still so damn blue. “About abandoning your family. About using Noah to pick up the slack. I was angry, and scared, and … god, it’s so overdue, but I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Sage.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

“It wasn’t. But it is now.” She means it. She’d forgiven him months ago. “I said some equally horrific things. I was dismissive of what you and your dad have been through, and I had no right—”

“You told me exactly what I needed to hear,” he interrupts.

“I’m still sorry. I should have never treated you that way.”

“We … we ended our business relationship, actually. I signed with a new manager a few months ago.”

“I know,” Sage admits softly.

“You know,” Theo parrots, and it’s not a question, and he still isn’t able to hide the emotions in his eyes, because there’s something shining there, something that looks like hesitant hope.

He takes another step forward as he rubs the back of his neck. He shakes his head. “I should have told you about the film. There’s no excuse. I can’t tell you how much I regret my actions.”

Sage nods, her weight shifting between her feet. “I … I need you to respect me in my work. It’s important to me.” The words still feel awkward on her tongue despite the practice she’s had these last four months in asking for what she needs. But she’s working on caring about the opinions that actually matter.

Theo’s is an opinion that matters.

She wants to matter, too.

“I do,” Theo assures her. “I swear I do.”

Sage’s inhale gets caught somewhere in her chest, but she forces herself to breathe through it.

Theo is here.

Theo is here, and Sage has no idea why, but she can’t … she can’t not tell him, face-to-face. Can’t leave him to wonder—if he even does wonder.

So she does what she does when there’s something before her she wants.

She jumps.

No parachute.

“It wasn’t you I was writing off,” she admits shakily. “It was myself. It was always myself. And … I’m sorry that I put that on you. Because you are…”

She trails off, her throat bobbing as she searches for a way to make him understand.

“I don’t know that they’ve made words to describe what you are, Theo,” she finally says. “Good, and kind, and funny, and talented, and still willing to see the brightness in life even after what you’ve experienced. And it’s still not enough—all of that still isn’t enough to describe you.”

There’s a stinging sensation in her eyes, and she blinks against it, not because she doesn’t want him to see, but because she wants to see him as she tells him this.

“I told you to go after what you wanted, but I … I wouldn’t let myself do that very thing. And I clung to any excuse that wasn’t the truth, which was that … I didn’t think I was worth it.”

For a long moment, Theo simply stares at her.

“Christ, Collins,” he finally mutters, his polished vowels scraped rough. “You’re still bloody impossible.”

Her lips part, but before she can even find the words to respond, he’s in her space, his hands cupping her cheeks as he says, “You have always been worth it to me.”

Sage sucks in a stuttering breath.

“I…” Her throat bobs. “I didn’t…”

“I want you,” he cuts her off. “And not just the perfect version of yourself you think you have to present the world, but you. I want you at seven AM when you haven’t had caffeine and a wrong word might just be my death sentence, and when it’s an ungodly hour but your brain won’t turn off so you’re glued to your computer like you’ll die if you don’t write another word. I want you when you’re jittery and when your brain lies to you and fills you with anxiety and when you tell me the same stories over and over again because you’re passionate and excited. I want you on the days you can’t get off the couch and on your vibrant ones when you can’t turn off and I want you whether you’re in LA or Skye or London or on the bloody moon, because I fucking want you. That is what I’m doing here.”

Sage doesn’t realize she’s crying until his thumbs swipe the tear tracks on her cheeks.

“I want you,” he whispers again, his voice cracking slightly as he pulls her even closer. His eyes bore into hers, certain and searing, and it’s the way she’s imagined she’d look at him if she ever got to see him again.

If she ever got to tell him that she’s in love with Theo Sharpe as much as she is with Theo.

If she ever got to tell him that she wants him, too.

In New York City, in Portree, in London, in LA. It doesn’t matter where.

“I am tired of not letting myself have the things I want,” he breathes, the confession an exhale of air across her lips as he presses his forehead to hers. “Aren’t you?”

Sage has always been a lover of words. But this time, there really aren’t any that are adequate. So she uses the next best thing.

She pushes up on her toes and presses her lips to Theo’s; it’s the only way she knows how to say yes and please and stay.

And he understands exactly what she’s trying to convey.

He wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her against him fully, his lips soft and warm and devastating as he kisses her and kisses her and kisses her. She pulls away only to take a desperate breath, and then she’s lost in him again—in the way his hands fit at the dip of her waist, the way his tongue brushes against hers, the way the sound of longing shudders through his chest and catches at the back of his throat.

