The Light Between Us Box Set

by Thomas Grant Bruso

  As he eats, Antonio entertains me with his rants on the current dismal state of politics, popular music, and film.

  I join the discussion when he asks me if any of my books have been optioned for film. “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

  Licking his greasy fingers, he perks up, staring at me through the rearview mirror. “I wouldn’t give up my rights to those clowns. Nobody in the movie industry seems to know their ass from their elbow.”

  My thoughts exactly. “I prefer reading to watching TV,” I say.

  He taps his hand on the steering wheel to the upbeat jazz music emitting from the speakers.

  I look out at small specks of snow dancing wildly in the wind. The sky is low and grey.

  “What is your book about?” Antonio asks, his Spanish accent pleasing to the ears.

  “Faith,” I answer.

  “And the plot?” he asks, catching me off guard.

  I brush my tongue along the roof of my mouth and ponder the question carefully. I stare out at a coiling mass of snow blanketing the embankment of the Saranac River. “A man struggling to end a five-year relationship.”

  I hear him grunt. “Sounds autobiographical.”

  “It’s a departure from my usual storytelling.”

  He smacks his lips together. “It keeps the writing fresh, no?”

  I nod. “Indeed, it does.”

  “I’ll have to check it out.”

  The snowstorm delays us from arriving on time to The Bookstore Plus on Main Street in Lake Placid.

  Antonio is forced to parallel-park the car in a thirty-minute space down the street from the bookshop.

  “It’s unusually busy for a weekday in Lake Placid,” I say.

  “Author Christian Rivers is in town,” Antonio says over his broad shoulders.

  I smile. “I think ski season trumps my author’s visit.”

  “I’d rather be reading,” he says, opening his door and stepping out into the driving snow.

  He comes around to my side, but I am already standing by the edge of the vehicle, stretching my legs. I smile. “No need for the special treatment, Antonio. I’m a writer, not a movie star.”

  With an outstretched hand, he motions me across the street to the bookshop’s front door. I hear him mumble behind me, “Like it or not, it comes with the perks.”

  After my two-hour signing, I buy a few books by my favorite authors, pay for them at the counter, and thank the staff for their generosity.

  I head back to the car. Antonio holds the heavy door open for me and I offer to treat him to Ben & Jerry’s ice cream.

  He obliges.

  We sit at a corner table inside, eating our waffle cones. Antonio tells me how he got the gig at my publisher’s house.

  Swallowing a chunk of ice cream, he mumbles, “Luck,” and grins. “Your publisher’s secretary called the car agency I work for.” He shrugs. “I was given the job.” He bows his head slightly. “At your service.”

  I smile. “How long have you been at the agency?”

  “Five years.”

  “Do you like it?”

  He nods. “It’s honest work and I get to drive all day. Love being behind the wheel.”

  I stare out at pedestrians passing along Main Street with Christmas gifts in hand.

  “If I may ask, what made you want to be a writer?” he asks.

  I swallow, and shift in my seat. “Sounds corny, but my mother read to us—my sister and me—before bed every night. I’d pretend to fall asleep after she closed the book and tucked us in.” I smile at the thought. “When she left, I’d continue reading under the blankets with a flashlight. I loved getting lost in stories.” I lick my ice cream. “I knew then that I wanted to tell my own stories.”

  “And now you’re realizing your dreams. You get to do what you love.”

  I nod. “I’m very grateful that I’m able to make a living at it.” I pause and take one last bite of my ice cream cone. “I still pinch myself after all these years.”

  “Why?”

  “I have a lot of self-doubt, and worry that my writing career might disappear. One of my many fears as an author.”

  “I can hear the excitement in your voice when you talk about your writing. I admire that. You’re—” He waves his ring-encrusted hand in the air. “What’s the word?” Thinking, thinking. “Passionate. You get as excited for books as I do for expensive cars.” He looks down at his watch. “Speaking of cars. We better hurry up and get you to Vermont.” He jerks his head toward the window. “From the looks of it, the snow isn’t letting up anytime soon. I don’t want you to be late for your next signing.”

