Chapter Three

Wes’s phone buzzed with a text, and he blinked a few times before he got his bearings. A sliver of sunlight poked through the window, enough to illuminate the television atop the small dresser. The only other furniture in the room, aside from the nightstand and the bed where he lay, was the desk to his right. He ignored the buzz, but then he caught sight of his laptop on the desk.

There it sat, on but not awake. Why should it be? He hadn’t made it do any work in months.

The phone vibrated again, this time with the text reminder, and he blew out a breath.

Deadline day.

He grabbed the device and swiped his thumb across the screen to unlock it.

Max: It’s 10 a.m. Refreshed my inbox. Nada.

Wes: Pages need a quick once-over before I send. Have them to you by the weekend.

He clenched his teeth, waiting for his agent’s response. Max made him sweat it out for a full ninety seconds.

Max: Movie option rides on editor green-lighting this. You fuck this up, and you’re done. We don’t have room for a sophomore slump. 50 pages when I wake up Monday morning.

“Fuck,” Wes hissed. He ran a hand through his overgrown waves. Had Max just forgotten the amazing turnout they had for the paperback release two nights ago? It’s not like he wasn’t selling. Because shit—he was. He just wasn’t exactly writing.

Wes: I thought Joanne only wanted first three chapters.

Max: That was before you missed the first deadline. Shit is getting real, my friend. Your career can end as quickly as it began. 50 pages Monday morning.

Wes: Gotcha. No problem.

Fuck me.

He tossed the phone down on the bed and flopped onto his back.

End as quickly as it began.

Most people still didn’t know what they wanted to do with their lives at twenty-five, yet here he was, ready to lose it all before everyone else figured their own shit out. Was that the price of chasing a dream—having everyone else call the shots when all he needed was a little fucking space?

This was why he was getting the hell out of New York. After seven years, a change of scenery was what he needed. He wasn’t blocked. No fucking way he was using that term. He was just in a holding pattern, one that would right itself once he made it the rest of the way to Chicago.

He’d considered riding straight through, but he’d also left on a whim—telling Max about the decision at the signing—so he’d hoped his night in Columbus would get the words flowing. No such luck. If he got his ass out of bed now, he could make it to Chicago by late afternoon.

It was time for a phone call.

He searched through his recent calls, hoping to just hit redial. But after scrolling through a month’s worth of numbers, he realized it had been longer than that since he and his father had spoken.

Well. No time like the present, right?

“It’s nine in the morning,” his dad said after one ring.

“Always stating the obvious, Dad.”

Wes was up and pacing now. This was what fifteen seconds with this man did to him, and they weren’t even in the same room.

“Do you need money?”

Wes groaned. “I paid a year’s worth of your mortgage. Remember?”

“I didn’t ask you to,” his dad said.

“It was a gift. Jesus, can’t I do something for you and not expect anything in return?”

The sentiment was true at the time. His parents put him through college. The only way he knew how to say thanks was to give something back. Yes, he’d spent his advance and then some, but Max said he’d earn out next quarter. Six months past release and sales were still steady, especially now that the paperback had hit the shelves. But would they be a year from now if Down This Road was his one and only novel?

He listened to his one living relative breathe out seven years of conversations they hadn’t had. The weight of what hung between them pressed down on Wes’s shoulders, and he waited.

“Well, you must need something,” his father said. “Last time you called—”

“Was to wish you a happy birthday,” Wes interrupted.

And the time before that? Shit, he couldn’t even remember. And yes, he needed something—a free place to stay. But how could he ask his father for that now? He’d only prove him right.

“I just wanted to see how you were, Dad. That’s all.”

His dad grunted. “Work is steady. Can’t complain. Actually got a commercial gig painting the inside of a new store. Sells women’s clothing or something.”

Wes’s shoulders relaxed. He could hear the hint of a smile creep into his father’s voice. He wouldn’t ruin it by asking him the other question that hung on the tip of his tongue.

You been to the cemetery to see Mom lately? She was always the buffer between them. She got Wes when his father didn’t, which was always. But she’d been gone five years now, and the further she faded into memory, the more it was like there was nothing left tying him and his dad together. But, shit, he was trying, even if the initial motivation was a selfish one.

