by CL Walters
Emma grabs a pack of marshmallows from the table. “We’ll need more of these.”
I watch her walk away, then turn back for the sticks. I find them stuck between two coolers. When I straighten, I look across the campsite filtered in firelight and study friends, my chosen family. My heart fills up with the firelight glow to overflowing.
I remember when there were too many holes in my heart to hold onto the joy or the hope. I used patches of sarcasm and anger to hold myself together, to patch up the leaking parts of my torn heart. The parts of me keeping me protected, or so I believed. Now, though, having been through the valley of heartache and starting the climb out, I realize I don’t need the disconnected parts of me anymore. I don’t need the gentle Griffin hiding in the prison of his broken heart. I don’t need the sarcastic Griffin to hold the emotions back. I don’t need douchey Griffin to chase people away and keep them at arm’s length. I don’t need angry and unapproachable Griffin to keep the rest of him sheltered and protected from possible heartache. There is no honor in denying that there is pain and hurt, because in denying it, it’s like saying it didn’t happen.
The fight with Tanner happened. So did the healing.
The loss of my friends happened. So did the reunion.
Having unprotected sex with Bella with real consequences happened. So did the idea of impending fatherhood.
April happened.
Her death happened.
But it goes back and back…
My father’s arrest and imprisonment. So did the tentative way we’ve found to be in one another’s lives.
His secret family. So did a new sister.
My brother’s leaving. So did his return.
Every moment, every hurt can’t be ignored, but neither can the joys that were born from them. Like now.
I walk across the campsite toward the dancing fire, to Max who has taken my heart and helped me stitch it together so that I am no longer a Griffin stuck in a ghost town he made, or a Griffin in monster parts, but instead, just Griffin, whole, Guardian of Treasures.
Max looks at me when I reach her and gives me the smile I love so much.
I smile back.
Note & Further Reading
The most obvious of the obvious, I am not a man, and yet, here’s a book (plus a half of one with The Stories Stars Tell) exploring male culture. What could I possibly know and understand about manhood besides my life married to one, my childhood raised with many, a professional life working with teen males, and being the mother of a teenage son? Not a whole lot beyond what is observable and personally anecdotal. Therefore, besides talking to a plethora of dudes, I consulted the written word to get a sense about the male culture I was attempting to write.
* * *
These are a list of books I read on the topic in case you might be interested in exploring the topic of masculine culture further:
* * *
Boys and Sex: Young Men on Hookups, Love, Porn, Consent, and Navigating the New Masculinity by Peggy Orenstein
* * *
The Man They Wanted Me to Be by Jared Yates Sexton
* * *
A Better Man: A (Mostly) Serious Letter to My Son by Michael Ian Black
* * *
Masterminds and Wingmen: helping Our Boys Cope with Schoolyard Power, Locker-room Tests, Girlfriends, and the New Rules of Boy World by Rosalind Wiseman
* * *
Raising Cain: Protecting the Emotional Life of Boys by Dan Kindlon, Ph.D., and Michael Thompson, Ph.D.
In the Echo of this Ghost Town Playlist
Music always plays such an important role to my creative process in growing with the characters as I write them.
Ghost Town by Vancouver Sleep Clinic
Inside Out by Mokita
Dogcatcher by Elliot Moss
Everybody But Me by Nick Wilson
Wild by Hailaker
Be Slow by Harrison Storm
Necessary Friend by namara
Half-Saved by Luca Fogale
Obvious by UTAH & CHPTERS
Maybe Don’t by Maisie Peters & JP Saxe
Again by Sasha Sloan
A Little Bit Yours by JP Saxe
More Than Friends Mokita
Maple by Jome
I Never Wanted Anything More Than I Wanted You by Kina Grannis
you were good to me by Jeremy Zucker & Chelsea Cutler
Don’t Wait by EXES & Dashboard Confessional
Always by By the Coast
Golf on TV by Lennon Stella & JP Saxe
* * *
Songs without lyrics:
Who We Want to Be by Tom Day (Featured in the book trailer. Thank you, Mr. Day!)
Precipice by The Flashbulb
The Proposal by AK & Mapps
* * *
I didn’t include every song on the list. If you’re interested in more music, look for the “In the Echo of this Ghost Town” playlist on Spotify. The playlist Griffin made for Max is also on Spotify titled: “Griffin’s Road Trip Playlist.” Please consider purchasing songs if you are able to support these talented artists, many of them also independent, just like indie authors.
Acknowledgments
As I was writing The Stories Stars Tell, an incredible human and early reader, Lavinia Ungureanu, shared with me how much the fight between Tanner and Griffin left her wanting to know more. She mentioned a moment in the story when Tanner went to talk to Griffin, and just before Tanner left the house, there was a brief glimpse of Griffin’s vulnerability and insecurity. That moment, she said, when paired with the fight, made her wonder what happened to Griffin. I couldn’t shake Lavinia’s question, eventually writing the fight from Griffin’s perspective. After writing that scene, I knew I had to tell Griffin’s story. So, Lavinia, thank you for asking that question. You are directly responsible for Griffin’s story.
