The Muse Page 13

  Later, Claire and I make a wager on how long the vegetarianism will last. She bets one more day. I have a little more faith in Jeremy’s idealism and bet a week.

  After desert of apple crumble, homemade ice-cream, and delicious french-pressed coffee, Griffen drives me back to the city.

  When he pulls up to my apartment building, I jokingly ask, “You going to be okay without Claire this weekend?”

  “I’m going to miss her a lot,” he answers seriously. “It’s our first weekend apart since we got together. But honestly I’m more worried about you. Are you going to be okay?”

  “Touché,” I say with a smile. “I think I’ll live. Mainly because Claire stocked the fridge for me yesterday.”

  He laughs. “That doesn’t surprise me. Well, if you need a ride anywhere, give me a call. I’ll be writing all weekend.”

  “Will do.” I open the door, then grin at him. “Just so you now, I’m godmother to your first baby.”

  To my surprise, he blushes. “I’ll always owe you a debt of gratitude for introducing us. She’s incredible.”

  I nod. “She is. Goodnight, Griff. Thanks for the ride.”

  “Sure thing.”

  I step into the cold and hustle into my building. In my apartment, I flip on lights and quickly adjust the heater to Human Living Here. As I’m taking off my coat, my phone buzzes. I grab my purse off the couch and rummage inside until I find it.

  The alert is a three-word text from James.

  Check your email

  It’s the first time he’s contacted me outside of school in two weeks, and I can’t help the nervous flutter in my belly. My thumb shakes a little as I open email on my device and see an unread message from j.s.beck. The subject line is Eliot—final draft, and the body of the message is empty.

  I don’t bother opening the attachment on my phone, but run to my room and power up my laptop. Pulling up my email, I download the attached file, then open it in my word processor. There’s no title page, just a dedication. I run the tip of my finger across the words:

  For Derrick and Iris Eliot

  “Prick,” I whisper through a smile.

  Kicking off my shoes, I curl my legs beneath me and settle the laptop on my thighs. Over the next hours, my reading pauses only once, and then only because I’m crying so hard I can’t see.

  In his witty, crisp, elegant way, James has given me an unlocked portal to the heart and mind of a father I never really knew. The tale is grave and also beautiful. Joyful, yet ultimately heartbreaking. And when it’s finished, I stare at the final sentences until they blur.

  In the words of the poet himself, “The greatest among us step most softly; but oh, so mighty are their steps.” For all his rich humanness, his pride and passion, Richard Eliot was without a doubt mighty. His footsteps, light as they were, left chasms in their wake.

  As I reach for my phone, I don’t care that it’s two o’clock in the morning. I know he’s waiting. And he is.

  “So?” he asks lightly, though I hear the thread of nervousness.

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  He sighs heavily. “You’re welcome, of course. Iris—”

  “I want the letters,” I blurt.

  “Of course. They’re yours. Do you want me to bring them? This weekend? Or, wait, are you here or in California? I could send them. Wherever you want.”

  His uncharacteristic babbling makes me smile. “I’m here. Maybe you can bring them by tomorrow?”

  “Yes, absolutely.”

  I take a deep breath. “James?”

  “Yes?” he asks mutedly.

  “It’s missing something.”

  “I decided that story isn’t mine to tell.”

  Thinking he’s misunderstanding me, I say, “I’m not talking about what happened between my parents.”

  There was no mention of my mother’s alleged affair, and I know that despite her initial agreement, she’s since refused to speak with him about my father.

  “I know, love,” he murmurs. “I won’t tell your story because it’s yours. And you’re writing it, aren’t you?”

  Goosebumps lift across my body. “How do you—”

  “I saw you in the student union on Monday.”

  My mouth snaps closed so hard my teeth clack. I had lunch on Monday with Dr. Lisa Thompson, the faculty director of SARVA—Sexual Assault and Relationship Violence Activists—to find out more about the organization. And to gain a better understanding of the emotional Pandora’s box that sits half-opened in my gut.

