36. Jake
36
JAKE
The bookstore appears dark as I approach, but the door is unlocked, and I hear voices from the back of the store.
What the hell am I thinking? This is a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad idea. Maybe it’s not too late for me to change my mind. I tuck my computer bag more tightly under one arm, then startle as Sloane appears around one of the tall bookshelves.
“Oh, hi, Jake,” she says, looking confused about why I’m standing inside her store. “Iris is booked for tonight.” She holds up her hands, indicating the surrounding shelves. “Get it, she’s booked.”
“I’m not exactly here for?—”
“We’re having a book club meeting.” She’s studying me intently now, like I’m slow on the uptake.
I’ve never been one for cardigan sweaters with leather patches on the elbows or whatever other stereotype of a mystery writer they might have. I should have brought the thick-framed glasses I wear when I’m writing to protect my eyes from the computer light. I could have done the reverse Clark Kent thing and made myself look like an author. I only brought my laptop in case I need to convince these women I’m Spencer Charles.
“Is it him?” Molly asks as she joins Sloane, holding a small plastic cup of red wine. “Oh, hey, Jake.”
At some point in almost every story I write, the characters go off script, the narrative taking on a mind of its own, with unexpected plot twists or a snippet of backstory I didn’t see coming. If I were writing this particular scene, this would be the moment I lose control of the story.
The rest of the group joins Sloane and Molly, each of them staring at me like I don’t belong, including Iris.
“Evening, ladies.”
Iris offers a soft smile. “Hey, you. Sorry I haven’t been around much.”
“I’m—”
“We’re in the middle of something. This is not the time for googly eyes between the two of you.” Sloane steps in front of her. “Jake, you’re killing the vibe.”
She glances at her watch. “We’ve got a special guest coming, and he—or she—is about to?—”
“Spencer Charles is the guest,” I blurt.
Sloane looks over her shoulder at Iris. “You weren’t supposed to tell anyone.”
“I didn’t.”
“Which one of you blabbed?” Sloane demands, and it’s like watching a kitten being fierce and commanding.
“My agent told me and…”
My voice cuts out as six pairs of eyes stare at me again. So many years of keeping this secret. As much as I’m ready to claim my alter ego, I’m surprised at how difficult it is to say the words aloud.
I clear my throat. “I’m here for the meeting. I’m Spencer Charles. Or, he’s me.” I shrug. “My pen name.”
There’s a beat of weighted silence before Avah barks out a laugh. “Impossible. You’re a charming slacker with an enviable trust fund, but you’re not a chart-topping author.”
“No mincing words,” I say with an answering chuckle, although the judgment—while not surprising—stings. “I don’t need to live off my trust fund because I do fine writing the Ellie Spaulding mysteries.”
I pull a copy of the latest release out of the computer bag. “You spoke to my agent, KJ Preston,” I tell Sloane, but I’m hoping Iris will meet my gaze. No such luck as she keeps her eyes averted. “She confirmed my appearance tonight.”
“Anyone can find out an agent’s name,” Molly answers.
“Why would Jake go to the trouble to lie?” Sadie asks, and I appreciate the measure of confidence, even a small one.
After another few seconds of silence, the room erupts.
“No way!”
“This is wild!”
“You’re Spencer Charles?!”
Amid the chaos, I look at Iris again. Her eyes are locked on the book, her face pale, her jaw tight. Not exactly the reaction I hoped for.
“Why now?” Sloane asks, and I notice she shifts to block Iris more fully from my line of sight. Like she needs to be protected from me. Which is ironic considering a big part of the reason I’m finally coming forward is because I want her to know the truth.
I want her to know I’m more than my former reputation. I have goals and ambition and a life . A good one, even if it is lonely. I want the excitement she has when she talks about the Ellie Spaulding books directed at me, not just my author persona. More than anything, I need her to understand how much the past month has meant to me. That she’s a big part of why I’m doing this.
“I’m tired of hiding,” I say. “I want people to know.” By people, I think they all understand I mean one person in particular. A person who is still not looking at me.