She uses the edges of his leather jacket to drag him from the living room to her bedroom. His touch is gentle as he pushes her down onto the bed, his eyes bright as he stares down at her for a long moment.

“I want you, too,” she whispers, just so he can hear it aloud.

Here.

Now.

Always.

She kisses the words into his skin, traces them from the freckles on his shoulders to the ridges of his abs to the trail of hair that leads to the waistband of his jeans as she helps him tug them off.

And when they’ve both shed all of their clothes, and Theo slips a hand to the small of her back and presses her up against him as he slides inside, she tells him again.

“I want you.”

“You have me,” he breathes against her lips, his voice tight with desire. He pushes deeper, and Sage’s breath catches in her lungs. “You have always had me.”

He proves it by taking her apart with painstaking accuracy, as if he’s the only one who can chart the map of her body like this. Maybe he is. Because it’s deep and slow and overwhelming, and she’s never felt anything like it, ever.

Theo’s teeth scrape against her neck, his hips grinding just right, and she’s not sure how much more she can stand.

“Theo,” she pants. She’s got one hand tangled in his hair, the other clenching the sheets like it’s enough to keep her tethered to the here and now. “I— I can’t…”

“So don’t,” he murmurs against her throat as he kisses his way to her ear. His cock drags against that spot inside of her, and she swears her vision goes white. “I’ve got you. Let go.”

He does have her. Because when Sage shatters, Theo is right there, holding her through it, even as he shakes apart.

After they come down from it, they curl up together, tangled in the sheets and each other, and it’s quiet and calm until Theo scrunches his nose and says, “Were you watching The Matrix?”

Sage can’t help the laugh that bursts out of her.

God, she loves him.

“Well observed,” she mocks.

“Ugh, I haven’t missed that accent.”

She lifts her head from his chest and shoots him a playful glare. “You’ve missed every part of me, don’t lie.”

Theo’s smile goes soft as he runs a knuckle down the arm she’s propping herself up with.

“I have. As I’ve told you before, Collins, you’re entirely missable.”

She smiles as she drags her fingers through his hair, brushing it back from his brow. There’s more for them to talk about. But for once, she isn’t worried.

“I didn’t finish it. The Matrix,” she says, watching the way his blond strands slip between her fingers. “Watch it with me?”

He reaches for the hand she has in his hair and draws it down to his lips, pressing a kiss to the center of her palm. “Sure, my love,” he mutters against her skin. “Tomorrow?”

There’s something beautiful about the certainty that they’ll have tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.

Sage lies back down, her head pillowed on his chest.

“Tomorrow,” she agrees.

They agree they actually will watch The Matrix, but first they prioritize a lazy morning in bed and a long conversation over coffee and tea and chocolate chip pancakes that Sage makes on her tiny stove.

“I would have gotten your letter earlier,” Theo admits once their plates are long-since empty. “But I was in Skye until a few days ago with Dad. He has some projects he wants to work on for the house.”

Sage sets her mug on the table. “To get it ready to sell?”

His shoulders lift with his deep breath, and when they drop back down, he looks lighter.

Happier.

“No,” he says with a little grin. “He’s in a DIY phase. A new hobby in between managing clients.”

“I am … so happy for you, Theo,” Sage breathes, something warm and full pressing against her chest.

“And you,” he retorts as he leans back in his chair. His fingers drum lightly on the table. “A film deal, eh? No small feat.” He chuckles at her inquisitive stare. “When will you accept that I am not above Internet stalking you? Though this tidbit was actually Emerson,” he adds sheepishly.

Ah, yes. Emerson.

Emerson, who had called at the ripe hour of 7 AM to say, “I’m assuming, given Theo did not come back here to get his suitcase, you two made up. And by made up I mean—”

Sage had clicked her off speakerphone immediately.

“I’ll bring his stuff by, shall I?”

“You do that,” Sage had mumbled while Theo laughed.

Apparently, the Theo & the Chickmonks group chat hadn’t disbanded after Sage had left it in January.

“It was Iris,” Sage says to him now. “The director I met at Vibe.”

He leans across the table, eyes wide. “Tequila-shot Iris?! No way.”

“Yes way.”

“Wow. Who would’ve thought a few shots of tequila would be the basis for such a strong working relationship?”

