5. Chapter Five

Chapter Five

Kane

" G od dammit!" I lunge for the fancy water dispenser, but it topples to the ground just as the tips of my fingers graze it. The plastic stays unscathed, but the lid pops off, flying halfway across the store and flooding the entire area within a three foot radius. Instead of doing the adult thing and grabbing towels, I stay sat on the floor, burying my face in my hands.

Clara rushes from the storage room, her arms piled high with a stack of Lovett's— or should I say Marcus'— newest release.

"Shit, Kane! Are you okay?" she asks worriedly, setting the books aside and rushing up to me. I huff.

"I give up," I say flatly, which is a phrase that often leaves my mouth when anything goes even slightly awry. I don't need to look at Clara to know she is frowning. I know from experience.

"You're not ending it over spilt water, Kane."

I huff loudly again, but grab her hand and allow her to help me up. Unbeknownst to Clara, the water is simply the tipping point today, not the main aggressor. If she knew the real reason behind my absurdly high stress levels, she'd probably shit her pants.

Still, I need to tell her.

Clara was there, for all of it. Okay, not all of it . But she was there for the important parts. The day I met Marcus, she came over after work, and I ranted to her about the hot dude dragging seawater through the store. I crashed on her couch the night Marcus first kissed me, then practically lived on it after he left. When Clara finds out Marcus is Carsen V. Lovett, she might just strangle him with her bare hands.

"Go sit behind the desk and do inventory for the party. I'll clean this up," she instructs. I open my mouth to protest, but she doesn't give me the opportunity. "Just do it, Kane."

I sigh, dragging my feet on the way to the giant stack of books written by the World's Biggest Dick. Clara disappears into the stock room, then quickly returns with a stack of towels.

"Are you getting cold feet?" she asks as she drapes them over the puddle. "It's completely normal to be nervous."

I chew on the inside of my cheek, and continue staring at the glossy, hardcovers towering over me. It feels like they're planning an ambush.

"I'm not getting cold feet."

The squishing sound of wet towels beneath her shoes causes both of our faces to wrinkle, and Clara crosses her arms assertively.

"Okay. Are you just… having a day then? It's okay if you're having a day. I didn't expect you to be magically cured just because you're meeting your Book Daddy."

"Oh my god. N ever, ever say that again," I groan, but Clara giggles. "I'm serious, Claire. That's— just no ."

"Alright, alright." She surrenders. "Can I do anything to help?"

I shake my head. "I have to tell you something," I confess. One of the things I love about Clara, is how much she loves others. But because of that, I have a sneaking suspicion that she might take the news even harder than I did. I was shocked. Propelled out of reality for a good couple minutes. But Clara? Oh Clara is going to be pissed. We'll be lucky if we make it through the launch party without her threats of dismantling his success or ripping his dick off.

"And what is that, Sugar Kane?"

"I—" I stop, gathering up the courage, and vocabulary, to explain the absolute shit show that is going to be this launch party. But just as the words start to piece together in my mind, the worst sound known to any dog owner makes every other thought in my head disappear.

Gagging. Retching. This strange, bubbling sound coming from the inside of Dickie's abdomen. Clara's eyes lock on mine, she too recognizing the foul song of Dickie's breakfast, traveling up his esophagus. We work together like trained agents, me racing to Dickie, and her following quickly behind with a sopping-wet towel, a tiny trail of water marking the path behind us.

Dickie vomits just as I reach him, and both Clara and I recoil at the rancid odor. The chime of a bell pierces the sour air, and the front door to Well Written Book swings open, casting a ray of sunlight directly onto Clara, Dickie, me, and the fresh pile of vomit between us.

"Happy launch day!" Marcus announces proudly. But the beaming smile on his face drops almost instantly, as either the sight, or scent, fills his senses. Instinctively, I look at Clara. Clara looks at Marc, and Marc looks at me, then Clara, like a comedic, cinematic move from the universe.

Oh fuck.

Marcus narrows his gaze at Clara, but not before she fixates her own gaze onto him . I jump up quickly, unsure of what exactly to do in this situation. Explain to Clara? Apologize to Marcus for the vomit? Rub his smug little face in it?

"What the fuck?!" Clara jolts up, a stack of creases forming on her brow as she narrows her eyes accusingly onto Marcus. "Is that—" She turns to me, but doesn't give me the opportunity to respond before she continues speaking. "No it can't— are you? You're?" She waves her hands in circles at Marcus, and it looks as though she may pass out. I wrap my arm around her waist to steady her.

"Okay." I guide her to the chair behind the desk as she continues to bitterly mutter incoherent sentences. " You sit here , and I'm going to clean that up. You —" I point at Marcus, who looks like a schoolboy caught drawing penises on the desks. He throws his hands up in defense, his grey brows shooting to his hairline. "Sit—" I glance around the room. "Sit over there. And do not speak to her."

Marcus does as he's told, and I quickly clean up Dickie's spent breakfast, spraying the area with a generous amount of air freshener afterward. I look over at Clara, who appears to be attempting to burn holes through Marcus' skull with her eyes. Marcus looks terrified, staring at the ceiling to avoid eye contact.