“Do you have proof?” Avah demands. “Because I’m a little gobsmacked, to be honest. And what’s stopping you from taking credit for another person’s work? How would we even verify it?”
Molly nods. “I just finished watching season three of Bridgerton , and this exact thing happened. Cressida?—“
“Let him answer the question,” Iris interrupts. Her voice is quiet—almost a whisper—but the murmuring and outright questioning stops.
“I have proof.” I pat my bag. “I’ve written all the books on my laptop, along with notes, outlines, and pages of character profiles. They’re all date-stamped. I’m not sure I can rattle off the more obscure details about some of the older books the way my super fans do. My publisher has really good continuity editors, though. They keep a series bible.”
I give a crooked smile, trying to tamp down the discomfort prickling under my skin. Iris continues to study a place directly over my left shoulder, as if she can’t bear to make eye contact with me.
“Okay then.” Sloane grabs Iris’s hand. “Welcome to our book club meeting, Spencer Charles.” There’s nothing welcoming in her blue eyes. “Do you want us to call you Spencer?”
I shake my head. “No need.”
“We’ve got drinks and snacks plus a list of questions about the book and your writing process.”
“Can I have a minute with Jake?” Iris asks, her tone eerily quiet. I’m not a fan of her reaction to this news. Dread settles like a layer of hot ash over my gut. I didn’t expect her to start gushing over me, but…well, I wouldn’t have said no to a little gushing.
Sloane looks like she has no intention of leaving Iris alone with me. Maybe she’s more ferocious than a kitten after all.
Sadie steps forward and places a hand on the bookstore owner’s arm. “We can give you guys all the time you need. Talk about a plot twist. The rest of us will be in the back…um…processing.”
She waves a hand in my direction. “You’re a very talented writer, Jake. Congratulations on your success.”
“Who else knows?” Iris asks when we’re alone, although it doesn’t feel like we’re alone. The books lining the shelves seem to be leaning in, listening and waiting to hear my answer as much as Iris is.
“My agent, obviously,” I say. “The senior editor at my publisher, but no one else.”
“Who here knows?” she asks through gritted teeth.
“You and my grandfather, but he found out on his own. You’re the first person I’ve told, Iris.” I move closer, but she takes a step away. “You’re the first person I’ve wanted to tell.”
I need her to understand what this means to me—for us and our future. I will her to understand why I’m revealing this now.
“But you didn’t tell me ,” she points out. “You told my book club. You were looking at Sloane when you did your big reveal.”
“She was standing in front of you.” I run a hand through my hair. “What does it matter anyway? I did this for you . You were the one who wanted Spencer Charles—me—to come to your book club.” I lift up my hands. “Here I am. This is me.”
“Sure it is.” She laughs, but there’s an edge to it. “Have you been laughing at me for the past month? All those times I encouraged you to believe you’re better than other people’s doubts.” She holds out her hands. “You must have thought I was clueless giving advice to someone who didn’t need it.”
“No. Your confidence meant the world to?—”
“You knew you were better than the doubters. You dominate the freaking New York Times bestseller list like it’s your job.” She laughs again. The sound is too wild for my taste. “It is your job. You don’t need me or my support.”
“I do, Iris.” How can I make her understand? “You helped me believe I was worthy of claiming this.”
“Worthy? You wrote the books, Jake. You’re not just worthy. You’re exceptionally talented.” She takes another step away, and I want to growl in frustration. “You’re not who I thought you were.”
Alarm bells go off in my head. There’s an unspoken conversation happening between her sentences, but as good as I am with words, damn if I can figure out what it is.
Then my mind turns to a possible reason she’s acting like this, and anger spikes through me without warning. “Do you have a problem with the fact that I’m not actually a slacker?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” She looks genuinely confused. “I never believed you were a slacker.”
“Come on. Everybody believed it. I encouraged the reputation. And we both know extending a hand so far down from your pinnacle of perfection is easy. Maybe it’s harder to accept that I’m not the loser everybody wants me to be.” The idea of this slips out before I can stop it, and I hate myself for thinking it. For believing it.
