Three Simple Words (Kingston Ale House)

by A. J. Pine

  “That love can, in fact, conquer all if you’re not such an idiot that you refuse to let it in.”

  Brynn crossed her arms. “Like me and Jamie were for ten years.”

  “Yes!” Annie halted mid-pace. “You guys were 100 percent, certifiable, bona fide idiots.”

  Brynn opened her mouth to protest but then pressed her lips back together. “You’re right. We were the worst. But now we’re the best.” A dreamy smile took over her features.

  “Exactly!” Annie pointed at her friend. “Just like all good romance heroes and heroines, when you two were ready to say ‘fuck you’ to fear and open yourselves up to the possibility of something more—”

  “Fireworks,” Brynn interrupted. “It was fireworks.”

  Annie held her head high. “Thanks to me giving you guys a push—and what I know was an epically romantic road trip.” She collapsed back into her chair. “That’s what’s wrong with Wes Hartley’s not-a-romance. This maddening character, Ethan, has women swooning for him right and left, almost all of them saying they love him—and he never returns the sentiment. Other than some pretty sensational sex scenes…” She fanned herself. After all, she would give credit where credit was due. “…Ethan, the not-a-romance-hero, is the most shallow, vapid, self-serving fictional human I’ve ever read. He takes and takes and takes but claims he cannot give.”

  “Except in the bedroom,” Brynn reminded her with a wry smile. “Maybe that’s why the women keep coming.” She snorted. “Pun totally unintended, but I think it’s one of my best.”

  Annie rolled her eyes. “There’s no way he’s as skilled as his character. It’s gotta be some sort of wish fulfillment, right? Compensation for the part of his life that’s lacking?”

  “Sounds about right,” Brynn said. “Why don’t you write a blog post about it? Sex-starved Author Makes Up For Incompetence in the Boudoir With Debut NON-Romance Novel.”

  Annie blew her hair out of her eyes. “You know I can’t alienate readers. They’re all potential customers, too.” If there was one thing Annie loved, it was finding out one of her bookshop patrons learned about the store from her blog. “But lucky you, being my friend and all, you get to hear me rant one on one!”

  Brynn offered her a small bow from her office chair. “The honor is all mine.”

  “Good,” Annie said. “Because I could go for hours.”

  Brynn raised a brow. “And apparently so can Hartley’s not-a-hero? I mean, I’m just assuming based on those sensational sex scenes.”

  They both laughed, and Annie closed her laptop. She’d be opening the shop in fifteen minutes, and Brynn was right. She did need a caramel apple cider to set the morning right.

  “I’m headed to Hot Latte,” she said to her friend and partner in crime. “Want anything?”

  “Pumpkin spice anything will do,” Brynn said, and Annie made a dramatic gagging sound. Brynn rolled her eyes.

  “I just don’t get why autumn means everything has to taste like pumpkin.”

  Brynn spun back to her own laptop, no doubt finishing up with Friday’s deposit so she could bring it to the bank this morning.

  Annie knew she was setting herself up for more disappointment, but she had to ask. “How’d we do this week?” She watched as Brynn’s shoulders slumped.

  “We’re a little short,” her friend said, not turning to face her. And Annie was glad for it. Brynn had taken some side jobs lately—like helping Doug and Dan, the owners of Hot Latte, with their quarterly tax payments. Sales just weren’t where they needed to be, and Annie wasn’t sure if she’d be able to pay Brynn her full fee. Again.

  Annie cleared her throat. “Right. So—pumpkin. On me.” Like a latte could make up for her best friend trying to steer a financial sinking ship.

  “Because life is better with pumpkin spice,” Brynn said cheerily, leaning over her shoulder to offer Annie a conciliatory smile. “Hey, have you ever thought about doing something other than books?”

  Annie gasped, but Brynn shook her head.

  “I don’t mean give up the store. But maybe host events with local authors. It shouldn’t cost you anything other than ordering stock. I bet that would get more people in the door.”

  Annie grabbed her travel mug and headed for the door. “I sell books, B. I’m not a party planner.”