  With roundabout questioning—a tactic I doubt was lost on Dr. Thompson—I’d discovered that blocking of sexual assault for months or even years isn’t uncommon. Nor are the vivid punches of emotion that have been battering me for the last two weeks: shame, unfocused fear, white-hot anger.

  Though the memories of the assault itself are still hazy, the emotional echoes slap me at the oddest times. While showering. Doing laundry. Brushing my teeth.

  In order to manage them, to not fall apart and stay in bed for the next decade, I’ve been utilizing the only coping mechanism I have.

  Writing.

  A little breathlessly, I tell James, “You’re a stalker.”

  “To the ends of the earth, my little muse.”

  My heart trips, then gallops. “I haven’t forgiven you.”

  “Yes, you have. You just haven’t admitted it to yourself yet.”

  A laugh bursts out of me. “You—you’re—”

  “A prick,” he says lightly. “Do you have a draft yet?”

  Dragging a hand down my flushed face, I reply, “Rough, yes.”

  “Let me read it.”

  “No!”

  “Let me pitch it to my agent?”

  “No!”

  He chuckles. “I don’t actually need your permission.”

  My breath goes choppy; panic closes around my chest. “James, I can’t do this,” I speak in a rush, hardly aware of my words. “I can’t be yours. I can’t. I don’t know what we had, but it’s over. You need to move on.”

  “You don't mean that,” he says softly, the words so full of pain that my stomach clenches. I grip the phone so hard a knuckle pops.

  “I do mean it.”

  And then I do something really stupid. Because I don’t know how else to protect myself. How to manage the tumult in my heart, the damage of the past, and the shadowy unknown of the future. I lie through my teeth.

  “I’m seeing someone. We have our third date this weekend. I like him a lot.”

  The words are clear, flawless. Even I can’t tell that I’m a lying sack of shit.

  His laughter is harsh in my ear. “Who?”

  “You don’t know him. I met him in the city.”

  There’s a beat of silence. “You’re fucking serious.” Low, pained laughter. “Unbelievable. Just like that, you’re throwing us away. Why?”

  You’re too much. Too confusing. I’m too afraid.

  A silent sob seizes my chest. I choke it down and tell him part of the truth—or at least a truthful confession of my deepest fear.

  “Whatever you feel for me, James, it’s not real. I think you had a fantasy of me in your head from my father, from the letters… You see what you want to see, a makeshift person. A broken girl you want to save.”

  He groans past another low laugh. “You know what, Iris? Fine. You’re right. My obsession with you has run its course, anyway. I’m exhausted from trying to build something on quicksand. Take care of yourself.”

  The line goes dead.

  The sob claws free.

  Part Two

  three years later

  20. exegesis

  Falling back onto a too-soft mattress, I stretch my arms over my head and hear my back crack with released pressure. Then I roll my head wearily toward the other bed in the room, occupied by a redheaded woman in pajamas.

  “If I don’t see another hotel room for as long as I live, that won’t be long enough.”

  Kim Collins, my
PA, laughs as she flips through channels on the television. “At least this one has clean sheets. Remember Houston? Oh, look, it’s a rerun of your Helen interview! Aww, you were so nervous that day but you did great. Your makeup was so flawless.”

  I grab a pillow and cover my face with it. How she has the energy to talk, much less with such verve, is a mystery to me. We just spent four hours at a signing. The only thing I want more than sleep right now is silence.

  “Oh, oh, this is my favorite part!” squeals Kim.

  The volume increases until I can hear clearly despite my pillow buffer.

  “So, Iris, there’s been a lot of speculation about Cole…” The audience screams and applauds. “Obviously since your book is a memoir, he’s based on a real guy. How real are we talking?” Laughter rises and fades.

  “Real enough, Helen.”

  “Uh oh, team, she’s playing hardball.”

  More laughter, including mine. I sound perfectly amused and unoffended, but I remember the discomfort behind my fake smile. Thankfully, I’ve fielded questions about Cole enough times that I have an automatic answer.

