Well Written

13. Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

Kane

M y finger traces the spine of the faux, periwinkle book. It's sandwiched between the shelf, and a collector's edition of Sense and Sensibility. I've thought about it many times throughout the years, and walked past it even more, but I haven't touched it until now. Not since stocking the book beside it, and even then, I tried to ensure that the side of my finger never really made contact.

Why I would hold onto something I'm scared to even touch is simple; it contains something valuable. Irreplaceable. Damaging.

So no, I don't touch it. And no, I haven't opened the compartment inside since I closed it twenty years ago. And no, I will never get rid of it.

"He's so senseless ," Clara huffs from the other side of the bookshelf. She pulls out a stack of books, creating a little window in between the shelves so that she can look at me. "I mean, showing up here is one thing. I bet he really knew you owned the store. But kissing you when he's supposed to be apologizing? Leaving a hickey behind like some ridiculous teenager, making his territory?"

I can't be irritated with Clara, because she's only trying to protect me. Her intentions are never anything but pure. Still, I have to take a deep breath before I answer her to make sure my tone isn't snappy.

"To be fair, I kissed him," I remind her. Clara waves her hand in the air dismissively.

"It's not your fault, Kane. He's a dick. I mean, you got your apology, so why else would he bring you to the lighthouse, unless he was planning to screw you?"

Again, Clara's recount of the night is inaccurate. But she did get one thing right. I got my apology from Marcus, so I had no real reason to ask him to walk with me. But I don't know how to explain to her that there was something more I was missing. I am missing.

It's outrageous, after everything, that I'd feel so desperate to stay beside him. It's insane that I'd kiss him. And it's completely and utterly ridiculous that I can't stop thinking about him.

Not just the kiss, or his heavy breath. Not only the feel of his hand, or the sense of his presence. But his voice. His words . I can't stop replaying that sentence, over and over again.

You didn't deserve that.

It isn't profound. It isn't even new. Clara told me that about a hundred times after Marcus left. But for some reason, coming from him, I actually want to believe it.

This entire time, I've been angry with him. But I've also been angry with myself. I hated how much pressure I put on him to go public, to slap a label on it. I hated that I had a family who embraced me, while he was born somewhere love had rules and stipulations. I hated that I couldn't just let it be the way it was. Subtle. Secretive. Casual.

When his parents barged into Well Written Books, screaming at the top of their lungs that I had corrupted their child, that I had forced him into a relationship he could never want, I almost believed them.

I didn't think that I had turned Marcus gay, or forced him to believe he was attracted to men. But I did begin to believe that maybe, I put him in an impossible situation. And I knew for a fact, that it was my fault he was outed. Because had he not been with me, they never would have known.

So when the tears were streaming down my face, and Duke was physically removing them from the property, I couldn't help but think that I deserved it. I deserved to be yelled at, and I deserved to be left. That didn't make me less angry at Marc, though. It just made me more angry at myself.

"He didn't bring me to the lighthouse," I mumble softly, sliding her a book from the stack in my arms. "There was a windstorm."

"Let me be clear, Kane. I'm not mad. I'm just—" She sighs, combing her fingers through her hair. "Confused?"

An airy laugh slips out of me. "Make that two of us."

Clara takes the book I gave her, and props it up on the shelf so that it creates a barrier between us. .

"What are your plans for the evening?" I ask, changing the topic. Clara rounds the corner, now standing beside me as she stares up at the shelves in front of us. The stack of books in her arms have shrunk, and she shifts her weight onto her toes, reaching up to slide a book into an empty spot on the shelf.

"Judah has his sign language class tonight," she reminds me. "But after, Derrick and I were going to take him to the Sand Dollar Creamery. You should come, and bring Dickie too."

I look over at Clara, her silky blonde hair, and soft green eyes. She is such a beautiful person, in every way that matters. And I'm so grateful that if I have to be in this life, I have her by my side.

"I might," I answer. "I'm pretty tired."

Clara glances over at me, her eyes narrowing like she's dissecting my answer. When you're living with depression, "tired" can mean many things. It can mean sleepy, or exhausted, it could mean you're tired of talking, or tired of being in public. Tired of being tired, or tired of life.

In this case, I'm tired of thinking about Marcus. All I want is to go back to last night, and choose to stay instead. To not let "shouldn't" get the best of me. To experience him for the first time in twenty years, and to love every second of it. To tell him that, no matter how pitiful it may be, and no matter how hard I tried to fill it, he's always had a spot in my heart that nobody else could ever occupy.