  Along the way, Philip and I talk briefly as I leave the quaint small town of Lake Placid. Our conversation is cut short as Antonio drives through the Adirondack Mountains. The line disconnects.

  For the next few hours, I stare out the window at beautiful scenery passing us, and I start to feel my heavy eyes closing.

  Antonio shakes me awake later, and I shudder, staring around my new surroundings. “We’re here,” he announces.

  Gathering myself, I swallow back a bad taste in my mouth. A tingling feeling in my legs makes me feel achy and numb. I have to get out of the car and stretch. I need a drink of water.

  I stare around the Essex Outlet to where I’ll be signing books at Phoenix Books. Antonio hands me a bottle of water from the front seat and tells me we’re twenty minutes behind schedule.

  My stomach tightens and I am suddenly nauseous. My head buzzes. Antonio pulls up to the bookshop’s front doors. “I’ll be waiting,” he says.

  “Thanks.” I get out of the back seat, shut the door, and run inside the bookshop. A handful of my hardback books adorn the front window.

  I apologize to the manager, Ryan, for my lateness, but he waves it off. “Mother Nature has a mind of her own.” He shows me to a small table by the front door. “We’ve sold twenty copies of your books already.” He smiles. “Business is good today.”

  I smile back, shed my coat, and accept a large mug of black coffee from him.

  The last remaining half hour passes too quickly, but I offer to stay fifteen minutes longer to sign books for a few enthusiastic stragglers who gather in a line in front of the table where I sit.

  Before I leave, I sign the remaining dozen books in stock and thank Ryan and his assistants for their kindness. And coffee.

  “You’ll have to come back when you write another book,” Ryan says.

  “I’d like that. Thanks again for everything.”

  Outside, I spot Antonio parked at the end of the full lot, near Brooks Brothers. I tell him I’m going inside the clothing store and will be back in a few minutes.

  I hear him humming to a lively jazz number on the radio. He nods. “Take your time.”

  I check my watch. “We have to be at Barnes and Noble in forty minutes.”

  The sound of a saxophone puts a bounce into my step.

  A few minutes later, I slide into the backseat of the BMW with Brooks Brothers bags in both hands.

  “Tis the season?” Antonio asks.

  “More like last minute shopping ideas,” I say, looking across the seat at the two bags with dress shirts and pants for Philip.

  Half an hour later, I am surrounded with a few hundred passionate people at Barnes and Noble. I am standing in front of the e-reader station on the first floor, and staring back into an audience of smiling faces.

  I say, “If you’re looking for a good book to read, you’ve come to the right place.”

  Laughter.

  “Thanks for coming out in this messy weather. It makes me happy to see so many people who like books as much as I do.” Before they can applaud, I add, “It is reassuring to see all of you here today.”

  I move behind the lectern and as I turn to the audience to deliver my speech, I notice a familiar face in the back row hidden mostly behind the rack of stationary cards and boxes of Godiva chocolates, his eyes focused on me.

  It can’t be. A
m I dreaming?

  I am quite sure I am gazing in the direction of my ex-boyfriend, Russ.

  His presence ruffles me. I look to the floor, trying to compose myself, clearing my throat, gripping the sides of the lectern. I reach down for the bottle of water beside me. I drink most of it.

  I finally find my voice and say, “A book’s job is to do three things. Enlighten, educate, and entertain.”

  Some applause.

  I say, “I do my best to weave in all three elements in my books.” I hold up a copy of my newest novel. “Buried Secrets explains life’s complexities and the moral choices people make to survive.”

  “Will there be a sequel?” a female voice asks.

  I place the book down and turn to where I saw Russ amid the cards and chocolates. He is already gone. I look around the room, my eyes darting from one corner to the other, but I cannot find him.

