“I’m sure she is.” I know it’s killing him not to say it. I can hear the restraint in his voice. I bet she’s not nice like Fiona. And for some reason, that annoys me more than usual.
“Everything going ok with Bart?” I ask, hoping to steer the conversation away from Fi.
“Of course. He doesn’t do much more than sleep and lick himself. He’s a fat S.O.B. too. What have you been feeding him?”
“I don’t know. Cat food?” And leftover Chinese. And bits of turkey on rye. And his personal favorite, pizza. Honestly, the little dude eats whatever I do, or whatever drops on the floor when I’m trying to write and eat simultaneously. I’d be surprised if he wasn’t overweight.
“Well, you need to think about switching his diet. This stuff that you brought with him isn’t cutting it. He keeps trying to swipe human food.”
Probably because he’s never tasted dehydrated cat kibble. “Yeah, I’ll head to PetSmart when I get back.”
“Good. He’ll need to get in shape for the LA pussycats. They’ll want a fit feline.”
“I don’t think he’d like it much here. Too hot. He belongs in Spokane. We both do.”
“Here you go with that. Son, you need to do what’s best for you and your career. But if you won’t do that, at least do what’s best for your love life.”
I resist sighing heavily into the phone out of respect for the Colonel. But I’m truly sick of talking about this. “I’m doing the best I can with both, at the moment.”
“Bullshit.”
“Seriously, I went to the meeting and gave it some thought. I don’t know, maybe I’ll kick it around some more.”
“And your love life?”
This time I don’t resist releasing an annoyed breath. “Love life would suggest that I am actually a procurer of love. And since that’s not the case…”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m not buying it. I’ve seen a lot happen over the last three quarters of a century. And believe me, son, I know bullshit when someone is trying to feed me bullshit. You know what your problem is? You actually do believe in love. You want it for yourself. But you’re afraid. Of what, I don’t know. But you are scared shitless that love will sink its hooks into you and never let go. So you run from it like a pansy, hoping you can screw your way through the innate need to devote yourself to one person. Because you think Fiona—”
“I’m sorry, Colonel. I hate to interrupt, but I have to go.” I’m desperate, searching for any reason to get off this damn phone before I say something I’ll regret.
“Hmph. There you go running again. Truth hurts, doesn’t it?”
What hurts is lying to him. It really does. But just as he taught me, sometimes pain is necessary. “Really. My agent just arrived to talk numbers. I promise I’ll give what you said some thought.”
He’s quiet for a beat, like he’s debating whether or not to call me out for being a lying sack of shit. “Ok. You do that.” He says the words as if they’re weightless, just like my promise.
I sit for a long time, replaying our conversation in my mind. And when I’m sick of myself, I go down to the hotel bar in search of perspective at the bottom of three fingers of scotch. It’s fairly crowded for a Thursday night, and there are plenty of women that look like good company, but I honestly don’t feel like going through the motions. My heart’s not in it. Maybe it’s somewhere else entirely.
I’m still a bit wasted the next morning, but not so wasted that I make any rash decisions. After a much needed shower and an order to room service for enough food to sustain a small village, I call up Kerrigan to give her my answer. I was born to be a writer. And in my quest to write epic shit, I have to be true to the stories in my head and the characters that demand to be heard.
“You’re making a huge mistake!” Kerrigan trills, no doubt chain-smoking like a chimney. This would have put cash in her pocket, especially since her firm handles movie and TV deals in-house.
“Maybe so. But I have my reasons.”
“And those are?”
I open my mouth to answer, but not a word escapes. My life is in Washington. My grandfather, the only family I’ve got left on this side of the country, is there. And Fiona… no matter what, she’ll always be in my life.
The thought of not hitting Santé for Sunday brunch or Durkin’s for drinks and Poutine or my favorite taco truck for late night munchies, just doesn’t seem normal. Not being able to scour the shelves of Auntie’s Bookstore for my next read amidst the comforting smells of coffee and old books isn’t an option for me. Trading the marijuana tinged air and winding paths of Riverfront Park for the beautiful Boardwalk of Venice Beach would be a dream for some. But it’s not for me.
