Page 96 of A Madness Most Discreet
“Is there anything else you want to tell me about myself before I end up reading it in a story?”
“There is, actually.” I’d been debating when to broach the subject, and the middle of the ocean where Arden couldn’t run off or swim very far seemed as good a time as any.
“What is it?” he asked, stiffening to my more serious tone.
“I’d like to help you publish your memoir.”
I’d told him already that I loved it more each time I read it, and that I was in awe of his talent. But even with all of my compliments, Arden was reluctant to acknowledge his own gifts. And, he’d argued that it was only because of my obsession with him that I’d found it interesting in the first place. I assured him that wasn’t the case, but even now, he only stared at me, suspicious. “What do you mean, publish it?”
“I can help you get an agent if you’d like to try a mainstream publisher. Or Bitzy can put you in contact with an editor at an indie. You’re too good a writer to let your words wither on the vine.”
“Have you been thinking up that metaphor for a while now?” he asked, trying to make light of my offer.
“No, it’s rather cliché, actually. I wish I had come up with something more clever. I’m sure that you could.”
He scoffed at that. “But it’s not finished yet,” he said without outright refusing.
“When you’re ready then. There’s no deadline.”
Arden’s gaze drifted to the water, perhaps imagining it. “I only wrote it for myself,” he said at last.
“That’s what makes it so good.”
“I’m not sure there’s even a point to it at all.”
“Maybe thatisthe point.” I was used to these arguments, having had them with myself many times before. “What’s the point of any artistic endeavor? Let someone else figure it out.”
He stared at me, on the cusp of believing. “You really think it’s good?”
“I think it’sextremelygood.” Seeing the residual doubt cloud his features, I cleared my throat and took his hand, trying to convey the gravity of my next statement. “Arden Evans, I have sworn many times that I would never fall in love with another writer, and now, my only excuse is to say that when we met, you were a model. Yes, your memoir is wonderful. You have an incredible talent. Brown thought so, and so do I, and so will your readers. And it would be a disservice to the world if you kept all of that wisdom and insight to yourself.”
His smile was cautious at first, but it blossomed before my very eyes, shining as brilliant as the dawn.
“All right, let’s do it. Why not?”
Part IX.
It took the boy, who was now a man, a long time to understand his own value. To not reduce himself to the services and acts he could provide to others. To see his own inherent worth reflected in the eyes of his lover. More importantly, to recognize it in himself.
The boy still had moments when he wanted to run away or swear into the raging storm or scream underwater. There were still fights and even worse, silences. But he was learning yet another language, how to express himself openly, how to convey his fears and doubts and whatever insecurities were plaguing him in a healthy and constructive manner.
The man he loved saw beneath his shiny veneer, recognized his flaws for what they were and loved him still. He didn’t seek to control him or extract anything from him; he only wanted to share in his triumphs and his failures as a partner and a friend.
The boy was wholly loved. There was no greater gift.
