by Britney King
“So you’re resurfacing. It happens every decade or so. Like fashion. You should see what the kids are wearing these days. Suddenly we’re back in the 90s. Everything old is new again. Oh, and George?”
“Yeah?”
“I heard about that party of yours…brilliant!”
I can’t watch my life fall apart out the window, so I make my way over to the stove and reheat the eggs. Sliding them from the pan onto the plate, the phone slips away from my ear. Alan’s voice trails off. He never stops speaking. “Are you there?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I heard it was mandatory your guests buy your book. I heard you auctioned them off, with tickets to your party going to the highest bidder.”
“What?”
“You have no idea…man‚ that’s—”
“I didn’t—”
He raises his voice as though I’m hard of hearing, not simply distracted. “Brilliant. Really, that’s brilliant.”
As I fix our plates and then grab two mugs from the cupboard, Alan drones on. “Next time,” he says. “Sign them. Make sure you add the date. Who knows? These parties of yours—it could be a thing.”
“Right.”
“Hey, George—”
I walk the plates around to the breakfast nook, which overlooks the grounds and also the cottage. Liam and the girl are facing one another, deep in conversation, deep in what appears to maybe be an argument, judging by their body language and hand gestures.
“Hello?”
The girl stands on her tippy-toes, leans in, and kisses Liam on the mouth. He says something, and they look my way. Backing away from the window, I reposition the phone. “Yeah?”
“You sound busy.”
“I said that.”
“Okay…well…next time you throw one of your brilliant parties, invite me, would you? I’m not exaggerating when I say I heard it was really something.”
“I can’t recall.”
He laughs. “That’s the George I know.”
When I don’t respond, he blows a long and heavy sigh straight into my ear. “We really need to catch up. Let’s put something on the calendar. I’ll have my assistant email you.”
“Okay. Sure,” I say, which we both know is probably a lie. Other than handing him fifteen percent of my earnings, we really don’t know each other all that well, and I’ve never been much good at small talk.
“It’s good to see you getting back in the game.”
Upstairs, the shower shuts off.
“Listen,” he says. “I gotta run. Tell that lovely wife of yours I say hello.”
“Will do.”
He gasps loudly, which causes me to wince. “Oh. Damn…I almost forgot. I read a bit of the manuscript. Have to say, it’s your best work yet. Certainly better than anything that’s currently on the market.”
“Really?” I’m not immune to fishing for praise, especially if it’s unwarranted.
“One hundred percent,” he tells me. “It’s going to be a smash hit. Just wait. Your fans are going to gobble this up.”
“Fingers crossed.” Truth is, I don’t know what he’s talking about. I haven’t sent him anything. Which only leaves one person. Two, tops.
“Really—whatever it is you’re doing—just keep it up. And don’t forget...next party…I’m there. It’ll be like the good old days.”
Ending the call, I lay the phone on the countertop. I can’t help but smile. It’s nice to have him sound happy on a call. It’s been a long time since such a thing has happened. Years, in fact.
Eve descends the stairs wearing a towel wrapped around her hair and a smile on her face. Something in that smile makes me think I’m going to have to find a way to keep this going, to keep Liam around. At least long enough to finish this novel, set me up on the charts, and land me a new contract.
On the other side of the lawn, the girl throws up her hands. The kissing over, it’s turned into an all-out lover’s quarrel, for sure. I’m glad. I’ve seen what women like her can do. It’s like watching a fire going through dry grass with a strong wind.
“This looks amazing,” Eve says, eyeing the spread. “God, George. You make me so happy.”
“I couldn’t ask for more,” I tell her.
As Eve sips her coffee, she gazes out the window. Eventually, her eyes land on the cottage. “Liam had company stay over.” She looks over at me with a sly grin. “How wonderful for him.”
“Yes,” I say, knowing I have to tread carefully. Some lies require more lies. This, and it has occurred to me that not only is Liam fixing my novel, he’s fixing my life.
Chapter Fifteen
The girl stays at the cottage long after the party ends, long after I spy on her during breakfast Saturday morning. As a matter of fact, she stays the entire weekend, with no sign of departure anytime soon.
On Monday, during our morning writing session, Liam informs me she’s had a fight with her fiancé and needs a place to hide out. He hopes I don’t mind.
“It’s not a good idea,” I say.
“It’s a fantastic idea,” he assures me. “She’s happy here. She said so herself.”
I start to elaborate. I start to ask him to ask her to leave. In the end, I bite my tongue. Never get between someone and their desire because you will lose every time. I’ve been around long enough to know these things usually have a way of working themselves out.
He glances up from his phone. “You’ll see.” His fingers furiously text away. “I’m going to make her fall in love with me.”
With a curt nod, I turn back to my writing. It’s probably better not to push it. Obviously, she hasn’t told Liam of our encounter, and the last thing I want to do is to force her hand. Or his.
“She’s a big fan of yours, you know,” he adds, proving he can’t let it go. Something tells me this is a problem, where she is concerned. “In that way, you’re helping me too.”
