33. Jake
33
JAKE
“No one was supposed to see those notes.”
His thick brows draw together. “I got worried when you didn’t answer your phone or my texts. The truck is here, so my rational mind knew nothing bad happened up at the lake.”
His gaze shifts as he massages a hand over his wrinkled forehead. “Then I wondered if something bad did happen because…well, that’s where my mind went.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, and he waves off the words.
“I let myself in and saw that you were sleeping. But when I turned around to walk out, I saw…”
He gestures to the papers spread across the table. “What the hell, Jake? Are you Spencer Charles? Mike’s middle and Grandma’s maiden name put together.”
The decade-long secret feels like it’s choking me as emotion clogs my throat, but I nod. “It seemed a fitting way to honor them both.”
Gilbert Byrne smacks a heavy hand on the table. “Don’t you think a better way to honor your family is to put your own goddamn name on the cover?”
His anger surprises me, and I raise a hand to my chest as if I’ve been dealt a physical blow.
“It isn’t that simple. Or at least it wasn’t when I started. Now it feels even more complicated.” I incline my head. “You’re a fan?”
He snorts out a laugh and runs a finger along the pile of books. “Son, half the world is a fan of Ellie Spaulding. Spencer Charles is up there with the greats. Patters?—.”
I raise a hand to stop him. “I don’t need to have my name up there. I want the books to speak for themselves.”
“But you wrote the books.” He glances down at my chicken-scratch notes, then back to me. “Every word, right? No team of ghostwriters helping?”
His doubt stings but doesn’t surprise me. “All me.” I rub a hand over my jaw, then move toward the kitchen. “I’ve imagined this conversation a hundred times in my head, but not like this. I’m going to need caffeine and some food to give it the attention it deserves.”
“You always were a crabby ass first thing in the morning.” His smile is sentimental. “Your brother woke up like he was the second coming of sunshine. You, not so much.”
“Let’s face it,” I answer as I pour coffee grounds into a filter, “Mikey was better in every way.”
“That’s not true.” He stands and opens the fridge then looks me up and down, carton of eggs in hand. “Shower and get dressed while I make breakfast. After you eat and down the caffeine, you can explain to me why my grandson is one of the most popular authors in publishing and no one knows it.”
“You know why,” I mutter, but head for the bathroom after hitting brew on the coffee maker.
I want to call Iris for moral support, but she can’t help me because I haven’t told her the truth either.
I think about what I want to say to my grandfather as the hot water streams over me. After toweling off, I throw on jeans and a Longhorns sweatshirt. As promised, a steaming cup of coffee and a perfectly cooked fried egg sandwich with cheese is waiting when I return to the kitchen.
Grandpa sits across from me, his rough hands wrapped around a ceramic mug as I dig into the sandwich.
“Perfect,” I tell him after eating half of it in two large bites.
He smiles. “One of my few culinary skills.”
“Me, too,” I tell him. “Have you heard Iris’s brother is back in town?”
Other than a slight tightening of his fingers on the mug, he doesn’t visibly react. But when he lifts it to his lips for a long sip, those fingers aren’t quite steady.
“How’s Nick doing these days?”
“He got a job at The Pinecone Grill as the new chef.”
Grandpa makes a noncommittal sound. “I didn’t know he’d gone to culinary school.”
“Don’t think he did, but the guy’s got mad sandwich skills, and he’s going to put them to good use.”
“Wonder if he’ll last.”
“He’s not the asshole kid he was when we were teenagers,” I feel compelled to point out.
“Neither are you,” he reminds me.
“I was never an asshole. My forte was in the skilled underachiever arena.”
He reaches out and taps on the stack of books. “Hardly. You’ve been lying to me—to everyone.”
“It wasn’t exactly lying.”
He lets out a disbelieving snort. “You let me think you were bouncing from one thing to the next, living off the family trust. All this time…”
I place the last bite of the sandwich back on the plate and try to ignore the guilt curling in my gut. Taking another fortifying swig of coffee, I pick up the first book in the series, Absolute Darkness . “The title was Mikey’s. It was his dream. How can I take credit when it should have been him?”
Confusion dulls the anger in my grandfather’s eyes. “I don’t understand. You wrote these books with your brother before?—”
“No. We didn’t write anything down. But we made up stories to entertain each other. Mom would go on one of her girls’ trips or wellness retreats.” I use air quotes around those last two words, and his mouth tightens. We both know several of those wellness retreats were in a mental health facility. “Dad liked to entertain while she was gone.”
