Ink and Lies

  “That’s different, Fi.”

  “How so?”

  “You haven’t committed your life to me, and I wouldn’t expect you to. I wouldn’t want you to.”

  Pain paints her wind-whipped cheeks. “Why not?”

  I close the distance between us in three strides and take hold of her shoulders, pulling her so close that our chests nearly collide. She’s barely 5’3 and I’m over 6 feet tall. It’s like holding a delicate, porcelain rose in the palm of my hands. “Because I wouldn’t want you to devote your life to a lie.”

  She looks up at me, her big brown eyes searching for more than what my lips can offer. “You don’t believe that,” she whispers.

  “Oh, but I do. Because it’s true, Fi.” I turn her around and grasp her hand, gently pulling her forward. “I see love and relationships the way most people look at ghosts.”

  “Ghosts?”

  “Ghosts. You know what they say: if you don’t believe in them, they won’t exist for you. But if you engage in the paranormal stuff and leave just a little room for curiosity to blossom, expect Casper and his homies to come creeping out your closet door. I don’t believe in love. So it will never happen for me.”

  “Oh, bullcrap, Rhys.”

  “It’s true! I’ve dated my fair share of women, and not one has made me see forever in her eyes. Some have come close, but there’s always something to fuck it up.”

  Fiona heaves out an exasperated sound and rolls her eyes. “Here we go again. There’s always something wrong with them. Too clingy, too talkative, eats too much garlic, doesn’t like Thai food, a mouth breather, chews with her mouth open. I swear, you make this stuff up just to force yourself not to fall in love.”

  “Nuh uh,” I insist with all the gusto of a five-year-old. “Those are real deal breakers for me. I can’t seriously date a girl that can’t close her fucking trap when we go to a nice restaurant.”

  “Nice restaurant? When have you ever taken a girl to a place that doesn’t sit on four wheels?”

  “Well, don’t blame me for trying to support small businesses.” I take what’s left of our shared sandwich and toss it in a nearby bin. No less than two seconds later, a homeless woman fishes it out. “Look around you, Fi. We’re not exactly in the mecca of culture and opportunity.”

  She does as requested, and looks around, taking in the lush green grass, towering trees and tweaked out potheads littered about like leaves. “Maybe not, but it’s home. And so what if Spokane is like a poor man’s Seattle. There’s nothing they’ve got that we don’t. Hello? We just got a Panera Bread!”

  “Are you shittin’ me? Alert the presses! This is big city livin’ right here, y’all! What’s next? A Chick-fil-A?” I mock, earning a smack on the arm.

  “Oh, knock it off. You know you were the first in line for a bread bowl of cheddar and broccoli soup. And if we did get a Chick-fil-A, you’d be first in line for that too.”

  “Damn skippy.”

  We circle around toward the pride of Spokane, a grandiose carousel, boasting whimsical, hand-carved pieces dating back to the early 1900s. Fi’s office is just a block away, so I walk her back, contemplating how to broach the next subject.

  “I talked to my agent today.”

  “Oh? And how is Kerrigan doing these days?”

  “She’s well. Had an offer for me.” I try not to sound too interested, but honestly, the words have been kicking up a waterspout in my gut all morning.

  “Another publishing deal?”

  “Not exactly. She was contacted by a major network, offering me a writing gig. Well, basically creating a show loosely based on my life.”

  “That’s amazing!” She jumps me like I’ve just told her I’m stashing cupid’s arrows in my back pocket. “Oh my God, Rhys! You’ll be like the male Carrie Bradshaw! And I can be Charlotte!”

  “Well… not exactly, but yeah. Doesn’t matter. I’m not taking it.”

  She unravels her limbs from mine and looks up at me, those big brown eyes winced in confusion. “Why not? It’s the offer of a lifetime.”

  “Eh,” I shrug. “Not what I want to do.”

  “Huh? What could be better than your own show? Honestly, what do you want to do?”

  I gaze back at her with absolute clarity. “Write epic shit.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I want to write epic shit. I want to touch the world with my words, as cliché as it sounds. I want to be bad ass in my own right.”

