Well Written

3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Kane

I f there's anything I've learned from literature, it's that your first love doesn't have to be your greatest. You can fall deeply for someone in your mutual naivety, and fight, and grow, and learn how to be better. How to love better. You can move on and find someone who celebrates you, and it isn't any less valuable just because they weren't the first.

But it was different with Marcus.

Clara knew the whole time, but it took me all of seventeen years to realize that Marcus wasn't just the first person I fell in love with. He was the only person I fell in love with.

I love Clara with my entire being, and I know she loves me too. But the way her eyes glimmered the first time Derrick walked into the store, it was like I woke up. When the light washed over her as she leaned against the counter, talking and laughing about some joke I didn't understand, it occurred to me that Clara never looked at me the way she had been looking at Derrick. And I couldn't even be upset, because I had never looked at her that way either.

I love Clara with my entire being, but I never fell in love with her. I don't know how. Everything about Clara is worthy of love. Her girl-next-door features, how she snorts when she laughs. Her dedication to those she cares for, and how persistent she is in everything she works toward. I think Clara might be the only person on this planet, that has made me feel lovable. She is sweet, and selfless, and proud of me in every way that matters.

She's everything Marcus isn't, and on top of it all, she stayed. So why the hell am I here, twenty years later, staring at him inside of my bookstore?

"Kane," he says, though it comes out as a whisper. Marcus is bold, with every fiber of his being. He's a confident man, one who I've always known as a stranger to whispering. With the exception of me, of course. Us. We were always a whisper. "What—" His throat clears, and he stands a bit taller. "How have you been?"

His head pulls back slightly, his body towering over me just as it had all those years ago. A grey stubble washes over the sharp, squared jaw that I remember the distinct shape of. One I could identify with my fingertips alone. He looks older, as we all do, but like Clara, he's aged with majesty. Like a painting from another century, more valuable with every passing day.

My heart pounds aggressively, a sharp pinching sensation jolting through my body with each heavy beat. He steps closer, the scent of his cologne bringing a wave of nostalgia with it, years of memories crashing over me in a way that feels cruel. My throat tightens, like a boa constrictor consuming itself. Every second of silence that passes makes me more painfully aware of how close we're standing. How good he smells. How the warmth of his body radiates like a familiar magnet, one I know I need to repel. I step back.

"You're Carsen V. Lovett?" I repeat.

There's no way Marcus is Lovett. It's laughable, really. Someone so bitter could never write anything as graceful as Lovett. As devastatingly beautiful. Marcus is the most artificial person I have ever met. He could never write something so real. And besides, if Marcus was Lovett, I can confidently say that the characters would lack… what's the word… queerness?

But when I finally allow my eyes to meet his, no amusement hides behind them. Marcus, for once it seems, is serious. I run my hands through my hair, my gaze falling to the floor as I take a deep, steadying breath.

"A fan?" Marcus asks, his voice nearly teasing.

In another life, I'd play along with him. I'd smile sweetly and tell him to "fuck off". Then I'd push him against the shelves, and press my lips against his. Feel his body melt into mine as if time was a foreign concept. If he never vanished without a word those two decades ago, we'd go home tonight, and he'd read me his latest chapter, asking my opinion on "the flow of the verbiage". We'd kiss goodnight, and maybe I'd feel, for once, like I am not doomed to be miserably alone. Instead, I chew on the inside of my cheek, and try not to think too hard about where it would hurt him most if I were to punch him.

"Hardly," I lie, though maybe I shouldn't. If I tell Marcus the truth, that I've been his biggest fan since his first publication sixteen years ago, his ego might inflate so big he'll pop, and I can spare my knuckles the ache. Marcus chuckles, and this time, when I hear it, I wonder how I didn't recognize it before. There's something so vivacious about it, a record I hate to say I'd play again and again until the vinyl wore thin, each note a pitch that sends goosebumps down my shaggy arms.

"Okay," he says casually. He stands there for a moment, holding a steady, but forced smile on his face, until he quickly breaks, and reaches for my beloved Harrison's Affair . "So this isn't yours?"