  “I’ll say this much—yes, Cole was/is a real person who made a lasting impact on my life. I can truly say that without his guidance, I would have never had the courage to write my story.”

  “And what a story it is! Let’s all thank Iris for being here today and speaking so openly with us about the tough topics addressed in her bestselling memoir, A Poet’s Daughter. If you haven’t already read it—”

  Kim changes the channel, yawning loudly. “Iris, you still awake?”

  I don’t say anything, my face safely concealed by my pillow. A minute later, the television shuts off and Kim settles into bed. With a click from her bedside lamp, the room darkens.

  Alone with my thoughts, I think of the person the world knows as Cole Laughlin, a thirty-something businessman with whom I’d had a brief affair during graduate school. Blond. Brown eyes. Born and raised in Seattle. Owns a cat named Charlie.

  Though I obviously made use of artistic license to conceal his identity, everything else was true to form. His wit, his mind, his passion.

  James.

  We catch an early morning flight out of Boston home to Seattle. Kim sleeps the entire way and though I’m exhausted, I’ve never harnessed the skill of relaxing on planes. Instead of soothing, the dull roar gives me a headache. Or maybe it’s the recycled air, or a mild case of claustrophobia.

  Whatever it is, I spend the flight daydreaming about waking up in my own bed in my own house, a little two-bedroom cottage in Capitol Hill. I purchased it last year using the advance from my publisher as a downpayment.

  Though I could have easily drawn on my father’s inheritance to buy the place outright, the idea had been quickly discarded. I’d wanted to fail or succeed without his help.

  Thankfully, the largest gamble of my life paid off. Shortly after publication, The Poet’s Daughter hit top-ten lists around the world and lingered in the literary stratosphere for weeks on end.

  Wanted or not, at least part of my success is due to my father’s lasting celebrity, while another is owed to the relentless support of another, no less famous man.

  Beginning with subtle plugs in routine interviews and social media, and ending with a popular article in the New Yorker, James Beckett almost singlehandedly launched my career. Within weeks of his article, I was flooded with requests for interviews. Radio, television, print. Speaking engagements, expanded book tours, panels…

  The road to humility hasn’t been easy, but nowadays I’m more thankful than resentful.

  In the last year, I’ve spent a total of thirty-six weeks on the road. Now I’m finally on my way home for the foreseeable future. I can rest. Recoup. See my family. Get to work writing the next Great American Novel, as my agent is fond of labeling the unwritten masterpiece.

  No pressure.

  With the time change, it’s not quite eleven o’clock when we land. Kim, bright-eyed from her nap, hustles to the baggage claim with me trailing behind. Her suitcase is one of the first to appear.

  She gives me a tight hug. “Call me in the next few days to check in, okay? Oh, and don’t forget, next weekend you have that event on campus.”

  I’d completely forgotten. Blacked it out, probably. Nodding like it’s all I’ve been thinking about, I assure her I’ll look over the details. After another hug, she races outside to find her ride—her longterm boyfriend, Vic, who she hasn’t seen in a month.

  I face the conveyer belt just in time to see my bag moving beyond reach. Too frazzled and tired to race after it, I cross my arms to wait for it to come back around.

  “Come here often, darlin’?” asks a low voice to my left.

  Without looking at the man beside me, I elbow him in the ribs. Griffen yelps, then drops a heavy arm on my shoulders and squeezes me.

  “Get off me, oaf,” I say, grinning. “Your arm weighs more than I do.”

  He chuckles. “Ain’t that the truth. That’s your bag, right, with the red tag?” He points and I nod. Chivalry isn’t dead, because without me having to ask, he darts forward and hauls my heavy suitcase off the carousel.

  “My hero,” I say, batting my eyelashes.

  Griffen chuckles. “Come on, short-stuff. Claire’s probably sweating bullets by now. She’s parked in loading-only and you know she has that phobia of getting arrested by airport police.”

