Well Written

16. Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

Marcus

J anelle grabs an armful of dirty clothes off the bathroom floor, balls it up, and begins shoving it into my suitcase.

"If we leave in ten minutes," she says breathily, squishing the clothing flat. "We will still have enough time to stop by Well Written on the way to the airport."

I pull a worn, bleach-stained sweatshirt over my head, tugging it down over my exposed torso. I don't have the time to look put together today.

"We have to have time," I say seriously. "I can't not go."

Janelle digs through my toiletry bag, tossing me a comb before zipping it up and tucking it into my suitcase.

"We'd have plenty of time if you set your alarm." She says it teasingly, but it is no teasing matter. I have to see Kane before I leave. I have to.

"I set one, it just didn't go off," I grunt, plopping a pair of sandals into the suitcase. I grab the first pair of pants I see, and drop my pajamas to the floor, stepping out of them. My chest begins to tighten as my breath picks up, each one shorter than the last. "Jesus, what is wrong with me?"

Nellie stops, allowing me to pull my pants up before placing a hand on my shoulder.

"It's going to be okay," she insists. A notification rings from her phone, and she pulls it out of her pocket, checking it. "Look, our driver is here early. Fix your hair, and I'll take your shit downstairs. Okay?" Her warm, dark eyes look up at me and I can't help but find a sense of calm within them. Nellie has always had that effect on me, no matter how often she pisses me off. I nod.

"Yeah, okay. Thank you, Nellie."

She smiles, putting her weight onto the suitcase as she tugs the zipper closed. "Yeah, yeah. Just give me a good Christmas bonus, huh?"

"Oh, was the Mercedes last year not enough for you?" I roll my eyes, combing my hair quickly in the mirror.

"I was thinking more like a Porsche this year," she jokes. "Or a Lambo. Your choice!"

She slams the door shut, and I finish gathering the rest of my things before racing downstairs to meet her. The trunk to the Uber slams closed just as I step outside, and I waste no time tossing myself into the back seat next to Nellie.

"Mr. Lovett." EJ's voice is like nails on a chalkboard as it fills my ears, and I quickly turn to look into the rearview mirror, my eyes catching his. I swallow.

"EJ."

Janelle looks between us, until her gaze narrows onto EJ's reflection, and realization washes over her. She quickly cuts in.

"Look, EJ. We're in a real hurry. So if you could get us to Well Written Books as quickly as possible, it would be much appreciated." She tacks on her infamous fake smile, those pearly whites a devil in disguise.

"As soon as you buckle up, miss, I'll take you there," EJ shoots back. Janelle glances at her seatbelt, blood rushing to her cheeks as she silently pulls it over her body. When that confirming click echoes through the car, EJ veers out of the parking lot onto the road. As he drives, I stare out my window, silently scripting what I'm going to say to Kane.

How I'm going to move back, and stay with him forever. How I will spend the rest of my life making up for all those years we've missed. How I love him like the stars love the night, like waves love the shore, like words love the page. How he makes me feel unforgettable.

Houses pass me in slow-motion, the sea-salt air misty and thick. But as we round a familiar curve, my eye catches onto something set back from the road. A house. A balcony. A person standing upon it.

It's a bit far, and somewhat hidden by the fog, but I recognize it entirely, and the person outside of it? I think I might recognize her too. Something constricts deep in my chest, and it feels like all the wind has been knocked out of me. I don't have time to think about what I am doing. I just grab the handle of the door, and take a deep breath.

"Stop the car!" I command, much louder than necessary. EJ doesn't hesitate, the brakes squealing as he veers off to the side of the road.

"Jesus, Lovett! Are you serious!" he shouts. "We could have crashed."

I don't even think about processing the words leaving his mouth. I just tug the handle, pushing the door open to be greeted with humid air. A set of thin fingers wrap around my bicep, Janelle's long, pink nails decorating my stained grey sleeves.

"Marcus, we have to go. We don't have time to—"

"I'm sorry." I tug away from her, jumping out of the car. "I'll be fast, I promise. I have to— I'll be fast."

Janelle nods, and her face disappears as I slam the door closed behind me. Barreling up the steps to the house, my heart races as my mind spins. I didn't think I'd ever want the opportunity to confront my parents, much less have the opportunity. But seeing my mother up there on the balcony, it's unmistakable. They've been here, in the same goddamned house, this entire time, and never even considered trying to find me. Trying to bring me home. To mend fences. To accept me, and love me, like parents are supposed to do.

I don't want revenge. And at this point, I don't even want their support. I just want them to know, that despite their best efforts, I am still queer. And they will have to live, for the rest of their lives, with the fact that they raised a gay son who is happier than they could have ever dreamed of being.

The sound of my pulse fills my eardrums as I pound on the door, my hands shaking and my shoulders vibrating. I take a deep breath, slow and controlled, but just as the air begins to funnel the bottom of my lungs, that giant red door swings open, a woman standing in its place.

"Hi! Can I help you?" she asks. It definitely isn't my mother. She is much too young. But something about her is familiar, and as I stare at her, I quickly realize why.