  I turn back to the woman who asked the question. “My books tend to be standalones.” I smile. “So, to answer your question: There probably won’t be a sequel.”

  I take a few more questions from the audience about the general timeframe it takes to write a book. Somebody asks about the relationship between agents and authors, and if I’m working on anything now. I answer all the questions with my customary humor. “It takes a long time to write a good book,” I tell the audience. “For me, three years feels right. I like to take my time with whatever I am writing at the moment. If I am rushed, the writing suffers. I think deadlines are toxic, but they’re also vital. When I’m writing, I have to prioritize my time carefully.” I smile. “And a good agent is worth millions to an author. As for what I’m writing now, nothing. And that’s perfectly fine with me. I’m looking forward to a long solitary break during the holidays with my family.” I pause. “Thank you all for coming. Now, let’s sign some books!”

  I shake hands, take pictures, and answer more questions from people waiting in line as I scribble my signature in their books. At the end of my hour of meet and greet, I pull myself away from the crowd, thanking everyone for coming, and scour the first and second floors looking for Russ.

  Riding the escalator up to the second floor, I glimpse Antonio pursuing the glossy front pages of Penthouse and Playboy in the magazine section across the room.

  I don’t see Russ anywhere.

  I pop my head into the music and movies section, but no Russ.

  As I turn the corner into stacks of fiction and literature, I almost bump heads with a man leaning against the shelves, reading. I apologize, but when he looks up I notice Russ is reading my book. He dog-ears a page, closes the book, and gives me his undivided attention.

  He looks up at me, his head slanted to the side. He nods. Smiles. He still has that boy-next-door charm. His thick, dark wavy hair is hidden under a cap. His blue eyes look sad and tired.

  I recognize the scent of sandalwood soap that always reminds me of Russ. But the thought is fleeting. I look away, nervous, and unable to speak.

  We stare at each other as if we are strangers meeting for the first time.

  People walk around us, browsing book covers. I feel their eyes on us. I look down at my feet, then up at the woman pulling a hardcover from the top shelf.

  When we are finally alone, Russ says, “Congratulations.”

  I do not know what to say. I nod and clench my hands.

  Russ stares at me. He looks crestfallen. His eyes tear up. He grips the book in his hands. “I’m proud of you, Chris.”

  Our eyes meet.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  Russ shifts in his winter boots. “Look, Chris. I’m sorry about everything. About us.”

  “I don’t—”

  He holds a hand out to me. “I don’t blame you for anything. It was my fault. I was selfish. I chose my career over our relationship. That had nothing to do with you. I don’t blame you for leaving.”

  I look around. People pass us in the narrow aisle, a little girl and her father. She looks up at me, smiling. The girl’s blonde curls are Shirley Temple adorable. I smile back at her.

  I whisper to Russ, “It wasn’t my decision to end our relationship.” I pause to question whether or not this is the right place and time for this. But something swells inside me and I say: “You were so wrapped up in your work that you became distant and uncommunicative. It left me isolated. Really lonely.”

  Russ swallows back tears and whispers, “I take responsibility for what happened. I don’t blame you. I never did. I know I fucked up. That’s not your fault.” He pauses and looks up at me. “It’s been hard for me over the years to stop thinking about us.”

  “What are you doing here? In Burlington, I mean.”

  He shrugs and narrows his lips to a thin line. “I wanted to congratulate you in person on your new book.”

  I fold my arms in front of me and shake my head. “I’m sorry. I’m just a little surprised to see you.”

  “I understand.”

  “I apologize if the book is difficult to read. I had to write it.”

  “You’re the author,” he says playfully, winking, but I sense of note of seriousness in his tone.

  “I didn’t write the book to upset you,” I say.

  “I’m not mad.”

  “I had to write it,” I say again.

  “There are no hard feelings.”

  I look over at the little blonde girl and her daddy. She looks back at me before turning the corner. She is smiling.

  Russ says, “I think about you a lot.”

