Ink and Lies

  Fiona loves the snow. Winter has always been her favorite season, so I’m not surprised that she’s having a winter wonderland-themed wedding. She’ll make a beautiful bride, all covered in glistening white. She’ll be happy. I’ll choose to be happy she’s happy.

  “Want to take a walk outside, Bart?” I ask the slightly less fluffy Calico. I’d bought him one of those embarrassing cat leashes and had put him on a strict diet. No more waffles at three a.m. No more leftover Pad Thai. No more pastrami with extra pickles. The Colonel would like that. He’d be proud of both of us.

  Of course, Bartleby hated the idea of a healthier lifestyle, and tries to hurriedly hide behind the couch at the mention of a walk. He’s still not in fighting shape, so he can’t fit all the way. Still, I give him an A for effort, and let him be.

  I’m stalling anyway. The Colonel’s passing, the funeral, my parents…all reasonable excuses for not writing. But it’s been a month, and I still haven’t been able to conjure the words. I’d once lived for the sound of keys clicking, creating Fi’s beauty and heartbreak. But all I’ve felt, all I’ve known since we broke apart…is heartbreak.

  Against my own protests, I sit at my desk, just staring at the monitor of my computer. I touch my fingers to the cold screen. I run them over the worn keys. I sit, and I remember, and I let it all come back to me.

  Come back to me.

  Please, come back to me.

  I take the first step and turn it on. It whistles and whirs to life, greeting me with the familiar flickers of light and color. I point the cursor over the Word icon and click. Blank and barren and white like the freshly fallen snow outside my window.

  I don’t like it. The Colonel would agree.

  She stands over the mess of multi-colored squares, rumpled notebook paper and empty coffee cups with a look of wonder and disbelief in her eyes.

  “You’ve been here all night? Did you even sleep?”

  “No,” I smile, shaking my head animatedly. “I’ve got it. I’ve finally got it. This story…it’s big. It’s everything I love to read all wrapped up in one. Witty dialogue, smart, complex characters, and real life connections. This is it. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but this is it.”

  “Wow,” she gasps. “That’s great.”

  I stand up and hand her a wrinkled stack of papers, covered in black ink and coffee stains. “I know it doesn’t seem like much, and maybe it’s not, but I want you to read it. Even if you’re the only person on earth who does, I want you to read it.”

  She looks down at the papers in her hands and scans the first page. Within seconds, she’s smiling. Minutes, she’s laughing. “You wrote this?”

  “Yeah. Sometime between midnight and two a.m. I was out at this bar. There were these girls, griping about their “relationships.” They’d each been dating these guys that were obviously not as into them as they would like. Staying out late, not calling, middle of the night phone calls. One girl was washing her man’s slacks and found a receipt for condoms inside. Condoms that they don’t use because she’s on the pill. The other girl found an online dating profile her guy had created, so she created a profile too, and has been talking to him while posing as someone else. Insane.”

  “That is. I can’t imagine.”

  “Yeah, crazy. But you know what’s worse? They’re staying with them. They’d rather stay in these fucked up relationships than be alone. They’d rather be miserable and suspicious than single. Why is that?”

  “I don’t know,” she shrugs. “Because being single is even more miserable?”

  “How?” I frown. “Being a doormat and an idiot is better than having your freedom?”

  “No. Better than being lonely.”

  “Hmph,” I snort. “Well, I guess we’ll never find out for sure.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Because we have each other,” I smile. I take the rumpled papers from her grasp and set them on the coffee table. Then I take her hands in mine, intertwining our fingers. “You’ll never be one of those girls, because you’re my girl. So you’ll never be lonely. You’ll always have someone in your corner. You’ll never know what it feels like to be betrayed. And you’ll never, ever have to compete for my affections.”

  Her cheeks flush, she grins nervously. “You have girlfriends. Lots of them. What about your affections for them?”

  “Who cares?”