  Fi stops up short, like she can’t believe what she’s hearing. “Um, hello? You already do, and you already are.”

  “No,” I insist, shaking my head. “I want to write for me, not because it’s popular or profitable. I want someone to be forever changed by something I wrote.”

  “And you don’t think you’re changing people now?” she asks with a raised brow. “Nine months after your book releases, there’s a baby boom! I’d say pregnancy is pretty life-changing.”

  We continue walking toward her building, a historical looking fourteen-story giant that houses dozens of businesses, from an accounting firm to a bank.

  “You’re exaggerating. And even if you weren’t, that’s not the type of change I want to inspire.”

  “Then what do you want to inspire?”

  Now it’s time for me to pause. Because I honestly don’t know what I want to invoke in the hearts and minds of my readers. But when I look at Fiona, I know one thing for sure: I want to make her fall in love. Not that superficial shit she goes gaga for in chick flicks and paperback porn. Not even the hollow attachment she thinks she has for Joshua,, or Harrison from two summers ago or Colby from undergrad. I want to make her feel love like she’s never felt before. Not love for me, of course. But for my words, and the meaning behind them. Other than my grandfather, I really don’t give a damn about impressing anyone else but her. And if I can somehow impact her life, then I’d know I did something right.

  “You know that feeling after you’ve just read the words The End of something so incredible, all you can do is sit there and stare at nothing, clutching that book to your chest like it shares your heartbeat, unable to talk or move or even think of anything other than the words that have ignited magic inside your soul? You just sit there and feel it moving inside you, wicked tendrils of emotion that touch parts of you that you never even knew existed. I want to make readers feel so much that just for a moment in time, they become numb to the outside world, too consumed by the gravity of my words to feel any more sensation. I want to captivate readers in a way that feels like falling in love. The deepest, realest, most infectious type of love. One that never, ever dies.”

  I don’t notice that we’re already at her building until I look up from Fiona’s wide, teddy bear brown eyes. “I better go,” I say, bending over to kiss her cheek. We stand in silence for a minute, maybe even five. I can’t tell when she looks at me like that, wonder and reverence in her gaze.

  “Tomorrow night, Rhys,” she manages to rasp before turning towards the entranceway.

  I stand there for a good thirty seconds, watching as wisps of brown hair disappear from sight, and wondering how the hell I’m going to get through dinner with doubt eating a hole through my stomach.

  Meatball Thursdays are an event at the senior village, and while I don’t make them every week, I try to be a good sport for the Colonel. Plus…football. My dad was never into it, so the Colonel made sure I followed the game, even if I was too scrawny and awkward to play as a kid. It wasn’t about football for me anyway. It was about bonding and feeling like I was just one of the guys. He’d cheer and yell at the television, and I’d do the same, without really even knowing what the hell I was screaming about. I felt like I belonged, like I knew my place in the world. With the Colonel, I always felt like I could do and be anything, just because he believed it too.

  “These SOBs get bigger every week,” the Colonel grumbles, stabbing a marinara topped meatball that looks to be the size of a baseball on his plate. He’s right. T
hey do get bigger every week. But when half the cooks are battling arthritis, you can’t expect them to be uniform.

  I nod my agreement. He’s extra prickly today. Probably has something to do with his doctor’s appointment earlier. He hates to be poked and prodded. “How was your check-up?”

  “Eh,” he shrugs. “Nothing I didn’t know already. I’m old.”

  “You’re not old, Colonel. You still have a lot of years ahead of you. Isn’t there anything you still want to do? Or see?”

  “Like what?” he replies, his bushy, gray brows shading his eyes in a frown. “I’ve survived two wars, experienced countless recessions, and watched an Olympic hero became a woman. I’ve seen enough.”

  “Well… how about Los Angeles?”

  “Los Angeles?”

  “Yeah. I have to go there for a meeting in a couple weeks. Something my agent wants me to follow up on. This TV network wants to develop a show around a male writer who moonlights as a romance novelist, and while I have no intention of signing on, the trip is on their dime. Plus, the beach is concentrated inspiration. Might be just what I need.”