“The party…it was for her wasn’t it?”
He offers his signature grin. I gather Liam could have nearly any woman he wants, probably that one included, if he’d just lay off a little. I’ve seen the way women flock toward him, the way they swarm around. Men, too, for that matter. “It was for everyone.”
“But mostly for her.”
“She likes to be entertained,” he shrugs. “Who doesn’t want to be impressed?”
“No woman I’ve ever met.”
He laughs in a sardonic way, matching my sentiment. “She makes me nervous. But in a good way, you know?”
“I do know.”
“She makes me want to be better.” He places his phone on my desk. I watch as a string of texts come in, lighting up the screen. “How did you know with your wife, that she was the one?”
“I don’t know. I just did.”
“I guess you can’t explain love, can you?”
“No, but it never stops us from trying.”
Her presence does more than make me nervous. It forces me to look deeper into Liam’s past, further into his motivations. This time, instead of a search bar, I go straight to the source, over afternoon tea.
“It occurred to me,” I remark, blowing steam away from my mug, “that I really don’t know anything about you.”
Liam is standing in my kitchen looking out of place, like an apparition from a different time, in his tweed pants, matching vest, and crisp white button down. I’ve invited him to stay for tea, which I usually take with Eve, but she’s down with one of her headaches again. After several beats, he looks up from his phone. “Hmmm. I’m sorry.” He presses his lips together and widens his eyes. “Did you say something?”
“My wife,” I repeat. “She’s very fond of you. And yet, I hardly know anything.”
“I’m afraid there’s not a lot to know.”
“I hit the best seller list.” I sip my tea and try to gauge his reaction. “Surely, you knew that.”
“Yes.” He smiles, raising his cup. “Congratulations are in order.”
“You’re not
just a junior level editorial assistant, are you, Liam?”
Stuffing his phone in his back pocket, he sets his cup on the counter and leans back against it. “Not just, no.”
“Why are you doing this? Helping me, fixing up my house?”
“You could say I’m a fan.”
“I have lots of fans—certainly not as many as I used to—but some. Surprisingly, none of them have ever repainted my home or fixed up my lawn. They never made people purchase my work in order to get into a party. At least not that I’m aware of, anyway.”
“No?” He cocks his head. “That’s terrible.”
“You see, Liam—” I turn in my chair so that my shoulders are square with his. “I’m too old and too jaded to believe you’re doing all of this out of the goodness of your heart. So, I’d really like to understand the catch—because there’s always a catch. And I’d like to hear it from you.”
“Straight from the horse’s mouth, eh?”
“Precisely.”
He pushes away from the counter and shuffles toward the kitchen sink, where he flips on the faucet. I watch as he dispenses soap into his palm and ruthlessly scrubs at his hands. “My family has money. Loads of it—too much for their own good, if you know what I mean.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“But you can pretend?”
“Right.”
“So, if I can help out a friend, I figure, why not?”
“We aren’t friends.”
He reaches for a dish towel and then turns and glances back over his shoulder. “Ouch.”
It was once said to me that any book that talks about writing is actually a book about life. It’s an insult, quite frankly—to assume that one can be a great writer by applying certain principles. Truth is, it takes an immense amount of hard work over time to tell a great story.
Nonetheless, after tea, before we head back upstairs for another work session, I show Liam the library where I keep my resources on writing, countless books on craft that line the walls.
I can’t recall the last time I have been inclined to pick one up. This morning, however, I was asked, last-minute, to speak at a local high school for career day, and to improve my image or whatever, my publisher said yes. I was not actually consulted, which is probably for the best, seeing that I’ve never been one for public appearances. But with one book on the charts and a new one coming out, my agent has assured me there’s never been as good a time as now.
The talk would be unfathomable and completely off the table had they not asked Liam to stand in for me when I declined. Obviously, I couldn’t let that happen, and so here we are, in the library, me looking for something to say about writing that hasn’t already been said.
“If you’re scared,” he says, pulling a book from my shelf, “then it might be something interesting to do.”
“I’m not scared. I just hate people.”
“You can’t hate people. Your career depends on them.”
I flip through a worn book, one I haven’t touched in ages, a book that Eve gave to me shortly after we were married. “I don’t know so much about that.”
“Writing is an act of hope, George.” He glances at the book in my hand. “It assumes a future and a future reader. You know how many aspiring authors would kill to be in your position? Many of whom have the chops.” He shakes his head in disgust. “Believe me, it’s a lot.”
“Yeah, well, anyone can cook a good dinner once.”
Pressing his lips together, he starts to say something, only to seem to think better of it. Finally, he sighs wistfully. “You know the thing I love most about this job?”
I don’t, but I have a feeling he is going to tell me.
“It has allowed me to understand the complexity of men. You see what’s going on beneath the surface. All the things they don’t say or don’t talk about, those things come out when they feel they are in an environment that is safe.”
“Life doesn’t reward men for their vulnerability.”
