Between the Lines

1

Present Day

I have always believed in magic. I believe in good triumphing over evil, I believe in love prevailing, I believe all the other tired cliches I’ve read in thousands of books, but most of all I believe in magic.

Unfortunately, magic tends not to believe in me. This lack of confidence was currently manifesting in the stalling of my Beetle’s engine, in the way the worn-down tires skittered over icy patches of road as I steered white-knuckled toward the Blue Ridge Mountains. I’d finally decided to take the L after a rocky post-college decade, to give up the fairytale of running away from my problems in search of a happily ever after, and was returning to my hometown in the hopes that the job offer I’d accepted would soon launch me toward bigger and better things. If I could only coax magic out of its shell and convince it that my love was pure and worthy, perhaps the next stop would finally be New York or Chicago or anywhere but North Carolina.

When the mountains finally appeared on the horizon, my heart seized up in my chest and I knew that despite every bad thing that had happened there, despite how thoroughly I’d tried to forget and move on and make a different life for myself, seeing that jagged skyline let me know beyond any chance of deniability that I was doing the right thing.

This was around the time the heater gave out. I was only halfway through the first song on my specially curated Asheville Vibes playlist when my breath began to come out in bright white clouds. Leave it to me to choose mid-winter to head for higher altitudes.

Ignoring the protestations of my GPS, I took the Bat Cave exit and felt my heart leap into my throat at the sight of the convenience store where I had always stopped for gas and snacks on childhood roadtrips to the coast. Between the cold and my exhaustion following a solitary, three-hour drive, I was ready for a break and an enormous cup of too-hot coffee. I didn’t know if I was ready to re-immerse myself so thoroughly in my childhood memories just yet, but I convinced myself that easing into my past would be better and I was quickly running out of time if I wanted to dip my toe rather than cannonball in.

The chime over the door was an electronic sensor now, and a whisper of disappointment brushed past me as I entered without the expected fanfare of the old brass bell. I kept my feet moving even as my eyes grew wider and wider as I took in the new beverage coolers, the new layout of the aisles, the lack of a soft-serve machine. What had once been a wall of cigarettes was now overrun with vape pens and hookahs, and CBD products littered the counter.

What hadn’t changed, though, was the quality of the coffee: it was as burned and bitter as ever, and not quite hot enough at midday for my Splenda to fully dissolve. I considered popping it into the microwave for a few minutes, but anxiety was creeping up on me, urging me to press forward, to see what other personal landmarks had been marred by time.

It was a relief to drive past the second-hand store where I’d traded old books for new ones at least a couple of times a month for years, and that the mall was still up and running, if not exactly thriving in the age of Amazon. I browsed through my memories of teenage shenanigans set in that mall, blurring out any trace of the other participant: he remained this one guy, my friend, all the nonchalant descriptors I’d been using for my former best friend on the exceedingly rare occasions when I’d mentioned him to anyone.

Funny how the most important person in the whole world can become nothing but a nameless figure in the stories you tell.

And then there it was: downtown Asheville, with its gridded, hilly streets and impossibly engineered parking garages and eclectic array of public art. Every inch of those streets held a thousand individual happy memories for me. Suddenly, I was too caught up in nostalgia to keep those landmine memories locked away in the deep, dark cabinet where they’d been waiting since I was eighteen years old and everything fell spectacularly apart. A pair of teenagers walked out of Woolworth Walk with paper cups full of Coke floats, and it could have been us, being asked to leave because we had laughed too loudly and too long at the nude photo series of wrinkly, liver-spotted old men someone was trying to pass off as art. The glass door of Malaprop’s Bookstore caught the light when I stopped to let pedestrians cross the street, and all it took was a glance to put me right back in the YA section on the night the last Percy Jackson novel was released, when I stood in line for hours with my friend, when we went home and I sat side-by-side reading all through the night with this one guy.