It’s not home.
It’s not my story.
“You can’t hide behind Hope forever, August,” Kerrigan says, her gritty voice almost gentle. I say almost because I’m pretty sure she came out of the womb fisting a Virginia Slim. “Eventually, someone’s going to see you for who you are.”
“Yeah, I know.” And I do know. That’s the part that scares me.
“Look, let’s put a pin in this. I’ll let the studio know that you need more time. Give it a week or two, and if you still want to nix this opportunity, we’ll pass. Plus, this’ll add pressure for them to offer more money.”
I agree just to get her off the phone. My date with Michelle is this afternoon —before her gig at some exclusive nightclub that caters to the likes of Hiltons and Kardashians—and I want to get some writing done. However, when I open my manuscript, I’m left uninspired once again. Instead, another story has planted roots in my mind. A story with characters that are as tangible to me as the pen and paper in my hands…
They became accidental best friends. It was not his intention to grow attached to the unsuspecting girl who wore her brown hair in a messy knot and clothes three times too large for her slight frame. She wasn’t his type. And his type was… well, pretty much every attractive girl in town. Not that she wasn’t attractive. He just didn’t see her that way.
Well, not since before the heat wave.
Since seeing her in those tiny cutoffs and tank top, a sheen on fresh sweat dusting her nose as she fanned herself with notes from her Romantic Age course, he couldn’t stop thinking about her in the way he thought about other girls. Still, it was different. She would always be different to him, even if the warmth jutting up his thighs was very familiar.
“Why are you staring at me?” she asked, breaking him from his thoughts.
“I’m not.”
“You are. We were supposed to be reading chapter eighteen. Do I have spinach in my teeth?”
“No.”
“A bat in the cave?”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
He wanted to tell her, but he couldn’t find the words. Aside from her, the words were his only comfort, his only weapon, yet they had dissipated before his eyes as if they never truly existed. He was left defenseless and utterly alone. And that was a feeling he had grown all too fond of.
Time falls away from me, and I realize that I’ve got twenty minutes to get showered and downstairs in the lobby. Michelle offered to pick me up, and since this is her hood, she’s planned the entire day. I’ve been looking forward to it. Not only spending time with her, but also trying to actually date. It’s a novel idea, I know, but one that I’m intrigued by. But before I can even make it to the elevator, I get a text from Fiona that has me rethinking my plans.
-Can’t find anyone to go with. Looks like it’s just me.
-No, Fi. Not a good idea.
-But what else can I do? Joshua is gone for the weekend, and I don’t want to miss this chance.
I try to compile a mental list of people that would be potential candidates, but come up short. All my suggestions are women I’ve slept with, and none of them would be the type to sit through hours of Fi’s tear-filled singing. Which leads me to my next revelation: I don’t have any friends. All my empty relationships, all the
Hope readers and fans around the world…and I can count the people that truly know me on one hand, with fingers to spare. If that’s not a sad state of affairs, I don’t know what is. It’s my own doing, of course, and I’m not one to dwell on popularity or lack thereof, but shit…when did I trade a life for loneliness? When did I say I do to a lifetime of late nights and paper cuts? When did words become my only love and misguided fame my mistress?
I’m getting older. The biological yearning for companionship echoes within those long, cold nights spent pouring over wrinkled Post Its and ripped notebook pages. Maybe that’s why I’m here, boarding an elevator that’ll lead me to a beautiful girl with an enigmatic smile. Maybe that’s why I want to tell her all my secrets.
Maybe that’s why I know I can’t.
“Ready to hit the town, handsome?” Michelle smiles at me when I step from the suspended steel. She’s lovely in a flannel shirt that’s fashioned as a dress and ankle boots. I laugh inwardly. Flannel is like the city-wide uniform for the lumbersexual population in Spokane. The guys in their collared plaid, manbuns and beards. The girls in oversize checked tops that they’ve stolen from boyfriends, and boots. Fiona had been into that style long before it became popular. And once it caught on, she vowed to steer clear of flannel until her dying day.