“Maybe not. But there’s nothing so interesting as the truth.”
He hands me his suggested talking points for the school. With just a quick skim, I can see that they’re good. Good enough that it irritates me. “Thanks.”
He reaches for the book in my hand and takes it. “I have a feeling that you and I are going to be friends, George Dawson. No matter how you try to fight it, I think you’ll come to find that things just work out better with me around.”
“We’ll see.” I snatch the book back.
Liam eyes me suspiciously but also in a way that says he isn’t worried at all. Me, on the other hand, I have a bad feeling. A familiar bad feeling. The kind that creeps up and lingers. Helpful or not, I realize my back is against the wall. I have allowed a stranger not only into our lives but into our home. A stranger who I know little about. It doesn’t make me feel any better that he seems to like being a closed book. That’s the thing about mysteries—you never really think you’re going to find yourself in one. But then you do.
Chapter Sixteen
Gun to my head, I don’t mean to be drunk when I visit the school. Really and truly I don’t. It was Liam’s idea to go to the Italian restaurant for lunch. It was mine to order drinks.
Maybe I’ve had one too many. Maybe I’m just tired. Whatever the case, for the first time in my life, I think I’m about to get on a stage and tell the absolute truth.
Stepping up to the podium I adjust the mic to my liking, causing it to make a painful screech. My hands shake, making it worse, only it’s not nerves. It’s about three bottles of Negroni and a salad.
“Good afternoon,” I say forcefully. My voice booms throughout the auditorium, echoing off the walls. I pull away from the mic and tap it twice. I don’t know why, other than it just feels like the right thing to do.
The tapping causes a shrill sound to explode from the speakers. Whispers grow among the audience. I clear my throat and tap the mic once more. This time, everyone grows quiet. “They want me to impart wisdom on you. Well, the first thing you should know is most wisdom is bullshit—which leads me to my second point. You should question everything. That thing that you take for granted that you’re right about—question everything.”
Shifting from one foot to the other and back, my eyes scan the audience. “It’s just amazing to me the things the 25-year-old version of me thought—or the 45-year-old version of me thought—and I think understanding that is key. We’re not very good at thinking about the things that we might be wrong about today. We’re really good at knowing the ways we were wrong before. Lots of adults, we’re extremely good at telling stories of how we fucked up before— five years ago or ten years ago, ‘you should have seen me then!’—but not many of us are good about talking about today. I think that’s a blind spot most people have in life, people in general. If we can apply that mindset, and say ‘I was so wrong about that five years ago; I couldn’t have been more wrong about that, and I know that now’… well, I think that we should apply that to the next five years, and the next ten years, and say there’s a lot of shit I’m going to look back on five years from now and say ‘God, I did not know what I was talking about.’ ”
I know my words slur, and I know I’m half-leaning on the podium as though it’s an old friend propping me up. I’m a little shocked that no one gets up to stop me. But they don’t. The majority of the people in the bleachers, both teachers and students alike, stare with mouths slightly open. Some of the kids are punching at their phones, but not many. Most are glued to the train wreck in front of them.
“Basically, ladies and gents…what I’m getting at is, there’s a saying I’ve always liked: strong opinions loosely held. We should be passionate about what we’re talking about—but we should leave room for questioning. You see, when you get to be a man of my age, you spend a lot of time thinking about the past, mulling over your younger days, because God knows things look better in the filtered haze of nostalgia. I like to think it’s the bargainin
g part of the grief process. Grief, because you’ve accepted that you’re staring at the best years of your life in the rearview mirror. I realize it’s not popular thinking to tell you any of this. But the brutal truth is, we’re all going to die. Some of us are closer to ‘game over’ than others. Few of us know how close. Terminal illness aside, age is one of the few predictors we have. So don’t squander your youth thinking there’s nothing left to learn. There’s a lot to learn about life yet. You don’t know a fraction of the things you think you do. Not for sure anyway.”
I take a step forward and then back, clear my throat and go on. “There are five things you should know about writing. One: never be afraid to write about something that has had every last word written about it. It’s not your something until you write about it. Two: there is nothing more interesting than the truth. Three: start with your interests. Chances are you aren’t the only person on the planet with a certain palate. Four: your weaknesses are your strengths. Five: approach situations in which you feel out of your depth with sincere curiosity. Those are the handful of things I know to be true about this vocation. But there’s one last thing, and perhaps the most important—activity does not make a story. Observation is what makes a story. How many people do you know who travel all the time but have nothing to say? Hell, I know people who went on vacation last week. They have nothing interesting to say about it. Don’t be boring. Pay attention. Stories are everywhere just waiting to be found. And finally, living is making peace with the fact that you are very likely going to be the villain in someone else’s story, even if you believed you were doing the right things. One of the most surprising things about life is the realization that you don’t get to tell other people how to narrate their experience.”
When it’s time for questions, most of what is asked is par for the course. That is until one jokester stands up. “My dad says you’re a hack.”
“Name and address please.”