You’ll never answer because there’s no way in hell I’m sending this.
But I do.
I
Miss
You
Delilah
Ann
Baker
My little
Hot
Tater
Tot—
I choke out a laugh. Irritating and boorish man. Oddly sweet man. His hastily scrawled words send tingling warmth over my breasts and up my thighs. Shaking my head, I spy the bold slashes of his next letter, the handwriting bigger than usual, taking up more space on the page.
Behold! I am Arasmus, bastard son of Jon’ash, brother of King Ulser of the Braxtons.
I have been exiled to the Sorrow Lands, forced to fight for my food, my shelter, my existence. Until . . .
Well, production hasn’t let me in on the rest. I’m sure it will be epic and angst-filled, and if my character manages to live through this season it will be a fucking miracle. If you’ve read any of the Dark Castle books, you’ll notice heads have a way of separating from key characters’ necks. We’re not following the books to the letter, so I’m not certain of Arsamus’s fate.
Makes my neck hurt just thinking about it, though.
But for now? I party.
Or I will tonight.
At the moment, I’m in my car, writing in this damn notebook I still have in the glove compartment.
Writing to tell you that I hate you once more.
I hate you, Delilah Ann Baker, cold and cruel Tater Tot.
I hate that I just got the call from my agent, telling me that, yes, I . . . Macon Saint, a virtual nobody in Hollywood, landed the coveted role of Arasmus in Dark Castle . . . the most anticipated series to come to cable in decades, and who do I immediately want to tell?
You.
Fucking you.
Why? Why is it always—
YOU?
The impact of his words hits me like a blow, and I sit back in my chair and stare out of the window. It’s almost too bright in here, the sunlight bouncing off the walls, making my eyes burn. For a moment, I was in that car with him, huddled down in the seat, feeling his frustration, his rage. The way he thought of me was so similar to my reactions to him—it’s eerie.
I’m afraid to read the last, knowing that he hates me in it, and I am the ghost he wants to be rid of. Oh, how I regret my words to him earlier. Ghosts, I realize, are just that: long dead. They can’t hurt us unless we let them. But I owe it to both of us to finish.
Hey Tot,
I won an Emmy.
It’s heavy and cold. And the best thing I’ve ever received. And the worst. Because it feels like a lie. Why didn’t they see I was full of shit? Why did they think I deserved it above the others? Those fine and true actors who know what they’re doing. Who are real.
I never feel real.
Do you? What do you dream of now? Is it of being a famous chef?
A friend handed me your catering card. Said your food was incredible. As if I needed telling. It always was.
I carry the card in my wallet, but I don’t look at it much. I’ll be tempted to call if I do.
What would I even say? We’re strangers now. Nothing to each other but an ugly past.
At least I am to you. To me, you are something different.
You have no idea that tonight, when I stood at that podium and said,
“I thank the stars for leading me here. Nothing is possible without them.”
I was speaking of you.
Anyway, I just thought you should know.
Or the “you” that is in my head.
Always yours,
—Macon
“Oh, God,” I whisper in the empty silence. My eyes burn hot when I press my cold fingers to them. “God.”
The diamond necklace on the table winks at me, and I pick it up. It’s so fine and light I barely feel it against my skin, and yet it’s the most substantial and real gift I’ve ever received. Macon gave me everything he had when he bought me this, even though he had little hope of my forgiveness or friendship.
There are eleven tiny diamonds on the chain. Eleven. The age I was when I met Macon. The number on Macon’s high school football jersey. Come May, it will be eleven years since we fought at prom.
He’s still giving me everything he has.
It takes me two tries to get the necklace on. It settles like gossamer upon my skin. Then I’m rising.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Macon
There’s something cathartic about doing the thing I most feared. Even if I don’t know how Delilah