“I have to go,” I say, not really meaning it, but knowing I have to. I don’t want to disappoint her, but if I don’t do this, I could be losing more than her interest. I could be losing the thing that matters most to me.
“What?”
“I have to go. I’m sorry. Something came up, and I have to get back to Spokane.”
She’s confused, hurt even, but she nods. “Oh, ok. Everything alright?”
“It will be if I get there in time.”
I kiss her on the cheek, thank her for her hospitality, and promise to call. Then I run upstairs to grab my shit and get the hell back home. I’m getting in a cab fifteen minutes later when I receive another text.
-I’m not going. I wish you were here. I don’t want to go with anyone but you. Why’d you have to run off to LA again?
I’m coming, Fi. I’m coming back to you.
I want to tell her, but the writer in me wants to make it a surprise. The look on her face when I show up on her doorstep, the way she’ll jump into my arms… I’m not sure what it all means in the grand scheme of things, but it’ll make for one helluva story.
The fates are on my side, and there’s a flight leaving in forty-five minutes headed back up North. According to the flight plan, I should arrive just after 5pm. The concert starts about an hour and a half later, but we can at least catch the main act. None of that will even matter to Fi anyway. She’ll just be grateful and overjoyed that I came…that I was there when Joshua wasn’t.
I shoot her a text with some generic “Stay positive” message before putting my phone on Airplane Mode. When we’re in the air, I pull out my MacBook Air and open a new .doc. A new story has taken flight in my head. Time to make it official.
Unwritten: a novel
Chapter 1
I write the words that have embedded themselves on my psyche. I breathe life into the characters whispering in my ear. And then I tell the tale that’s been scrawled on my heart.
I write about her.
4678 WORDS.
4678 stitches of my patchwork soul.
4678 reasons why I’m falling for my best friend.
I land in Spokane and with plans of heading straight to Fi’s apartment, but when I switch on my 4G, I see that she’s sent another text message, probably while I was airborne.
-Found someone to go with! Andrea from work. We’re headed there now. Can’t wait! Wish you were here!
I shuffle off the plane in a fog, wondering if I made a huge mistake by leaving LA and a perfectly normal, uncomplicated girl. Someone who didn’t possess the power to completely alter my universe with just the sound of her laughter. But for that reason alone, I know that I did the right thing. Michelle, as cool and beautiful as she is, would have never been able to reach the pedestal that I had placed Fi on. And that’s my own fault. I created my own little monster. I formulated such a perfect image of her in my mind that not even I was worthy enough. And here I am, trying to convince myself that maybe I can be. Maybe I can be what she’s wanted all these years, when I’ve done everything in my power to rage against that very same ideal.
Since I hadn’t even told the Colonel about my plans to return early, I don’t bother going by to pick up Bartleby. Plus I don’t feel like subjecting myself a bunch of questions about my motives. Admitting this shit to myself is confusing enough. I’m not ready to say it out loud.
After stashing my luggage at my apartment, I find myself at the lower level bar at Durkin’s. So much has happened since we last sat in one of the booths, laying harbored resentment on the table alongside a plate of Poutine. I wish I could go back to that evening—to the conversation—and tell her how I really felt.
Fuck Joshua, because he’s a prick who doesn’t deserve you.
Fuck Joshua, because he’s not the one you should be wearing high heels and your best perfume for.
Fuck Joshua, because I’m not him.
As if karma has some sick, twisted sense of humor, I hear a familiar, accented voice behind me, chortling through a convoluted story about his days as a young, brilliant med student. He boasts of the great work he’s done to a chorus of oooohs and ahhhhs. He spins webs of heroic feats in the operating room, mending nature’s physical ills with his gilded scalpel.
My surprise doesn’t stem from seeing Joshua surrounded by scantily dressed adoring fans who worship him for the golden-haired surgical god that he is. It’s rooted in the fact that he’s here—in Spokane—when he should be in Portland, suffering through a dreadfully boring medical seminar. And it doesn’t seem as if he’s all that upset that he’s not with Fiona right now, watching her sing along to some of her favorite songs, and smiling because she is utterly adorable when she gets that starry look in her eyes while hearing her favorite bands. And believe it or not, I’m not even shocked at the way some classless chick in a catsuit is damn near sitting in his lap while running her fingers through his hair.