It would have torn me apart to remember those things if they still mattered, but they hadn’t mattered for a long time. I shut him out again, and focused instead on the vast mix of people on the other side of my window: dreadlocked hippies in baggy tie-dye, business women bundled up in Burberry scarves and tailored wool suits, a small army of dogs on a rainbow array of leads held by a tophatted man on a unicycle. I wasn’t sure if Asheville would still feel warm and familiar anymore, all things considered, but they made me doubt. They made me smile. I was home.

My low-sitting car bottomed out, scraping against the gravel, as I pulled into the parking lot beside my new apartment. I sat behind the wheel staring up at the plain brick building, a post-war efficiency housing block where I managed to score a first floor one-bedroom for a halfway decent price. I stared at my corner window through blurry eyes, breathing through all of my excitement and anxiety and disbelief.

When enough emotion had been exorcized, I dug my earbuds out of my bag and cut the ignition. It was time to get to work hauling boxes. I started with the box of kitchen wares crammed into the passenger seat, juggling it and my keys as I strained to enter the passcode that would let me into the vestibule. The stairs to the upper floor were steep and unwieldy, and I was thankful to have that particular struggle off my plate.

With a sigh of relief, I saw that my landlord had kept her promise of accepting the delivery of my new furniture the previous weekend. Walking into a totally empty apartment would have broken my spirit; seeing my bright purple couch waiting for me provided the illusion that this was already my place, that I belonged here, and that by extension I wouldn’t be sad and lonely forever. Sad and lonely people don’t have bright purple couches.

The landlord had also left a welcome note and a bottle of locally distilled bourbon on the spacious kitchen counter. I dropped my first load of boxes in the corner and read the note. It was a boilerplate thank you/welcome combo with her phone number scrawled across the bottom, and I dug through my box for a magnet to stick it to the fridge. See, Rory? There are people here who care about you!

It only took a single song before the car was emptied of everything I’d considered worth holding onto. Most of what I owned was books or book-related memorabilia, and most of that was a product of my obsession with urban fantasy author J. Edward Michael. I had spent the long, quiet summer between high school and college rereading the Witches of Eranstru series. After every break-up I turned to one of the Soul Chronicles installments, and there was Grim to bring me through difficult goodbyes. Because of J. Edward Michael and in spite of everything, I had never truly felt alone.

Sitting down on the edge of my plastic-wrapped mattress, I looked around at the handwriting scribbled on the boxes and ground my teeth together. I owned so few things anymore. Almost everything that once meant something to me had been left behind in a room in a house that was currently less than two miles away; because, yes, I had agonized over that not-so-distant distance once I finally found a livable apartment in my modest budget.

Sam wouldn’t be there anymore, though. He moved away before I did. He moved on before I did.

Sam.

I let those three, unassuming letters ricochet around my brain for the first time in a long time. My heart twisted in my chest when I conjured his face, the constellation of freckles across the bridge of his nose that became distant stars as they spread over his cheekbones, the silver glint of his braces, his overly gelled spiky blond hair. His big, goofy laugh. The exaggerated scrunch of his nose when something was gross. The way he snored like a freight train with his mouth wide open. The fury in his turquoise eyes the last time we saw each other.

He had been the gangly, dorky, zit-prone center of my universe since the fourth day of second grade, right up until that moment when he wasn’t anymore, the moment when my best friend chose someone else over me and forever altered the course of our lives.

But he was gone, had followed that same someone else all the way to New England, so it didn’t matter anymore. How much we meant to each other and all the things we promised didn’t matter anymore. There was a substantial part of me that didn’t believe a Sam-free Asheville could still feel like home, but the more logical remainder of me knew I never would have taken the job if he was here, if there was any chance of having that particular scar ripped open and turning my entire body into a fresh wound.

I wasn’t going to think about Sam now. I wasn’t going to think about him ever. I tossed my pink dip-dyed hair over my shoulders to remind the universe how little I cared about the first eighteen years of my life.