  Her shoulders slumped. It was actually a good idea. But it also meant stepping outside her comfort zone and trying something that could fail. She’d already done that opening her own bookshop, and that day three years ago was the happiest of her life. What if she couldn’t do what was necessary, though, to keep the place afloat long-term?

  Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe Brynn had miscalculated. Or maybe today would bring some big bump in sales. It wasn’t just the steady decline in recent proceeds, though. That book, Wes Hartley’s book—and the blog comments—had gotten under her skin.

  Who didn’t believe in happily ever after?

  Wes Hartley, that’s who.

  Just because Annie hadn’t found hers yet didn’t mean it wasn’t out there, waiting for the right moment to reveal itself.

  She marched out of the bookshop with renewed purpose and satisfaction. A Hot Latte run always set the world back on its axis. It was also a comfort to know that, despite that year in high school when their paths had crossed, she’d never come face-to-face with Wes Hartley again, other than the caricature on the jacket of the most hopeless book that was not—in fact—a romance.

  Chapter Three

  Wes’s phone buzzed with a text, and he blinked a few times before he got his bearings. A sliver of sunlight poked through the window, enough to illuminate the television atop the small dresser. The only other furniture in the room, aside from the nightstand and the bed where he lay, was the desk to his right. He ignored the buzz, but then he caught sight of his laptop on the desk.

  There it sat, on but not awake. Why should it be? He hadn’t made it do any work in months.

  The phone vibrated again, this time with the text reminder, and he blew out a breath.

  Deadline day.

  He grabbed the device and swiped his thumb across the screen to unlock it.

  Max: It’s 10 a.m. Refreshed my inbox. Nada.

  Wes: Pages need a quick once-over before I send. Have them to you by the weekend.

  He clenched his teeth, waiting for his agent’s response. Max made him sweat it out for a full ninety seconds.

  Max: Movie option rides on editor green-lighting this. You fuck this up, and you’re done. We don’t have room for a sophomore slump. 50 pages when I wake up Monday morning.

  “Fuck,” Wes hissed. He ran a hand through his overgrown waves. Had Max just forgotten the amazing turnout they had for the paperback release two nights ago? It’s not like he wasn’t selling. Because shit—he was. He just wasn’t exactly writing.

  Wes: I thought Joanne only wanted first three chapters.

  Max: That was before you missed the first deadline. Shit is getting real, my friend. Your career can end as quickly as it began. 50 pages Monday morning.

  Wes: Gotcha. No problem.

  Fuck me.

  He tossed the phone down on the bed and flopped onto his back.

  End as quickly as it began.

  Most people still didn’t know what they wanted to do with their lives at twenty-five, yet here he was, ready to lose it all before everyone else figured their own shit out. Was that the price of chasing a dream—having everyone else call the shots when all he needed was a little fucking space?

  This was why he was getting the hell out of New York. After seven years, a change of scenery was what he needed. He wasn’t blocked. No fucking way he was using that term. He was just in a holding pattern, one that would right itself once he made it the rest of the way to Chicago.

  He’d considered riding straight through, but he’d also left on a whim—telling Max about the decision at the signing—so he’d hoped his night in Columbus would get the words flowing. No such luck. If he got
his ass out of bed now, he could make it to Chicago by late afternoon.

  It was time for a phone call.

  He searched through his recent calls, hoping to just hit redial. But after scrolling through a month’s worth of numbers, he realized it had been longer than that since he and his father had spoken.

  Well. No time like the present, right?

  “It’s nine in the morning,” his dad said after one ring.

  “Always stating the obvious, Dad.”

  Wes was up and pacing now. This was what fifteen seconds with this man did to him, and they weren’t even in the same room.

  “Do you need money?”

  Wes groaned. “I paid a year’s worth of your mortgage. Remember?”

  “I didn’t ask you to,” his dad said.

  “It was a gift. Jesus, can’t I do something for you and not expect anything in return?”

  The sentiment was true at the time. His parents put him through college. The only way he knew how to say thanks was to give something back. Yes, he’d spent his advance and then some, but Max said he’d earn out next quarter. Six months past release and sales were still steady, especially now that the paperback had hit the shelves. But would they be a year from now if Down This Road was his one and only novel?