  “Uh, I care. And I’m pretty sure they care. Don’t you think they’ll be a bit upset with me for taking up your attention? And honestly, it’s kinda hard competing with your army of spray-tanned Barbies.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I affirm, shaking my head.

  “It does. To me, it does. I’m not like those other girls.” She says it like it’s a tragedy.

  “No,” I say, pressing my lips to her forehead. “Those other girls aren’t you.”

  I sit back and I smile. Not because it’s great—it’s not. Not because it’ll change anyone’s life—it won’t. But because it’s real. It’s my heart on paper. And if that isn’t the most authentic form of truth, I don’t know what is.

  Having decided that my grief meter has expired, I venture out in search of inspiration. With Aunties a breeding ground for obsessed fangirls trying to get a peek at Hope, I unfortunately have had to abandon my little slice of literary heaven. So I go to the one place where I was guaranteed stimulation—the Spokane public library.

  “Well, isn’t this a surprise,” Louisa grins like she just won the Powerball jackpot. She twirls her bottle-blonde hair with short-trimmed nails and bats her lashes behind black-framed glasses.

  “How have you been, L?”

  “Oh, you know. My life is in these stacks. But it’s been much more interesting since I learned about your double life. Why didn’t you tell me, August?”

  “You know how it is,” I shrug. “We all have secrets. Some of them are just more interesting than others.”

  “I’m with you there,” she bristles. What she doesn’t know is that I’m privy to her secrets. Married. Mother of two. Girl Scout troop leader. Choir member.

  Hey, I said I was a writer. Not a saint.

  “So what brings you in today? I don’t have a break for another hour.”

  I shake my head, earning a look of disappointment with a tad bit of hurt. “I’m here on business, not pleasure today. I need to read something that hits all the marks—mystery, drama, suspense, comedy…romance.”

  “Oh?”

  “Book research,” I assure her.

  “So you’ve been bitten by the romance bug, huh?” she questions amusingly.

  “I wouldn’t say that. I’ve been infected for a long time now,” I admit. There. I said it. And I feel kinda badass about it.

  “Well.” Her face sours just a tad, but she comes around the corner and beckons me with a finger. “Follow me. I think I can help you with that.”

  She leads me to a back room that the general public wouldn’t know about, due to the unmarked door. When I step inside, I understand why. Indie and traditional sitting side by side. Erotica, New Adult, Contemporary Romance. There’s even a taboo section, featuring student-teacher, stepbrother, and other forbidden romances.

  “What is this place?” I ask, as if I’ve just stepped into Oz.

  “There was this lady that would come in every week for months to request books. Stuff that we, a public library, wouldn’t usually carry. However, we do accept requests and try to appease our patrons. So, she filled out a request every time she came in. Dozens of them. Her first request was Hope Hughes.”

  “What?” I turn around to face her, and she smiles back conspiratorially.

  “Yes. Said it was her favorite author. When we got those in, she asked for others—stuff we hadn’t even heard of. Did you know that people go nuts for sex books involving clergyman?” she asks, visibly horrified.

  I bite back a laugh. “No. Really?”

  “Oh yes. I was shocked. Anyway, the books were a hit, and other readers began to
seek out these titles. The requests kept coming. Soon after, we decided we needed a space for them, but something that would keep the integrity of the library. Many of these are banned books and this is a public library that children frequent, it’s not like we could just got around flaunting them.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Right. And while I’m sure you are talented at what you do…”

  “It’s ok, L,” I smirk. “I get it.”

  “So here they are,” she says with a wave of her hand.

  “It’s a regular Garden of Eden. Sure you don’t want to try the forbidden fruit?”

  “I’ll pass,” she chuckles before turning toward the door. I don’t try to stop her. This is the most we’ve ever talked…and it’s nice. I see her for who she is, and that person, while perfectly kind and beautiful, is not for me.

  “Thanks, Louisa.”

  She turns and smiles at the doorjamb. “You know, it’s strange…”

  “What is?”

  “That woman,” she muses. “She never checked out any of the books. She only requested them. The last time she was in, I asked her if she’d like to take any of them home. She said she had already read them. She just wanted others to discover the magic she had.”

