Chapter 31 Holden
Thirty-One
Holden
“I just got word,” Elliot said excitedly.
My agent rushed into the anteroom of the Frederick P. Rose Auditorium. On the other side of the wall, two hundred people were waiting to hear me give a reading of my book, Gods of Midnight.
“You’ve been shortlisted for the National Book Award. The youngest author ever.” He started ticking off items on his fingers. “The youngest author nominated for the National Book Critics Circle Award, the PEN/Faulkner, the Lambda Literary… At this rate, the Pulitzer is just around the corner.”
“Okay, okay, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I said, smoothing my jacket in the mirror. “I’m also the youngest author to be banned by six right-wing associations.”
Elliot laughed. “All press is good press, my friend. Chatter about being banned increases interest. And sells more books.”
“We’ve sold plenty of books, Elliot.”
“You won’t be saying that when your royalty checks start rolling in.”
I suppressed a laugh. I could wipe my ass with my royalty checks when compared to the investments I’d been making with my inheritance.
But no need to be an asshole about it.
Mette Olsen joined us. Tall with short blond hair and kind blue eyes, my publicist was more like a second therapist, steering my ship to calmer waters when things got choppy. Which was frequently.
“They’re ready for you, Holden,” she said. “Time for kickoff. Nervous?”
New York City was the first stop on a thirty-city book tour where I was expected to read passages from my book and take questions from the audience. People who’d paid to see me. Who’d taken time from their day to listen to me babble about my work.
My hand automatically reached for my flask in my black, lightweight jacket.
Two years without a drop and you’d think I’d stop reaching, but the thirst never quite went away.
It lurked in the corners, especially on days in which Alaska seemed to be breathing down my neck more heavily. Or the days I ached for River.
Which was all of them.
Missing him was the worst thirst, the most gnawing hunger; my hands reached for him in empty hotel beds more than they reached for my flask.
My therapist said I’d been making great progress over the last two years. But she insisted that contacting River was a decision only I could make when I felt ready, no matter how many times I demanded that she tell me to. Like a prescription: see River Whitmore and call me in the morning.
Every time I thought about it, I froze up.
Because he’s moved on. Two more years of silence left him with no choice.
Mette was waiting for an answer.
“Peachy,” I said. “Let’s do this.” I’d started for the door when my phone rang. The family lawyer, Albert Bernard. “Hey, Bernie. Who’s pissed at me now?”
“No one today, but it’s early yet.”
“Progress. And the foundation?”
Instead of sitting on my pile of money or pissing it away, I’d started a foundation for LGBTQIA+ kids who’d been kicked out of their homes to have shelter, stay in school, or find work.
I would never be as innately good and kind as River, but I could throw money at kind people and let them do good things with it.
“The foundation establishment is going quite well,” Monsieur Bernard said.
“Great. But I’m about to give a talk in front of two hundred people. If there’s no pressing emergency, can I get back to you?”
“I won’t keep you. I just wanted to pass on that I’ve been in touch with your parents.”
“You have.” My hand reached for my empty pocket.
“Yes. They have asked me to pass on two requests. The first being that you not use your real name on your current book.”
Anger roiled in my stomach as the cold began to creep in. “I can’t republish a book under a different name. Ludicrous.”
“I attempted to explain this to them, but they are adamant. They’re not happy, specifically that your book with their name on it is banned in some circles due to graphic sexual content and drug use.”
I clenched my teeth. “And the other request?”
“It has come to their attention that you intend to release an interview detailing your time in Alaska as a youth.”
“You make it sound like a wilderness vacation. My time in Alaska was conversion therapy, Bernard, and it nearly killed me. And because programs like it still exist, the very least I can do is anything and everything to get them shut down.”
“I understand. I am only relaying their concerns. They feel it will paint the family in an unflattering light unless their side of the story is also included.”
“Their side…” My eyes widened in disbelief.
“By all means. Tell them they are free to tell their side of the story, Bernie. They’re welcome to share with the world how they had a gay son and didn’t want him to be gay anymore, so they tortured him for six months, which resulted in a yearlong sanitarium stay that further resulted in him sabotaging the best thing that’s ever happened to him.