  He raises a bushy brow. “Still having writer’s block?”

  “Yeah.” I look down at my plate of ground meat spheres and pasta, almost ashamed of admitting it. “I’ve got something, but it’s not what I want. And every word is like pulling teeth.”

  “Hmmm,” the Colonel muses. “Well, son, maybe the reason you’re struggling with this story is because it’s not the story you’re supposed to be writing.”

  I look up to find that the Colonel’s gaze is softer than it was just a moment ago. “What do you mean? It’s the story I pitched to the publisher.”

  “You can’t force these things, son. You can’t make your head recite what your heart can’t tell.” He looks down at his plate and resumes stabbing at his food as if he’s just remembered himself. “Or something like that. What do I know? I’m just an old man.”

  “You’re not old, Colonel. That’s why I want you to come to LA with me. We’ll go sightseeing, go to the beach… it’ll be fun.”

  He shakes his head. “Nah. I’m not too keen on the noise and heat. You go. And don’t discount what they have to say. Hear them out. Might be a chance of a lifetime.”

  “Now you sound like Fiona,” I mumble.

  The smile on his face is undeniable. “So she agrees with me about LA?”

  I shake my head. “I haven’t told her about actually going there. And I don’t think I need to. Taking the job means I’d have to relocate, and I’m not willing to do that.”

  The Colonel is quiet for a beat, pushing food around his plate. “Ok. What’s stopping you?”

  I jerk as if he’s just smacked me across the back of the head, like he used to do when I was a young rascal. “I’m not moving. I’m not leaving you here alone.”

  “Bullshit. Why not? Your parents moved away. Why can’t you? I’ll be fine!”

  “No, Colonel,” I reply with finality. “I’m not going. You’re here, and Fiona…”

  “Yes?” There’s that damn smile again. People used to say a young Benjamin Calloway was as tempting as the devil himself, especially when he smiled.

  “Nothing.”

  “You don’t think she’ll approve?”

  “No. I know she’ll approve. I know she’ll tell me to go conquer my dreams, all while choking on tears. She’ll tell me she’s proud of me, yet she’ll hate herself for saying it. It’s easier if I stay.”

  The Colonel shakes his head and grunts. “No one ever achieved greatness by doing what’s easy. But if you want to stay for her, I can understand.”

  I open my mouth to object, but before the words can leave my lips, we’re struck by the cackling of Helen Ashford, followed by a much younger, blonder, taller version of herself.

  “Good evening, Benny. Fancy seeing you here, August,” she grins, clasping her hands in front of her. “The fates must be aligned. I’d like you to meet my granddaughter, April. Isn’t she a beauty?”

  Using the manners my grandfather had instilled in me, I jump to my feet to greet them both, allowing my eyes to take in the nearly six foot tall, ice blonde vixen before me. April is definitely a beauty with her porcelain skin and blue, bedroom eyes. Her lips are thin, as is her nose, and her body looks like it was made for the runway, even under black jeans and a gray turtleneck.

  “Pleased to meet you,” I say, slipping my hand around her slender fingers.

  “Likewise,” she smiles. White teeth. Mauve-painted lips. “My grandmother has told me so much about you.”

  “I told her you weren’t gay, even though you look it,” Helen tacks on, rather proudly.

  “Oh, well… thank you?” I stammer, not sure if I should laugh or attempt to prove my hetero status. How tight are my jeans today? Hell, I’d never had any complaints before. Quite the opposite, actually.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” April replies, her hand still resting in mine. I pull away. I’m always the first to pull away in every situation.

  “Leave the boy alone, Helen,” the Colonel barks, although with a bit of humor in his tone. I think he enjoys me being the center of Helen’s attention for a change.

  “Oh hush, Benny. Don’t they look absolutely adorable together? April and August… isn’t it funny that they’re both named after months? It was meant to be! And I was just telling April that August is a big-time writer. What was that book you wrote, dear?”

