frequently.
“They’re ready for you, Holden,” she said. “Time for kick off. 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 LGBTQA+ 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 re-publish 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 year’s long sanitarium stay which 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