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Sixteen

Huck

“You should be happy, Huck. Or on your way to drunk, or something. Anything. The Fortune Files is an instant number one New York Times bestseller! Do you know how rare that is?”

I rub my temples. Jim is right; he usually is.

I should’ve already busted open the champagne he sent over to my apartment instead of leaving it on my counter to drip condensation as it grows warm.

It was a nice gesture. But as much as I appreciate the thought, champagne is for celebrating and I haven’t felt like celebrating since that night a year and a half ago when I witnessed a miracle that changed me forever.

How can I celebrate when I fucked it all up?

I wonder what the temperature’s like in Iceland now, if it’s warmer than the night I’d first met Stella in that bar or the one we spent on the beach wrapped in each other’s arms. I’d felt like we were the only two people in the world then—just me and her and billions of particles of light.

I still see her face when I close my eyes, iridescent, awash in the glow of the Northern Lights.

Her hair fanned out around her in waves, pale against the black sand.

It was the coming together of multiple things that people wait entire lifetimes to experience, and for a brief time, I had it all.

That was before the sun came up and everything changed and I made the choice I have regretted every single moment since.

In the lonely reality of my empty New York apartment, the memory makes it hard for me to breathe.

The air seems to turn to salt water in my lungs and I wince at the pain in my chest. I can’t describe the sensation exactly; I imagine it’s like finding myself trapped within the walls of the Bjork liquor bottle like the birch stick.

Good visual, I think, me trapped in my own creation.

I should use it in my next book…if I write another one.

“I’m just looking for a sign of life here, Huck. Give me anything. You’ve been in a walking coma since you turned the book in, and now you’re marking the most epic comeback of all time with an instant bestseller spot…and not even a blip.”

“I’m alright. New York Times is good news.”

“It’s fucking fantastic news.”

“Okay, fucking fantastic news. There. Satisfied?”

“No man, I’m worried. You are not alright. I know your dad and Vanessa both did a number on you, and when you were blocked that we tried some weird stuff, but this feels different. Tilda just found this great therapist, could I give you her number? She’s doing amazing things with EMDR.”

“I don’t want her number,” I mumble.

“Maybe it would help to get out there. I had a quick call with your publicist this morning and she said that just about every major talk show is trying to book you. Are you still opposed to doing any kind of publicity? People are loving the book. Could be a good pick-me-up.”

I pull in a deep, grounding breath. “I don’t know. It still doesn’t feel right.” And I’m still scared shitless.

“You know I’m not going to push you. And if you absolutely don’t want to do it, I’ll support you, run interference, whatever you need.

Let’s just focus on the positive for right now.

The team is thrilled with the sales and we’ve already got a battle royale for the film rights—and television’s in play too.

The Fortune Files is going to be huge, Huck.

Massive. The best part? Our least favorite critic, fucking Daisy Hickman, is going to eat her words.

Not only did you turn out a masterpiece, you created Lucky Malone, a main character even more universally appealing than Clark Casablanca.

The data we’re seeing so far shows that you’re trending well in all gender buyers. Everyone loves Lucky.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my palm to my chest.

We found each other , she says.

Jim is undeterred by my silence and forges ahead.

“Listen, Huck, I don’t want to pressure you, but everyone’s clamoring for book two.

I know we’d talked about next May to have a draft ready, but they’re hoping to accelerate—capitalize on the momentum, if you will.

When do you think you can have the next one finished?

Maybe earlier is doable? You wrote this one like a man on a mission. What was it, six weeks?”

He’s not wrong. When I got back to the city, the book just poured out of me.

I’d cracked open and she spilled out.

But Jim is wrong about something. There is nothing in this to celebrate.

The four-book contract? It’s an albatross hanging around my neck.

I’d written this book like some kind of fever dream, and now I don’t have anything left.

The only reason I was able to write was her.

And now, without her, I don’t think I can write another word, let alone three more books.

This isn’t like before, not the critical voices in my head drowning out my own imagination no matter what I did. This time, I don’t even want to try.

“I don’t know, Jim. I think I need a bit of a break before I dig back into it.

I’m just exhausted right now,” I say. It is a shitty cover…

one that Jim probably won’t fall for. He’s known me long enough to tell when I am bullshitting.

Back when we’d been talking about a multi-book contract, I was still riding the high of writing something that I believed in, something that inspired me so much I didn’t care what anyone thought.

I’d written it because I had to, because I felt like I’d implode if I didn’t.

I wrote it for me, for her. Now that reality has fully settled in, I am sure that I can never re-create that.

