Grayson: Wordsmith Chronicles Book 3

by Christopher Harlan

  She stands up also and shoot me a flirty smile. “Why, Grayson, I thought you’d never ask.”

  Chapter 7

  Grayson

  I’ve been training a lot of Jiu Jitsu these past few weeks. Colton was the one who dragged me down to the dojo for the first time, but once I was there he had to practically drag me out. The kind of exercise that grappling offered became my therapy when I didn’t feel like going back to actual therapy again. I suffer from depression. Sometimes it’s minor, sometimes it’s crippling, and other times it’s hardly even noticeable. I’ve been through the mental health circuit of therapists, pills, alternative therapy sorts, and everything else psychology has thought of. But it took good old fashioned exercise—getting out of my head and into my body—for the most recent fog to lift. I miss the exercise. It feels good to get out here with Rowan and move my legs, maybe even get a little sweat going.

  “What a beautiful day,” she says. “This place may be a little rural for me to ever live in, but they’ve got New York beat in terms of nature.”

  “I won’t argue with that. If you move to New York it had better not be for the nature trails, or you’re going to be sadly disappointed. At least in the boroughs. I don’t know about upstate, that place might as well be Mordor.”

  “Right? Doesn’t it offend you when someone from who-knows-where upstate New York refers to themselves as. . .”

  “A New Yorker?”

  “Yes!”

  “Manhattan, and even the other four boroughs, are New York. Nothing else.”

  “No argument here. God, we sound like such snobs, don’t we.”

  “A little,” she says. “But I’m strangely okay with it.”

  “Me, too.”

  I’m starting to feel the sweat over my body as we walk. It’s been about ten minutes and Rowan does not walk slowly. She’s practically at a slow jog, and I’m not about to let her show me up. She’s right, the day is idyllic. Sun, a nice breeze, a clear sky, it’s just about perfect, and we’re not far from town at this point.

  The second we get there I feel like I’m twelve again. It’s amazing how in certain small towns absolutely nothing changes. Doesn’t matter if I came back today, or twenty years from now, the place would be basically the same as it is now. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Except for one or two places, the stores are the same ones we used to go to when I was a kid. There’s an old general store that sells, well, basically anything you need. There’s a shoe store, and old movie theatre that always seems a little behind the times with whatever they’re showing, and there’s the staple restaurants we used to eat at—mostly pub food. The kinds of places Guy Fieri would stop in on and film and episode of Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives. But I don’t need food right now, I’m still working off the calories of the best breakfast ever.

  “This place is quaint, isn’t it?” She says.

  I laugh. I can’t help it. “What?”

  “Nothing, just that word.”

  “Quaint?” She asks. “What about it?”

  “I just remember Colton making fun of Knight when he used that word at our signing—said that no one ever really said the word ‘quaint’ in casual conversation.”

  “Tell Colton he can suck it.” She says. “I do. And this place is all sorts of quaint.”

  “Oh, okay. I couldn’t tell if you meant quaint as a euphemism or not.”

  “For what?”

  “For a redneck, po-dunk town. You don’t need to spare my feelings if that’s what you think. I’m not the Mayor or anything, I won’t get offended.”

  “Is this place even big enough to have a mayor?”

  I think for a second. I’ve never considered it. “That’s an interesting question. I have no idea.”

  “I’m going to say no.”

  “Sounds about right. I’ll second that.”

  Our pace slows down as soon as we hit the streets. Rowan looks like she’s really taking the town in—like she’s never seen a place quite like this before. She probably hasn’t. If you’re a born and bred New Yorker—a real New Yorker—then this must be like being in an episode of the Twilight Zone. She seems to like it, though. “Oh, look, they have a bookstore.”

  She’s pointing down the block, to Donovan’s Books, an old independent bookstore that’s been here since forever. I used to make fun of this place a lot when I was a kid, but now that I’ve spend the majority of my life in urban jungles, it’s kind of cool to have towns where there are no chair restaurants or stores. If you even said the word ‘Walmart’ around these people they’d chase you out of town. If you want a cup of coffee you go to the diner—no Starbucks or Dunkin for them—and they like their bookstore independent.

