I expect to see the Colonel in the entertainment room watching pregame reports and working on new jokes when I arrive. He’s been an early riser since as far back as I can remember, and thinks seven a.m. is sleeping in. However, when I don’t see him, Nurse Tabatha informs me that he’s in his apartment.
“Is he ok?” Alarm eclipses the confusion I was feeling just moments before.
“He’s probably just tired, sweetie,” she answers, patting me on the back. “Go on and wake him. I’m sure he’d be thrilled to see you this morning. Might lift his spirits some.”
I nod and thank her, eager to see my grandfather for myself. I’ve never known him to be tired. And he’s the hardest-working man I’ve ever known.
The senior village is made up of dozens of bungalow-style apartments that give their residents a sense of privacy and independence. They house patients that require more care and attention inside the main building, while the rest are scattered throughout the property. Fortunately, the facility is within walking distance from my apartment, so I’m never too far away.
The Colonel has lived in his studio apartment for nearly six years, but he hasn’t decorated or made it a home. The small living room space only houses a TV stand, flat screen and a couch, and the few pictures he has up are the family ones I put up for him. He keeps his framed photo of Grandma Lee on his bedside table. Other than that and a short bookshelf filled with his favorite titles, the place is pretty bare.
“Morning, sir,” I smile when he answers the door, still wearing his flannel pajamas. It’s been years since I’ve seen him in something other than slacks and a button-down shirt.
The Colonel grumbles a greeting and waves me in. “You’re up early.”
“Thought I’d bring you breakfast. Omelets and hash browns from Frank’s.” I conveniently leave out all questions about him sleeping in. The Colonel is not one to be interrogated. I’ve received the “I’m a grown-ass man, dammit,” response enough times in the past to know better.
He looks down at the plastic bag dangling from my grip and raises his bushy gray brows. “Egg whites?”
“No, sir. Got the good stuff,” I answer, holding it up to give him a whiff.
“My boy. I’ll grab the juice.”
We sit at the small round table he uses for his meals. While our visits are mostly spent in the community entertainment area in the main building, the Colonel is an introvert who prefers to be alone. His only concession is when football is on. He’d much rather watch the game on the big screen so he can cheer on the ‘Hawks in HD.
“Something on your mind, son?” he asks after a few silent moments of eating. The Colonel doesn’t mess around. He’s already halfway done with his meal.
“No,” I lie, stabbing a chunk of country ham with my plastic fork. “It’s nothing.”
“There’s an it. That doesn’t seem like nothing to me.”
The Colonel has always been incredibly perceptive, and while I can serve the world bullshit in a pretty bow, I cannot fool him. Which is why I can’t tell him how I’ve been feeling when it comes to Fiona. Hell, I don’t even think I can define it. Admitting it to him would be admitting it to myself. And honestly, I don’t think there’s much to admit.
“Really, there’s nothing to say,” I reply, shaking my head, before attacking my eggs with gusto.
I can feel his eyes probing me the way a scientist dissects his specimen. However, he doesn’t pry. He knows it’ll only make me withdraw even more. We’re a lot alike in that respect.
“I decided to go out to LA next week,” I say, trying to shift the mood.
“Oh yeah? What are you hoping they offer you?”
I shrug. “I’m not hoping for anything. I’m not moving. But I figured a free vacation wouldn’t be too bad. Any thoughts about joining me?”
“Nah,” he shakes his head. “Old timer like me has no business trying to keep up with models and movie stars. How about Fiona?”
“Fiona?” I don’t mean for it to come out like a dirty, four-letter word, but it does. Maybe it’s because she’s been on my mind. Maybe it’s because I don’t want her to be.
“Yeah. Why don’t you take her?”
“No,” I shake my head, even though the idea wouldn’t be half bad. Some time and space from Joshua could be what we both need. “She probably has to work, and it’s too late for her to try to get time off.”
“Or you probably haven’t told her yet.” Sly amusement shines in his knowing eyes.
