Well Written

1. Chapter One

Chapter One

Kane

S ummers in Oregon remind me a lot of my ex-wife Clara, in the way that they're unpredictable. One minute, the sun is beaming through the arched windows of Well Written Books. The next, the thin panes rattle against the frame as thick drops of rain pound against them, heavy thunder sending vibrations through the shelves. I don't mind the versatility of it. I just wish it was more calculable.

I don't like surprises.

Birthday parties, puppies in boxes, proposal flash mobs. It's all a bit much, don't you think? Clara says that I'm just no fun. When I asked her to marry me all those years ago, she knew it was coming. Not because I suggested she get her nails done or because she found the sapphire ring tucked away in the bottom of the sock drawer, but because I had told her I was going to ask. And when, and how.

I wasn't trying to ruin the surprise, I was trying to erase it. I mean, if you're planning to spend the rest of your life with someone, it probably shouldn't come as a shock to them. Clara sees it differently. She thinks surprises are fun, and romantic. Spontaneous bouts of affection that prove love is unpredictably magnificent. That's why she returned that little blue ring two years ago, and replaced it with a thick-cut diamond. It's also why she's yelling at me right now, in the middle of the bookstore we still own together.

"You're being ridiculous ," she yells, waving around a paperback copy of The Great Gatsby. "It's Carsen V. Lovett, not William fucking Shakespeare. He doesn't care if the historical fiction is next to the historical romance."

Her brows pinch together, the corners of her thin pink lips turning down. Clara was always beautiful, but somehow, as she's aged, she's only gotten more so. She tucks a tendril of blonde hair behind her ear, inviting grey strands blending it all together. I take the book from her hand, smoothing out the cover.

"You're bending it," I mutter. I lift the book up, inspecting it closely for any small scratches or nicks. Clara loves books in the way children love their toys. Roughly. It's the only thing I hold against her. Despite the divorce, she's still my business partner, and also, my best friend. Strangely enough, her new husband Derrick has quickly made second place.

I set the book back down, adjusting the display by just a hair, so that it's uniform with the others. Clara sighs.

"Kane, I thought you'd be… excited. We've had bigger authors than Lovett do signings, and you hardly even dusted the place. Why are you taking this so seriously?"

I take off my reading glasses, wiping the smudged lenses carefully with my shirt.

"I am excited," I say calmly, though with slight defense. "It's just— I really want him to like it here." I tuck my glasses onto the collar of my shirt.

Carsen V. Lovett. The man is a romance genius. Okay, sure, I might not be the best judge of romance myself, but Carsen knows what the hell he's writing about. Contemporary romance is formulaic, but he knows exactly how to be predictable in a way you wouldn't expect. How to create tension out of thin, tangled air. His newest book, The Thread Untied , comes out tomorrow, and guess who happens to be hosting the release party?

Clara arranged the entire thing, unbeknownst to me. I can't say I'm angry that she's bringing me face-to-face with my favorite author, but I will admit that the thought makes it feel as though there's water in my lungs. Clara rolls her eyes, but an apologetic smile tugs at the corners of her lips.

"Alright, alright," she puts her hands up, her eyes falling back onto The Great Gatsby . She tilts the display back the way it was, then wipes her hands down the front of her jeans. "On your knees for Carsen V. Lovett. Got it."

My eyes roll, but I can't fight the smile forcing its way across my lips. I don't know Carsen V. Lovett, but I can tell you with absolute certainty, judging by the way he writes, I would get on my knees for him.

"Oh fuck off Clara. Don't you have a diaper to change?"

Clara and Derrick recently had a baby. A boy, named Judah Kane Williams. Most people would find it strange that their ex-wife and her new husband named their child after them, but like I said, they're my best friends. Plus, Kane is a pretty sweet name. Clara's brows knit together, her arms crossing over her chest.

"You know, that sounded really misogynistic," she says. Her gaze falls to my shoulder, the crease in her brow deepening. She licks the pad of her thumb, and begins to rub it against my shirt.

"Stop," I groan, rolling my shoulders back. Her brow twitches.