I growl frustratedly, and reach for the book, but he holds it high above my head, just as he did when we were young. His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth, the previously faux smile transforming into a sly smirk that at least feels real. I, however, am not amused. At least something good came from all that heartache, because while I'm sure his devilishly charming looks work on every other human cursed with his presence, I have grown immune.

" Don't ," I snap between gritted teeth, shocking myself with the coarseness of my tone. Deserved? Probably. But I can't fight the need to follow it up with a much softer "please". That arrogant smile stays glued to his face for a minute, his annoyingly white teeth shimmering in the colorful lights. But as his eyes scan mine, he seems to remember that I, for one, am always serious. His smile fades quickly, and he hands the book back to me, clearing his throat.

"I'm sorry. I got carried away. This is all so…" he trails off, and I'd be inclined to believe him, if I knew he possessed the ability to feel remorse. I look down at the book in my hands, running the pad of my index finger along the tarnished foiled letters at the bottom.

Carsen V. Lovett.

I can't believe this is happening.

"Fucked up?" I ask, setting the book back into its resting place on the shelves. Marcus looks at me with furrowed brows, his cheeks sucking in like he's not sure if he's allowed to laugh. "Bizarre? Batshit crazy?"

"I was going to go with 'the world's most discourteous coincidence'," Marcus nods. "But 'batshit crazy' works too."

His eyes lock onto mine, and for some reason, a laugh spills from the both of us. The muscles in my stomach tighten until they ache, and I let the pain simmer for a moment to prove to myself that this is, unfortunately, reality.

What the fuck.

Marcus runs one of his large, pale hands through his perfectly messy hair, the strands flowing back to their natural resting place as he drags his fingers to the back of his neck.

"So." He clears his throat. "What have you been up to?"

The ache in my stomach that was just starting to subside, promptly returns. Though it's fair to assume that this time, it has nothing to do with laughter and contracting muscles. What have I been up to? I stand there, silently scraping at another drop of dried chocolate on my jeans I am just now noticing. And it occurs to me, standing face-to-face with the person who broke me, that I will never be able to compete with him, because I haven't done a single damn thing. In the past twenty years, the only thing I've managed to do is survive. And what do I have to show for it?

Marcus is successful. He's a renowned, queer author with an extensive backlist, and an even longer catalog of literary awards. He probably lives in a mansion, with an infinity pool and a stupid towel warmer. Like, just use the fucking dryer, you prick. He moved out of this town, and got everything he ever wanted. Meanwhile, I'm here. In the same exact place I was twenty years ago. The same room , even. I swallow.

"Did you ever go to Oregon State after graduating Pillar Reef?" he asks. My stomach drops, and that irritating, aching sensation amplifies. After dumping me, Marcus got to live out his dreams. Meanwhile, I was so distraught that I could hardly breathe. I didn't go to Oregon State after graduating Pillar Reef University, because I never graduated from Pillar Reef. I dropped out during the second quarter of my junior year, and I never went back. But Marcus is already the clear winner of this entire ordeal. I may as well spare myself further embarrassment by bridging the gap just a bit.

"Yeah," I lie, and I hate that my body doesn't believe me. My chest tightens, like it always does when I say "I'm doing better, thanks!" or "Yes, I think the meds are still working." My voice plays the part well enough, though, and Marcus takes the bait. He smiles widely.

"Oh!" His palm claps against my left shoulder blade, and I try not to wince as the skin around it tingles. "I'm so happy to hear that! So how'd you end up at the store? Editing just wasn't doing it for you?"

If Marcus knew the truth, I could say for a fact that he was rubbing giant crystals of salt into my gaping wounds. But of course, he doesn't, so the emotional sting I feel at the mention of editing is entirely karma for lying.

"We should get to it," I deflect, swallowing back the lump in my throat. "I have a lot to do this afternoon."

My gaze falls to the floor, which has always been its natural view. Marcus' shoes are new and pointed. Obviously polished, just like the man himself. I take a moment to look at my own shoes, sandals so worn the straps are nearly disintegrated, dark spots settled where the heel of my foot rests. I wonder what that says about me.

"Okay," he says, his palm dragging against his stubbled cheek. I turn, feeling self conscious for some reason as he follows behind me to the lounging area. Okay, not "for some reason". For good reason.