He had to run away from the one person he loved more than anyone because he didn’t feel he was worthy, because he put that person in danger, and because he’d rather die than do it again. Tell them that.”
I stopped my rant to catch my breath. Mette and Elliot were watching me with wide eyes, then quickly pretended to be doing something else.
“Mr. Parish,” Bernie began quietly. “They asked me to tell you that should you give this interview and fail to remove the Parish name from the book, they intend to disown you.”
I took a step back, my blood running cold, old whispers starting up again.
Worthless. They don’t want you. No one does.
I swallowed hard. “That’s…stupid. They’re too late. I already have their money, and I’m twenty-one years old. They can’t disown me—”
“It’s a symbolic gesture, to be sure,” Bernard said in a low voice.
“They don’t want me to have their name.”
“That’s the short of it.”
I leaned against the wall of the anteroom, the phone clutched in my hand so hard, my knuckles ached. “What about my aunt and uncle? Any word from them?”
I hated how pathetic I sounded. Weak and needy. Reg and Mags had moved back to their Florida mansion after I left Santa Cruz. They had no way to contact me, except through Bernard.
“I have not heard from them, no.”
I nodded, conscious that Mette and Elliot were waiting for me.
“Forget what I told you to tell my parents,” I said. “This is my answer to their two requests: fuck you and fuck off. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to give a reading of my banned book.”
I hung up, turned the phone on silent, and shoved it in my pocket with trembling hands. My therapist’s advice came back: I breathed over the whispering voices, listening to the soft in and out instead of them.
I’m alive. I’m still here.
When I felt warmer, I forced a bright smile for Mette and Elliot.
“Sorry about that. A little unpleasantness with the family.”
“Are you all right?” Mette asked.
“No,” I said, smiling gratefully. “But I’m getting there.”
Mette smiled gently and pressed a copy of Gods of Midnight into my hand. “They’re going to love you.”
And that’s not nothing, I thought and stepped out onto the stage.
Thunderous applause greeted me, accompanied by a few cheers and whistles. It rolled through me—the approval and acceptance. I almost turned back around. But I sucked in a steadying breath and gripped the edge of the podium with both hands.
“Hi, my name is Holden, and I’m an alcoholic,” I said. “Whoops, wrong group.”
Laughter tittered through the crowd.
“It’s surreal to see so many of you here for me and my naughty little book, but thank you for coming.”
Another round of cheers and applause, smiling faces waiting to hear what I had to say.
“I’m supposed to give a reading of Gods of Midnight, but I’ve changed my mind. If you’ve read the book, you’ll be bored. If you haven’t, I’ll spoil it. Plus, I don’t need to read my own stuff out loud. I can—and do—jerk myself off any time I want. No need to do it with an audience.”
More laughter and a few whistles.
“Instead of reading, I’m just going to skip right to the question and answer.”
A hundred hands went up.
“If your question is about the ending, put your hand down.”
Ninety percent of the hands went down.
I laughed. “You have your ending. I’m not telling you mine. Next question.”
A few good-natured boos and laughs went through the crowd, and then a guy in the back wearing a dark jacket and baseball cap raised his hand.
“Jules suffers through pretty intense drug and alcohol addiction,” he said. His voice sounded vaguely familiar. “You’ve said that this book is a fictional memoir. If it’s not too personal, is any of that character based on real experience?”
“Art is personal. And yes, my little joke at the beginning isn’t much of a joke. I’m an alcoholic, but I’ve been sober for two years.”
Applause rippled through the auditorium, making my eyes sting. I tried to get a better look at the guy, but someone else was asking a question. More followed: about my ideas, my inspiration, and how someone as young as twenty-one could write with such depth.
“When you go down into the abyss,” I answered, “you come back out with something to say.”
When the Q and A was over, the attendees lined up to have their books signed. Mette and Elliot flanked me to assist in keeping the chain of books moving.
I signed my signature and scribbled out a note to each reader, their names already spelled out on Post-it notes to ensure I didn’t fuck up the inscription.
Many attendees told me how much what I’d written had meant to them.
I didn’t know what to do with compliments, but I muddled through, being as grateful and gracious as possible.
Finally, we came to the last attendee. A book slid in front of me. The Post-it read Silas.
I froze, then slowly lifted my gaze to Silas Marsh.