Colton: Wordsmith Chronicles Book 2 (The Wordsmith Chronicles)

by Christopher Harlan

  “Because it doesn’t do what you just said you wanted to do. It doesn’t end things, Colt. If anything you made them want to hit back even harder. Now it’s just straight eye-for-an-eye.”

  “Then when does it end, Mike? A beating didn’t work. Ignoring them didn’t work. And now actually doing the right thing by calling the cops doesn’t work? So what works, then? Tell me.”

  “I don’t know,” Mike says.

  “How about you, Gray? Tell me the solution I’m missing.”

  “I don’t know either, to be honest.”

  “Fine. Well if no one else has a solution, and we all agree that doing nothing isn’t a viable plan, then leave me alone. I know it isn’t perfect, but what else are we going to do?”

  The room is silent for a minute, and then Gray speaks up. “Maybe we should revisit the idea of doing nothing.”

  “Huh?”

  “Maybe the issue isn’t doing nothing,” he begins. “Maybe the issue is that we have to do nothing over a sustained period of time. There’s nothing else they can do to us legally, right? So their only weapons are these social media posts, and even those are running thin with readers. I looked the other day, and each post they’ve made about us or about you has gotten fewer and fewer likes. At the same time, if you search the hashtag #fuckthebrotherhood you’ll find no small amount of posts. I think this fire only burns when we give it oxygen. So why don’t we just cut off its supply, and get back to focusing on our own careers? That’s my vote.”

  “I second that,” Mike says.

  I think about it for a minute. Maybe Grayson’s right. Maybe doing things like I did was just another version of an attack, even though it wasn’t physical. If I’m being honest I wasn’t just trying to get justice for Mike. I was trying to shoot an arrow through the heart of their careers—to screw them over during a moment where they could have gained more fans and sold a lot of books. It worked to some extent, but I just hope that Mike and Gray are wrong, and that there won’t be too much fallout.

  “God dammit, Gray!” I yell. “Tell me why you have to make so much fucking sense all the time! I hate you.”

  “You sure don’t,” he says, finally smiling. “You love me. I keep your feet on the ground.”

  “Okay, I get it. I’ll lay off the Brotherhood stuff. But you guys have to do me a favor?”

  “Anything,” Mike says.

  “Stop telling me when they post about me. I’ll shut off notifications and avoid it at all costs, but otherwise don’t text me with a screenshot telling me that they’re talking all this shit about me. That’s just going to trigger me. I don’t need it.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “You got it, man.”

  “Back to my other situation, though. How do I handle this Harley thing?”

  “That’s a tough one,” Mike says. “I’ll see if I can use some soft power and get Ev to talk to her. Maybe she can open up some lines of communication. Otherwise, maybe just give her space.”

  “I don’t mean to be rude,” I say. “You guys have been awesome, and this conversation really helped me. But can you give me some privacy. I want to try to call her one more time and see if she’ll answer. Then I think I’m just going to hang out here.”

  “You sure?” Grayson asks. “Mike and I were going to hit up the bar and take some selfies and shit. Add to our Instagram story.”

  “Yeah? You guys? Look at you becoming more like me.”

  “Our selfie game is strong, Colt,” Mike says. “Trust me.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that. If I don’t like the photos you know they suck. But, seriously, I’m good, thank you. I need some time to myself after all this.”

  “You got it, man.”

  The guys get up to leave the room but Grayson turns around, holding the door. “You know, Colton, it’s easy to look on the dark side of things. You’ll work this all out. But never forget to take time to remember that we just sold out of a brand new anthology and made some lifelong readers along the way. Always remember that, no matter what else happens.”

  The door closes, and I take a second to do just that. Before I take out my phone to dial her again, before I pack my bags for the morning, I’m going to take the time to close my eyes and remember what it was that happened today. I take a few deep breaths and picture it all—the table, the readers, the other authors, all of it. I inhale and exhale deeply, then open my eyes again. No matter what happens with this call, I’ll always have that. I’ll always have today.

  I dial Harley’s number, planning out the exact wording of the voicemail as it rings. Just when I think I have it down I hear her voice on the other end of the phone. She doesn’t sound happy at all.

  “What, Colton?”

  Fuck. This isn’t a good way to start off. “I didn’t expect you to answer.”

  “What is it? I’m still pissed.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re pissed about? That I raised my voice? How would you have reacted if someone handed you a picture like that and it was of me and some girl?”

  “Look, I don’t really want to talk about this right now. I just answered to tell you to stop calling and texting me. I. . .I need some time.”

  Some time. If there’s ever an expression that’s relationship cancer, it’s that one. In my experience ‘I need some time’ translates to ‘this is over, I don’t ever want to see you again.’ “Like, how much time?”

  “I‘m not sure, Colt. It’s not just because of what happened today, but that’s part of it. I don’t need a break from you, exactly, I just need a break to think about some things. Just give me space, okay, I promise I’ll tell you when I’ve worked through it.”

  “Okay. You’ve got your space. Goodbye.”

  “I’ll talk to you soon, Colton. Keep writing.”