“It’s complicated. I’ll tell her though.”
“Better sooner than later, son. You won’t have your window of opportunity forever. Every rosebud eventually blooms and gets picked.”
The Colonel’s words echo in my head long after the Seahawks whoop the Lions 13-10. And even as I try to jump back into my manuscript, I’m plagued with endless doubt, wondering if I’m completely destroying our friendship from the inside out. Because the more I think about Fi, the less I want to be around her. Having her in my proximity would only cause my anxiety to intensify. And I’m a writer, for fuck’s sake. Anxiety kinda comes with the territory. It’s like when the Big Guy upstairs was passing out gifts, he looked at all the writers and said, “And here’s a little mental illness for thou wordy mofos. Now go forth and write thy book!” He knew what he was doing too. His was a pretty well-known bestseller.
I pour a cup of coffee to go with my sarcasm, and force myself to focus on the screen. The heroine has somehow morphed into April, and while I’ve slept with more tall, leggy blondes than I can remember, this tall, leggy blonde has invaded my thoughts more than I care to admit. She’s a cool girl—sweet, charming, and understanding as hell. Maybe I need to focus more on her and less on Fi.
I make a note to call and apologize, then return to the task at hand: putting all my frustration on paper and making this story my bitch. Or maybe that’s the other way around.
She called out to him from the bed, moaning in exhaustion. She shouldn’t be here. If he knew she had come once again, after promising to stay away, their relationship would not survive. But the promise of danger and delight was far too strong to ignore.
“Does he make you happy?” a voice asked from the doorway.
Startled, she covered her bare breasts with sheets made of fine Egyptian cotton that felt like silk over her nipples. Her first instinct was to lie; she knew he would not like her answer. But she also knew that he was a master of every one of her senses. Every shift of her bright blue eyes…every inflection of her voice…he could read her like a book. Lying was futile. Lying would only make him angry.
“Yes,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
“Does it pain you to have to deceive him?”
“Yes.”
“Does it pain you that he deceives you?”
“Yes.”
“And do you want to stay? With him?” His expression was blank, as always. She couldn’t tell if this was a trick question, and she didn’t want to risk offending him. But she needed to be honest. She needed him to know that this…this arrangement…was killing her. And as much as her body craved the raw violence only he could provide, her heart was being destroyed in the process.
“Yes. I do. I love him.”
He stalks to her, his strides as swift and severe as his strike, and pulls her up by her wrists. “Then prove it…”
Arms crossed over my chest, I lean back in my chair and read over everything I’ve written since I got home. And would you look at that…I don’t completely hate it.
The clock cat’s short whisker is on the six, meaning my ass has been fused to this seat for four hours. I need a break. I need a drink. I need food.
I need Fi.
Nope. Thinking like that won’t get me anywhere but in a cold tub of water with blue balls.
“What do you think, Bart? Thai food or Mexican?” I ask aloud, searching takeout menus for my favorite spots. Bartleby mewls a response that oddly resembles “Cuuuuurrrry.” Thai it is. It won’t be
like Grandma Lee’s, but it’ll hit the spot.
As I sit at my desk, which moonlights as a dining table when I’m too lazy to move, I think about my grandfather. Imagining him living the rest of his days alone, eating his meals alone, sleeping alone, watching TV alone… it makes me realize something.
That will be me in 50 years.
I’ve grown so accustomed to hiding beneath my own bullshit hang-ups and insecurities, that I’ve enclosed myself in a fortress of denial. I keep telling myself that I was built this way, that some people were just made to be reclusive. But the glaring realization that I will be living, eating, sleeping, and eventually, dying alone, well…it fucking terrifies me.
I nix the delivery idea and grab my coat. I am who I am, but that doesn’t mean I’m perpetually doomed. That’s the beauty of words. I can rewrite the story.
I show up to Fi’s apartment with Styrofoam containers of shrimp Pad Thai (her favorite), Panang Curry (my favorite) and enough spring rolls to sustain us through an Inland Northwest winter storm. After our night of drinking—and the massive hangover she sustained after—some fried noodles are exactly what she needs.
