“Why did I agree to this?” I whisper.
She just stares at me, then shrugs. “I don’t know, Zoey. I was surprised myself. But you’re here, and it’s fine. Just read your story the way you wrote it. They’re fans. They’re gonna love you. They already love you. They just want to hear you tell the story, get an autograph, and take a picture.”
Here is The Neighborhood Bookstore in Brooklyn Heights. That’s why I said yes. But now that it’s real, I feel like I might vomit. I scan the crowd, looking for Ark. Does he follow my life the way I follow his? Does he know I’m here? Will he come listen to me talk? Or stand in line to get a book signed?
My daydream is stupid and pathetic. It borders on sad.
In the two years since we parted that night, I have not even heard Ark’s voice. Why would he show up now?
The store manager steps up to a small podium. She is thrilled. This is a medium-sized independent bookstore, but the crowd today is more people than they’ve seen in… well, ever. She taps on the microphone a few times and then clears her voice. “Ladies and gentlemen.” She takes a long breath. “I’m so excited to introduce to you one of today’s best new authors. You probably first heard of her from the headlines years ago when she went missing. But she was not kidnapped, as we had all feared. She was writing.” The manager, whose name I don’t remember because I’m too nervous to think of anything but Ark right now, turns and beams at me. “And what a book, huh?”
The audience claps. The roar echoes off the high white ceilings of the store.
I take a deep, deep breath.
“What a book,” the manager repeats, trying to stop the applause so she can continue. “Filled with hope, and love.” She pauses and places a hand over her heart. “And the most perfect happily-ever-after ending I’ve ever read. I hope that wasn’t a spoiler for anyone!”
The audience laughs. Everyone has read the book.
I’ve been on the New York Times bestsellers list for almost two months. Almost a million copies sold in that time. I’ve been accused of plotting my disappearance in order to sell books. And while that’s crazy, considering what really happened to me when I was away ‘writing’, it’s still got a bit of truth to it. Because the only reason I wrote this book after JD killed himself and Ark was hauled away by the FBI was to find my way back again. I need to know if it was all a lie. Did Ark ever love me?
I pulled every string I could to get my story out there. I used my father. I used my disappearance. I used my Columbia contacts. I used anything and everyone I could. All for the fame. So that one person would notice me again.
My publicist puts a hand on my shoulder once more, reading my sadness as nerves and trying to give me encouragement.
“So without further ado, I’m thrilled to introduce Zoey Marshall, author of the number one New York Times-bestselling romantic suspense, Three, Two, One.”
She claps her hands too close to the microphone and it creates a thunderous boom before she steps aside to make room for me.
I take another deep, deep breath and walk forward. “Thank you,” I say into the microphone. I desperately search the crowd for Ark, but even though the place is packed, there’s no way to miss the fact that he is not here. “I’d like to read a passage from my book, if that’s OK.” Chuckles all around. It’s why I’m here, right? “It’s my favorite part. And it’s a dialog scene between Ark and Blue.”
A woman in the front row actually sighs.
Yes, I think to myself. He’s dreamy. Both in the book and out of it.
“Who is the person you love most in this world?” I ask the audience, reading from chapter twenty-three in my book. That conversation is what changed me. Changed us. Because Ark drew a line when I couldn’t.
I don’t look up until I’m done with the entire passage, but when I do, every set of eyes in the store are on me.
“Thank you,” I whisper into the microphone.
I try to make a hasty escape, but then the store manager is back, grabbing a hold of my hand and leaning into the microphone. “Miss Marshall will be signing books at the west end of the store. Please purchase your book prior to getting in line. Thank you!”
She turns to me and the digital cameras click. Flashes flash. My eyes see spots. And when I open them, for a split second, I think I see him in the back.
But the residual spots blind me and when they finally clear as I’m walking to the west end of the store where my signing table is set up, the apparition is gone.
I take my seat at the table and a few of the store workers are first in line. I greet them and smile. I listen for their names and then write something witty in each book, enjoying the friendly banter as I pass them back.
It’s a nice feeling. But my mind is occupied with how I got here.
How did I get from where I was to where I am?
Why do I constantly have to ask myself this question?
After JD killed himself, I don’t remember anything but screaming. My screaming.
And then Ark’s pleading, as he rushed to JD and held him in his arms, just repeating the words, “No. No. No,” over and over again.
Ark was covered in blood when they picked him up off the floor. Someone had draped a blanket over me, even though I was wearing my coat. And all I kept thinking was, It’s so hot, I think I’m in hell.
I smile at the fan in front of me. “Yes, of course you can have a picture.” I stand and she makes her way over to the photo op banner my publicist had made specifically for this event. It’s a picture of the book cover and the Denver city skyline in the background.