“That’s great,” he said instead. “Look. I may be in town soon. Can I take you to dinner or something when I get there?”

“Yeah. Sure. That sounds good,” he said.

This was a start. After a month, it was an opening of sorts.

“You, uh, had a chance to read it yet?” Wes asked, and the second the words were out of his mouth, he knew he should have ended the conversation at the dinner request.

“Christ, Wes. We’re gonna do this again?”

Why should today be any different?

Every muscle in his upper body tensed. “Forget it. Forget I asked. I just thought you might like to know a little about your son, what he’s been working on the past few years. I ask about your life. You ask about mine. That’s how catching up usually goes. Only, you don’t ask, Dad. You don’t ask, and you don’t read, and I don’t know how else to show you what the hell I’ve been doing.”

Silence. Followed by more silence.

“I’m not a—”

“Reader. Yeah, I’ve heard. It’s fine. Look, I gotta go. I’ll call you again when I get to town.”

He tried like fuck to ignore the tightness in his chest but knew the only relief was in ending the call.

“When’s that gonna be?”

Six or seven hours.

“I’m not sure. Probably a couple weeks or so. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Wes…”

But his father didn’t say anything after that.

“Bye, Dad.”

Was it only two nights ago he’d been swarmed at that bar with readers who couldn’t get enough of him? But dear old dad wasn’t even interested in a few words on the page. He ignored the laptop but pulled up the voice recording app on his phone.

“Remember the signing—the drinks, the offers,” he said into the microphone. “When you get out of your goddamn holding pattern, you got yourself quite the chapter there.”

But whatever story he was trying to tell was miles away. Nope. Not yet cleared for takeoff.

Wes parked his bike with too much ease. He was supposed to have to circle the block for ten, twenty, ninety minutes at least, giving him time to figure out what to say. But there was no traffic, no difficulty finding a spot, and now he had no choice but to walk in or start the engine and take off again.

He let out a long breath, hopped from the bike, and tore off his helmet. The whole ride in he had used safety as an excuse to look no further than the road in front of him. But he realized now it wasn’t just the rules of the road he was obeying.

He spun to take in his surroundings—red brick facades, tree-lined sidewalks, and the sun still visible above the rooftops as it made its way to the west. The last time he was home, Wes had seen nothing but the inside of his childhood apartment and the gray skies above the cemetery. At least, that’s all he’d noticed.

After seven years in New York, making a life for himself in a place that made sense for his career, he was socked in the gut with something he hadn’t expected. Longing. This feeling propelled him toward the door of Kingston Ale House, a place that hadn’t existed when he lived here but one that held the chance for him to reboot. All it had taken was a text.

Wes: Hey, man. I know it’s been a while, but I’m coming home for a bit and need a place to stay. Got any suggestions?

Jeremy: Turns out I’m looking to sublet second bedroom. You interested?

Wes: Can’t commit to a full year.

Jeremy: Month to month works for me.

Wes: You’re a lifesaver.

Jeremy: You’re an asshole for disappearing for so long.

Wes: Is that code for being happy to see me?

Jeremy: I don’t speak in code. Let me know when you get here, and I’ll give you the address of the apartment or the bar, depending on where I’ll be.

Turned out it was the bar. Time changed many things. Wes was older, lived farther away, and had created an emotional distance from this place he wasn’t sure he wanted to bridge. But somehow a friendship he thought had been consumed by the expanse of both miles and time could be bridged with a simple text.

“Holy shit, people!” Jeremy yelled from behind the bar as Wes strode through the door. “Remember this moment as the one where you had your first brush with fame.”

It was four o’clock, and the two patrons who sat at the far end of the bar barely looked up from their pints. Wes rolled his eyes at his friend.

“Well, if it isn’t literary badass Wes Hartley,” Jeremy continued, stepping out from behind the bar.

Wes set his helmet down on a stool and crossed his arms.

“So you’re the one who read it,” he joked.

Jeremy extended a hand to shake, and Wes gripped it, letting out a breath.

“Yeah right, asshole. Me and half a million others. But the false modesty is charming as shit.”