"You have…" Her eyes narrow in disgust. "What is that? Coffee?"

"It's chocolate, actually," I say proudly, like there's anything to be proud of. "From the croissant I got from La Luna Cafe this morning."

"That's been there since this morning?" she asks, a seemingly irritated stream of air flowing from her pursed lips. "You seriously need to shower, Kane. The locals might recognize you, but the tourists are going to think you're living in here."

Rude, though she's not entirely wrong. The economy in Coral Beach Oregon almost exclusively thrives off the tourists. Tourists that admittedly, lately, have been looking at me like I'm a stray, flea-ridden cat. It's not like I don't take care of myself. I shower, most days, and I always make sure I smell nice. It's just hard to keep up with the rest of it when I have so many other things on my mind. Yeah, maybe my mustache is going a little rogue. So what?

"I shower," I grumble, pushing her hand off the stain on my shirt. Clara rolls her eyes dramatically, then checks her watch. "You're not driving in this weather."

She shakes her head, pulling out her phone. "Derrick's picking me up. I was hoping to be here when your celebrity crush arrived—" I grunt, but she ignores me. "—but I really can't miss Judah's checkup. Are you going to be okay without me, or should I send a babysitter so you don't jump his bones?"

The corners of her lips pull into a teasing smirk, and I suck in my cheeks to hide my amusement. Clara wins at everything. Bingo, giveaways, comebacks, life. She doesn't get to win this.

"We're just going over the plan for tomorrow. I think I'll manage," I say. She looks at me sweetly this time, her hand reaching out and grabbing mine. Clara's skin is so soft, and gentle. Her eyes are warm and intelligent. She's the whole package, and still, she just wasn't the one for me. Sometimes when I look at her, I wonder if there even is a "one". Because if someone so smart, and beautiful, so caring and stubborn as Clara didn't work out, then who will?

"Alright," she says, and quite softly. "Are you okay, Kane?"

My brows knit together, my head tilting in confusion.

"What do you mean?"

Clara shakes her head, her hand squeezing mine. "I'm just checking," she says gently. "You seem a bit… down is all."

I chew the inside of my cheek as I swallow, marinating in her words for just a moment too long.

"You can talk to me, Kane. And Derrick too. You're family, you know?"

I nod, forcing a smile that I hope she doesn't see through.

"Yes, I know. Thank you, Clara. But I'm fine."

By the concerned glaze over her eyes, I can tell she's unconvinced. But just as her lips part to speak, her phone rings. She releases my hand, and lifts it to her ear.

"Hello? Okay, alright babe. I'll be right out." She looks up at me and smiles. "I'll tell him. Okay, I love you too."

When the call ends, she slides her phone carefully into her back pocket.

"Derrick says you two need to go out soon. He needs his 'Kane Time'." She chuckles. A soft laugh slips through my lips and my gaze drifts to the floor as I shuffle my feet.

"Yeah, I suppose we're due for that," I reply. When I look back up, Clara's purse is slung over her shoulder, her hand propped confidently on her hip.

"Seriously, Kane," she says again. "Talk to us. Come over for dinner, get out of the house. You need to—" She pauses, looking me up and down. "— do something."

This isn't a new conversation for us. Actually, its a decades old argument. And its the reason she helped me buy Well Written Books in the first place: to get me out of the house. It helped, along with the Doxepin. But lately, it just hasn't been as effective as it used to be. Neither of them are.

" Okay, " I answer agitatedly, though I know Clara's just pushing because she cares. That's her thing. Annoying you with her unconditional love. "Tomorrow night? After the signing?"

Clara nods in approval, then spins around on her toes, walking toward the exit. Rain patters against the sidewalk, the sound flooding my eardrums as she opens the door. She looks over her shoulder, smacking her palm against her forehead.

"I totally forgot," she groans, wiping the hand down her face. "I got locked out of the email somehow. Can you take a look at it please?"

My brows furrow, confused. Clara is much more adept at solving technological issues than I am. But if she wants me to handle it, I will try my absolute hardest for her.

"Sure," I nod, and she smiles at me appreciatively.

