Ink and Lies

  “Ok, great. Thanks, Delores.”

  “You know, Fiona was in here earlier this week,” she remarks while walking towards the café with me. There’s something conspiratorial about her tone, like maybe she was told not to mention it, but knew I’d want to know.

  I nod, feigning interest. “Oh, really?”

  “Yeah. Grabbed tons of wedding magazines and checked out the new romance releases. I mentioned the signing to her, thinking she was definitely attending with you like she’s done in the past. However, she acted like she knew nothing about it.”

  “Oh?”

  “Oh yes. But it probably just slipped her mind with all the wedding stuff,” she muses. “Hard to believe she’s gone off and gotten herself engaged. How are you holding up?”

  I occupy my expression with the daunting task of stirring cream and sugar into my coffee. “Just fine. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh. Well, you know.”

  At that, I look up, perplexity etched on my brow. “No. I don’t.”

  “Well…it should’ve been you.”

  “What?”

  “August, it should be you she’s marrying,” Delores explains. “Everybody thinks so. We were all completely shocked that she hooked up with that doctor. I mean, he’s handsome, I’ll give her that. But you and that girl were made for each other. That guy is nothing more than a temporary placeholder…for you.”

  I don’t know what to say—what can I say? Have I been that transparent about my feelings, even though I didn’t even really know they existed until recently?

  “I don’t know about that,” I mutter, pushing away the thought.

  “It’s true, August. Just sad you two couldn’t get it together.”

  Part of me wants to tell her she’s wrong, that only saps and dreamers believe in such things as fate and soul mates. That we didn’t miss our chance because we never truly had one, because the universe had deemed me its ugly stepchild and stripped me of the ability to open myself to silly notions like love and forever. We were all temporary—slaves to our own selfish desires and wicked lust. Eventually, the wind would blow, and the love we thought was built on brick and concrete would come tumbling down like a house of cards.

  But I don’t say it. Somewhere deep inside, maybe I didn’t believe it.

  “I better get my seat,” I say with an apologetic smile. Sometimes the best explanation isn’t one at all.

  The signing goes much like I expect: Crickets.

  We’re all local authors, struggling to get our book in the hands of the masses. Some of us are more desperate than others (I’m looking at you, Tom from two tables down. No one wants to see a cardboard cutout of you holding your own book). I score a few pity buys which is more than what I’ve sold all month, so I consider it a good sale day. After a few hours, I decide it’s time to pack it up and get home. I’m eager to get back to my manuscript, and that feeling is like pure crack cocaine in my veins.

  “Excuse me, would you mind signing this please?” a familiar voice asks, as I’m bending down to stack the leftover copies of Tears of Glass into a cardboard box. I sit up straight and blink, hoping that I’m just seeing things. Praying that lack of sleep and staring at a computer monitor for two weeks straight have finally begun to eat away at my retinas. But that would be too easy for the universe. She likes to have her fun with me.

  “Denae, what are you—”

  “What am I doing here? Oh, I just thought I’d come and get my book signed.” She holds up a copy of Heat Wave…by Hope Hughes. That’s when I notice the flash and whirl of several cameras pointed in my direction. The press is here.

  “I think you have the wrong book,” I deadpan, taking in the dozens of patrons and staff looking on in curiosity.

  “Do I? So…” She opens the book and flips to the first chapter. “Denise, a law student with a penchant for dirty talk and role play, actually isn’t me? Funny. I compared some of the notes you made in your diary to the scenes in the book.”

  That’s when she pulls one of my notebooks out of her purse and tosses it on the table in front of me. “Maybe you can sign both for me.”

  I’m at a loss. A complete loss. I never anticipated this happening. I didn’t even think Denae had heard of Hope Hughes. Well, after today, everyone has.

  I snatch up my notebook, grab my bag, and try to make my way around the table, but I’m blocked in by cameras and onlookers. “Get out of my way,” I demand to a guy in a hoodie who’s got a Nikon shoved in my face.