  Even before I tried my hand at writing professionally, I was a reader. I used to devour all sorts of books in all different genres, but mysteries and fantasies were my absolute favorite. I never even read a nonfiction book until college. Donovan’s was the one place I used to look forward to coming to when I was dragged here in the summers. I could watch movies at home, and I could get great food in New York, but there was nothing like Donovan’s anywhere near me. “You want to go?” I ask.

  “Just try and stop me.”

  We pass a few more stores before Donovans, some of which look like they’re being run by the same people they were a decade ago. I guess even the people here don’t change. I open the front door for her. “After you.”

  “Why thank you,” she jokes in a fake southern gentile accent. “Such a gentleman.” Inside it’s the smell of the place that hits me first. Independent bookstores are an endangered species. In some places they’re making a comeback, but in others you’d could drive for hours and never see one. “I’m so glad we walked in here. Holy crap, it’s like a book nerd’s paradise in here.”

  “You’re not kidding.” It’s been a while, but I appreciate this place even more as an adult and as a writer than I did when I was a kid. It’s well organized, but they have all sorts of titles you could never find at Barnes & Noble, or even on Amazon. Plus they have huge table for independent and local authors, accompanied with a full banner above the table that reads, “WE SUPPORT OUR OWN. BUY INDIE.”

  I see old man Donovan helping someone find a book, only now he’s really old man Donovan. It’s funny how a forty year old can practically seem like a grandpa to you when you’re a teenager. But now he really is elderly, but it’s cool as hell to see him still working in the place that bears his name, all these years later. “See that guy?” I ask. “He’s the owner. Same as I remember, only he’s got all grey hair now.”

  “At least he has hair. Good for him.”

  “He used to walk me around this place and show me all of these cool authors because he said that no kids my age used to ever come in unless their parents forced them, or if they had a report due for school or something.”

  “So you were a little nerd back in the day? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

  “Guilty as charged. I was a nerd before being a nerd was a cool thing to be. I freely admit it.”

  “Ahead of the trend as always.”

  Old man Donovan catches us looking around and comes over after he’s done helping the woman he was walking around. He’s staring at me. “Well, color me tickled. Holy shit, boy, is that you?” I forgot he used to call me ‘boy’ all the time. Hearing it brings me right back to childhood.

  “You remember me?”

  “Remember you?” He asks, giving me a look like I just asked him if he was a serial killer. “Grayson Smith, how could I forget you? You were just about the only kid ever to come in back these parts while all of you friends in town were getting into trouble.”

  “They weren’t my friends, Mr. Donovan.”

  “Well, your peers, then. Whatever they were to you, you were a different animal, boy. I mean that in a good way.” I’ve missed Mr. Donovan. He still looks good for his age. He looks over at Rowan and smiles. “And who is this beautiful woman? Is this your
wife?” I’m about to open my mouth and tell him no, but Rowan jumps in so fast it makes my head spin.

  “Yes, newlyweds!” I turn to her and just shoot a look. I don’t say a word, just smile at Mr. Donovan. “And we’re so dumb. Grayson wanted to take me back here to show me the place where he used to take vacations in the summer, and we forgot our rings back at the house.”

  “Well, you see that?” Mr. Donovan says, still smiling ear to ear like a proud papa. “That’s what love will do to ya, make you forget everything except how much you need the other person. Don’t go forgetting those rings when you leave, though.”

  “Oh, we won’t, thank you. I’m Rowan.”

  “Nice to meet you, Rowan. And you,” he says, looking at me again. “I don’t know what you did to get a woman this beautiful to marry you, Grayson Smith, but good for you, she’s lovely.” I feel bad lying to Mr. Donovan, but at this point it’s making him happy to think that we’re together, so I’m going to just let him believe the fantasy. “So you’re showing your new bride your old stomping grounds? That’s great. What are you doing now, Grayson?”

