Frayed (Connections, #4)(2)
Turning back around, I sip the rest of my sparkling water and push the glass toward the bartender. “Thanks, man.”
“Anytime, and, sir . . .”
I look over toward him.
“Congratulations,” he says.
“Thank you. And hey, think about what I said—take the lead.”
He laughs before resuming his work. When he steps aside I catch sight of myself in the mirror behind the bar. For a minute I can’t help thinking about how damn lucky I am to have gotten a second chance at life. I was a dead man, a man who then lost sight of what mattered and then fell over the edge. But somehow after everything I went through, I was tugged back up by life and able to land on my feet.
A beep from my phone alerts me I have a text. I pull it out and smile at the screen—Dahlia London. I know her name is Dahlia Wilde now, but to me she’ll always be Dahlia London—the beautiful blond-haired girl with the tiniest of noses, heart-shaped lips, and a love of the beach that could only be matched by mine. She moved in next door when we were five and we spent our whole lives together. For the longest time I thought she was the one made for me. I even asked her to marry me. But then after things in my job went wrong, I entered the witness protection program . . . leaving her to think I was dead. When I came back years later, she was in love with someone else.
Time made me realize our love was one of comfort and familiarity, not true undying love. I don’t think I’ve experienced the latter, but I see it in her eyes. Sure, I struggled for a while before coming to terms with the fact that she has moved on, but we’re in a good place now.
I read her text.
I just wanted to say congratulations and I was thinking of you today.
With a smile, I type out my reply,
Thank you. That means a lot to me.
Switching my phone to vibrate, I slide it back in my pocket. She’ll always be important to me and I hope she’ll always be in my life, as a friend.
A hand on my shoulder pulls me from my thoughts. “You ready for this?”
I glance over. “Couldn’t be readier.”
Then Jason makes his way to the front of the room and his husky voice is amplified to fill the space. “I’d like to have everyone’s attention if I could please.”
The room becomes eerily silent and my nerves start to buzz.
He clears his throat. “I’m honored to be here today to present this award. For those of you who don’t know who I am, I’m Jason Holt, commander of an FBI special task force, and I am honored to be here tonight to present to you a man I know well—Ben Covington, California’s Journalist of the Year.”
The words of his introduction echo off the walls in the legendary Crystal Ballroom at the historic downtown Los Angeles hotel and it seems a little surreal. There’s a round of applause as I cross toward the stairs with years of reflection sweeping through my mind. When I finally reach the stage, I take the steps two at a time and stride across it heading toward my ex-brother-in-law. His eyes lock on mine and then he extends his arm, handing me the glass typewriter award, and suddenly everything feels so . . . real. With a handshake and a nod, he clears the stage and I’m left standing at the podium alone. It’s shorter than I had expected, and as I set the award on its shelf, I scan the room.
My eyes come to rest on the table before me. The circle of people sitting there are the ones who brought me home—not in the physical sense, but emotionally speaking. Serena, my sister, is seated front and center. Trent, my nephew, is at her side. Caleb Holt, my best friend for as long as I can remember, sits beside him. Then Kale Alexander, the mate I met in Australia who helped remind me of my love for writing. Beck Cavanaugh, who not only pulled me up from the darkness, but also shook me until I could see through it, is seated beside him. And finally closing the circle, Jason takes a seat beside his ex-wife, the same beautiful woman who is also my sister.
I clear my throat and begin. “In the movie Citizen Kane a reporter said, ‘I don’t think there’s one word that can describe a man’s life.’”
Lifting my eyes to the nods of people in the audience agreeing with me, I adjust the microphone and my voice grows stronger. “I’m sorry to say I don’t entirely agree with that statement.”
Nameless faces in the crowd furrow their brows, purse their lips, and stare at me. “Rosebud was the last word Charles Foster Kane muttered just before he died. In the movie a journalist tries to decipher what the millionaire newspaper tycoon meant. But in the end he gives up on his investigation and summarizes it by saying, ‘Mr. Kane was a man who got everything he wanted and then lost it. Maybe Rosebud was something he couldn’t get or something he lost. Anyway, it wouldn’t have explained anything . . . I don’t think any one word can explain a man’s life. No, I guess Rosebud is just a piece in a jigsaw puzzle . . . a missing piece.’”
Long, rectangular white linen-draped tables outline the elegant ballroom with larger round ones filling its center. Journalists from all around the state occupy the many seats. Taking deep calming breaths, I continue. “And as we all know, in the end of the movie it is revealed to the audience that Rosebud was the name of the sled from Kane’s childhood—it was a reference to the only time in his life that he was really happy. At the end of the movie we’re left with the image of the sled being burned in the furnace because people thought it was just a piece of junk lying around.”