Ink and Lies

  “You don’t have to say anything,” he says with an amused grin, reading my stunned expression. “Actually, I don’t want you to say anything. Not until you read this.”

  He picks up a folder from the coffee table that I hadn’t noticed until now and places it in my trembling hands. “The most epic love story I’ve ever written is the one I’m still living. So everything I’ve ever wanted to say…everything I should’ve said a long time ago is in these pages. And when you’re done, I hope you’ll come find me. I hope we’ll find each other.”

  Without another word, August leans forward to kiss my lips. It’s soft, sweet and too short. It’s exactly enough to keep me planted in my disbelief, wishing he would stay and do it again.

  He leaves me to my rainbow-colored apartment and stack of papers tucked inside a folder. On shaky legs, I walk further into the room and sit on the couch, one of the many old pieces of furniture that will be left behind when I officially move out. I like this couch. Many slices of pizza and TV sitcom marathons have been enjoyed on this couch. But it doesn’t fit with Joshua’s décor. It doesn’t fit with his life—I mean, our life.

  The folder is an anvil on my lap. I open the cover and come to a white sheet of paper, adorned only with a single quote.

  “I wish you to know that you have been the last dream of my soul.”

  My eyes well with tears as I read it and reread it again. It’s from August’s favorite book, “A Tale of Two Cities” by Charles Dickens. The Colonel gave him that book when he was just a boy, and he still has that copy—all tattered and faded—stashed on one of his shelves. And the day we met in my dorm room while he studied me as I read, we had been talking Dickens in our British Literature course. He hadn’t noticed me then, but I couldn’t keep my eyes off him…hadn’t kept my eyes off him since the first day of classes. The Brit Lit Nazi asked us to recite our favorite quote from the famed author. August was so confident, so charismatic as he stood up and shared his with us, captivating every eye with the blinding beauty of those words on his lips.

  “I wish you to know that you have been the last dream of my soul.”

  From that day forth, I wondered what it would be like to be the last dream of August Rhys Calloway’s soul. I wondered what it would be like to be his everything, like he was my everything. I wondered and I hoped and I dreamt that I would be his.

  I dash away my tears and take a deep breath, steeling myself before I turn the page, and brace for impact.

  Chapter 1

  When I met her, I met love for the very first time.

  But it was a shy, docile love. A love that didn’t want itself to be readily known. It rested in the corners of her mouth when she smiled. It danced on the tip of her fingernails when she turned the pages of her most beloved books. It slept upon the iridescent silk of her eyelids.

  I saw love when I first met her. I just didn’t know it yet.

  The tears begin to fall again and don’t stop as I flip through the pages, my smudged mascara leaving ink blots on the white paper. He writes about how we first met, how he looked at me as if I were this beautiful, extraordinary celestial being in his universe. He spins a breathtaking tale of the way we were, and how he secretly wanted us to be. I sit there on my couch, captivated by memories as if I were living them for the very first time. I read and I laugh and I weep and I gasp. He’s never written like this before. For as long as I’ve known and loved him, August has never penned anything so incredibly real.

  I flip to the very last page of our story, only to find it blank. However, there’s a single white envelope. My hands shake violently, but somehow, I manage to open it, and slip out what looks to be a plane ticket.

  January 23, 2016

  GEG to LAX

  Gate 3B, Seat 2B

  A ticket to Los Angeles, leaving tomorrow, on what is scheduled to be the most important day of my life—my wedding day.

  How could he do this to me? How can he create the biggest cliffhanger in history, and leave me in limbo, torn between a dream and reality?

  I sit and stare for what seems like eternity and hold that paper rectangle to my heart, questioning the last hours, days, weeks, months, years we’ve had together.

  Here in my hands lies the continuation to our epic tale. Will it be the greatest romance ever told or a tragedy? Or maybe I’m not seeing this for what it is. Maybe I’m just afraid to let go and accept that this is The End.