“I don’t know,” Sage muses. “This guy bought me whiskey on a plane once and I sort of fell in love with him, and like, what are the odds of that?”

Theo wets his lips. “Rumor has it that bloke didn’t even actually pay for it.”

Sage laughs, the sound light and radiant and free. She stands, intent on clearing the table, but he catches her wrist as she reaches for his plate.

“I love you too, Collins.”

She lets him pull her around the table and into his lap. Lets him kiss her until she’s breathless.

“Can I show you something?” she asks when she finally, finally pulls away. Theo arches a brow, and she smacks him lightly on the chest. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

“But it’s so lovely there,” he teases, pressing a kiss to her neck.

Sage giggles as she pushes his head away and disentangles herself from his lap. Her heartbeat ticks up as she pads across her apartment to her writing desk, where a FedEx printing box sits. She pops it open and grabs the bound stack of papers.

“This is actually the unedited version,” she explains as she brings the manuscript back to Theo. “But, um, there’s something I wanted you to see in it.”

He runs a reverent hand over the title page before flicking his gaze to her in question. She nods, and he flips the page.

For Theo—for showing me I’m more than what my mind achieves.

Theo sucks in a deep breath. When he looks up at her, his eyes are bright, and there’s something so soft about the way his lips tilt up in the corner.

“I have something to show you, too.” He tugs his phone out of his pocket and opens his email before handing it to her.

It takes Sage a moment to realize what she’s looking at, to parse through the jargon, but then—

“You … you’ve signed on to a new project?”

“Production starts next month.” Theo grins. “It’s indie, too, which is enough of a draw itself, but I was particularly pleased about the location.”

Sage scans the email again, and there it is, clear as day.

“You’re going to be in LA,” she breathes.

Theo slides a hand behind her thigh and tugs her down into his lap once more. “There was no reality in which I didn’t show up at your door,” he admits softly. “Your letter just sped up my timeline.”

Either way. He was coming either way, letter or no.

Sage blinks against the burning in her eyes as she winds her arms around his neck. “Do you know what this means?”

“Hmm?”

“Margot’s going to make you join our spin studio.”

Theo tilts his head back and laughs, and Sage thinks it might be the most beautiful sound she’s ever heard.

“If you’re there, Collins, I’m there.”

“You must really like me.”

“Despite being the bane of my existence, I do, in fact,” Theo says with an exasperated grin that turns soft and real as he cups her chin. His smile lingers as he presses his mouth against hers, his lips warm and gentle. “I cherish you.”

Epilogue

Two Years Later

Theo’s wearing the Bulgari cuff links again. The suit is different—gray instead of black, no tie, open collar—but the Bulgari cuff links are the same. Sage brushes a finger against one as the car continues its crawl through LA traffic.

“Nervous?” he asks, his head lolling against the headrest. He certainly doesn’t look it.

“A little,” Sage admits. She’s not worried about him taking that and running with it. They’ve come a long way in two years, have weathered plenty since that New Year’s Eve.

There was the Jimmy Fallon interview, where Theo accidentally told a live studio audience that his girlfriend hogs the covers. He’d called her in a panic afterward, his words so rushed as he babbled on about prerecorded and Jimmy says we can cut it and I’m so bloody sorry that Sage had to wait five minutes before she could tell him it was okay.

She also took time to give him shit for calling Jimmy Fallon Jimmy like they were best mates.

The show had aired, and Theologians had gone absolutely wild, but by some miracle, Theo and Sage managed to keep her identity a secret for a few more months, thanks to the combined powers of Theo’s agent and new manager and Jan, until they were ready to “hard launch” on Instagram, as Emerson called it.

It wasn’t even that Sage didn’t want people to know. She’s only getting better at prioritizing the opinions that actually matter. But they’d just wanted time for them—to learn how to love each other in the mundane moments as well as the big ones.

The revelation of their relationship to the masses had actually gone quite well, all things considered.

Of course, once the world realized Sage was said girlfriend, it meant that her slot on Good Morning America to promote her sequel was rife with jokes about her sleep habits.

It was worth it, to be able to see Theo just off camera, blushing like a teenager. He’s there whenever his schedule allows, waiting in the wings. And even when he isn’t … she can feel his support anyway, a steady and solid presence in her life. It took them a bit to navigate a public relationship. There was the expected gossip after denying their relationship the previous year, but …

Sage had Emerson and Margot and Theo and Noah and her parents and therapy and restrictions on her screen time, and it wasn’t perfect, but it was okay—she was okay.