  “Where are you going, August?” Denae taunts. “Or should we call you Hope? Do you wear dresses when you write? Makeup and wigs to really channel the essence of your readers?”

  “Get the fuck away from me.” I’m beyond being cordial. At this point, I’m just trying to survive. In two seconds, hoodie guy and his camera will be crumpled on the floor if they don’t step aside. Reading the threat on my face, he reluctantly steps aside, yet continues to snap pictures. I hurriedly rush towards the front doors.

  “You owe me! You owe me, August!” Denae calls out from behind me. “I was your muse! I inspired you! You need me!”

  I escape the probing eyes and whispered questions, and hop on my Harley. I have nowhere to go, nowhere to find refuge in this shit storm of accusations and judgments. I’m naked out here, violently shivering in the freezing cold with no shelter in sight.

  I find myself in front of Fi’s apartment building. I know I have no place here, no reason for her to accept me, no hope of her shielding me from the cruel world of deceit and lies. The very world I created.

  I sit and watch her window from the curb. There doesn’t seem to be anyone home, since it’s Saturday. On Saturdays she likes to hit the Farmer’s Market, do some shopping, or read in the park if the weather’s nice enough. But just as I’m about to kick on the engine, I hear music—her music. And seconds later, I see movement between her curtains. It’s Fi, singing along to one her favorite songs, smiling, twirling around in a dress adorned with watercolor flowers. She’s so gorgeous, so radiant that the sight of her hurts my eyes. I find myself smiling through the pain, and simply relishing the image of her truly…beautifully…happy.

  I watch as her audience of one for a few minutes before I notice her expression change. She touches her cheeks, as if she’s bashful, and then shakes her head. And then she lifts her chin, eyes closed, lips pursed, and prepares to be kissed.

  I see red as I watch Joshua fit his mouth with hers, pull her body into his, tangle his fingers into her head, and take what was meant for me. I can’t watch it, yet I can’t look away. I can’t bring myself to rev the engine and ride away. I stand helpless and watch as he robs me blind, yet I do nothing to try to stop it.

  The kiss builds and evolves into something too intimate for me to stomach as he dots kisses down her throat and across her shoulder. He slides down one strap of her dress and ravishes the skin with lips and teeth. Fiona tips her head back in ecstasy and I swear I can hear her moan his name over the music. His name. Not mine.

  Just as he relinquishes her body of her other strap, I find the strength to crank up my bike and ride away. I didn’t think it was possible, but somehow, I’m even emptier than when I arrived.

  MY LIFE HAS BECOME ONE big Delete.

  Constant calls and voicemails asking how I’m holding up, and if any of the stories are true. Delete.

  Nonstop text messages from ex-lovers, demanding I compensate them for their part in my stories. Delete.

  Incessant emails asking for interviews, exclusives and statements. Delete.

  I delete them all, because I have nothing to say. And even if I did, I’d have no one to say it to.

  They’ve had to add extra security to my building, which I’m sure will be added to my rent. My neighbors were especially thrilled with having our trash picked through my overzealous press and fangirls. I haven’t even been able to order from my favorite restaurants since the pizza delivery guy tried to bring me my pie wearing a Go Pro.

  “Yo
u have to talk to them, son. Set the record straight,” my grandfather said when I finally got the balls to call him.

  “Why didn’t you tell us?” my parents wondered when I answered one of their many calls.

  “This changes everything. Time to strike while the irons hot!” Kerrigan trilled, when we discussed strategy.

  People assume my reclusion is a sign of guilt or shame. In all honesty, I just don’t know what to do. My life—the life I had so artfully constructed—is over. And while it may sound melodramatic as fuck, I don’t know how to be just August. I no longer have a secret to hide behind.

  Bartleby needs litter, and after ransacking the questionable canned goods and freezer-burnt entrees, I know I have to venture out into the world. It’s been a week, meaning some other train wreck has stolen the limelight and given the media sharks another hapless story to swarm around. Still, I don a ball cap, shades and dark, inconspicuous clothes, and stay far away from the tabloid mags.