"You're the waitress," I say, breathy and confused. The woman nods, an awkward smile creeping across her face.

"Umh.. yeah?"

I shake my head. "Sorry, it's just— Is Deborah Fraund here, by chance? She used to live here and I thought I saw—" The woman's brows weave together, and her face slowly drops. I let out a shaky breath. "Could you at least give her a message for me?"

"I'm sorry, but—" The woman shakes her head. "Deborah died two years ago. Her husband David is here, but he's asleep. I could go get him if—"

"No, no, don't wake him. Just, give him a message for me will you? Are you his caretaker, or?" My hands gesture in no specific manner, beads of water from the air pooling at my hairline. I feel one begin to drip down the side of my cheek, and I brush it off onto my shoulder.

The woman, however confused she may be, smiles sweetly. "Sure, I can take a message," she says, her voice soft and silky. She sticks her hand out to greet me. "I'm Brandy, his daughter."

My hand reaches out to grab hers, until the words fully process in my brain. And the moment they do, my lungs deflate completely, and my stomach bottoms out. I step back, rubbing the back of my head as I stare at the woman in front of me.

It doesn't make sense. I'm an only child. I've always been an only child.

Always.

I clear my throat, the air around my growing colder as all the blood rushes from my cheeks. "Daughter?" I manage to croak. Brandy nods, flashing me a beaming grin.

"The one and only!"

My gaze drifts to her features, and sudden realization begins to flood my body, every hair on my skin standing tall as goosebumps wash over me.

It's true. The divot in the center of her chin, the tall, slender build. It all makes sense now, why she felt so familiar at Rita's. Brandy is the spitting image of my mother. How the fuck did I not see it before?

I step back, my foot slipping down onto the concrete steps as I continue taking in short breaths. This is fucked. This is all so fucked.

"Do you mind if—" I shake my head, knowing I shouldn't ask, but I do it anyway. "Do you mind if I ask how old you are?"

Brandy's brows, once again furrow, but an intrigued smile stretches across her face.

"Nineteen."

All the oxygen is pulled from my lungs the second the word leaves her lips. I tumble back, nearly falling as I slip onto the sidewalk behind me. I can feel my pulse in every one of my senses, and my mouth begins to tingle with a metallic taste. Brandy's smile falters.

"Sir? The message?"

I couldn't respond to her even if I tried. I know for a fact, the only thing that will leave my mouth right now if I open it, are eardrum-shattering sobs. So I don't. I don't respond, and I don't open my mouth. I breathe through my nose as I sprint back to the car, tears streaming down the center of my cheeks.

"Jesus Christ, Marcus! What the hell happened?" Janelle immediately wraps her arm around me, using the other hand to pull my seatbelt over my shaking body. She pats the back of EJ's seat, signaling for him to drive away, before turning back to me, squeezing me tightly. "Marcus, are you okay?"

Completely humiliated, I pat my face dry, forcing myself to stare at the roof of the car and taking controlled breaths until the tears finally cease. I don't answer her until I know that when I do, my voice won't come off fragile and weak. Swelling forms around my eyes, my cheeks following in a splotchy, puffy display. One last, shaky breath slips from my lips, just as the car makes a turn that I know to be wrong.

"We're supposed to be going to Well Written," I say, my tone still not as confident as I would have liked it to sound. Nellie looks at me sympathetically, her hand gently brushing my shoulder.

"We're going to miss our flight," she replies softly. I shake my head, my brows furrowed as my breathing begins to quicken again.

"No. No, we have to go to Well Written. I have to see Kane. I have to—"

"Marcus." Janelle's voice is so much more controlled than mine. Her tone is steady, and caring, but also firm. I fucking hate it when it's firm. "We can't miss this flight. We have a very important signing that we can't miss. And—"

"Fuck the signing!" I throw my hands up into the air, my vision growing blurry as tears begin to well again. "Fuck the signing, fuck the publishers, and fuck Simeon! Okay? Just fuck it!"

"It doesn't just affect you , Marcus," Janelle snaps. Her nostrils flare, but she pauses for a moment before continuing, like she's still carefully considering her next words. "I'm sorry, but it doesn't. It affects me too, and I would really like to not piss off the people who are going to cut my checks someday. And I know you're in that position now, and I'm grateful for everything you do. I am. But I put up with a lot of bullshit to get here. So please—" Her eyes catch mine, and the anger drains from her face, replaced with sincere worry. "Please, can we just call him? Write him an email? Explain what happened? You can fly right back here after the meeting, just— write him an email. Okay?"

I stare into those deep brown eyes, round and tired. Janelle is right. I put her through a lot. Every single day, there is something I do that makes her life more difficult. And sure, I pay her. And of course, I reward her with outrageously expensive gifts and free trips around the globe. But Janelle would trade all of that for a good reputation in the publishing industry. And if we miss, or push, or skip one more meeting or event, that reputation is going to follow her for the rest of her career.

I nod silently, swiping at the tears trailing down my cheeks.

"I don't know his number," I sniffle. "What's the email?"