I was forced out of my melancholy by Kendrick Lamar blaring through my earbuds. He gave me the audacity to disregard the task of unpacking, put on my imperturbable cool kid face, and head out in search of a bar and people to talk to. It was a level of self-confidence I’d learned to fake by observing Ava, who had been my roommate from freshman year of college until just a few hours ago. She loved people and dancing and casual drinking, exchanging stories, trying new things, meaningless flirting. She had a truffle pig’s keen sense for sniffing out the most malleable person in any given room and then charming them into submission. This, I realized, included me. She was easily the most charismatic person I’d ever met. She could make anyone feel like the most special person in the whole world, even if that person had chronic anxiety and a shitty attitude.

I had been much more of an introvert before her, and now there were times where if you caught me in the right mood I had no trouble whatsoever chatting with strangers in elevators or the grocery store. I still preferred curling up in my papasan chair with a book and a blanket, but every now and then I could be lured into social situations without mean mugging everyone who caught my eye.

I now lived a very easy walking distance from the downtown hub, something I’d only dreamed of as a kid. It only took a couple of songs to find the speakeasy that internet strangers recommended. The solid wood door was unmarked and easy to miss if not for the single lantern hanging above it. The secret must have been out, though, considering the size of the crowd in the dimly lit space beyond, the overlapping jumble of their conversations all but drowning out the jazz standard playing throughout the space. Light from the dim Edison bulbs dangling from the ceiling caused the hundreds of liquor bottles behind the bar to twinkle like stars. Bouquets of dried flowers hung upside down in the gaps between the top shelf liquors. The remaining space was filled with taxidermied crows and extremely realistic human bones. It made it impossible to tell if the cobwebs in all the corners were intentional or not.

My smartwatch buzzed on my wrist and I looked down to see a Dexcom alert that my blood sugar was high and still rising. Every Type 1 diabetic knows the struggle of trying to bolus for anything with tomato sauce, and this notification marked yet another losing battle in my body’s war against pizza. If nothing else, the spike in my blood sugar explained why I had to pee so bad.

As always, there was a line for the bathroom. I shuffled to the back and whipped out my phone, because god forbid I give my brain a second alone. I was the mod on the J. Edward Michael sub on Reddit, so I opened that app first. Ever since I created this subreddit, all the way back in tenth grade, the traffic patterns had been predictable: from the time a new book was announced until about two months after its release, there was an explosion of activity in the group, but then things would go more or less silent, allowing the cycle to begin again.

It’s not that his fanbase wasn’t dedicated—best of luck finding a modern fantasy author with more rabid fans—it’s that he never gave us much to work with. Jem, as he was known amongst us diehards, had been a severe recluse since before the start of his writing career, and next to nothing was known about him. This also meant he didn’t have any sort of social media, and he had never given a single interview. It never mattered; anything with his name on it had been an instant bestseller for as long as I could remember.

Big J. Edward Michael fan?

I turned to the woman in line behind me, her dark hair gathered into a messy bun on the crown of her head, her eyes partially obscured by the warm light reflecting off her glasses. Caught off-guard by the disruption and her easy, friendly smile, I could only manage an awkward, Hi.

Sorry, she said, gesturing to my phone and revealing a small heart tattooed on her wrist when the sleeve of her sweater slipped back, I’m insufferably nosy.

Oh yeah, same. I tucked my phone into my back pocket and crossed my arms over my chest, before remembering that it made me look standoffish and letting them hang at my sides like awkward salamis instead.

Relief rippled across her face that I wasn’t going to get pissed at her for reading over my shoulder. She smiled and shifted closer so we could hear each other over the music. Do you come to trivia night often?

Trivia night, I said, glancing past her to where a man dressed like a hipster lumberjack was setting up a microphone. No, first time. I guess that explains the crowd on a Thursday.