God, could it really be this easy, falling into familiar rhythms with old friends just like that?

“Thanks,” Wes said. “Been working on it.”

Jeremy moved back to his place behind the tap, filling a stein with the microbrewery’s Oktoberfest. Then he slid it across to where Wes’s hands rested on the bar.

“You look like you need this,” he said, and Wes nodded.

“You have no idea.”

Jeremy looked at his wrist where a watch was nonexistent.

“I’ve got all night,” he said. “And you’re in luck. Apartment’s walking distance, so you can leave the bike overnight if you need to.”

Well, shit. Nothing had sounded this tempting in a long fucking time. He ran a hand across his stubbled jaw and wondered if he looked as weary as he felt. Judging by the mug in his hand and Jeremy’s offer to drink away the evening, he guessed he did.

He took a long, slow gulp of his beer, his shoulders relaxing as he did. Damn, had he been holding on to all that tension for the entire ride?

No. He’d been holding on to it for at least a year. Maybe more.

“About the apartment,” Wes started. “I can give you the first month up front, but seeing as I spent most of the advance on my dad’s mortgage and haven’t quite gotten my signing bonus for book two…”

This was where he was supposed to admit there was no book two. Not yet. But he’d already painted himself as a big enough asshole as it was. It’s not that he was looking for a handout. His New York apartment was paid up through the end of the year, and he’d left on a whim. He had a good five months before he’d have to figure out what to do with it.

Jeremy shrugged. “If you can work with something other than a laptop, I’m sure Kingston could give you some hours behind the bar.”

Wes ran a hand through his hair and let out a long breath.

“Shit, man. I don’t feel like I deserve you letting me off the hook so easily. Not like I’ve been around much since—”

“Graduation?” Jeremy interrupted. “Yeah. Well, maybe you can do me a favor, too.”

He leaned against the back counter and shoved his hands in the front pocket of his jeans.

Wes laughed. “Anything.” He raised the mug to his lips for another sip. Maybe this was the turning point—things finally starting to go his way.

“My sister’s shop is kind of in need of an economic boost.”

Wes took another long sip from his stein. “Annie?” he asked, trying not to sound too eager at just the mention of her name. “What kind of shop?”

Jeremy grinned. “A bookshop, actually.”

Wes perked up even more at this news. “How can I help?”

Jeremy scratched the back of his head. “Sales haven’t been great lately, and I keep telling her she needs to host more events. You know? You sell your product by getting people in the door, and you, my friend, will bring people in the door. Would you do a signing for her? She’d sell a shit ton of your books, and that money gets back to you eventually. Plus—there’s that dirt-cheap rent you’re getting from your old friend who’s not going to give you shit for dropping off the face of the earth—”

“Yes,” Wes said with zero hesitation. “Whatever she needs. I’m in.”

Jeremy smiled and let out a breath. “Excellent. I’ll get it all set up. I just need to convince her—”

“Convince her?” Wes interrupted. “I thought you were trying to convince me.

Jeremy let out a nervous laugh.

“Yeah, here’s the thing. I know you can take this because of all your hundreds of thousands of fans and movie options and shit…but Annie kind of hated your book.”

Beer. Wrong pipe.

Wes coughed for a good forty-five seconds until Jeremy finally slid the mug away.

It’s not like he hadn’t received bad reviews along with the good. He’d learned quickly enough that was the nature of the beast. But no one had ever told him to his face they’d hated the work. They saved that for social media and email. He could deal with nameless, faceless loathing. In person he preferred adoration. Free drinks. Keys to hotel rooms. “Hate’s a strong word,” he said when the coughing had subsided.

Jeremy nodded. “Yeah, Annie doesn’t hate anything.” He took a sip of his own mug. “Except that book.”

Wes raised a brow. Jeremy narrowed his eyes.

“Dude, I know what I said about fans and movie deals and shit, but what’s with the Mad Hatter smile?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Just—just convince her, and I’m all in.” Because she hadn’t said she’d hated his book in person. This was third-party information from Jeremy. Wes was sure if he found himself and Annie Denning in the same room, things would be different.

Face-to-face they always were.