  Here we go. It’s always weird seeing someone that I haven’t seen since before I went down the romance road. It’s something all of us struggle with, and Mike and Colton handle it in their own ways. I usually just pull the band-aid and see how people react. “I’m actually a romance writer, Mr. Donovan. I’ve published a bunch of books.”

  “Is that right?” He asks. I brace myself for either the complete outrage, or the fake acceptance, but what he does instead warms my heart. “I’m so proud of you. I knew that you’d do something great. Even when you were a kid I knew. So, are you famous or something? I don’t read much romance, I apologize.”

  “I wish,” I say, smiling and putting my hand on his shoulder. His acceptance is part of why I love Mr. Donovan. He’s just a cool human being, and when you’re a weird teenager, you need cool human beings in your life to help you get through it all. “But alas, no. I’m just your run of the mill struggling artist.”

  “Taking after your parents, then. Sometimes I don’t know if there’s any other type of artist.”

  “Well my husband here. . .it’s still really weird for me to call him that. He just published a new book the other day on Amazon. I have a copy of it with me, actually.” A few thoughts come into my mind as she’s talking: first, I’m either really scared or really impressed by how seamlessly she lied, and two, I can’t believe she’s about to show a childhood mentor one of my books.

  “Is that right?” Mr. Donovan asks. “Give it here.”

  Rowan goes into the bag she’s been carrying with us on our walk and pulls out a copy of my new one. It still looks brand new. I like seeing her holding it. “Here it is. I’m so proud of my new hubby, aren’t you, Mr. Donovan?”

  “He knows I am, darling.” He takes the book and looks it over like an archaeologist who just discovered an ancient artifact, and my heart is beating way too fast for me to keep up with. I don’t know why him holding my book is making me so nervous, but I think it’s because I care so much about his opinion, even though I’ve never thought of it in those terms. “Look at you, Grayson. This is so. . .forgive my language, but you’re an adult now, this is so fuckin’ cool. I remember when you were just a scared little kid, and now you’re a professional writer. Your parents must be really proud.”

  “They are, Mr. Donovan. And thank you, I still find it really surreal myself. It’s even more surreal to see you holding one of my books.”

  “It’s my honor.”

  Rowan looks around, and I see her eyes stop on one of the tables to the left. “Hey, Mr. Donovan, I don’t mean to be presumptuous, and you can totally say no to this request.”

  “What is it, dear?”

  “I noticed that you have a table over there supporting indie and local authors? What would you think about maybe putting some of Grayson’s books on that table? I mean, he’s local and indie, after all.”

  Mr. Donovan’s eyes light up. I’m a little horrified that she’s asking, because the last thing I want to do is impose on his store, but he looks like he’s seriously considering it. “You see, Grayson, you married the right woman. She doesn’t only love you, she’s looking out for your career also. That’s a keeper. How about this? If possible, give me that copy you have, and mail me copies of all your books—say 10-20 copies each. I’ll put them out on the shelves and if they sell, then you can send me more. How does that work for you?”

  I know it’s a little thing—my one copy of a book sitting on a table in a store in the middle of nowhere, but the idea makes me happy. It feels like some kind of accomplishment, even though it’s nothing great. “I’d really appreciate that, Mr. Donovan, thank you. Only if it’s not taking up too much space.”

  “Too much space? No such thing for you. Here, give me that one and I’ll put it right where people can see when they come in. One condition, though.”

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “I need your signature on the inside of that cover. Otherwise the deal is off.”

  “Of course,” I say, “But I don’t have a. . .”

  “Here.” Rowan hands me a sharpie like she’s a medical assistant handing me a scalpel. She timed it so perfectly that I give her a funny look. “I had it in my pocket.”

  “What did I say before?” Mr. Donovan asks. “You married the right woman, Grayson.”