  I sigh. “Russ—”

  “It’s not what you’re thinking. I know we’ll never be together again. I’ve accepted it. But I still have feelings for you as a friend. I care about you. I want you to do well. I want you to be happy.”

  My heart races. Sweat pools under my arms. “I am happy,” I say. “Philip makes me really happy.”

  He smiles. “Good. You should be. You deserve it. I mean it.”

  He stares down at the floor, fidgets in his skinny jeans and worn leather jacket.

  “I’m surprised to see you here,” I say. “You look good.”

  He looks dignified with his cleft chin. “I read your tour dates on your website. I wanted to congratulate you in person.” He shakes my book in the air. “And buy a book.”

  “You drove all the way from Ohio to be here today?”

  “Flew. But yes, it was the only time I could see you on tour. I didn’t know if I’d see you again.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything. I’m just glad we had this opportunity to talk.” He pauses and adds, “How was your Thanksgiving?”

  “Nice and quiet. Yours?”

  “Busy.”

  “Work will consume you if you let it.”

  “That’s all I know. Work, work, work.”

  “What are you doing these days?” I ask. “Are you still an anesthesiologist?”

  A head nod. “Nothing has changed.”

  “Are you happy?”

  “I live alone,” he says, his shoulders straightening into a rigid stance.

  I nod.

  “How’s Philip?” he asks.

  “He’s good. Working hard trying to keep our streets safe.”

  He glances at me, and then looks away, up at a row of mystery books.

  “I better be going if I’m going to make it home in this blizzard,” I say.

  I thank him and start turn to leave when Russ pulls me into his arms.

  I stare into the web of wrinkles around his eyes. “I appreciate you coming all this way. But I don’t think we have anything else to say to each other.”

  I feel his body trembling under his thin jacket, and he cries into the back of my neck. “I miss you.”

  I hug him and can feel his arms tighten around me. “Life has changed for both of us, but we’ll always be friends.”

  He leans back and wipes his eyes. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m truly sorry for causing you this grief.”

&n
bsp; I place my hand on his shoulder. “It’s water under the bridge.”

  “Do you ever think about me?”

  I look away, at a passing customer, my gaze lingering on the spines of hardcovers. Then I look over at Russ. “Every day. You were my whole life for five wonderful years.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t there all the time.”

  “Me too.”

  He starts to cry. I start to feel my body shaking.

  “Thanks again for flying all the way here,” I say.

  “I’d do it all over again.”

  I nod. “Take care of yourself, Russ.”

  He hands me the book. “Will you sign this for me?”

  “Of course.” I flip to the dedication page and write: Friends for life. Best wishes, Chris.

  I hand him back the book. Before he reads my inscription, he says, “Merry Christmas. Stay handsome.”

  I give him one last hug before I leave him alone in the aisle and ride the escalator down to the main floor. I meet Antonio at the front of the store. He browses the new hardcover releases. “Everything all right?” he asks, putting back James Patterson’s new Alex Cross novel.

  “Just catching up with an old friend.”

  Chapter 12

  Christmas Eve

  Philip and I are in bed until noon, listening to Frank Sinatra’s “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.”

  We lie naked, our limbs entwined like twisty bread. “You’re wearing me out, babe,” Philip whispers.

  I hug him. “I missed you.”

  He squeezes me in his muscular arms and grazes my stubble with his wandering mouth. “I missed you too. I’m glad you’re home.”

  “Traveling takes a lot out of me.” My thoughts turn to the holidays. “The plan to house our families under one roof together makes me nervous.”

  Philip assures me everything will be all right. “Don’t worry. If anyone acts up, we’ll send them to Motel 8 on the interstate. Far away from here.”

  His fingers find my favorite spot and I am instantly aroused, prickling to life in all the right places. “You wanna go another round, eh?”

  I cannot help but smile into Philip’s comforting eyes. “Before we do,” I say, “there is something we have to talk about.”

  He leans back. His expression is stern, befuddled. “Sounds serious.”