"I like the chandeliers," he says nonchalantly. I follow his gaze to a vintage, candelabra-style chandelier swaying gently between bookshelves. Clara picked that one out at the Coral Beach flea market. Later that day, she called me crying in a Target bathroom, begging me to pick her up because she just found out she was pregnant.

Clara loves that chandelier.

"You have some fucking nerve—" She stands up from her seat, her face growing a shade of red so dark I'm sure I should be worried.

"Clara!" I snap. Her gaze flicks over to me, and I shake my head. "Please, can we please just be adults about this? It was twenty years ago."

"Time doesn't make you less of a dickwad," she spits at Marcus, who still sits there awkwardly with his hands in his lap like a gentleman. To be fair, she's right. Time doesn't make you less of a dickwad, only change does. And I have no knowledge, nor desire for knowledge, that Marcus Fraund is a changed man. Regardless, we have a business to run. And there is no way in hell I am refunding seventy tickets to this stupid fucking launch party.

I don't know whether or not he deserves it, but I still offer Marcus a genuinely apologetic look. It's not like he knew this entire mess would happen. When his eyes catch mine from across the room, my breath hitches. I look back to Clara.

"I was trying to tell you," I explain.

"Tell me what? That this asshole is back in town?"

"That I'm Carsen V. Lovett," Marcus announces, standing up. How he manages to look so regal in such a disastrous situation is beyond me, but I try not to pay too much attention to it. I expect Clara to yell, or maybe let out The Scoff Heard Around the World. Instead, cackling, maniacal laughter seeps from her open mouth and rumbles throughout the building. Her palm slaps against the desk so hard, it had to have hurt. But Clara doesn't even flinch. She just keeps laughing.

"He's joking, right?" she manages to squeak, tears pricking her eyes as she doubles over. Marcus shoots me a concerned glance, and I chew on my lower lip, embarrassment creeping over me. I don't know why I'm embarrassed. Clara's cackling like Ursula the Sea Witch, Marcus showed up expecting a simple, nostalgic book launch, and Dickie's the one who threw up. Still, heat begins to flood my cheeks, and I drag a hand over my mouth, shaking my head.

"You know, we used to be friends, Clara," Marcus says. Then, if its humanly possible, Clara laughs louder. Marcus points to her with a concerned expression. "Is she…"

I nod sheepishly. "Yeah, no, she's fine. It's just— she might kill you, is all."

Marcus nods acceptingly. "Fair." He waves. "Nice to see you again, Claire."

Abruptly, Clara stands up, and walks silently, and straight-faced, back to the storage room, Dickie trailing behind her.

"She didn't get a warning," I explain awkwardly. Marcus approaches me, my heart thrumming harder against the inside of my ribcage with each step closer.

"Neither did you," he says, his voice deep and buttery. I swallow, an ache forming in the base of my throat.

"Yeah, well..." I clear my throat. "Like I said, it was twenty years ago." That statement comes off really mature for someone who was just picturing rubbing his ex's face in dog vomit. "We should get ready. We open soon."

Marcus nods, rubbing his palms together. "You got it. What can I help with?"

I shake my head.

"You're the guest," I say through gritted teeth. Meeting Carsen V. Lovett has been at the top of my bucket list for over a decade. It's crazy how quickly things can change.

Lovett could've been anyone. Seven billion people on this stupid fucking planet, and it just had to be him. And this launch party, this sweet, wholesome gesture from my favorite person, has become my literal hell.

Marcus glances around the room curiously, his eyes landing on the mess by the concessions table. Wet towels piled up next to the plastic water dispenser. He strolls over, gathering the towels into his arms.

"Where do I put them?"

"I'll take them," I say, offering my arms out. But Marcus doesn't budge. "Marcus, these need to go into the back room. If I send you in there with Clara still seething, you might never make it out."

The stupidly charming smile that Marcus has plastered on his face falters, and he reluctantly hands the sopping pile over. I carry them to the storage room, knowing full and well, that I am going to look like an absolute soaking mess when I set them down.

"How the hell are you so calm?" Clara practically lunges at me the second I walk through the door. I toss the towels into a plastic tote bag, making a mental note to bring them home tonight and wash them. I shrug.

"I just do not have the energy to care," I respond truthfully. Well, mostly truthfully. I don't have the energy to care, but that doesn't stop me from feeling it. It doesn't prevent that aching, stinging sensation from consuming my body when I'm transported back to that summer.

Like I told Marcus, it was twenty years ago. So why the hell does it still have such a strong fucking grip on me?

"Did you know?" Clara asks accusingly, her eyes squinting in my direction. I shake my head.

"Just found out yesterday," I answer.

"Do you want me to make him leave?" She brushes a strand of hair out of my face, then cups my cheek gently. "I'll kick that asshole out of here, and make him pay for everything plus emotional damages."

A soft chuckle escapes my mouth, and I lean into her touch. "Claire, you're my best friend. And if that's what I wanted, you know you'd be the first person I'd ask." She nods in approval, her soft fingertips rubbing against my cheek. "But the easiest way for me to deal with this is to just get through it, with as little bumps possible."

Clara offers me an angelic smile.