  “August?”

  I’m in the cat aisle, headed for the checkout, nearly home free when I hear it. Just keep walking, I tell myself. Maybe she’ll go away.

  “August, wait a minute. Hold on.”

  I turn around slowly and find Fiona standing at the end of the aisle, holding a bottle of cheap wine and a plastic container of rotisserie chicken. She begins to smile, then thinks better of it after taking in my disheveled appearance.

  “Um, how are you?” she asks, walking toward me slowly as to not spook me. I look to my right and my left to see if anyone’s noticed us.

  “I’m fine.”

  “I see you’re growing your hair out,” she muses, nodding toward the wisps of brown curls peeking from under my hat.

  “Haven’t had a chance to get to the barber.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Right.” She tries to fiddle with her hair, her tell for nervousness, but her hands are full. “So did you meet your deadline?”

  I nod. “They pushed it back with everything going on…”

  “Oh. That makes sense. Sorry,” she grimaces. “So how are you holding up?”

  I shrug. Obviously, she can see I’m a mess, and I’ve been a mess since our falling out. Still, I answer, “I’m great.”

  “Are you?”

  “Yeah.”

  Her wide, brown eyes take in my baggy sweats and unshaven jaw. She tries to smile. “Ok. Glad to hear it.”

  “Hey, I’ve gotta go.”

  “I better get going.”

  We stumble over each other as we both try to retreat from the most awkward encounter since Kanye snatched the mic from Taylor.

  “It was good seeing you,” Fi says as she backs away.

  I start to turn towards the exit, and momentarily consider dumping my shit and making a mad dash out the door. “Yeah, you too.”

  I watch a stranger walk away from me like I’m diseased. I watch her go back to her lovely life of lavish dinners and beaded dresses and kisses in the sunlight. And for one small beat, I remember what it was like to know her and to love her. I remember the sound of her laughter and the warmth of her embrace. And even though I tell myself I don’t miss them, I can’t help it. I can’t help wondering if that stranger misses me too.

  Seeing Fi is the motivation I need to get my shit together. It takes some time, but I finally pull my head out of my ass and make it through all the emails and texts marked Urgent. Well, the emails and texts I didn’t delete.

  “So far, two women have threatened to sue for defamation and damages. However, they’re just threats. They have no case. Each Hope book was fiction and under copyright laws, your intellectual property is protected. However, I suggest you talk to your lawyer so there aren’t any surprises,” Kerrigan suggests over the phone.

  “On it,” I reply, as I scribble a reminder on a pad of Post Its.

  “And People want to do an expose on men in romance, featuring you. I told them it was highly unlikely that you’d be up for anything face-to-face, but I did mention the prospect of a phone or email interview.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “And your little shit stirrer, Denae, will be appearing on The View this week. Surprisingly, she’s not suing. However, she is capitalizing on her fifteen minutes with a tell-all book deal and a special on MTV. How this has anything to do with music is beyond me.”

  “Not surprised. Anything else?”

  “Yes.” I hear her suck in a lungful of lush, toxic smoke and exhale. “The network still wants to work with you. They’ve even thrown more money your way. And with news of your identity, they want to get a jump on it ASAP.”

  “What’s ASAP?”

  “As soon as January.”

  “January?” I run my fingers through the top of my freshly clipped hair and begin to pace the floor. January? It’s November. January is right around the corner, and I’m in no way ready to pack up my life and move. However, the prospect of escaping Spokane and the random whispers and stares whenever I leave the house is looking sweeter every day.

  “I know it’s soon, but development will take some time. It’s not like you need to leave tomorrow.”

  “I know, it’s just…”

  Fiona.

  And the Colonel.

  Although, it seems like they’re doing pretty well without me. I’m just not doing so well without them.

  “Hey, Kerrigan, let me think it over. I’ll get back to you on it, I swear.”

  “Ok, kid. No matter what you may think about all this, I think it’s a good thing. All publicity is good publicity, am I right?”