“Women,” Grandpa’s whisper is harsh.
“So many women.” I take a deep breath as memories assail me from all sides. “So many parties. They got loud and rowdy. Mike and I would climb into the attic, where we couldn’t hear them.” My gaze shifts to the book. “And there was?—”
“Absolute darkness,” Grandpa finishes.
I offer him a small smile. “We spent hours making up stories. Ellie Spaulding was originally Elliot Spaulding,” I tell him. “I changed our protagonist to a woman when I started book one.”
He shakes his head. “You had all of these books outlined by the time of your brother’s accident?”
“No, but the initial idea was his. I’d imagine the plot twists because I had a flair for the dramatic. The plan for a book series was Mike’s. He didn’t want to go to Harvard or major in finance. He wanted to be an author—a storyteller. He wanted to write stories that mattered.”
Grandpa’s eyes fix on me, but I can’t tell if he’s mad, disappointed or both. “You’ve done that, for both of you.”
I think about Mike crouched down in the darkness, spinning story ideas like they were the safety net that would keep us from falling into the endless pit of our parents’ dysfunction. And now that I’ve started my confession, the words come flooding out of me.
“I started writing to feel closer to him. I never expected it to turn into…this.” I glance at the stack of books.
“But why keep it a secret?”
“Do you know the first thing authors get asked in an interview? Where did you get your start? What’s your inspiration?” I shrug, my throat tight. “What am I supposed to say? I stole the idea from my dead brother? It should have been him.”
Grandpa picks up a book with each hand like I haven’t seen them before. “These are your words, Jake, your work. Even if you and Michael came up with the idea together, you’ve written eight books. It’s your voice on every page.”
“Nine,” I correct. “The next installment is due to my editor in a couple of days, and last night I came up with the idea for number ten. It will be the final Ellie Spaulding book—the last book Spencer Charles will ever publish.”
“Why?” he demands. “You’re talented, Jake. You?—”
“I’m sick of hiding,” I whisper, my voice hoarse with emotion I can’t seem to contain.
“Then tell people. Does Iris know?”
“Of course not.” I sigh and run a hand through my still-damp hair. “Ironically, she’s a fan. Her book club is reading my latest release this month. Her friend Sloane keeps reaching out to my agent—Spencer’s agent—trying to convince him to make an appearance at their meeting.”
“You need to tell her.”
“It will be a non-issue after the final book releases. I’m not going to be a writer anymore.”
“I don’t think that’s how being a writer works.” He places his coffee mug on the table. “And damn skippy, your brother would be the first one to say how proud he is of you.”
“You don’t understand,” I tell him, my voice quivering with the emotion I can’t seem to tamp down.
“I understand enough to know that walking away from something you love leaves scars.” He shakes his head. “You have enough of those already.”
“So what now?” I demand as panic tightens my stomach. “Are you going to reveal my big secret? Put Dad in charge of the foundation to try and convince me not to give it up?”
“If you truly believe I’d do either of those things…” He pushes back from the table and stands. “You haven’t been paying attention. I’m not going to make your decisions for you. Be a man and make them yourself. I did hope that by now besting your father isn’t the only reason you’re here. The foundation is part of my legacy,” he says quietly. “But you’re the most important part.”
His words hit me square in the gut. “I’m here to honor your legacy. What the foundation does matters to people. To me.” I get up and wrap my arms around his thin shoulders.
We’ve spent a lot of time together this past month, but I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve given him a hug. I need to do it more. I should take every opportunity to let this man who means the world to me know that I love him.
“Tell Iris, Jake. I know you love her, but keeping a secret, even one that feels innocent, isn’t the way to show her.”
I pull back. “Iris and I are just friends.” The denial sounds ridiculous even to my own ears, but I plod ahead like the fool I am. “I care about her, but I don’t do love.”
Except I do, and it terrifies me.
“Then you aren’t the man I believe you to be,” he says softly. That parting shot lands like a sledgehammer against my chest, and I stare numbly at his back as he walks away.
“You forgot your books,” I call after him when he’s at the door.
He turns around, a smile lifting one corner of his mouth. “Bring them back signed by the author. They’re first editions, you know. I’ve been a fan of yours from the beginning.”
The proof that someone believed in me before I ever did means more than I can say.