“Maybe you need to go back to Iceland,” Jim says.

“What?”

“Iceland. You were so focused when you got back, completely invested in your writing. It was incredible. Whatever they have there, I wish I could bottle it and give it to all of my authors. I mean, Huck, you didn’t just find your mojo, you found fucking magic.”

I don’t answer him. I can’t. Jim couldn’t have known, but he’s just buried the metaphorical equivalent of Gunnarsson’s axe into my sternum. I look down to check for blood, half expecting to find that one of those precious gemstones near the blade is now embedded in the gaping gash in my chest.

“This book is the best thing you’ve ever written, no contest. Exciting, taut, emotionally resonant. I cried, and you know me, the only time I’ve cried in my adult life was when my daughter was born. And you’re the only person who knows that, other than Tilda.”

Knowing how deep Jim’s love for his daughter runs makes this praise impossible to ignore. He’s the kind of dad whose sun rises and sets with his child; it’s beautiful to watch, and a devastating contrast to my own father, who only ever seemed to harbor disdain for me.

“Seriously, I’ll book you the ticket back. Whatever it takes.” It’s meant as a joke, but it only buries the hatchet deeper into my already hemorrhaging heart. I need to put an end to the painful trajectory of this conversation.

“Nah. I’m fine. This one took a lot out of me, that’s all. And I’m not really sure where I’m going to take Lucky Malone next. Honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking with this adventure series. I know fuck all about treasure hunting.”

“You love to research, Huck. Do what you do best, then, and dive back into the books.”

I’d spent the better part of the last six months in the New York Public Library reading about boats and bounties and ancient legends, but it all feels distant and flat to me.

The thrill of uncovering the stories behind the treasure just isn’t there the way that it had been when Stella told me about Gunnarsson.

She brought an energy and excitement to it that is entirely absent now.

And to be fair, I already promised my editor that I would set this book on a tropical island because of the whole beach-read angle.

Well, that and I never wanted to return to Iceland, not even in my thoughts.

“Tell me what you need, Huck. Anything. I’ve got you.”

I know that he means this. Jim picked up my pieces when I was a broken mess after my dad died and Vanessa left. He put me back together, but a part of me still wonders when he’ll get tired of my complex emotional needs.

“I need to get out of here,” I say. It’s honest. New York hasn’t been the same for me since before the last Casablanca.

I find myself longing for elsewhere, someplace new that I’ve never been and therefore holds no memories to hurt me.

Somewhere that I haven’t been verbally derided or rejected by the very people who were supposed to love and support me.

A location that didn’t serve as the setting to the biggest mistake I’ve ever made in my life.

I need a place that is novel and exciting.

Cool if it’s brimming with history, as long as it isn’t mine.

“What I need I can’t find in the pages of a reference book or on the internet.

I need real experience, Jim. Saltwater mist on my face and authentic treasure hunters. ”

“Then let’s get you on a boat,” Jim says, as if that’s the easiest thing in the world.

“I’m sure we could reach out to one of the big operations.

I think the Mel Fisher’s Treasures crew does some investment thing where you can pay to be a part of the action, and there’s a Caribbean group.

I can only imagine how thrilled they’d be to have a bestselling novelist tagging along. Talk about good exposure.”

“I don’t know if that’s the kind of experience I’m looking for,” I say. What I really need is Stella. But she’s not an option. I can’t even imagine how much she must hate me after the way I left things in Iceland. The way I left her in Iceland. I know I hate myself for it.

“Okay, then. Isn’t your friend Ted part of that crew that found the Icelandic treasure? Why not give him a call?”

I close my eyes. This is what I get for not telling Jim everything about my trip.

If I had, then maybe he would know that there are several reasons, very good reasons, why I don’t want to call Ted, why I haven’t called him in over a year.

They’re the same reasons that this is an extremely bad idea, and include the fact that Stella might be inclined to hurl me into the sea at the first opportunity, if I don’t beat her to it.

I can’t explain this to Jim now any more than I can explain why the thought of Stella shoving me off the deck is becoming more appealing with each passing moment.

In fact, for the first time today, I’m smiling.

I walk over to the counter and crack open the champagne.

Casablanca always called champagne a fancy man’s courage.

I’m neither fancy nor brave. I’m just a guy who got real fucking lucky one time and hopes maybe I can again.

“You always have the answer, Jim,” I say. “Thanks for sharing the good news. I’ll call you later.”

“Everything good?”

“Yeah. I just have a call to make.”