  Laughing, I follow him outside. Sure enough, as we approach Griffen’s car I spot Claire in the driver’s seat, her hands bouncing nervously on the steering wheel. When she sees us, she jumps out and races around the hood.

  I think she might be more relieved to have an excuse to park than she is glad to see me, and mutter as much to Griffen. He laughs and rolls my suitcase to the trunk.

  Claire gives me a bone-cracking hug. “I’m so glad you’re home,” she says, leaning back to reveal teary eyes.

  She’s been emotional for the last few weeks, ever since she and Griffen finalized their upcoming move to Houston. After spending the last three years working to save money, they’re ready for the next chapter in their lives. Griffen’s will start on his much-anticipated PhD, while Claire plans to pursue licensing as a Marriage and Family Therapist.

  They’re leaving right after Christmas, which is one of the main reasons I’m taking the rest of the year off.

  After next weekend, that is.

  The sky chooses that moment to unleash it’s stormy promise. In the time it takes us to scramble into the car, the freezing rain drenches our uncovered heads. Laughing and sputtering, we wiggle out of our wet coats.

  Griffen catches my gaze in the rearview mirror and grins. “Welcome home gift from the city.”

  I smile. “Thanks, Seattle.” I buckle my seatbelt, sighing in contentment as Griffen maneuvers us out of the loading zone toward the airport’s exit.

  As we merge onto the freeway, Claire’s hand extends back from the passenger seat, a folded piece of paper in her fingers.

  “What’s this?” I ask, taking it.

  “Just something I saw in a bookstore yesterday. Thought you might want to know.”

  I open the single sheet.

  BLUEBIRD BOOKS

  is proud to present

  An Evening With JAMES S. BECKETT

  Thursday, December 6th

  7 - 9 p.m.

  Limited Seating

  first come first serve

  The event is tonight.

  I stare at the words until they blur, then calmly fold the flyer and tuck it under my thigh. Gazing out the window, I watch rain making rivers on the glass and the moving scenery beyond.

  Claire clears her throat. “Griffen and I are going. Wanna tag along?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Fully aware of what my answer means, she sighs and turns on the radio.

  21. form

  Part of the dilemma, as I see it, is that Bluebird Books is three blocks from my house. It also happens to be one of my f
avorite places to spend an afternoon. Or evening, as the case may be.

  But that’s not what makes me jump in the shower after a restless few hours of sleep. It doesn’t guide my hands as I blow-dry my hair into loose waves, apply eyeliner and mascara to make my dark eyes pop, and paint the barest hint of rose on my lips. And it’s not why I change my clothes several times before deciding on dark jeans and a dove-grey sweater that Claire once told me makes my skin glow.

  The real problem is that I can’t help myself. It’s been over two years since I’ve seen him face to face. Two years is a long time. I’m not the same woman I was then, and I’m definitely not the same woman who, three years ago, so carelessly threw him away.

  “You can do this,” I tell my reflection. “You are a mature, confident woman and a bestselling author. Be kind and polite. Don’t do anything stupid. He doesn’t hate you. You’ll be fine.”

  Chin up, Buttercup.

  Heart pounding, I pull on rain boots and grab my scarf and coat. Wallet. Phone. House key. Lastly, I tuck my hardcover copy of my father’s biography safely beneath my coat.

  Outside, I’m relieved to find the rain on pause for my walk, and further gratified when despite the low temp, my knee barely twinges. My joy at being home is so great, I’m not even bothered when my carefully styled waves fall prey to the moist air and wind.

  By the time the glowing facade of Bluebird Books appears, I’m feeling every inch as confident as I hoped to. I hang onto that confidence by the skin of my teeth as I duck inside and join the growing crowd. The central space of the bookstore has been cleared to make space for forty or so occupied folding chairs.

  “Iris!”

  My gaze snaps in the direction of Claire’s voice. She and Griffen are grinning and waving from the front row. I watch with dawning horror as Claire points to the seat beside hers.

  An empty seat.