  He listened to his one living relative breathe out seven years of conversations they hadn’t had. The weight of what hung between them pressed down on Wes’s shoulders, and he waited.

  “Well, you must need something,” his father said. “Last time you called—”

  “Was to wish you a happy birthday,” Wes interrupted.

  And the time before that? Shit, he couldn’t even remember. And yes, he needed something—a free place to stay. But how could he ask his father for that now? He’d only prove him right.

  “I just wanted to see how you were, Dad. That’s all.”

  His dad grunted. “Work is steady. Can’t complain. Actually got a commercial gig painting the inside of a new store. Sells women’s clothing or something.”

  Wes’s shoulders relaxed. He could hear the hint of a smile creep into his father’s voice. He wouldn’t ruin it by asking him the other question that hung on the tip of his tongue.

  You been to the cemetery to see Mom lately? She was always the buffer between them. She got Wes when his father didn’t, which was always. But she’d been gone five years now, and the further she faded into memory, the more it was like there was nothing left tying him and his dad together. But, shit, he was trying, even if the initial motivation was a selfish one.

  “That’s great,” he said instead. “Look. I may be in town soon. Can I take you to dinner or something when I get there?”

  “Yeah. Sure. That sounds good,” he said.

  This was a start. After a month, it was an opening of sorts.

  “You, uh, had a chance to read it yet?” Wes asked, and the second the words were out of his mouth, he knew he should have ended the conversation at the dinner request.

  “Christ, Wes. We’re gonna do this again?”

  Why should today be any different?

  Every muscle in his upper body tensed. “Forget it. Forget I asked. I just thought you might like to know a little about your son, what he’s been working on the past few years. I ask about your life. You ask about mine. That’s how catching up usually goes. Only, you don’t ask, Dad. You don’t ask, and you don’t read, and I don’t know how else to show you what the hell I’ve been doing.”

  Silence. Followed by more silence.

  “I’m not a—”

  “Reader. Yeah, I’ve heard. It’s fine. Look, I gotta go. I’ll call you again when I get to town.”

  He tried like fuck to ignore the tightness in his chest but knew the only relief was in ending the call.

  “When’s that gonna be?”

  Six or seven hours.

  “I’m not sure. Probably a couple weeks or so. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “Wes…”

  But his father didn’t say anything after that.

  “Bye, Dad.”

  Was it only two nights ago he’d been swarmed at that bar with readers who couldn’t get enough of him? But dear old dad wasn’t even interested in a few words on the page. He ignored the laptop but pulled up the voice recording app on his phone.

  “Remember the signing—the drinks, the offers,” he said into the microphone. “When you get out of your goddamn holding pattern, you got yourself quite the chapter there.”

  But whatever story he was trying to tell was miles away. Nope. Not yet cleared for takeoff.

  Wes parked his bike with too much ease. He was supposed to have to circle the block for ten, twenty, ninety minutes at least, giving him time to figure out what to say. But there was no traffic, no difficulty finding a spot, and now he had no choice but to walk in or start the engine and take off again.

  He let out a long breath, hopped from the bike, and tore off his helmet. The whole ride in he had used safety as an excuse to look no further than the road in front of him. But he realized now it wasn’t just the rules of the road he was obeying.

  He spun to take in his surroundings—red brick facades, tree-lined sidewalks, and the sun still visible above the rooftops as it made its way to the west. The last time he was home, Wes had seen nothing but the inside of his childhood apartment and the gray skies above the cemetery. At least, that’s all he’d noticed.

  After seven years in New York, making a life for himself in a place that made sense for his career, he was socked in the gut with something he hadn’t expected. Longing. This feeling propelled him toward the door of Kingston Ale House, a place that hadn’t existed when he lived here but one that held the chance for him to reboot. All it had taken was a text.

  Wes: Hey, man. I know it’s been a while, but I’m coming home for a bit and need a place to stay. Got any suggestions?

  Jeremy: Turns out I’m looking to sublet second bedroom. You interested?