But you can't rewind time, and after leaving him alone, stranded in the lighthouse, I think Marcus would be perfectly content if he never saw me again.

Clara places a hand gently on my shoulder. "Sand dollar creamery, at seven."

When Clara tasks me with spending time with her, it's like I simultaneously anticipate and dread the event. It doesn't make sense that those two emotions sit in equal parts, but that's something I've learned about depression throughout the years.

It's contradictory.

So I sit in the store, and stare at the clock while the hands inch closer to the number seven. Normally, I'd be reading or cleaning or stocking books. But Clara and I pretty much scrubbed every inch of the place this morning, and during, every book found a home within the shelves. As far as reading goes… I think I need to take a break from false realities, because it's quickly getting me into trouble.

My mind keeps coming up with all these scenarios. Stupid "what-ifs" that could never really happen. Ones where Marcus never left, or where I tracked him down. Some like now, where he comes back and it's like the years apart brought us close together. Those are the best scenarios, because even though they're completely ludicrous, I've convinced myself that they're somehow possible.

Like I said, I need to take a break. Besides, what's next? Vivienne St. James turns out to be my mom?

No thanks. I'd rather sit here, listening to the rain, and mindlessly watching the golden hands tick.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Tick. Tick. Ti-

Bang.

An obnoxious rapping erupts from the glass door, startling me, and sending Dickie barreling into the back room, his hind legs dragging behind him. My heart races, pounding incessantly against the inside of my ribcage as I catch my breath, and sink lower into my chair.

It isn't often that customers show up after closing, but when it happens, I typically let them in. Whether I'm feeling nice, or social, or just plain poor, I think it's important to allow access to literature when those who need it are present. Unfortunately for them, while my bank account would appreciate the visit, I most certainly do not.

The blinds are closed. The lights are off. And the neon "open" sign sitting in the window ceases to glow.

Still, the knocking continues, growing even more aggressive.

"Okay! Alright!" I call out, prying myself from my chair. Even with the blinds closed, I can tell how hard the rain is coming down. As my hands grip the doorknob, the sound floods my ears. A million drops pattering against the concrete. The knocking continues, and I pull the door open. "We're closed, actually. But if you really—"

I stop, the words catching in my throat and refusing to move. Marcus stands in front of me, his tall body towering over me, and his grey hair drenched. His breath is rapid, like white water waves, rolling up before their crashing descent. Drops of water drip from his brow bone down the sides of his face, and his large hand reaches out, forcing the door to remain open against the wall.

"I'm sorry," he says breathily. He drags a hand through his hair, the damp strands sticking to his forehead. He looks so hot, and handsome, standing here in the middle of a storm. The way his breath is panting. How his icy eyes are dark, but sincere. How his wet shirt hugs his chiseled chest. I'm envious of the rain, for it pools around his mouth the way I wish I could. "I'm sorry for just showing up like this, I am. But I leave tomorrow and I-" He licks the raindrops off his lips, then continues. "I couldn't leave without seeing you. I had to answer your question."

"My question?" I ask, trying to inhale. I'm breathing, I'm sure of it. But it feels as though there's a hole in my lungs, like a defected balloon. I shake my head.

"In this life," Marcus begins. His chest is still rising and falling, water traveling down every inch of his body, but he doesn't seem to care. My eyes catch onto the green veins in his forearm as he pulls it to his forehead and wipes away the rain. "There is room for you. There's always been room for you, Kane. I've made sure of it. You are in every book that I've written. You're in every cup of coffee that I've sipped, and every library that I visit. I see you in every crowd, of every event I've ever been to. Everything that I am is because of you. And I know this is crazy, trust me, I'm well aware. But I can't just go back, knowing that I didn't try. Knowing that I didn't tell you the full truth." Droplets settle into the divots of his cheeks, and his chest continues to heave as he stares at me with no intent of ever looking away. "I was standing in front of the library earlier, wondering why the hell the universe would do this. Why it would bring us back together after all these years of being apart. And then it hit me: I never told you the complete and honest truth. That's what it is. That's why we're here . So that I can tell you what I've always wanted to, with shameless honesty. So here it is: It's you, or nothing Kane. It always has been."

I begin to think the rain is making its way inside the store, until I realize that my cheeks are wet, because I'm crying. Tears pool in my eyes as I listen to Marcus. As I watch his breath move in and out of his body. As the words I've been desperate to hear all these years leave his lips. It's unearthly. Everything I've ever wanted, and yet, I still find myself stepping backwards, my head shaking.