  “Sure, boss.”

  “Boss? Pretty sure I work for you.”

  I chuckle genuinely for the first time in weeks. “I highly doubt that, Kerrigan.”

  In the spirit of turning over a new leaf, I make an impromptu visit to see the Colonel. It’s Saturday, and it’s been way too long since I’ve visited. And to the elderly, a few weeks seem like a few years.

  “August? August, is that you?”

  “Hey, it’s the Colonel’s boy! He’s back!”

  “Good to see you, young man! It’s been a while.”

  “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes. What’s it been—a month?”

  “Only about three weeks, ma’am,” I say to the fifth resident since I walked through the doors. You’d think I’d just come home from war or a Gary Busey retreat or something equally tragic.

  “Well, I’m sure seeing you will definitely lift the Colonel’s spirits,” Nurse Tabatha chimes in. “Go on and see him before he turns in for the night.”

  I look at my watch. “It’s only 7:30.”

  “I know. The Colonel has been a little tired lately. Probably just misses you.”

  That lights a fire under my ass, and I hurry to my grandfather’s apartment, successfully bypassing Helen and her snow-capped Cheetah Girls.

  “Colonel?” I call out, entering his apartment without knocking. The lights are off and it’s completely still.

  “In here,” he grumbles from the bedroom. I follow his voice and find him lying in bed, watching television on an old tube television.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he asks, his expression both perplexed and surprised. I take the wooden chair beside his bed, one of the very few pieces of furniture he has in his room.

  “Thought I’d come see you, since my schedule’s been so crazy. I finished the book.”

  “That’s great, son. Proud of you.”

  That makes me smile. Hearing those words from him means the world to me. “Thank you, sir.”

  “So…what’s next? Anymore thought about that television show?”

  “Actually, yes. The network is still interested, even despite…”

  “Ah. Yes. I heard. And you’re ok?”

  I nod, really, truly meaning it this time. “I am. Things have simmered down, and I haven’t received any weird letters or packages in the past week. I think everything is pretty much back to normal now. Hope Hughes was a chapter in my life, and that chapter is over. I
’m looking forward to just being August for a change.”

  “Good. I liked him better anyway,” the Colonel quips. He even almost grins.

  “So…what are you doing in bed so early? Don’t tell me you’re getting old on me.”

  “Getting old? Boy, I’ve got gray hair in places I didn’t know could sprout hair. I’ve been old. But don’t be fooled—I can still kick your ass.”

  We both share a chuckle, and for once in a long time, I’m having fun. It feels good—different, but good.

  “Hey, can you grab my glasses off my dresser,” he asks, waving toward the chest of drawers across from him. “I’ve been looking at the TV, but can’t tell if I’m watching M.A.S.H. or a penguin documentary.”

  “Sure.” I flip on the bedside lamp and walk over to the dresser where the Colonel keeps a few toiletries and books. The small area, which is usually meticulously neat, seems a bit disorganized, so I take a few seconds to tidy up scattered papers and mail. That’s when I see an embossed cream envelope made of thick stock paper.

  “What’s this?” I ask, running my fingers over the calligraphy on the front.

  “Oh, that. It’s nothing. Go ahead and toss that back on the dresser.”

  “It’s not nothing. People don’t waste expensive paper on nothing.”

  “August, it’s not what you think.”

  “I think it’s exactly what I think.”

  “You’ve been going through a lot lately, and I didn’t want to burden you with—”

  “I’m fine. Ok? I’m a big boy. Now, what is it?”

  He silence is all the answer I need. Still, I have to see if for myself. I pull out the embellished, blush-colored card and instantly wish that I didn’t. The lettering is elegant although ostentatious, and when I see their names together, like miniature bride and groom atop a wedding cake, I’m overcome with defeat. They fit together. On paper, they sound like the perfect couple.

  “January 23rd. Fiona is getting married January 23rd. In two months.” The thought, the date, the very words in my mouth seem foreign to me.