Almost.
He mulled over the question he had heard countless times during his book tour but gave a show of rubbing his chin, contemplating his next words. "It's fairly obvious I'm a man, but the controversy you're referring to is the fact that I'm a man writing about two women falling in love. I've heard all the arguments: typical guy writing a sexualized lesbian relationship—which, if I may point out, is not all that sexualized; straight man writing for a community that he has no right to be in; former military man betraying the system he's supposed to represent. What do I say to these? I say to those people to go ahead and read or re-read the story because as a writer, I'm just looking to tell the best possible story, and The Next Mile was that. There are issues addressed in the novel that most people either won't touch or refuse to acknowledge. Not only is it about a female in the army, but she also happens to like women. The layers within that open up a world not many people realize is even there, and given the opportunities presented to me as a straight, white, ex-military man that you and many others have referred to, I was able to bring them into the light. Should it have been someone else far more involved in either community? Most definitely.
"I have to admit, the potential backslash I'd receive once the public took a look at the author behind the book made me a little hesitant to move forward, but that was also the thing to push me in the right direction to make sure the world knows that the generic boy-meets-girl love stories come in all shapes and sizes and sexes. I am nowhere near being completely capable to write about two women in a loving relationship, but the essence of the story itself was one that needed to be told."
The reporter nodded graciously and sat back down, typing notes onto her iPad. Off to the side, August's agent Malinda, an uptight Trinidadian woman in a skirt suit, severe bun, and vintage glasses who was more put together than a certain Mayor he knew, motioned to her watch, a gift from August from his first royalty cheque because although she was strict, she was a total sweetheart. Leaning forward into the microphone, he gazed out into the crowd of reporters, photographers, fans, and hecklers and smiled apologetically. "I've got time for one more question."
A flurry of hands rose up, reporters and bloggers all hoping to get in one more question for their piece before the moderator pointed to a young girl, college age with a streak of purple in her hair and her eyebrow pierced, looking more sheepish than what her eccentric appearance boasted. She gripped the proffered microphone in her hand, careful to avoid the envious gaze of the hotshot reporters as she cleared her throat and smiled up at August. "Hi, Mr. Booth. First I wanted to say that I love your book. I couldn't put it down once I picked it up. It was so refreshing to go into a bookstore and see on their bestsellers shelf right when you walk in a book that was about people like me."
"Thank you," August grinned. "And what's your name?"
"Sam. Samantha Chan."
"I'm really glad you liked it, Sam Chan."
Her cheeks tinted pink as she laughed lightly into the mic. "I was just wondering what your inspiration was when you were writing or even thought about writing?"
The smile that stretched across the author's face could only be described as smug. It was a question he had been asked numerous times, and the usual answer he gave some inquisitive reporter was that every love story should be told or that it was about time there was more representation in media. While true, and he stood firmly behind his belief, this time, as he grinned down at Sam Chan, his go-to reply was thrown out the window when Malinda motioned once again that time was up. "Well," August began wryly, "let's just say that I'm late for my inspiration's wedding."
August thanked his lucky stars that there were no plane delays and that the car he had requested to be waiting for him when he arrived in Portland appeared as soon as he stepped outside. He was smart enough to change out of his jeans and shirt and into his tuxedo in the plane's lavatory since by the time he was passing the Welcome to Storybrooke sign and speeding down to the marina, he was cutting it close to the ceremony. The parking lot wasn't necessarily a traffic jam, but the cars parked on the gravel nearly filled the entire lot. His dashboard clock ticked down another minute as August contemplated squeezing the hybrid into a space between a Camry and a station wagon. Thinking better of it, and severely debating just to ditch the vehicle and head up into the banquet hall overlooking the sea, August remembered himself and smirked as he pulled into the disabilities parking by the main entrance and slapped his sticker on the dash.
He bypassed the outer stairs where a few guests were milling about on the top level patio balcony either having a smoke or catching up. The ceremony was set to start in less than ten minutes, and already he could hear multiple voices scolding him for almost being late. Whipping back the main doors by the foot of the stairs, August was greeted with the cozy bottom floor of the banquet hall, a room that was all wood furnishing and trophy cases of the yacht club that met there. All around the room on side tables were small flower vases holding red and purple roses illuminated by an LED light at the base of the vase. Photographs of Emma and Regina and even Henry were hung up on the walls in perfectly captured moments while another picture of the couple bordered by six inches of blank space now scribbled in with guests' well wishes and congratulations stood on an easel just off to the side of the entrance. In the center of the room was a grand staircase leading to the second floor of the banquet hall. It was illuminated by fairy lights wrapped around the railing and ornately decorated with purple tulle ribbon with red flowers embedded into it. August almost stopped to admire the view since he hadn't been able to make it to the rehearsal dinner, but he needed to find Emma's dressing room and quickly. Turning haphazardly, he yelped as he knocked into a body. Curses flew in the air from both parties.
"Watch it, mate!"
A brash dismissal was bubbling in his throat before he got a good look at just who he had bumped into. A woman, short, fair skin, and auburn hair pulled back in a messy bun with tendrils framing her face was holding a flower arrangement carefully between her hands. She muttered to herself as she grumpily reorganized the red and purple calla lilies, none too quietly insulting those who couldn't bother to look up as they walked. A few stray petals fell from the arrangement and fluttered onto her black skin-tight dress that was shorter than it was appropriate. Emma could wait, August decided.
"Sorry," he ducked his head bashfully and flashed a crooked smile. "I've got my head on backwards."
She finally looked up from the arrangement and none too subtly raked her eyes over his tailored tuxedo, the visible royal purple vest and matching bow tie. A smirk curled around her burgundy painted lips. "Are you late or lost?"
Her Australian accent was unmistakable now, and it made August take another step closer. "A bit of both. I'm the Man of Honour, and I can't even appear on time."
Accented Beauty laughed, and it was a deep, mischievous chuckle that made August slightly glad he was coming in a little late. "I take it you're the blonde one's Man of Honour. She's in the room down the hall and to your left."
He turned to look behind him as she pointed, but when he quickly looked back to thank her she was already out the main door and turning onto the outside stairs. Through the windows, she smirked at him and motioned her head for him to get a move on. August chuckled to himself and jogged toward Emma's dressing room, making it just in time for the door to whip open and present the judging face of Ruby in a purple knee-length dress holding a bouquet of red roses.