  I hang up the phone not sure what to think. I feel like I just got broken up with, only I know that I didn’t. But if she needs time then I’m going to give her time. What choice do I have? It’s not the way I wanted to end this weekend, but that’s how life works sometimes. Thank God I have a therapy appointment soon, I have a lot to get off my chest.

  Tomorrow we’ll all pack up the car and head back home to reality. Reality is a place where readers don’t line up outside your door with their cell phones out and your book in their hands. Reality is a place where the only signatures that you sign on a regular basis are on credit card receipts for take out food. Reality is a place where books get created in quiet spaces that no one sees except you. Speaking of which, I think I’m going to take Harley’s advice, because even though I loved signing our Wordsmith anthology, the next time I come to one of these things I’m going to sell out my own book.

  I’m going to sell out The Gentle Art.

  25

  Colton

  Three Weeks Later

  There’s an indescribable satisfaction that comes from writing the last word of a book. I didn’t think I’d ever finish this thing, no matter how much I pretended that I did. This whole book stalled like a used car with a bad electrical system, but I guess I needed the last few weeks to finally get it done. The first round of edits on a book is painful, tedious work. You read your words over and over again to the point of losing all love for them, and it just becomes a mechanical exercise. Once that’s done, though, you send it off to the editor and forget about it for a while. That gives you a good week or two to free your mind from the confines of a particular story and do something else. And my mind needs that week right now.

  It needs a break from everything.

  26

  Harley

  I feel bad blowing Colton off because I know he thinks that we’re. . .if breaking up isn’t the right word, then I know he thinks that things are over before they’ve really begun, but I need this time. I need it to think about who I am, what I want, and to work out some things that I thought I’d already settled in my life. The truth is, I wasn’t just mad at Colton that day—I was mad at myself. What was it my mom used to call it w
hen you didn’t tell someone something. Oh yeah, a ‘lie by omission.’ She used to get me with that one all the time. When I told her about college, she looked at me and told me that I’d been lying to her and my father. I protested and said that I never told her anything that was untrue. She came back by telling me that withholding information is also a lie because it changes the truth that everyone thinks they’re operating under. I don’t know if I agree, but if that’s true then I’ve been lying to Colton about a few things.

  The reason I’ve been so resistant to people telling me to go to therapy is because I’ve been in therapy. What I told him was true—I bounced around to a few shitty analysts that my parents insisted I go to after I dropped out. But since then I found a psychologist who’s great and who’s really helped me make some breakthroughs. Her office is in Brooklyn, and I see her twice a week on my off days. It was actually her suggestion that led me down the really fucked up path to Colt and I taking a break. When a butterfly flaps its wings. . .

  At some point I’m going to have to tell Colt everything. He thinks that I already did but, hey, that lying by omission thing again. But first thing’s first. Some of these issues predate Colton Chase, and so right now I have to work on me, but after this lunch we’re going to have to sit down and talk. I’m just waiting for my guest to arrive.

  There he is now.

  27

  Colton

  The Next Day

  I get a text from Harley out of nowhere saying that she needs to talk. She beats me to the punch, because I was going to text her the same thing. I don’t like ultimatums, but I was going to tell her that I can’t just wait in limbo forever. I don’t know what she was working through, but I think basically ghosting me for three weeks without complaint on my part is fair enough, but I’m hoping that whatever time she needed has passed. But, still, we need to have the talk we never really had at the signing.

  Me: Hey. Yeah, that’s perfect. My place in an hour? Just leaving Mike’s.

  Harley: Sure. Perfect. See you in an hour.

  Me: Okay.

  She’s right on time. An hour from that text message she’s knocking on my door. When I open it she looks amazing. Not seeing her for a few weeks has been rough. I’ve gotten a lot done, but still, not being able to look at her has been rough. Now I have her in front of me, uncertain as our future may be, but I want to do whatever I can to make sure I get to look at her like this for a long time. “Come in,” I tell her, and as she passes through my doorway she brushes up against my shoulder. We’re both wearing tank tops, and the slide of her smooth skin against my arm is like a drug that’s been injected right into my bloodstream. I have to ignore that for the time being, but even now, after only seeing her for about five seconds, all I want to do is grab her and throw her onto my bed. Focus, Colton, focus!

  “How have you been?” she asks.

  “I’ve been all right,” I tell her. “I finished The Gentle Art.”

  “Oh my God!” she yells and throws her arms around me. “I’m so proud of you! I guess me being gone was kind of a good thing, huh?”

  “I wouldn’t say that, Harley. But thank you, I emailed the file to my editor, and now she basically rips it apart, and corrects all of my shitty grammatical mistakes, then sends it back for me to approve.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “There’s nothing as fun as realizing you should have paid more attention during fourth grade language arts. Such is the life of a writer. How have you been?”

  “I’ve been. . .what’s the word? I’ve been growing, I think.”

  “Growing? Did you get taller in the last three weeks.” I smile, but she doesn’t smile back. She looks like she’s thinking hard about what she wants to say.

  “Look, I’m sorry about how it went down at RAAC. I was worked up, pissed off, and caught off guard when that whole thing happened.”

  “And I’m sorry I lost my temper. Ditto to all those emotions you were feeling. I guess it wasn’t the right time to talk about everything.”