It’s pretty competitive, she agreed with a nod. Do you want to join our team? We’re in desperate need of diversifying our knowledge.

I blinked at her, wondering how much of Ava’s charm had worn off on me when we hugged goodbye. Sure, sounds good.

The music had switched from old school jazz to modern blues by the time we emerged from the bathroom. I trailed my new companion to a table full of loud, chatty people with varying degrees of funky hair, each and every one of them wearing a cardigan of some description. Hey, guys, she announced, gesturing to me like a game show presenter, fresh blood! This is… What’s your name?

Rory. Thanks for having me.

I waved as my eyes moved over my new teammates. One of them, a petite woman with a side-shave and a mass of curls off the west coast of her face, was engrossed in her phone until she was elbowed by the person next to her. When she finally looked up, I stopped breathing.

Though I had established my one true BFF in second grade, Violet Skinner had been a close second from the day we met in middle school. After things fell apart with Sam a few years later, Violet became the only person I could still rely on. For those last few months of high school, we’d spent all our free time together loitering downtown, giving each other temporary tattoos with markers, having weekly book clubs, and getting stoned at my parents’ house since they were rarely around. Violet was solely responsible for dragging me through the last few months until graduation, for making it not just bearable but fun.

But we ended up at colleges on opposite sides of the state. We each made new friends, found new interests, built new lives. We grew up and grew apart. I thought all my old friends had moved away, including her, but now my eyes were locked on Violet Skinner’s and even from across a table in a dark, crowded bar I would’ve known her anywhere.

It seemed the recognition was mutual. Violet knocked her chair sideways in her scramble toward me. Tears started leaking from my eyes as I shuffled through the crowd to meet her halfway. We collided into each other next to a crowded table, Violet bumping hard enough into an empty chair that it rattled every nearby bottle and glass. It’s you, she squeaked into my ear, her arms tightening around my shoulders. Holy shit, it’s you.

Vivi, I choked out through a sob. Because she maxed out at five feet tall, Violet was easy to lift while being hugged, something I did more from muscle memory than conscious thought. What are you doing here?

Violet broke our hug but was still gripping my arms while she leaned back to look me over. With a scoff, she asked, "Me? What are you doing here? I thought you were long gone!"

I was, but I’m back now. I’m renting a place over by the skate park.

Oh, so you’re back for real, not just visiting?

Yeah, I figured starting over again would be easier in a town where I already know there’s good coffee.

This made Violet’s elfin face light up like a marquee. Perfect, that means we have plenty of time for all the catching up we need to do.

Yeah, for sure. I started to ask about him, my former best friend, the third member of our trio, but stopped short. It was better not to know. Tell me everything.

Librarian, married, two cats, roller derby girl. You?

Violet hadn’t changed at all, and there was no happier revelation than that. I pulled her into another hug while we shared a laugh. Social media manager, single due to bad taste, no pets, no hobbies.

No hobbies? Violet asked as her chin dropped to her chest. You didn’t quit writing. Like, there’s no way. You just mean it’s not a hobby anymore, right?

I held my arms out to my sides, forming a W with my upper body. Don’t know what to tell you.

There was a genuine sadness in Violet’s eyes even as a smile rounded her cheeks. Dude, you were going to be the next J. Edward Michael.

Okay, now you’re just talking nonsense, I said with a laugh that was brightened by the mention of Jem; it had been his words that bonded Violet and me in the first place.

It’s so wild to see you here of all places. There was a J. Edward Michael question just last week, about some of his more recent work, and I remember thinking, ‘Damn, I bet Rory could answer this in a heartbeat.’

Oh, have you not kept up with him? When Violet shook her head, I swatted her shoulder. You’ve missed out on some high quality content, dude. What’s the last one you read?

Violet folded her arms over her chest as she thought, a gesture that remained unchanged from our childhood. "I want to say it was called The Blue Planet or something like that."