“My hero!” she rasps, spotting the bags of food. She hurriedly ushers me inside. “I’m starving! I haven’t moved from my couch all day.”
“Yeah. I can tell.” The empty bottles of booze, glasses and old pizza box are exactly where we left them last night. Fortunately, it appears that Fi has showered and washed her face, if only to put on more pajamas and tie her hair into a messy bun.
“Everything is such a fog. Please don’t tell me we polished all this off.”
I clear the coffee table and replace the stale pizza with fresh Thai cuisine. “We did. And you encouraged it.”
“Oh my God,” she grimaces, covering her face. “Was there crying involved?”
“Plenty. Plus pregnant virgins and secret crushes.”
She parts her fingers and peeks out at me. “Secret crushes?”
“Yup. You admitted you had a thing for me in college. And this was pre-Fireball so you can’t even blame it on the booze. You’re attracted to me, Fiona Shaw.”
“Ugh,” she groans. “Great. Just what the world needs. August Calloway with an ego the size of Texas.”
I laugh, making light of the situation. I grab a spring roll and bring it to my lips. “It’s no biggie. You were young. And I was pretty irresistible.”
“Oh God,” she says, grabbing the crispy morsel from my fingertips just as I was about to rip into it. “Irresistible, my butt. Thank God age and maturity has vastly changed my taste in men.”
“So you’re no longer attracted to me?” I frown.
“You’re handsome, Rhys. You know that. Looks have never been your issue.”
“My issue?” Who the hell said I had an issue?
“Let me break it down in a way that you’ll understand… You know how there’s always some hidden motivation that spawns the main character’s conflict? He had a meager upbringing so he’s a workaholic who neglects his wife. His mother abandoned him as a child, so he plays girls like fiddles. He was abused so he keeps people at arm’s length in an attempt to spare him from any more pain. Rhys, you have no motivation for the way you are. Your parents are still happily married. You were raised in a nice house. And you’ve always been brilliantly talented. You have achieved everything you’ve ever wanted in life. I don’t get why you insist on rejecting love.”
I stab a curried potato with my fork. She’s right. But she’s also very, very wrong.
“I’m a writer,” I shrug. “We’re fickle fuckers. There’s no rhyme or reason.”
“Maybe. Or maybe you’re just afraid someone actually will tap into your motivation, so in order to keep it under wraps, you remain unattainable.”
I smile and lightly flick the tip of her nose. “You got me there, Fi.”
“Yeah right,” she sighs, digging into her noodles. “It’s probably something petty like you have a weird fetish or you’re a germaphobe. Either that, or you’re really gay, and I’m your beard.”
At that, I actually do laugh. Jeeeesus. How tight are my fucking pants? The girl at Nordstrom said they were sexy. Especially as she peeled them off me in the dressing room.
“Not a chance, Fi. Not a chance.”
We turn our attention to our food and don’t come up for air until we’re engaged in a Mexican standoff over the last spring roll. Forks and chopsticks drawn, we stare each other down until one of us breaks.
And just like the day we first met, I break.
“Yes!” she cheers, pumping it in the air like a Jersey Shore fanatic. “Victory is mine!”
“That’s because I let you have it,” I grumble.
“Awww, Auggie-poo. Don’t be such a sore loser,” she mocks, pinching my cheek. “Besides, it’s been a rough weekend. I’ve earned it.”
“No word from Dr. Pooper Scooper?”
“Shut up!” she shrieks, slapping my arm. “He called. A lot. Left a ton of messages. Should I call him back? I shouldn’t, should I? It’s too embarrassing. What would I say? What if he wants to officially dump me? What if I made him seriously ill?”
I take a beat to deliberate my choices.
I could
A). Tell her to let bygones be bygones, and forget about him. Not many people could come back from an incident like that unscathed mentally. Intimately, they’d be doomed. Hell, in his case, maybe even professionally. Obviously, they’re not sexually compatible, and maybe this was the wake up call she needed to let the relationship die.