“Nobody wants you to be a loser, and certainly not me.” Her mouth presses into a thin line. “I can’t understand why you didn’t trust me.”
“It isn’t you, it’s everyone…” I draw in a deep breath. “Mostly it’s me. I never believed I deserved this success. My brother was supposed to be the writer.”
“He’d be so proud of you,” she says softly. “I’m proud of you.”
I move again, and so does she. “Then why do you keep backing away from me?” I demand. “This isn’t how the night is supposed to go.”
She shakes her head like she can’t understand it either.
“It’s not you,” she says. “It’s me.” Although I told her the same thing minutes before, I don’t like the way those words land. Her eyes are guarded, like this has changed something between us, and not for the better.
“Any chance we could start the meeting?” Sloane asks as she peeks around the bookshelf, her gaze trained on Iris.
“Be right there.” I hold up a hand but don’t move. “Why do I feel like this thing that I want to be good for both of us is anything but?”
Iris shakes her head. “Like you said, it doesn’t matter at the moment. Everyone’s so excited about meeting Spencer Charles. Let’s not bring down the mood.”
“Fuck the mood.”
She makes a face. “We should join the group. I loved Absolute Determination , by the way. Might be my favorite of the series. I don’t want what’s between us to ruin this night for my friends. The show must go on and all that.”
I close my eyes and bite back a sigh. What a fool I was to think this would be easy. I’ve just complicated everything. Ruined my chances for a future with Iris by revealing my secret. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before now—that I didn’t tell you first.”
I know Iris to her core. How did I think she’d appreciate being blindsided by hearing my big reveal along with everyone else? Maybe I was being a wimp and hoping she’d go along with the moment and not ask the hard questions—why now, why after all this time? Questions I wish I could answer.
“It’s fine.”
It’s clearly not fine, but I follow her to the back of the bookstore, a tight knot settling in my chest. I have to make this right. I just wish I knew how.
Iris’s friends are not thrilled that she’s upset, and I can tell they blame me. Hell, I blame me, so at least we have that in common.
Sadie, who seems to take on the role of peacemaker, begins asking questions, and I’m shocked at how good it feels to talk about my writing. To take credit for my hard work while still giving, recognizing Mike for the times we spent weaving what would become the first Ellie Spaulding mystery.
The women don’t seem shocked or disappointed that my late brother was involved. Sloane voices the idea that I’m honoring Michael’s memory through my words. My grandpa said the same thing, but somehow, tonight, it hits home. I have the choice to believe I didn’t steal his dream.
And although my parents always made it clear that it should have been me who died that night in the water, that’s not how accidents work.
It’s a tragedy that my brother is gone, but his life wasn’t more valuable than mine. All life is precious. I hope my parents—my father—will be proud when I tell them about my career. I’m not so enlightened now that I don’t still crave that. But even if they can’t appreciate it, I hope they’ll understand that part of my motivation is to feel close to the brother I still miss every day. If not, it’s their loss.
The questions fly fast once the discussion gets going. I should feel elated, but I keep glancing at Iris. She’s quiet, her usual spark dimmed. Every now and then, I catch her friends sneaking her concerned looks. When the meeting ends, they all wrap her in hugs.
“I’ll walk you out,” I offer as she puts on her jacket.
She nods but doesn’t speak.
Outside, the cold October air bites at my skin. I shove my hands in my pockets. “Iris, I...can I call you later?” I ask, suddenly uncertain of the answer.
Her smile is hollow. “Tomorrow. We should wait and talk tomorrow.”
“We have our final class and dress rehearsal tomorrow,” I remind her. “Tonight doesn’t change that. We’re partners, right?” I can’t stop sounding like a sniveling fool begging her not to walk away.
“I’ll be at the dance studio.”
“Iris, I?—”
She stops me with a small shake of her head. “I need some time, Jake. That’s all.”
Her words hit me like a gut punch. I watch her walk away, and all I can think is that the secret I thought would make it all better, might have ruined the one thing that matters most.