She got up and followed me into the kitchen. “That’s not water.”
“And?”
“It’s ten a.m.”
“And?”
“You look like you’ve been crying for an hour straight . . . and you’re hitting the hard stuff at—and I repeat—ten a.m.”
“Cara, you have the most amazing powers of perception.” I looked at the bottle in one hand and the glass in the other, shrugged, set the glass down, and headed back to my room with the bottle only.
“I’m worried about you,” Cara called out as I walked away.
“I’m fine. Just gonna sit in here, read, and have myself a little mental health day.” I turned and smiled and then locked myself in my room.
“Mental health days don’t usually involve tequila at ten a.m.!” she yelled through the door.
“I’m fine!”
I heard her mumbling something, but I was too eager to get to the hard-core Facebooking and internet stalking I needed to do.
I examined the book jacket and copyright page of All the Roads Between carefully. No author photo or bio, just a website and publicity contact at the publisher. I was looking for some clue to the author’s identity, but I didn’t really need any. I knew exactly who had written this book. The only mystery to me was where the author had been for the last twelve years.
From the first line of All the Roads Between, I saw myself in J. Colby’s story. That’s because I was in his story. The long dirt road, the hour-and-a-half-long bus ride to school, the alcoholic dad, the mom who vanished, the secret lunches and meals in the shed . . . These were the details of my own life. Emerson was none other than me. And Jax? He was most definitely Jason Colbertson, the boy next door who had once been my everything . . . my first. The same person I hadn’t talked to or seen in over a decade.
I was having a mild coronary, to say the least.
Some girls might be flattered to be the source of inspiration for the protagonist of a bestselling novel, but I was too busy planning out Jase’s murder in detail. Through my homicidal haze, a million questions rose to the surface. Why did Jase write this book? Why is he telling it from my perspective? Was he hoping I would read this? Or was he hoping I wouldn’t—and just wanted to use my story for his own bestseller? I needed to find him to get the answers to these questions . . . or at least give him a piece of my mind.
I searched for “J. Colby” on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter—I already knew “Jason Colbertson” wouldn’t be on any of these platforms because I’d looked before. Nothing came up; apparently both of his identities eschewed social media. Then I googled his pseudonym and clicked on “Images.”
I’m fairly certain that my heart stopped. I took a swig from the bottle. No chaser, no lime, no salt—just tequila and my angry fingers clicking on every hyperlink.
His picture was pretty much the same on every listed hit. He had grown even better-looking in the twelve years since I’d seen him. More distinguished, more chiseled. But still, there was something boyish and arrogant in his smirk. That fucker.
I knew he would do it. I knew he’d write a book before me. He was brilliant at the age of ten. Why wouldn’t he be at twenty-seven?
Another swig from the bottle, then I read a snippet about him embedded in an interview.
After graduating from Columbia University, J. Colby switched coasts and made his home just outside of Los Angeles. His short stories have been published in the New Yorker and Ploughshares. His highly anticipated debut novel, All the Roads Between, has been criticized for being soft compared to his earlier work, but Colby himself has been quoted as saying, “It’s the grittiest and most real piece of fiction I’ll ever write.” He says his novel is a complete work of fiction but credits his childhood in rural Ohio for being his biggest inspiration.
I started laughing and crying at the same time. I typed in his website URL from the book jacket, which brought me to a clean, spare site with a form box where I could submit a message to “J. Colby.”
Sweet. I would get to tell him directly what a fucking prick he was.
Dear Jason,
You fraud. I wanted to personally email you even though I haven’t heard from you in twelve long years. Not since that day when you did what you did—remember that? Well, no sense in rehashing that right now. Let’s talk about how you stole my life story and got it published. You’re a despicable human being. Why didn’t you ever contact me? You said you would find me and you didn’t. I spent an entire year looking for you, wondering what happened, where you went, why you hadn’t come looking for me yet. Don’t you feel guilty for what happened? And now you’re benefiting from my horror, my pain? You opportunistic piece of shit. I cannot believe that I ever loved you and trusted you. I cannot believe what you did to me . . .
Emiline
P.S. You’re a shitty writer.
I stopped typing, deleted everything, cried, and then took another swig and began again.
Dear Jason,
I don’t understand anything. What happened to us? Where have you been? What have you been doing? Are you married?
Emiline
P.S. You’re a terrible writer.
I deleted and took another swig.
Dear Jase,
Why?
I deleted, took another drink, and then cracked the book open again.
From All the Roads Between
When we were in sixth grade, the winter brought a deluge of rain, which sucked for me and Jax. He’d carry an umbrella for the both of us as we walked to and from the bus stop, but it usually wasn’t enough. The worst part about rain when you live on a dirt road is the mud—and there was mud everywhere. I’d even find it inside of my socks and between my toes and up the backs of my pant legs. There was just no stopping the mud, but we dealt with it the best way we knew how. We even played in it; we’d cake it on our faces, act like zombies, and try to scare Brian as he practiced with his band in the garage.