  ONE WEEKEND, FIONA DECIDED SHE wanted to torture me with Twilight. Not just the first movie, chock full of teenage angst and bad acting. Not the second one where Bella gets all emo when Edward bails for no apparent reason, or the third where the cast of Teen Wolf shows up. She wouldn’t even let me skip past to the last set of movies when Bella turns into Gollum and gives birth to Hannibal Lector. She made me watch all of them. Every last fucking movie in chronological order.

  I should have told her no. I should’ve made up some excuse about needing to write or give myself an enema. But instead, I watched them. I watched and I laughed and I made inappropriate jokes about glitter penises and dog hair in unconventional places, but I showed up. I showed up because it made her happy. I showed up because I love her.

  I showed up.

  And now, as I watch the first thirty chapters of my life dissipate from view out of the window of my first class seat(s), I wonder who is showing up for her right now. Friends, family, coworkers. And her groom.

  I showed up today, I showed up yesterday, and I showed up every day for ten years, all in hopes that she would do the same. All in a silly plot to win her heart.

  That’s the way things happen in romance. The hero professes his undying love, the heroine abandons all comfort and common sense to run into his open arms, and they live happily ever after, existing only on their hopes and dreams.

  However, reality is not nearly as kind. There are no heroes and heroines, only villains. There are no grand gestures or profound acts of devotion. And there definitely aren’t any perfect love scenes completely devoid of awkward afterglows and unattractive messes.

  There is no romance in my world. And as I soar farther from my past in Washington and closer to my future in California, there is no Fiona.

  “SO GIVE ME AN UPDATE, Kerrigan,” I say through my cordless headset as Bart and I stroll along the boardwalk. The former fluffy chubster is looking svelte nowadays, and has even begun to enjoy our walks. We still get a few funny side eyes, but this is LA…everyone’s got a little crazy in them.

  Kerrigan inhales a lungful of cyanide and blows it into the receiver before answering. Oddly, I’m not even tempted, after adopting a healthier lifestyle as well. Hmph. Los Angeles is rubbing off on me.

  “We’re still on schedule for the release of Hope’s last book late this spring. The publisher has also hinted around a farewell book tour. Are you really sure you want to give up the Hope Hughes brand? You’ll still make a killing. Your preorders are through the roof, and that’s just for eBooks.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Think about it, August. You can still write whatever you want. You’re at a caliber where readers will buy and read whatever you decide to put out. And with the television show coming out…”

  “I said I’m sure, Kerrigan. The beauty of being a writer with a pen name is the anonymity. We’re able to obtain some sense of privacy and normalcy. I’d like just an inkling of that.” I never wanted to be in the limelight. That wasn’t part of my dream. But things change…your goals, your aspirations…they change with time and circumstance. I know that better than anyone.

  “I hear you. So about the book tour…”

  “I can’t…” I take a seat on a wooden bench just as the sun begins to set. Bart and I have been coming here for weeks, trying to establish some type of routine. The transition has been interesting, to say the least. It’s sunny all the time, warm all the time. Happy and bright and vapid and ostentatious all the fucking time.

  “You have to get used to being in the public eye, kid. Th
is is your life now,” Kerrigan advises, reading my mind. “You’re big time. Start acting like it.”

  I can just hear the Colonel’s voice ringing in my head. “No one ever achieved greatness by doing what’s easy.”

  And then there’s another voice. A voice I haven’t heard for more than two months. “Don’t overthink it.”

  I shake my head at nothing and no one, trying to dispel the memory. “Yeah, I know. I’ll think about it.”

  “Seriously, August. Don’t let your moment pass you by because you’re—”

  “I said, I’ll think about it.” I look down the boardwalk just in time to see a familiar, smiling face approaching. Right on time. “Hey look, Kerrigan, I’ve gotta go. I’ll get back to you, ok?”

  “Ok, kid. Sooner than later.”

  She hangs up without saying goodbye. Goodbyes are overrated anyway.

  “Hey there, handsome.”