It helped that Theo took their privacy so seriously—that he worked with his publicist and new manager to maintain it.

People think they know what’s going on in their lives. They don’t. Theo has made sure of that.

But today … today is different.

Today is his premiere, and Sage won’t be in the wings, where she usually is. She’ll be on his arm, her pride and love for him out there for the world to see.

She’s nervous. But she’s also excited.

The car slows, and Sage peers through the windshield to see a line of cars ahead of them. They’re four back from the red carpet.

“Remember,” Jan says from the front seat, “they’ll be shouting instructions about where to look, but if you get overwhelmed, just look to me and I’ll guide you.”

“Right.” Sage nods.

Jan pivots in her seat, her eyes darting between Sage and Theo. She raises a stern brow. “And do try to keep it PG on the carpet. I know how you two are.”

There’s a smug tilt to Theo’s lips as he says, “Sure, Jan.”

If her frown is any indication, Jan is entirely unconvinced that he means it.

They inch forward some more, and Theo shifts in his seat, his posture straightening, his gaze shuttering just a bit, his smile going less wide and gummy and more crooked and sly and just as devastating as he tucks Theo away and dons Theo Sharpe.

The car stops, and his eyes lighten just a hint as they meet hers. “Ready?” he asks.

Sage tracks the bob of his throat, and …

“Not yet,” she murmurs.

There are shadows outside of their doors, and the hum of paparazzi and eager fans just beyond the tinted windows, and Jan in the front seat, who will definitely flip her lid if Sage gets lipstick on him, but …

She reaches across the seat, her hand gripping the back of his neck, and kisses Theo Sharpe, slow and steady and sure.

Now she’s ready.

“Okay,” she says. Theo grins.

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

Acknowledgments

The Odds of You is, in so many ways, a book that completely snuck up on me, and it would not exist without the help, inspiration, and support of so many people. And while the idea took me by surprise, I do remember exactly when lightning struck. I had just read my favorite book, Red, White & Royal Blue, for the first time, and was utterly consumed by it. I found myself within its pages, and it felt like coming home. I was so inspired by that feeling that three weeks later I started writing The Odds of You.

So, first and foremost, I have to thank Casey McQuiston for writing my favorite book. It not only fundamentally changed my career, but my life, too. You’re a fucking legend.

Speaking of my career—for those of you who are new to me, you may not know that I got my start in the Romantasy space. So I owe a ginormous thank-you to my agent, Jessica Killingley, who didn’t bat an eye when I sent her the first act of Odds out of the blue and said, “Hey, so how do you feel about me branching into Contemporary Romance?” Jessica, thank you for being my ride or die. There is truly no one else I would rather be on this roller coaster with. To Jason, Joanna, James, and the rest of the bks Agency, thank you for working tirelessly to share my work with the world.

It can be seen as risky to jump genres so early in an author’s career, but the process of stepping into Contemporary Romance has been an absolute dream, and that is in HUGE part due to my two amazing editors, Alex Sehulster at St. Martin’s Press and Darcy Nicholson at Bloomsbury UK. Alex and Darcy, thank you so much for giving Sage and Theo such a wonderful home. Odds would not be what it is without your amazing editorial work and guidance. I have learned so, so much from working with you, and I could not have imagined a better team with whom to entrust Sage and Theo.

Thank you to the rest of the incredible team at St. Martin’s Press: Ashley Quintana (editorial), Chrisinda Lynch (managing editor), Ginny Perrin (production editor), Janna Dokos (production manager), Meryl Levavi (interior designer), Olga Grlic (cover designer), Marissa Sangiacomo and Brant Janeway (marketing team), Alyssa Gammello (publicist), Amy Carbo (copyeditor), and Anne Marie Tallberg (publishing director); and to the Bloomsbury UK team: Maisie McCormick (editorial), Fabrice Wilmann (managing editor), Charlotte Phillips (designer), Holly Minter (marketing), Thea Hirsi (production), Joe Roche (sales), and Craig (who offered a brilliant and nuanced Scottish authenticity read).

One of my favorite parts about writing this book was getting to shed some light on the highs and lows of the creative experience. Writing can often feel lonely and isolating, and I’m incredibly lucky to have a support system that pulls me out of the dark spells and reminds me that I’m not alone.