Or
B). Resist feeding her bullshit, and for once in my life, act selflessly. Be a good friend. Give to her what she’s given to me for the last decade.
“Call him back. If he wanted to dump you, he would have done it over text. I think he wants to work it out.” I’m so fucking stupid for this, but it’s the right thing to do. And no one ever said being right was easy.
“Really?” she asks, her voice filled with hope. I’m already regretting my answer. “But I don’t know if I can deal with what happened. I don’t see how I could ever look him in the face again.”
I take a deep breath, conjuring more words of reason and optimism. They’re buried way deep down in there somewhere. “He’s a doctor. He’s seen way worse. Just look at this as a funny story you guys can look back on and laugh about. Because if he still wants to be with you after all that, he’s got to be in it for the long haul.”
Before I can brace myself, Fiona attacks me with hugs and face kisses. “Thank you, Rhys. I’ve been going out of my mind all day! You’re the best!” She hops off the couch with renewed zest in search of her phone. “I’m going to call him now.”
I know that as soon as her fingers graze that touchscreen, she’ll be lost to me. It’s now or never.
“Fi, I’m going to LA.”
She stops dead in her tracks and turns back towards the living room. “What?”
“Wednesday. I’m going to LA to meet with the studio execs that want to adapt that show about me. I’m going to hear them out.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks, taking her place at my side.
“Just haven’t had the time. Besides, it’ll just be a few days. I’ll hear them out, enjoy the cushy suite they’ve arranged for me, get some sun. A change of scenery will be good for my writing.”
“So just a few days?”
“Yeah,” I nod. “We meet Thursday. I have until Friday to accept or decline. I’m staying through Saturday.”
“Oh. Good. That’s not too bad then.” She kisses me on the cheek and grasps her cell phone to her chest. “Let’s talk more about this. I want to call before it gets too late.”
I leave Fiona to her devices after pushing her back into Joshua’s arms. Part of me feels encouraged by the fact that she doesn’t want me to leave. The other part of me feels like an idiot because I know I never will.
LOS ANGELES. THE CITY OF angels. Where stars live and die under palm trees,
smog and endless summer. I’m actually pretty glad to be here, away from the doom and gloom of my life back in Washington. I was right about Joshua. He wanted to put that unfortunate anal issue behind them (no pun intended) and move forward. And Fiona was more committed than ever to be perfect for him, meaning she had no time for me.
“Lunch?”
“Can’t. I’m going to the gym.”
“Since when do you go to the gym?”
“Since Joshua asked me to join him during his workouts.”
“Dinner?”
“Can’t. We have plans with one of his colleagues and his wife. Our first double date!”
“Want to read a few chapters?”
“Can’t. I’m exhausted. Between social events and exercising, I’m beat.”
That was how our last few conversations had gone—me trying to find a way for us to connect like we used to, and her inserting Joshua into every facet of her life.
I couldn’t blame her. Objectively, I had her to myself for a decade. Even when she was dating, she was still my girl. I still came first to her. Which, in hindsight, is probably the reason those relationships didn’t last.
Maybe some distance will be good for the both of us. I can gain some perspective, and she can figure out what’s really important to her. Even if I’m not part of that equation.
“Kerrigan, you know what I look like. You don’t have to stand near baggage claim holding a sign,” I say, shaking my head at my agent. She flew in from New York City to ensure the meeting went smoothly, and to negotiate the terms of the deal. Of course, she totally stands out like a sore thumb. She’s dressed in black from head to toe, heels and a no-nonsense air that makes her thin, 5’2 frame seem frightening. Plus she’s a fast talker, which is like speaking a foreign language on the West Coast.
“I know, but I didn’t feel like looking for you.” She goes to grab my carryon, the only piece of luggage I brought aside from my laptop bag, and I quickly jerk it away.
Ink and Lies Page 10