Page 66 of Into the Mountains
“He does. He’s working on one now related toThe Hobbit.A side character ends up going on a quest of their own. He hasn’t let me read it yet though. He’s sometimes afraid to share.”
“That makes sense.” I wrote all the time as a kid and one of the most vulnerable things was to share what I wrote to anyone including the people closest to me. At first, I started with short stories in grade school and then really tried to hit the ground running with a full length book in middle school. A whole series was planned and I wanted to find a way to get it published, but all I remember from that time was my confidence being completely crushed. My eighth grade English teacher told me the story lacked any depth, the characters were flatter than Flat Stanley and I should stick to my other academics. I poured my soul into my writing and instead of giving me any kind of constructive criticism or encouragement, she tore my story apart. And I listened to her.
I kept my focus on my other academics and studied as hard as I could to be at the top of my class. I never wrote creatively again outside of the typical high school assignments. I still wanted to write, which is how the newspaper position took itsplace in my life, but there’s only so much creativity you can put into that. Plus, my boss there was an ass.
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Did you write outside of journalism?” Right, he knows I worked at a newspaper before moving here with Avery.
“I used to.”
“But you don’t anymore,” he says like it’s a statement.
“No. I didn’t have the best experience with a teacher and I let it get to me back then. I didn’t have the heart to prove her wrong.” There have been times in the past when I wish I ignored what she said and did everything in my power to show her how wrong she was. But I did the exact opposite. I gave up and in a way, proved to her that she was right.
“Why don’t you do it now?”
“What do you mean?”
“Prove her wrong now?”
“I don’t write anymore. Creatively, at least. I haven’t since I was a kid. I grew up. Besides, I have a lot of other things going on. Interior designing is what I’m meant to do and I barely have time to read books let alone sit down and write.”
“Sounds to me like you have a lot of excuses on why you shouldn’t.”
The truth is, he’s right. They are excuses and I’ve allowed myself to follow those excuses for a long time. Mom was the one who encouraged my writing the most. Dad did too, but he never understood it the way Mom did. When she died, a big part of myself died with her. And then when Dad went with her a few weeks later, he took the rest of me.
“It took a long time for me to not be an empty shell,” I say quietly. This conversation took a turn that I’m not sure I’m fully willing to go around yet. “After that summer—after my parentsdied—there were a lot of years that it took me to feel anything other than hollow.”
“What finally made you not feel that way anymore?” he asks as if there’s more than one reason he’s posing the question.
Sighing, because I know what comes next, I answer him. “The newspaper position. And my friendship with Avery. I moved to Malibu for the job after I finished school. I needed a fresh start, so I left.”
“I understand that. Once I met Sarah, I never went back. I spent my summers with her family in Blue Grove and it’s been my home ever since besides the time we were in Seattle.”
There was a brief mention of him and Sarah living in Seattle at one point. She owned a coffee shop similar to Fran’s, but they had to close when she received her diagnosis and they moved back.
His fingers tangle through his hair nervously. “It’s okay to talk about her,” I say.
“It used to be easy to talk about her. I’d do it a lot more and then I started to sense some people needed to process in their own time so I stopped. And the longer I went without talking about her, it was like it flipped. They were nervous to talk about her around me.”
“I get it.” Automatically my fingers start threading together in and out, fidgeting.
“You do?”
“I mean, I don’t talk about my parents often and it feels weird when I do.”
“They were really amazing people,” he says with a sideways smile like he’s pulling a memory from back then.
“I forget that you knew them. You’re actually the only person in my life right now that has met them.” A fact I realized a while ago and I’m still not sure how I feel about it.
“I liked them. They were always really nice. Better than mine anyway.”
Another group comes in from the water and we let the conversation stall as they get settled and walk past us. “I’m sorry for never answering you. You wanted to pay your respects to people you knew and I didn’t let you. I always regretted that. It wasn’t fair.”
“I think sometimes that I should have just gone in anyway and ignored what you wanted so I could say goodbye. But it wasn’t about me. I didn’t want to cause you any more pain than I already had that summer. So, I listened. And I don’t regret that. I said my goodbyes in my own way.”