  I nod and look away in hopes of hiding the emotion undoubtedly splayed across my features. I only know of one person that believes in books as much as I do. And she’ll always be my magic.

  IT WAS LIKE ANY OTHER day. Until it wasn’t.

  I woke up, got my coffee, fed Bart and sat down at my desk. I wrote until hunger was too much to ignore, and then I got back to writing. I got more coffee, dicked around on social media, and wrote some more. Then it came.

  -Sorry to bother you. Moving out of my place and need your key. You probably need mine too, right? OK. Hope you’re well.

  Well.

  Fiona hopes I’m well.

  Well is so impersonal. It’s what you reserve for business associates and people you don’t know. For friends—people you’ve known for an entire decade—you use words like great, awesome, fan-fucking-tastic. You don’t wish your best friend well. You wish him the world.

  I stow my pettiness and file it under Forgotten. She’s moving. I knew it would be soon, but I just hadn’t realized that I had less than two weeks. I text her back, not wanting to waste another moment on trivial speculation.

  -Sure. Next week good? I’m pretty swamped.

  She answers right away, as if she were waiting by the phone. Waiting for me.

  -Next week? I was hoping to get it over with asap. I’ll be so busy next week…

  Next week. Her wedding. She’ll be running around like a chicken with her head cut off, but I need the time.

  -Sorry. I can mail it if you want…

  -No, no. Next week is fine. I can make it work.

  I almost smile, but quickly remember myself. Then I get back to writing.

  Moving sucks. Big time.

  One doesn’t realize just how much junk they accumulate until they have to sort through it and organize their life. Luckily, most of my prized possessions are rectangular, so I can fit them easily into boxes. I should have hired a moving company, but I kept hearing the Colonel’s voice in my head, telling me not to let stranger’s touch my things. “You have two hands…use them,” he would say. “That way you know where everything is.” I’m inclined to agree; although there’s no way I’m hauling all this shit on my own. The studio is paying for the move, and has even set me up with a cushy apartment, fully furnished. So all of my furniture is being donated to an organization supporting our veterans. The Colonel was fortunate. He was a saver, and I took on any expenses he couldn’t cover. Many of our vets aren’t as lucky, especially in this area.

  “You’re looking good, Bart,” I remark as the feline slinks by, rubbing his side against a cardboard box. He turns and looks at me as if to say, “Yeah, I know.” Great. Now he’s not just a furry asshole. He’s an arrogant, furry asshole. I have a feeling he’ll fit in just fine in LA.

  The closer I get to moving away from my safe little corner of the earth to the land of dreams and desolation, the more anxious I become. I know this is the right choice. I know that I was only holding myself back out of insecurity and stubbornness. And now that I have nothing keeping me from turning the page of the next chapter of my life, I’m almost excited. Almost.

  Hours turn into days. Days blur into a week. I’ve survived on coffee grounds, unsold dreams and fading memories for far too long. After living my life in the shadows of my secrets, it’s time to let go of the past. So here I am, staring down the barrel of my future, afraid and exhilarated, ready to pull the trigger.

  I text Fiona, asking her to meet me at our place—our favorite table at our favorite bistro—to exchange keys. I haven’t told her about my move to LA, but then again, we haven’t spoken since the day the Colonel died. She came to the funeral, but we never spoke. We had run out of words.

  She agrees to meet me at our usual time, although she’s insanely busy. I don’t expect her stay for brunch, but it doesn’t really matter. I won’t be there anyway. Instead, I watch her walk in from across the street. I watch as the hostess smiles and ushers her to our table. And I watch her check her phone as she waits. And waits. And waits.

  Although I know she’s moving, the site of her packed-up apartment—littered with cardboard and Styrofoam peanuts—gives me pause. I swallow down the hesitation, and get to work. I’d been imagining this for weeks, long before I had even considered putting my plan into action. I only have one chance—one shot. And after that, I’m done. I won’t try anymore. I’ll let her live with her decision. And as much as it’ll kill me, I’ll stay away for good.