Here he is, showing up after twenty years, in expensive shoes and a successful career, looking like a goddamn sculpture. Meanwhile, I intentionally avoided the mirror this morning, and had no interest in looking for my hairbrush.

As we begin our walk to the back of the store, I hear the familiar clicking of Dickies nails behind us. I try to ignore him at first, but Marcus spins around, the soft blue of his eyes deepening as he spots him.

" You? " he gasps loudly, a bright smile forcing its way over his face. " You have a dog?"

My brows furrow defensively and I lean down, scooping Dickie into my arms.

"I like dogs."

"Sure," he says, his eyebrow cocked in a way that tells me he doesn't believe me. "But you never liked them in the bookstore. You made that very clear with Chance."

" Chance would always shake water all over the shelves because you had to go swimming every lunch break." I roll my eyes, and Marcus shrugs.

" You try to keep a retriever out of the water. It's like beaching a whale."

Before I even have the chance to fight it, a smile breaks across my face. I look away quickly, letting my gaze focus onto Dickie for a moment. Thank god he's not like Chance.

Chance was a menace to Well Read Books. The fourth summer I worked here, the summer I met Marcus, he'd barrel in through the front door like a bat out of hell, tracking water throughout the store and gnawing on the wooden shelves. Duke used to make Marcus tie him out back under the cedar tree, but Marcus would always sneak him back inside. He was like a little brown velociraptor, Godzilla-ing his way through the bookstore. But Marcus loved that dog with every fiber of his being.

My stomach drops as memories of that summer start to flood my brain, ones I tried hard to forget. I have to admit, though, that every time I walk Dickie along the shore, I can't help but think of the way Chance would follow us around, dragging the biggest piece of driftwood he could find behind him. I hate that still, twenty years later, reminders of that summer take residence in my mind.

"Why are you here, Marcus?" I say finally. The question had been sitting at the very front of my mind since the moment I recognized him. "You spent your entire childhood trying to get out of Coral Beach. You hated it here. Why would you come back? Why—" My voice cracks, and I clear my throat. "Why would you come here? "

Blood rushes from his cheeks as I spew out the words, the monochrome paleness of his face almost making him appear sick. Like he might pass out. It's so deviant from everything I know about him. From the way he always held himself. I want to feel proud that I gave Marcus just a sliver of the discomfort he gifted me, but the only thing rushing through my veins right now is guilt. Marcus steps closer, his gaze drawing up from Dickie, to me.

"Look, Kane," he says softly. I try to fight it, but my eyes are curious to find what lies inside his. They lock onto the swirling blue irises, and the muscles in my chest tighten uncomfortably. "I will leave, if that's what you truly want. I'll go back to the hotel, pack my things, and catch the first flight out of Portland. I'll refund the party tickets myself, and pay any other expenses involved. Just say the word, and we can pretend I was never here."

My stomach flips as he speaks. I want nothing more than to tell him to go, and to never look back. To never even think about letting my name leave his mouth again. But when I try to force the words, I realize that it's a lie. I don't understand it. Twenty years ago, I would've given anything to see Marcus again. But now that he's here, I don't know what I could ever want from him. His apologies are meaningless, as are most things that come from his mouth. Yet, for some reason, even after all this time, I still find myself craving one anyway.

But if that was enough to ask Marcus to stay on its own, I wouldn't be having this internal discourse.

"We have seventy RSVP's," I say, turning away. "Business has been slow. I can't lose the publicity."

Marcus nods understandingly, though his silence sends a wave of malaise through my body. For some, unidentifiable reason, I want to reassure him of my original intentions. Maybe its guilt, or maybe its because the man in front of me has been my secret pleasure and inspiration for years. Whatever it is, I want him to know that Clara didn't agree to hosting the launch for publicity. She did it for me.

Oh god . Clara. What the fuck am I supposed to tell Clara?

"I understand," Marcus says. He straightens his posture, tilts his chin up slightly, and it's crazy how when he holds himself this way, my brain can fill in a crystal clear image of him at twenty-two. "You're right then. We should get to it."