All I had was his book, but if the answer was within its pages, I couldn’t find it.
Or maybe that was my answer—nothing.
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’dpaidto 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.”