  After tonight, I’ll say goodbye to Rhys and Fi, BFFs. Forever.

  Unbelievable. Un-freaking-believable.

  It’s just like August to stand me up. No text, no call. No regard for other people’s time or feelings. I check my phone one more time to see if he’s responded to any of the dozens of messages I’ve sent him. Five more minutes, and I’m done with him. For good.

  The first of many angry, frustrated tears sting my eyes as I sit in our once-beloved restaurant with a half empty mimosa in my hand. We didn’t have to leave things this way. It should have been easier for both of us. I should be celebrating with my best friend. We should be planning parties and dinners. He should be snickering while I try on wedding dresses and rolling his eyes while we choose centerpieces. I should be calling him up during freakouts, and he should be rushing over armed with crispy spring rolls, booze and words of reason.

  I shouldn’t be angry with him. I shouldn’t be missing him. I shouldn’t even be thinking about him when I’m set to marry the man of every girl’s dreams tomorrow.

  I’m waving down the server when I get a call from my building’s super. Frantically, he tells me there’s a water leak in my unit, and I need to get there ASAP. Great. Just what I need. The cherry on top of this already terrible day. I consider cancelling on the bachelorette festivities tonight, because this will definitely set me back.

  I slap down enough cash to cover my mimosas and the tip and rush over to my apartment, praying there isn’t any damage. I’m in a fog when I pull up. I’m completely preoccupied when I take the stairs two at a time, so I don’t pause when I open my front (unlocked) door and I find no signs of flooding. But what I do find, —what does have me standing there with my mouth open and my eyes as big as the moon—is August. August indescribably handsome and smiling, submerged in a sea of multi-colored Post-Its that seem to cover ever surface of my living room/dining room/kitchen.

  “What…? What is all this?” I stammer, slowly stepping inside and closing the door behind me.

  “This…this is me,” he answers. “Giving you my words. Offering you a piece of my soul and hoping you can read my heart between the lines.”

  “August, what’s going on?” I walk over to the lamp and pluck a pink sticky note from the lampshade. It reads, The bes
t stories are the ones we live. I look up to find him gazing at me expectantly, waiting for my reaction. “That’s beautiful,” is all I can muster. There’s another beside it in blue that etched with, Love without logic. Purple and pink and orange and green…all boasting a different profound declaration.

  I’m sorry.

  Forgive me.

  Don’t leave me.

  I pick up another, a yellow one stuck to the couch, and read it aloud. “Let me be your HEA. What does that even mean?”

  Slowly, he closes the space between us in four feathered breaths and stops right in front of me, close enough to touch. “Fiona, you’ve searched your whole life for the perfect book boyfriend. Passionate, alluring, aloof, mysterious…you looked for him in every guy you’ve ever dated, only to be disappointed. They weren’t Mr. Darcy. They weren’t Heathcliff or Howard Roark. Hell, they weren’t even Grey. They never measured up to what you deemed perfection, because those men didn’t exist. Therefore, you had given up on your HEA—your happily ever after—and settled for some semblance of true happiness. I know you think Joshua is it, but can you honestly say he’s what you imagined when you were curled up on your twin-sized bed dressed in oversized sweats while listening to “Drops of Jupiter” on repeat while tears streamed down your face?”

  My mouth is dry, but somehow I manage to whisper, “What are you saying, August?”

  “I’m saying that I want to be him. I want to be Darcy and Heathcliff and Roark and Blythe and Rochester and Grey and Cullen and all those heroes you’ve dreamt about every day since the day I met you, glassy eyed and pink cheeked. I want to be your hero, Fi. In fact, I know I could be all of them and more for you—because of you. And I want to give you the most epic HEA in history—both real and fictional.”

  I’m speechless, breathless, as I hold the now rumpled yellow square to my heart. I open my mouth and try to formulate words, but I am shocked into silence. I don’t even know what I could say to match his earnest confession.