  “Um, uh, Tears of Glass, ma’am,” I answer, flashing a sheepish grin. “And I’m hardly famous.” At least, that’s mostly true. August Calloway isn’t famous, and probably never will be.

  “Yes, that’s the one. And what’s that about?”

  “Um…it’s, uh, fiction, and it’s a story of…” What is it about talking about your art that reduces you into bashful, blubbering fool? It’s as if someone has just asked you to tell the story of your life in one hundred words or less, which is pretty damn impossible. Writers are wordy fuckers.

  The four of us finish what I had initially begun to be an awkward dinner. Even the Colonel seemed to grumble and grunt less when Helen engaged him. I know I wasn’t complaining. April is pretty interesting actually, and I find myself actually listening to her, in hopes of getting to know her. And not just horizontally.

  “So, six months into grad school, I realized that botany just wasn’t where my heart was. So I quit, went to cosmetology school, and moved here for a job as a makeup artist at Nordstrom. I work for NARS.”

  I spoon out a portion of Isabella Mancini’s homemade tiramisu. She’s been a resident at the village for two years, and the woman is like the Italian grandmother you’ve always wanted. Warm, boisterous, and always ready to fatten you up with decadent foods. She even prepares a small dish of tiramisu and cannoli for me to take home.

  “Wow. That’s pretty ballsy. So I’m assuming you’ve found your calling,” I say before sliding the bite of lady fingers and mascarpone between my lips.

  “I think so. As corny as it sounds, I want to make the world beautiful,” she smiles. She’s pretty when she does that… beautiful even. Her teeth are bright yet not completely straight, and she has a slight overbite. Her lips are on the thin side, so she over-lines them with makeup to make them appear larger. But after eating, it’s smudged off, revealing who she truly is. What she deems as flaws is exactly what attracts me—the tiny details that tell a story. Was she teased about her teeth? Did she spend hours on YouTube, trying to perfect the Kylie Jenner lip? These are the things that create the character.

  She catches me staring at her mouth, and nervously covers her lips with her hand. Before I can stop myself, I’m pulling it down, daring her to object.

  “Don’t do that. Don’t hide what makes you… remarkable.”

  “Remarkable?” she whispers.

  “You’re insecure about your teeth…your lips.”

  Her cheeks flame bright red and her wide, blue eyes glaze over with embarrassment. She tries to cover
her face again, but I grasp both her hands in mine, refusing to let her retreat from my touch.

  “Don’t be. Don’t be ashamed of the very traits that make you extraordinary. I see a smile that could brighten the darkest night. I see lips that long to be devoured. I see unblemished beauty and rarity. But what I don’t see is anything about you that needs to be hidden. Not from me.”

  A smile slowly creeps onto her face, and her cheeks flush in coy desire. Out of all that, she’d heard exactly what I wanted her to hear. “You really think I’m beautiful?”

  Got her.

  “YOU SAID WHAT TO HER?”

  I take a sip of fresh coffee and ease back into the cushion of my worn desk chair. “I told her about her insecurities, and how I found them unbelievably sexy.”

  Fiona clucks through the receiver, and I can imagine her shaking her head. “I can’t believe that crap works for you. What kind of woman wants you to pick out her biggest flaws, only so you can feed her some BS about how her vulnerability turns you on? Where do you find these girls, Rhys? Are you trolling support group meetings again?”

  Laughing, I fire up the mean machine. I need to write, even if it is late. “Not today. She’s Helen Ashford’s granddaughter.”

  “Hell-on-Wheels Helen? From the senior center?”

  “One and the same.”

  “Holy crap! So let me get this straight… Helen Ashford has a granddaughter.”

  “Yes.”

  “Which means she also had a child once upon a time.”

  “That’s usually how it works.”

  “So that also means Helen could have been married.”

  “Not really necessary to get knocked up, but, yeah, it’s possible.”

  “Don’t you see, Rhys? Someone had a child with Helen. And if that old battleax can nab a man, then there’s got to be hope for me!”

  “Really, Fi? You’re comparing yourself to an old woman? Helen Ashford is one of the OG Golden Girls.”