"Okay," she agrees, pulling away. "I'll be civil."

"Thank you." I turn toward the door, pulling it open.

"Kane?" she asks. I look over my shoulder at her.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry your Book Daddy ended up being your shitty ex." Clara bites her bottom lip to hold in a laugh, and an aching smile betrays me.

"Thanks, Clara."

Seventy people doesn't sound like a lot, until they're all crammed into a tiny seaside bookstore. I was ecstatic when Clara told me the numbers, but now that everyone is actually here, I just feel overwhelmed.

And hot. Very hot.

I guess I should be grateful that Marcus' work is so renowned, because the sea of people dividing us is so vast that if I weren't already aware, I'd have no idea we were in the same room. Loud chatter fills every crevice of the store, until it feels as if there's no space left for me.

It's a feeling I'm accustomed to, even when living in pure silence. I'm not sure there's ever been a time where I felt like I belonged. As a kid, I'd stand awkwardly to the side at the park, watching as all the other children talked and played and argued. During my teenage years, I didn't even attempt to attend any dances, because I knew I'd converse with nobody but my English teacher, and wind up leaving thirty minutes in. Even in my relationship with Clara, it felt like there was no space for me. Not because of anything she did, or said, but because I'm positive that my profound misery poisons all the air in the room. That Clara had to hold her breath for seventeen years, and one day, she'd suffocate.

This was supposed to be it.

This was supposed to be the one day, the few hours of my life where I felt like, for once, I understood the people around me, and they understood me. Now, I feel more lost than ever.

It doesn't make sense, Marcus being Lovett. Lovett crafting the most intense and passionate queer stories, and those stories resembling something we lived together long ago. It doesn't make sense, and yet, it's the most sensible thing in the world.

All the coincidences, the tiny easter eggs. I thought—

Well, I guess I don't know what I thought. That every sad, gay person goes through the same, unbearable breakups? That they all love people who hate themselves?

It should have clicked. I loved reading the stray notes Marcus left scattered about the store. He'd tuck them into the cracks of the shelves, and between pages of my favorite books. It was like a treasure hunt, gems of his thoughts and feelings, tied together with a literary string. I used to collect them, and keep them in a blue book-shaped box. Sometimes when he spoke, it sounded like he was born two-hundred years late. Nothing so beautiful could be so modern, and yet, there he was.

It feels so twisted for Marcus to be gifted at the thing I love most. He was born to write, and I was made to read every single word.

"Okay!" Clara's voice travels through the buzzing crowd, but it appears, likely due to recognition, that I am the only one who heard it. "Alright!" she says again, but still, it remains futile.

A sharp, thunderous clap shoots through the air, followed by an amplified, domineering voice.

"Listen up!" the woman snaps, but the smile on her face makes the irritated tone appear feigned. She points a pink acrylic nail at Clara, who offers her a sincere, satisfied gleam.

"Thank you," Clara blushes, then clears her throat loudly. "Mar— Sorry. Mr. Lovett will now be reading a highly-anticipated excerpt from The Thread Untied. If you will all please find your seats." She gestures to various areas in the store, with additional, provisional seating. "There's more spots over there, and… over here, thank you. I will now turn you over to Mr. Lovett."

I have to hand it to her. Despite her burning hatred toward Marcus, she's been handling this event extremely well. Even if she does spit out his name like its bitter on her tastebuds. I, on the other hand, am channeling all of my anxious energy into Dickie's midday back scratches. He's rather pleased, I'm sure, by the way his legs stretch out in front of him, his little toes separating into tiny pink jellybeans.

All the noise in the room begins to die down, but I don't realize just how quiet it is until something else takes its place. It's difficult to fathom how one voice can feel larger than seventy. How one person can feel infinitely more intimidating. I don't want to be here. And even more, I do not want to hear a single word to come from Marcus' stupid mouth. So why do I inch closer, holding my breath so the sound of air doesn't fill my ears?

"Firstly, I just want to thank all of you for being here. I know you have so many choices to make, when spending your time and hard-earned money, and I am so grateful that you decided to be here with me today." His eyes scan the room, and a gentle smile tugs at his lips. "I guess I should get to it, then."

I shouldn't want to look at Marcus. Every second of his presence is just a painful reminder of how lonely life was after he left. Him being Lovett was a cue to solidify my belief that nobody else really understood me, it was him all along. But it's so hard not to notice all of the miniscule differences to the way I once remembered him. So my eyes stay glued, and I continue scooting closer to get a better look.

Gentle creases line the skin above his high cheekbones, making the amount of time we've been apart much more uncomfortably real. All the years together we surrendered. I wonder what jokes formed the rays next to his eyes, and what worries triggered the shallow valleys around his lips. I wonder if someone else's fingers get to stroke his greying hair each night as his mind wanders aimlessly, pulling words from the abyss to form stories I've been secretly desperate for.

"Walter's lips graze the delicate shell of my ear, each hair on my body standing as if they're reaching out for him to touch," Marcus reads. Just as my gaze shifts from his hair to his eyes, Marcus' deep blue eyes lock onto mine. It's like the planet Neptune itself, silently dissecting every bit of me from across the room. "'I want you,' he whispers."