Thank you to my incredible author friends who were fierce champions of this story from the very beginning: Julian Winters, Claire Legrand, Nic DiDomizio, B. Celeste, Evan Porter, and Sara Hashem. You believed in this book from Day 1, and I am so grateful.

To the Spank Bank group chat—I freaking adore y’all. Thank you for being you, and for always being down to get together and celebrate our wins and nurse our sorrows.

To Jonnice, thank you for answering my constant questions about Chicago! And for being just as excited for this book as I am. To Noah Kahan, who I don’t know personally but … thank you for your brilliant lyricism and for crafting music that never fails to make me cry and then write a chapter faster than I have ever. You rock. To Hannah, thank you for always being down to talk strategy, craft, industry, and life. I couldn’t do this whole author thing without you.

And speaking of “this whole author thing” … I would be NOTHING without my amazing readers and the passionate booksellers and librarians who share my stories with the world.

To the incredible beta readers who devoured this story before it ever had a home—Ash, Michelle, Em, Jenn, Shelby, Nic, and Aubrey—thank you so much for your detailed feedback and support. Thank you to everyone who screamed about Odds before it found its home and kept screaming about it as we worked our way to publication. It’s incredibly rare for an author to be able to jump genres so early and have this level of support from their readers. I am endlessly grateful.

To the booksellers and librarians who so passionately share their love of reading, thank you for everything you do.

And to the new faces here who have picked up a book of mine for the first time, welcome, and thank you! I hope you find yourself somewhere within these pages. I’m so glad you’re here.

Last, but certainly not least, I would be remiss if I didn’t give a shout-out to those who know me simply as “Kate” (or Auntie Kate!). To my friends and family, of whom there are far too many to list, thank you for being my rocks. I love you all so, so much.

A very special thank-you to …

Mom and Dad, for always nourishing my creativity, especially when I was younger, and for encouraging me to break out of boxes I didn’t feel fit. Billy and Mollie, for being my constants. I loved growing up with you, and I love discovering adulthood alongside y’all even more. From Mario Kart races to Shellback nights, I couldn’t imagine doing life without you two. Courtney, for looking at every cover and for sending me boxes on boxes of romance books and for always having coffee creamer stocked. Morgan, for listening to every rant as I struggle with plot tangles and for geeking out over movies with me as I threw myself into research. Julie, for championing my books far and wide. Bubs and Etano, for being the lights of my life and always reminding me of what’s truly important.

And last but never ever least … thank you to Cass, for being the absolute best friend a girl could ask for. Thank you for getting us to Skye all those years ago—and for every adventure that’s come since. I love you to the moon and back, bb.

Also by Kate Dramis

THE CURSE OF SAINTS SERIES

The Curse of Saints

The Curse of Sins

The Curse of Gods

About the Author

Kate Dramis is a former copywriter based in Atlanta whose obsession with fantasy worlds and escaping into a good love story eventually drove her to chase her dream of being an author. Inspired by a dream about a woman calling down lightning to save a friend, The Curse of Saints was Kate’s debut novel and became an instant #2 Sunday Times bestseller. She has a BA in journalism from the University of Georgia. You can sign up for email updates here.

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Contents

1. Title Page
2. Copyright Notice
3. Dedication
4. 1. Planes and Paps
5. 2. Fickle Fame
6. 3. We Can Still Be Friends
7. 4. Strategic Connections
8. 5. Imposters
9. 6. Influencers
10. 7. Sad Kate Winslet
11. 8. Single-Lane Roads
12. 9. England vs. Scotland
13. 10. Complicated
14. 11. Brick Walls & Icy Falls
15. 12. Flesh Wounds
16. 13. Powerless
17. 14. Never Have I Ever
18. 15. Casual
19. 16. Breakthrough
20. 17. Downbeat
21. 18. Free Fall
22. 19. Merry Little Christmas
23. 20. A Rush of Reality
24. 21. Wants, Needs
25. 22. Here. Now. Always.
26. Epilogue
27. Acknowledgments
28. Also by Kate Dramis
29. About the Author
30. Copyright

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

First published in the United States by St. Martin’s Griffin, an imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group

THE ODDS OF YOU. Copyright © 2025 by Kate Dramis. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Publishing Group, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271.

www.stmartins.com

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Cover design by Olga Grlic

Cover art: landscape © Art Studio VN/Shutterstock; couple © NicoElNino/Shutterstock
eISBN 9781250393685

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First Edition: 2026