  I stand to wrap my arms around Michelle, my DJ friend from my first visit to La La Land. We’ve been seeing each other casually. Nothing serious. Her hours are crazy, my hours are crazy. We’re having fun. The way it should be.

  “I swear, if you keep overinflating his ego, he may float away,” I reply before kissing her lightly glossed lips.

  The model-esque brunette laughs and bends down to scratch Bart behind the ears. He answers with a happy purr. “Aw, not this little guy. Maybe we should get him a set of rollerblades so he really fits in.”

  “Nope. That’s where I draw the line. It’s bad enough I’ve got a cat on a leash.”

  We stroll hand-in-hand down the walkway to an Italian spot with outdoor seating. Over a bottle of wine, gluten free pasta and seared salmon, we talk about our day, my new developments with the show’s script, and her latest gig.

  “I got an invite to go over to Dubai for a party. Some prince’s birthday, so it’s serious dough.”

  “Oh yeah?” I answer before stabbing a tube of faux pasta. I have to admit, I couldn’t stand all the gluten free/fat free/oil free/taste free shit she’s had me eat since I arrived. But it’s grown on me.

  “Yeah. I don’t know though.”

  “What’s there not to know? You’ve been waiting for a big break like this. A prince in Dubai? Can you imagine the press and the exposure for you? Not to mention the payout. Would be big for you.”

  “I know, I know. And it would let me have more freedom to pick and choose future gigs. Still…” A small frown dimples her forehead.

  “What is it?”

  “Well…I was wondering what it would mean for us. Doing a job like this would open up a lot of doors for me, meaning I’d have a lot more opportunities out of town working with huge names in the biz. And if I’m going to be focused on my career, things with you and I would suffer.”

  “Oh.” I hadn’t even thought about that, honestly.

  “Yeah. I mean, I know we’ve only been dating for a couple months, and we haven’t put a label on what we are. But I just want to know—for the future—should I consider you in my decisions?”

  I take a beat to choose my words carefully. I could tell her what she wants to hear to ensure she stays in my life in some capacity. That would be the easy way. But if I’m really being honest with myself—something that’s still very much a novelty for me—I know I can’t keep her for my own selfish needs and irrational hang ups. And I also know that I can’t promise her something that I’m not capable of giving.

  “Go to Dubai. Have fun. Make connections. And if we’re meant to be, we’ll be. You’re young. You have your whole life ahead of you. And I’m not going anywhere any time soon.”

  “Oh.” She casts her emerald green eyes down at her plate.

  “I just don’t want to make you any promises that I can’t keep,” I explain.

  I wouldn’t want you to devote your life to a lie.

  We finish our meal in strained silence. I walk her home. She lets me into her home and into her body one last time. Then Bart and I return back to our lavish apartment that suddenly seems cold, despite the balmy temperatures.

  This whole truth thing? Totally sucks ass.

  AFTER THE EPICALLY SHITTY SHOWDOWN at Auntie’s last year, it’s no wonder why I am anti-book signing. But tell that to my publisher, who not only writes my checks, but pretty much owns my ass during release time. With The Good Girl being the very last Hope book ever, the big wigs were insisting (i.e. demanding) I give the people what they want. So, I told Kerrigan to make it happen, under one condition: One day, one signing, and then I would retreat back into the serenity of my quasi-isolation.

  Women—and even quite a few men—have been lined up around the block at the Barnes and Nobles at The Grove for hours. There are flyers plastered everywhere sporting my headshot (barf), along with graphics of Hope’s greatest hits. The Good Girl has hit #1 New York Times Bestseller’s List for two weeks in a row, the show’s development is going great, and there have already been talks of a publishing deal for a new series. Everything I have dreamt about as a struggling writer is coming to fruition faster than I could ever imagine, and while I don’t have anyone to share it with, I have my career. I have my cat. And I have my words.

  I peek out at the insane crowd of people congregated around a single podium sporting a banner with my name on it. Fuck. This is not good for my anxiety.

  “I don’t know about this, Kerrigan.”