* * *
After that first draft was done, I had a lot of help reading this story and Max’s version When the Echo Answers. Thanks is owed to a plethora of people: Rayna York, Stephanie Keesy-Phelan, Becky Clark, Misty Wagner, Maggie Freidanne, Janine Caroline, and of course, Lavinia. Thank you to my Salon Crew who listened to me vent about Griffin and is idiotic choices. Thank you to Katherine Lamoureaux. You are an angel who wears an editor’s wings and works so hard to make sure things are in their rightful place. Thank you to authors Rob Rufus and Brandann Hill-Mann for being willing to read and offer your perspective. Writing a book really can’t be done without the village. Thank you all.
* * *
Thank you to Sara Oliver who over the last seven books has used art to make my books look like spun gold. Thank you for your hard work and the willingness to work with me (including but not limited to my random thoughts about symbolism and character’s clothing).
* * *
Thank you to my family. You are always willing to listen to my rants and the strange meanderings of my mind. You put up with moods and my shapeshifting throughout my creative process—most times in unattractive ways. I’m so appreciative of you. To my friends who walk into bookstores and talk about me to the proprietors because you believe in me (thank you, Kori). I can’t begin to tell you how much it means.
* * *
To all of the readers, thank you. Your delight in these characters makes the journey to tell their stories so meaningful. It’s a treasure to sit down and push through the draft, the rewrite, the revision, and the edit along with the rest of the publishing process because I know it’s for you. THAT is the sparkley part. Thank you so much for your support, your reviews, and sharing your love of the work with others.
* * *
Each singular thread of my gratitude is tied to the tapestry of my faith journey and my heavenly Father, through whom all blessings flow. I humbly walk through this life in honor and service to glorify my savior, Jesus Christ. Though I admit my extreme flaws as a human being and rest in the understanding that I’m accepted by that Grace. A gorgeous human, Misty Wagner, once remarked, “I love that you
love Jesus but swear like a sailor.” I laughed with her completely content in the awareness that I am accepted flaws and all—just like Griffin.
When the Echo Answers Excerpt
Available Now
Chapter 1
I should be used to the condition of the houses on move-in day I’ve lived in so many of them, but this one might be one of the worst I’ve ever seen. “Dad.” I breathe the word like a prayer when it comes into view through the pick-up’s window. Besides the siding looking anemic, the wrap around porch looks like broken bones held up with weak crutches. The ghost of its foundation sits in the middle of a field in dire need of surgery. I think, perhaps my dad has lost his mind.
“I know it looks a fright,” my dad says as he turns our rusty pickup into the drive.
A fright is an understatement. The house looks like a strong wind will blow it over after the ghosts finish their centuries old party in it.
“Dad,” I repeat as if I’ve lost access to oxygen, though this isn’t the first time he’s heard me say his name this way. I’m not sure why I’m surprised. Not really. Over the last eighteen years of my life, we’ve moved ten times, and with each move, the house has always looked like a dump, maybe except for house three. “There’s no way you’re flipping this before I leave for school.”
We bounce along a driveway that needs repaving, or our truck needs new shocks. It’s hard to decide which. Maybe both.
The sun wanes in the afternoon sky, lighting everything in beautiful hues of gold, but it doesn’t seem to help the dilapidated building I’m about to call a temporary home look any better. I can’t look anymore and turn away from the house, thinking about the plan he shared with me on the drive: Fix this one up in a hurry—before I leave for college—flip it to help pay for school expenses not covered by my scholarship, and move onto the next one closer to school. It isn’t going to happen. Eight weeks isn’t enough time.
“I know it looks bad. I know.” He puts the truck in park. We sit next to one another in Rust Bucket facing a front door that’s cracked up the center. Silence stretches a few extra beats and then my father adds, “But, I’m going to hire someone to help with this one.”
“Dad.” I shake my head this time as the air leaves my lungs. He’s never hired anyone before aside from tradesmen who help with stuff he doesn’t do. Taking on a hire sounds like a lot of extra cash. “For real?”
“Sure,” he says and taps the steering wheel, as if offering himself reinforcement to make it so. He looks at me and smiles. “Then we sell this baby—for sure.”
“Dad–” I repeat. I can’t seem to find another word.
“No. No.” He shakes his head and looks at the house. “It’s got amazing bones,” he says just like he always does, and so far in my eighteen years on this planet, he hasn’t ever been wrong. We’ve always had a roof over our heads, even if sometimes there are holes in it until he fixes them. And we’ve always had food to eat, even if we don’t always have a place for a table. He’s always made sure I had clothes and shoes, even if we’ve had to shop at thrift shops. Truthfully, I haven’t ever wanted for much, even if I’m not one of those kinds of people who wants much.
“Come on,” he says. “Let me show you.” He climbs out of the truck, the door squealing as he pushes it open.
I follow him out my side of the truck but leave my bag inside the cab.
He high steps through the grass and looks over his shoulder at me. “Wait. I’ll make a path for you.”