"My First Time on the Blue Planet," I supplemented. All traces of my cool facade were erased by talking about this author with this person. My hands took on a life of their own, rolling and flailing as I spoke. "Okay, first of all, that was forever ago, but then second that means you haven’t read Ink as Black as Night, which is arguably the best work he will ever do. Even that was seven years ago, though. Jesus. What’s wrong with you?"

That number caused a spark of recognition on Violet’s face. Oh yeah, I still haven’t caught up on all the books I missed when Mindy and I first started dating.

Sounds like you have, like, a whole entire life now. I’m sure the wife and cats and skating keep you pretty busy. I didn’t mean for any bitterness to seep into my tone, and Violet’s smile didn’t lessen, so maybe it was all in my head. Life had continued without me, not just in Asheville as a whole but in the specific spaces I had occupied. The things that had mattered to us had sloughed away from Violet over time and were now only important to me. Jem had been a major part not only of my friendship with Violet but of our identities when we’d known each other last. I was thrilled that someone I had loved so much had found the things in life that made her happy. I was thrilled to see Violet had all of the amazing things she deserved. Still, it was a hard pill to swallow.

And it became harder still when she pulled me into a hug and said, Wait until Sam finds out you’re back. He’s gonna shit his pants.

No. No. My heart twisted in my chest. I swallowed the dry lump in my throat and pushed all the air out of my lungs and through my nose. He’s…around?

There was understanding and compassion on Violet’s face, though her eternal optimism buoyed her voice. He moved home about three years ago.

An endless queue of questions organized itself in my mind, but I wasn’t ready to so much as entertain the notion of willingly giving him any real estate. Asheville must have been so quiet without us.

I was thinking about moving to Durham, actually, to get my Masters. I ran into your mom at Trader Joe’s and she mentioned you were still out there, and I was like right on the verge of making up my mind because, yeah, it was quiet. But Mindy couldn’t imagine leaving, so I stayed.

You’d love the Duke campus, I said, endlessly thankful for the turn in conversation, but I’m glad you stayed. I mean, I would’ve loved to see you again, but I…I don’t know, the three of us were so codependent towards the end there. It’s probably for the best that we split up.

Violet nodded, her smile widening. And it’s definitely for the best that we all came back.

2

Present Day

Skyland Beer & Bourbonworks was at the top of a steep, long, winding driveway. After following along the heavily wooded path for a couple of minutes, I became convinced that my GPS was lying to me, but after a final sharp turn, the industrial-looking warehouse came into view and, just beyond it, the bright blue buildings that housed the distillery, the brewery, and the tasting room. I had hoped that by planning to meet Violet right after they opened we would be spared a crowd, but it was a popular enough spot that at noon on a dreary January Friday we already had to park in the back row of the gravel lot. The patio was crowded with families and dog-owners, and both food trucks parked at the far side of the building had lines more than twenty people deep. I thought this would mean that the tasting room would be all but impenetrable, but there was no line at the host stand, and there were some empty tables in the massive room beyond. As always, Ashevillians were an outdoorsy people.

My eyes were still scanning the seated patrons when the host asked, Just one today, or are you meeting someone?

Yes.

His gaze remained blank and I was too mortified by my mistake to do anything other than double down on silent expectancy. The most valuable item in my bag of tricks was to never show vulnerability of any kind for any reason whatsoever.

The host blinked at me, shoulders heaving with a sigh. Is it Violet, by any chance?

My throat was too tight for a proper response, and I forced out a high-pitched. Mmhm.

I scurried off in the direction the host indicated, diverting from my path to order a pint of winter ale before making my way to an unoccupied table with a huge, teal puffer coat piled on the bench seat. There was a copy of The Soul Chronicles: With Ink as Black as Night laying on the table with a crocheted bookmark placed about a quarter of the way through. My smile came easily now, felt more genuine, as I shucked off my bomber jacket and hung it over a chair with my bag. As I was getting comfortable, Violet emerged from the