Page 195 of Going Viral for Christmas
I know you’re hurting. I know you’re scared. But I believe in us. I believe in the way you kiss me, in how your hand finds mine when no one’s looking.
You finally started letting me see the tiny fissures in your walls and didn’t bolt the door shut after.
Which means…
We can overcome this, baby. Together. You just have to believe.
I don’t care how far you run or how many doors you slam—I’ll be here, waiting. I’m not trying to cage you or drag you back like some caveman.
Please understand, I want to hold you. When you’re ready.
I want to remind you that you don’t have to carry it all alone anymore.
So take your time if you need to. Disappear if you must. But make no mistake, Bells:
There’s no world where I stop loving you. No universe where I let go of what we have.
You’re my story now. And I’m not letting the last page turn without you.
Love,
S
Thirty-Six
AVA
I’m in Port Townsend. Curled up on Emily’s oversized armchair in her cottage-style rental, buried under a throw blanket that smells of sea salt and peppermint tea, trying not to unravel like one of the fraying seams on this damn afghan.
Outside, the Washington wind lashes the windows. Pretty sure it’s got some vendetta against me.
Inside, I’m warm in body but not in spirit. I got here with no money. No phone. No ID. No plan.
I borrowed someone’s phone and called Emily. Told her everything through sobs and adrenaline.
Emily—who is terrifyingly competent even when she’s microwaving soup—made things happen.
Apparently, a friend of hers, Rorie, lives in Port Townsend. Rorie then sent two of her friends—Jeremy and Maya—to drive meacross the entire fucking countryto drop me off.
That’s real friendship.
That’s also slightly certifiable.
The road trip was unforgettable, and a tad terrifying. Jeremy played only early 2000s boy bands and insisted on narrating all of his love life regrets through dramatic hand gesturesand Taco Bell metaphors.
Maya made us stop at nearly every roadside convenience store we passed, and if she saw a magazine with Asher Cross on the cover, she’d snatch all the copies, shred them like confetti, toss a hundred-dollar bill at the stunned cashier, and storm out in a blaze of righteous fury.
I chose not to ask.
Days later, I made it.
I’m here.
Emily’s house is quiet, filled with the smell of lemon candles and overachieving academia. She’s currently at her desk, toggling between her day job—some medical journal on neurodivergence and maternal inheritance—and a fantastical erotica manuscript with a main character who may or may not be hooking up with a morally ambiguous pirate-fae hybrid.
Soren got her number from Fisher and texted her a couple of nights ago. I made her lie. I hate myself for that. But I’m not ready. I know he probably hates me too—for what I’ve done, and what I’ve put him through. And leaving like I did, he’llneverforgive me.
Everything is my fault. Soren agreed to a stupid PR stunt to help me.Me.He didn’t need the hype or the numbers. Hewasthe numbers. He had the credibility, the career, the loyal fandom. And now, because ofmydesperation,myneed to make this work,hiscareer is caught up in the shit show. What was supposed to be a bump. A push. Became a demolition.