"Love you, Sugar Kane!" she calls out, and the door slams closed behind her.

From the stock room, I hear little clawed feet tapping against the old hardwood. I turn around, patting my thigh softly to beckon Dickie to my side.

Dickinson is the French Bulldog that Clara rescued for me soon after our divorce. She worried about me being alone, not that I ever could be alone with friends as clingy as her and Derrick. Back when his name was Poe, his owner passed away from cancer. The family didn't know what to do with him, so they surrendered him to the shelter. Or maybe that's just what Clara said so that I felt guilty enough to take him in. Anyway, "Poe" was a little too dark and mysterious for a dog of his candid lovingness, so I changed it to Dickinson.

Dickie lets out a snort reminiscent to a pig, pawing at me with his front foot. I sigh, leaning down and scooping him up.

"You're a spoiled brat," I mumble, but I smile as he presses his wet nose against my ear. I have to admit that while annoying, Dickie has made the whole "alone" of it all much easier. Even on days I struggle to pull myself from my gritty bed sheets, he's there, forcing me to try so that he can go outside, and wander the world.

Having depression is like playing Russian Roulette, at least for me. It hits differently each day. Sometimes, I can't get out of bed at all. I just lay there, from dawn until dusk, staring at the ceiling while each piece of me rots away. My body sweats, my brain decomposing into nothing but fragments of pity and self-loathing. Other days, I can't stay in bed at all. I walk down moonlit streets wondering why the pit in my stomach is undefeatable, why I can be surrounded by love and support and opportunity, and be so selfishly unhappy.

Not to say I'm ungrateful for the world around me, or for the people in it. I try my hardest not to take it all for granted. When I step outside, I close my eyes and breathe in the salty ocean air. I soak in every minute with Clara and Derrick and Judah, and remind myself to always treasure it like it's the last. I take Dickie on walks along the coast, letting him stop to sniff every broken shell and piece of driftwood that washes to shore.

That's what so frustrating.

I cherish the small things. I take my meds, and I try not to wallow when I have the energy to do anything else. I do everything I'm supposed to, and still, I feel this way. I always have.

I carry Dickie over to the stained glass window against the front wall, setting him on top of the cushioned bench before turning to the shelves and reaching for my comfort book. Really, it shouldn't be comforting at all.

Harrison's Affair by Carsen V. Lovett is a pretty heartbreaking novel, up until the end. It's what you'd call an "angsty" slow-burn romance, the characters constantly fighting and pulling apart throughout the majority of the book. Still I can't help but admire the validity of it, the relatability. Sometimes, though, it feels a bit too reminiscent of my own relationship.

Not with Clara, of course. That relationship probably holds a historical record for being exceptionally uneventful. But the one before that, my lover from college. Sometimes, it feels like Harrison's Affair was based off of it. The sad main character, the closeted love interest. It's like someone experienced the excruciating love that I did, and made it out alive to tell the story. The worst part is, Carsen V. Lovett did a really good job. He perfectly captured the torture it is to love someone who hates the part of them that loves you. And what he did even better, was acknowledge that that type of love never really goes away.

You'll always wonder what would have happened if they had simply accepted themselves. You'll always want to know if they were the only person who could ever really love you, because you both were equally and perpetually sad. You'll always think about what life would be like if the world wasn't so cruel and hating.

I settle into the bench, my hip pressed to the window and my back against a bookshelf. Dickie crawls onto my lap as I crack the hardcover open, the old wooden window nook creaking unsteadily beneath us as he moves. Taking the mechanical pencil hooked to the collar of my shirt, I begin to scribble notes into the margins of the pages as I read.

I've read this book countless times, but I only started annotating it a few weeks ago. It helps, I think.

I love the way the graphite sounds against the smooth, cream-colored pages. I love how so many of the ineligible scribbles are meaningless to everyone but me. I love that the person who wrote the original text understands me in a way nobody else seems to.

Like most things in life, it's bittersweet. The beautiful imagery, and wholehearted paragraphs, remind me that I haven't felt understood by a person in nearly twenty years.