  Wes: Can’t commit to a full year.

  Jeremy: Month to month works for me.

  Wes: You’re a lifesaver.

  Jeremy: You’re an asshole for disappearing for so long.

  Wes: Is that code for being happy to see me?

  Jeremy: I don’t speak in code. Let me know when you get here, and I’ll give you the address of the apartment or the bar, depending on where I’ll be.

  Turned out it was the bar. Time changed many things. Wes was older, lived farther away, and had created an emotional distance from this place he wasn’t sure he wanted to bridge. But somehow a friendship he thought had been consumed by the expanse of both miles and time could be bridged with a simple text.

  “Holy shit, people!” Jeremy yelled from behind the bar as Wes strode through the door. “Remember this moment as the one where you had your first brush with fame.”

  It was four o’clock, and the two patrons who sat at the far end of the bar barely looked up from their pints. Wes rolled his eyes at his friend.

  “Well, if it isn’t literary badass Wes Hartley,” Jeremy continued, stepping out from behind the bar.

  Wes set his helmet down on a stool and crossed his arms.

  “So you’re the one who read it,” he joked.

  Jeremy extended a hand to shake, and Wes gripped it, letting out a breath.

  “Yeah right, asshole. Me and half a million others. But the false modesty is charming as shit.”

  God, could it really be this easy, falling into familiar rhythms with old friends just like that?

  “Thanks,” Wes said. “Been working on it.”

  Jeremy moved back to his place behind the tap, filling a stein with the microbrewery’s Oktoberfest. Then he slid it across to where Wes’s hands rested on the bar.

  “You look like you need this,” he said, and Wes nodded.

  “You have no idea.”

  Jeremy looked at his wrist where a watch was nonexistent.

  “I’ve got all night,” he said. “And you’re in luck. Apartment’s walk
ing distance, so you can leave the bike overnight if you need to.”

  Well, shit. Nothing had sounded this tempting in a long fucking time. He ran a hand across his stubbled jaw and wondered if he looked as weary as he felt. Judging by the mug in his hand and Jeremy’s offer to drink away the evening, he guessed he did.

  He took a long, slow gulp of his beer, his shoulders relaxing as he did. Damn, had he been holding on to all that tension for the entire ride?

  No. He’d been holding on to it for at least a year. Maybe more.

  “About the apartment,” Wes started. “I can give you the first month up front, but seeing as I spent most of the advance on my dad’s mortgage and haven’t quite gotten my signing bonus for book two…”

  This was where he was supposed to admit there was no book two. Not yet. But he’d already painted himself as a big enough asshole as it was. It’s not that he was looking for a handout. His New York apartment was paid up through the end of the year, and he’d left on a whim. He had a good five months before he’d have to figure out what to do with it.

  Jeremy shrugged. “If you can work with something other than a laptop, I’m sure Kingston could give you some hours behind the bar.”

  Wes ran a hand through his hair and let out a long breath.

  “Shit, man. I don’t feel like I deserve you letting me off the hook so easily. Not like I’ve been around much since—”

  “Graduation?” Jeremy interrupted. “Yeah. Well, maybe you can do me a favor, too.”

  He leaned against the back counter and shoved his hands in the front pocket of his jeans.

  Wes laughed. “Anything.” He raised the mug to his lips for another sip. Maybe this was the turning point—things finally starting to go his way.

  “My sister’s shop is kind of in need of an economic boost.”

  Wes took another long sip from his stein. “Annie?” he asked, trying not to sound too eager at just the mention of her name. “What kind of shop?”

  Jeremy grinned. “A bookshop, actually.”

  Wes perked up even more at this news. “How can I help?”

  Jeremy scratched the back of his head. “Sales haven’t been great lately, and I keep telling her she needs to host more events. You know? You sell your product by getting people in the door, and you, my friend, will bring people in the door. Would you do a signing for her? She’d sell a shit ton of your books, and that money gets back to you eventually. Plus—there’s that dirt-cheap rent you’re getting from your old friend who’s not going to give you shit for dropping off the face of the earth—”