I watch my dad push down the grass with his feet. That’s my dad, my knight in shining armor, willing to brave the grasses with his boots so that I’ll be comfortable. I’m wearing shorts, and I shouldn’t have. I know better. First night in a flip is always about jeans, long sleeves, and hard-soled shoes. And sometimes, I think, hazmat suits have probably been in order like house number five when we had to go get a hotel room for a couple weeks.
I hadn’t thought my clothing choices through this morning, already annoyed that we were doing this again. It might be early July, but summer months don’t matter to a house that’s falling apart. The rodents don’t care either. Or squatters. Or whatever kinds of other items we might find inside that I don’t want to consider.
When it’s clear the stubborn reeds aren’t going to lie flat, he walks back to me and offers his wide back.
“Hop on, Max-in-a-million.”
“Dad. I’m a little old for this.”
“Aw. Humor your old man.”
I jump up and let him piggyback me to the porch, which I can see needs to be completely redone. I’m factoring cost. The crack in the front door looks like the crack in Amy’s wall in the first episode of the eleventh iteration of Doctor Who. Shit. Replacement. Cha-ching. Rodents guaranteed.
“Don’t worry. We’ll patch it up until we get the replacement.”
As if the front door is the only thing needs replacing, I think but don’t say it.
When Dad sets me down, he climbs the steps that buckle under his weight with creaks and groans but thankfully don’t snap. He looks over his shoulder at me with one of those excited twinkles in his stormy-sea-colored eyes which are striking in contrast to the rich, sun-kissed hue of his face. “You ready to see this masterpiece?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
The front door opens.
And it’s a dump, just like I thought.
He has to push the door open through a pile of dirt and, upon closer inspection, leaves which makes me think there must be a broken window. The stairwell is intact, but a few of the stairs are cracked like chipped teeth. There’s a musty odor of decomposing wood and more things I don’t want to consider. The condition of the house is terrible, and I look at my dad with wide eyes.
“Remember, Max–” Dad turns to me, hands on his jean clad hips—he obviously knew how to dress, though in my whole life, I can’t remember my dad ever wearing anything different– “you have to look at the place as it can be, not how it is. See through the damage to all the ways we’ll fix it to–”
“–make it new,” I finish for him. “Yes. I know, Dad. But–”
“No ‘buts,’” he says, holding up a hand. “Just look.”
I sigh and nod. It’s an old farmhouse, but under the grime, age, and harsh reality of time, I can see little treasures. The hardwood floor is mostly intact for some spots, though I’m wondering about that subfloor that creaks as our steps echo through the empty rooms. There are gorgeous stained-glass windows still intact set in the framed doorways between rooms. The kitchen needs a complete gut, and it makes me hear alarm bells at all the cash flowing in each room. The shiplap looks shot, but the fireplace in the living room is beautiful with what looks like original river rock.
“Well?” Dad’s voice is hopeful.
I follow him up the stairs. “I can see why you liked it.”
He flashes me a grin, which is infectious. It always is.
I share a smile with him, and my reciprocation seems to relieve some of the tension I hadn’t realize he was carrying until his shoulders droop to normal position.
At the top of the stairs, the walkway splits, and the spindles of the banister form a U around the stairwell. Outlining the space are closed doors. I follow my dad to the left. “I think this could be your room, but you can choose.”
He pushes open a door.
I give my father credit. Even though the house is a dump—and looks like it might be haunted—the bones of this room are magical. The steeply pitched ceiling, dormered windows with places to sit though they look like they might have nests of something. The walls are bleeding old wallpaper, but I can imagine a new pattern, a beautiful room. “It’s got potential,” I tell him with a grin.
His eyes twinkle again. “Let me show you the rest.”
After the tour, I can see the promise of the house, but I don’t see how he’s going to get it done in eight weeks—even with help. This will take months, and I know he knows it which makes me look sideways at him aga
in. My dad is a smart man. He’s been doing this a long time, and while his timing isn’t always perfect, he must know this is going to take the better part of a year to finish, even with help. Looking around, I know he knows it, and I wonder why he’s adamant about the timeline.
“I’ll order us some pizza for dinner,” he says. A tradition on the first night of each of our moves.
“Perfect,” I say and wipe my hands over the back of my shorts, then realize I’ve probably wiped grime on my ass. I glance over my shoulder and twist to check, though I’m not sure why I’d care.
“It could be our last one.” I look up at him and notice his gaze flick away. He swallows and then with a dip of his head says, “I’ll start moving stuff in.”
“I’ll sweep up the sleeping spaces for the mattresses and lay the tarps. Don’t move mattresses without me.”
He nods. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
I move out the front door, down the porch and through the tall grass to the truck to get my change of clothes. I open the truck door and look back at the house as dad emerges from the doorway to grab the first boxes we’ll need to settle for the night. My heart expands in my chest already missing him, though I haven’t left yet. With my leaving-for-college deadline impending—eight weeks away—dad’s strange timeline coincides, but I know this isn’t realistic. I know he knows it too and wonder if it has more to do with me leaving rather than the actual completion of the house. Maybe it’s his way of trying to make me feel better, or himself.
The thing is it doesn’t make me feel better.