  “But now is,” she says, looking back in my eyes. “I have a few things that I need to tell you before we go any further.”

  “I’m all ears.” She takes a deep breath and turns her body towards me on the couch, folding her legs underneath, and I brace myself for whatever she’s about to say. It doesn’t matter what comes next, there’s nothing as anxiety inspiring as someone building up what they’re going to say to you like she’s doing. There’s just something about it that always seems like the worst is coming.

  “I don’t know how to tell a story like you do, but I know how to be blunt and to the point, so that’s what I’m going to do. The guy in that picture Roland gave you is Bryan. Do you remember who that is?”

  “The guy who made you drop out of college?”

  “Sort of. I wouldn’t describe it like that, but yeah, that guy.”

  “Why the hell were you meeting up with him of all people?” I sound like a jealous boyfriend, I can hear it in my voice, but I try to pull it back so that I don’t turn her off.

  “First of all, just to put your guy brain to rest, there’s nothing going on between us. Nothing.”

  “My guy brain?” I ask.

  “Yeah. There’s a hierarchy of thoughts guys have when it comes to women, and I think the first thing you’d want to know is that. Am I wrong?”

  “Go on,” I say, making a quiet admission to her. She’s right, though. Whatever the rest of this story brings, her hooking up with some other guy was my number one concern. Maybe that’s shallow, but it’s the truth.

  “The reason I was meeting up with him. . .the reason I’ve met up with him three times. . .”

  “Three times!” I yell, interrupting her. “What the—”

  “Just listen,” she says, cutting off my rant. “The reason I’ve been meeting with Bryan brings me to the other thing I need to tell you about.”

  “Okay.”

  “It was a suggestion by my therapist.”

  “Your what?” I ask.

  “My therapist. I’ve been in therapy for a few years now.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell me that when you told me everything else about your past?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “And that’s not some bullshit line, I really don’t know. I feel like that a lot, like I don’t fully understand myself, even still. I realized that, even after all that therapy, I still have some issues related to when I was younger. It all kind of came crashing back after I told you about it, and when I told my therapist she said that maybe I needed to confront Bryan.”

  “Confront him? What do you mean?”

  “Not like fight with him, or accuse him of anything. Not that kind of confrontation. What she meant was that I needed to talk to him, to express what happened and how it affected me, even though the issues go way deeper than that night with him. She thought it would be a good exercise since I couldn’t go back and talk to every creep I hooked up with in high school.”

  “How did you even find that guy?”

  “The magic of social media,” she says. “Remember I told you we were still friends on Facebook from the college days. I just sent him a private message and asked to meet.”

  “How did he take everything?”

  “That’s the part that surprised me. He was horrified. He started apologizing, telling me that he thought I wanted to that night. I think I scared him.”

  “#metoo”

  “Yeah, exactly. He has a wife and three beautiful kids now and, honestly, he’s a really nice guy. Like I said when I told you the original story, I never blamed him, per say. But yeah, I think he was worried I was going to accuse him of raping me and ruin his life. But as soon as I told him that it wasn’t about that he relaxed and we talked about the whole thing. He was really cool.”

  “I’m still not sure how I feel right now, but did the whole thing help you at least?”

  She scooches over to my side of the couch and takes my hand. “I’m sorry that I li
ed to you. And I’m really sorry that you had to find out about all this through a photo Roland gave you to mess with you. And I’m sorry I took a month to explain it. And yes, it did help. It helped a lot. But what’s even more important, I had time to reflect on us, and how much I want you, Colton, if you still want me, that is.”

  “Of course I still want you,” I tell her. “There’s not even a question there. But if we’re going to build on this, you can’t hold things back anymore, or not tell me things because you think you’re sparing my feelings, or working on yourself, or whatever. It’s got to be upfront or nothing, otherwise this isn’t going to work out.”

  “I know, you’re right, and I’m sorry. I promise, no more.”

  “And I promise not to overreact to shit. My therapy’s been going really well, also.”

  “Oh, right, it’s almost done, isn’t it?”

  “The mandated part, yeah. But I think I may keep going to her, believe it or not.”

  “I think that’s a great idea. There’s so much stigma around therapy, still, but it makes such a difference in people’s lives. I know it has for me anyhow.”

  “For me also. It’s not magic, it’s hard work, and I understand hard work. It’s just like learning a technique in martial arts. You learn the mechanics, and repeat it over and over again until it becomes second nature—muscle memory. And then, most importantly, you use the technique in real situations, when it matters. Therapy is like that, only for the mind instead of the body.”

  “So,” she asks when I’m done waxing philosophical about the nature of psychoanalysis. “What do we do now?”

  She’s giving me a look that’s unmistakable—a look that I’ve missed since the first time I really saw it back at our photo shoot in Central Park. It’s a look of desire. A look of wanting me as much as I want her, and as soon as I see it, I know that we’ve both had enough words for one day. We spoke the words that needed to be said, and now that she’s back in my life I’m going to take full advantage of it. She’s still holding my hand in hers, and she starts to move her thumb in circles around my palm, keeping that intense eye contact the entire time.