  The tiny pit bull doesn’t even bat an eye. “You’ll do fine. You’ll read an excerpt, answer a few questions, sign books and smile for some pictures. Piece of cake.”

  I pace the floor of the back office, reserved for staff and visiting authors. “Do you see the line out there? It’s a fucking mad house! And the press is here. Why is the press here? Do I look like Nicholas fucking Sparks to you?”

  “August! Calm down,” she says, abandoning her seat and coming to grasp my forearms to still me in place. “You’re freaking out, kid. I get it. This is new for you. But you need to own this. At what point are you going to realize that you’re not just the pen behind Hope Hughes? You are August Rhys Calloway. And he’s pretty goddamn spectacular.”

  I look down at Kerrigan and nod stiffly. A year ago, I would have jumped at the chance to showcase my work—my words. But things change…people change. Passions, motivations…they all change like the weather.

  A year ago, I had people to share this accomplishment with. Now I’m an island, sinking in my memories and regrets. Trying to break through to the surface of letting go.

  Someone announces me. There’s cheering. Then my Chucks are carrying me to the podium at the center of the room. More cheers. More nerves.

  I look over the sea of people, waiting for me to speak. I refuse to make eye contact or actually see anyone at all. I take a deep breath. And I give them something I haven’t given anyone for a very long. I give them me.

  “That was incredible. I never imagined you were so funny. Or so handsome.”

  I look up and smile at the woman standing before me. She slides her hardcover copy of The Good Girl to me from her side of the table.

  “Thank you, I’m glad you enjoyed it,” I reply, flipping to the title page. “To whom am I making this out to?”

  “Samantha. Or you can call me Sam. That’s what my friends call me. Whatever you want.”

  “Well, I’ll call you Sam if that’s cool with you.”

  “Oh wow, yes, it is,” she gushes. “I can’t believe I’m meeting you. Your Hope Hughes book, House of Noire, is what got me reading again. Now I’m a proud book whore!”

  “Good to hear,” I reply, chuckling at her enthusiasm. “I’ve always been a proud supporter of whores in all capacities.”

  She’s laughs and blushes and gushes some more. I listen and smile and thank her some more.

  My next reader is a 70-year old grandmother of six from Texas named Meredith. She traveled all the way to southern California to meet me. Me. My mind is officially blown.

  Every reader is more inspiring than the next. I had n
o idea how many people my words—my words!—had touched until today. Men, women, old, young, gay, straight. I made an impact on their lives. And I’ve never felt more proud to call myself a writer than right at this moment.

  I did it, Colonel. We did it. And it’s all because of you.

  By my second hour of signing, I’ve gotten over the nerves and adopted a rhythm. I’m telling jokes, giving hugs, even holding a few babies for pics (at their parents’ request, of course). I’ve received numerous thoughtful gifts that I genuinely plan to treasure, and even a few marriage proposals.

  I’m just finishing up with a couple from St. Louis, who claim that my books helped them put the spark back in their twenty-four year marriage.

  “So, is there anyone special in your life?” the wife, Sharon, asks.

  “Other than my cat, Bartleby, no. Not right now.”

  “Aw. That’s too bad. For someone who writes as wonderfully as you, with so much depth and emotion, I could have sworn you were madly in love in real life.”

  I smile politely, but inside I’m battling to tamp down the familiar dull ache in my chest. “Well, I thought I was. Once. It didn’t work out.”

  “Oh? I’m sorry to hear that. It’ll happen again for you one day. I just know it. There’s just too much beauty inside you.”

  I thank her for her kindness, and the husband quickly ushers her away, whispering for her to “leave that poor boy alone.”

  Then I freeze.

  I die.

  And I bloom back to life.

  All in the span of twenty seconds. The longest twenty seconds in the history of time.

  “Would you mind signing my book?” she asks, breaking the spell.

  It’s happening. It’s happening again.

  She doesn’t hand me the featured title. She doesn’t even give me a Hope book. She gives me those pages I offered her in exchange for her heart. Those pages ink-stained with my truth and tears.