  “I guess I did, didn’t I?” I smile wider than I should, sign my name with a little message on the inside cover of the paperback, and hand it to him. “Here you go. I can’t thank you enough for this.”

  “Of course,” he tells me. “So what are you two up to today?”

  “Exploring,” I tell him. “Just getting out of the house and showing the. . .Mrs. around the old town here.”

  “Well you two enjoy. I have to get back to my customers, but before you leave make sure to stop in an say hello, won’t you?”

  “We definitely will.” Mr. Donovan leaves us. Rowan smiles when I look at her, and for a second I forget that we’re just pretending, and the idea of her being with me makes me feel happy. “You wanna go?”

  “I’m going to wait for the old Grayson Blackman books to arrive, personally.”

  “You might be here a while. Maybe go look around town some more?

  “Okay, fine.”

  We step back outside onto the street. It was really great to see Mr. Donovan. Rowan turns to me. “Smith?” she asks. “Grayson Smith?”

  “My real last name. Boring as shit, isn’t it? Doesn’t have the same ring as Blackman, does it?”

  “You said it, not me.”

  “No, you can say it. It’s pretty common. Maybe I should write under my real name—I might sell more books. Clearly Blackman isn’t working out.”

  “Would you stop already? I like Smith. And I like Blackman.”

  “Even more?” I ask. She nods.

  “So you, just, changed your name? Like a pen name?”

  It’s a good question. Romance author names are like porn names—some people just go with who they are, and some sound like totally made up super hero characters. The same goes for male character names. But most of us who don’t write full time change at least our last name for privacy purposes, along with opening up author specific social media accounts under our pen names. I don’t even remember where I got the name Blackman from, but it sounded cool with my first name so I just went with it. “Yeah, we do that. Colton’s last name isn’t Chase either.”

  “What is it?” She asks.

  I smile. “Why don’t you ask him that next time you see him.” I practically laugh out loud.

  “What’s so funny.” She asks.

  “How should I say this? Colt has an. . .interesting last name, let’s just put it that way.”

  “Wait, I wanna know what it is now! Don’t leave me hanging.”

  “It’s so much better if he tells you, trust me. Just for the shock value on his face!”

&n
bsp; “Alright,” she says, pretending to be defeated. “I’ll wait.”

  “It’ll be worth it, I promise.” We walk around for another half hour seeing the sights. The sun is out in full force, and it’s a really beautiful day outside. Eventually we loop back around to the auto shop. “While we’re here I’m gonna run in and check on the car.”

  “What? You don’t wanna move here with me? I might be asking for a divorce.”

  “If I married you,” I tell her. “I’d never let you go. Be right back.”

  I come out happier than I went in. The owner wasn’t there, but the mechanic working on my car was standing there when I asked about a timeframe. “He said they’re ahead of schedule,” I tell Rowan. “The car will be ready tomorrow morning, around ten.”

  “That’s amazing. So we’d better make the best of our next twenty four hours.”

  “I can think of a few ways to do that.”

  Chapter 8

  Rowan

  We’re going out for drinks!

  He and I need them. Maybe him a little more than me. I’m happy to be here with him. From his point of view he’s running away from the stressful world. From my point of view, I’m playing house with a sexy ass man, in the middle of nowhere, about to get drunk. Not too bad. We’re having dinner first—a restaurant that’s in the same town we walked around earlier today. We came back to the house after our little sightseeing excursion before, and we each took a nap when we got back. There really isn’t anything else much to do.

  He fell asleep first after taking a shower, and just like last time I sneaked a peak of his hot body before taking a shower of my own. He’s the sexiest guy I’ve ever been around in real life, and I can’t get enough of looking at him or being around him. In a way I’m sad that we’re going to be leaving tomorrow, back to the realities of life, but I guess this could only last so long. Maybe I can get his spirits up by then. The last thing he needs is to go back to his regular life as stressed as he left. If that’s the case, then what was the point of coming here? Maybe tonight will turn things around.