“You look positively homicidal. Someone you know?” the full stached-and-suspendered bartender inquires, jutting his chin toward the crowd in the back.
I down my Old Fashioned and shake my head before climbing to my feet. “Not on purpose.”
Joshua doesn’t even notice my approach, and neither does his entourage, consisting of three cleavage-bearing women and two equally well-dressed, smug-smiling men. When his eyes finally land on me standing before their table, a noticeable hush falls around the room. It echoes strongly of guilt.
“August,” he nearly gasps, quickly scooting away from his companion and batting her hands away. “Nice to see you, friend. I thought you were in California.”
“And I thought you were in Portland.” I don’t waste time with a fake smile or handshake. Besides, my hands are balled so tightly at my sides, all I’d be able to muster is a fist-bump… to his face.
“Ah, yes. Change of plans last minute. Decided to grab dinner with colleagues. Join us?”
I see right through his phony invitation and shake my head. “No thanks. I came back early to try to catch Fiona before the concert. She was disappointed you couldn’t make it.”
“Yes, unfortunately, I couldn’t. Certainly she’ll still have a good time.” At that moment, he realizes that his friends are following the conversation intently, their curious eyes ping-ponging from him to me. “Where are my manners? This is August Calloway, Fiona’s mate from college. August is a writer here in town.”
“A writer, eh?” one of the men at the table ask. I don’t even bother acknowledging him. “I consider myself well read. Anything I may know?”
“Doubtful,” Joshua answers, shaking his head. “I believe August’s book is self- published, so not at the real book caliber that you’re used to. Tears
of Water, right? Cheeky title, eh?”
I don’t even bother correcting him. I’m much too furious at the fact that he’s insulted not only me, but indie authors everywhere. “Real book? As opposed to what? A fake one?”
Joshua waves me off like he can’t believe my absurdity. “Oh, don’t be sensitive, Auggie. You know what I mean. You’re more…down to earth. You’re not a Dean Koontz or Stephen King. Hell, you’re not even a Nicholas Sparks, and that guy writes romance.”
He spits out the word romance like it’s poison on his tongue—bitter, stereotypical, cringe-worthy poison. And you know what? I’m fucking offended. The man thinks panty sniffing and snatch shaving is romantic. What the fuck does he know of the genre?
I can talk shit because I live romance. I breathe romance. Romance is my bread and butter. And it took this moment—right here amongst Lord Douche and his loyal subjects—for me to see that, shit, I don’t hate romance. I am romance. And it’s my total lack of self-awareness that held me blind from that fact all this time.
Amidst all my soul searching, I’ve missed all the little digs Joshua and his cronies have taken at my expense. But you know what? I really don’t give a fuck.
“I’ve always believed writers are just people too narcissistic and insecure to get a real job,” the other guy says with an air of condescension. The girls laugh with equal parts phoniness, probably wondering what the hell narcissistic means.
“Ah, come on. Famed writers helped shape this great nation,” the other guy pipes up. “Of course, none of them were self-published… But I guess beggars can’t be choosers.”
“Now, gentlemen. Let’s be cordial. According to my Fiona, Auggie here is very good at what he does.”
I laugh. I laugh so hard that it startles them into silence. Then I take a deep breath and show them the power of my words.
“Narcisstic and insecure?” I say, turning to the asshole on my right. “That’s rich, considering you haven’t stopped looking at your own reflection in your girlfriend’s eyes for the last ten minutes. Don’t worry, bro. The hair plugs look great. And I bet your friends can’t even tell that you’re wearing Frankenstein platform shoes to make yourself appear taller.” I make a gesture toward the floor where, sure enough, he’s desperately trying to hide loafers that have been enhanced for height. “Hmmmm, I wonder where else you’re lacking a few extra inches…” I remark, giving his girlfriend a wink, who responds with a sheepish grin.
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