"What are you doing here?" The question is out of my mouth before I have time to remind myself that I don't care what he's doing here, and haven't cared since the night of Brock Crawley's Spring Break Party, but the smell of bear claws and cheese Danish has momentarily gone to my head.
Or that's what I tell myself.
It has nothing to do with the tiny dimple at the corner of his lips, or how his muddy brown eyes have slightly darkened and sharpened.
"I work here," he replies, quirking his stupid lips again. "Part-time."
"I thought you were a lawyer."
"You thought I was a sell-out," he corrects, knowingly. My cheeks hurt with how hot they are. I touch one side of my face to make sure it's not actually on fire. "I dropped out about halfway through law school."
"Oh, well..." He waits for me to finish my thought, but I have no words. Are there any words that exist for this situation? I can't think of any. I rack my brain. All I can come up with is, "I'm a TV writer now – in LA."
Smooth.
I turn to leave, desperate and pastry-less.
"Wait," he says. I turn back around, willing myself to stay put and not sprint for the door. "Are you home for reunion weekend?"
I nod.
"Are you going?" I ask, hopeful. Mostly for my job, but for other reasons as well.
"I'm not sure yet," he says. His eyes scan my face. "Didn't you come here for a pastry?" He motions to the assortment of baked goods.
Yes.
"No," I say, casual.
"You really did it," he says, and he's not talking about baked goods. The stunning thing is, he looks impressed. Mystified. He reaches into the display and pulls out a cream horn. He wraps it in paper, then gently secures it inside a waxy bag. "On me."
I take it from him. My heart does annoying little somersaults, and I tell it to pipe down.
"My dad will appreciate it," I say, defiant. He raises a light brown eyebrow. "He loves cream horns."
"Okay," he says, his lips drawing together in a small smile. "Exactly what I was hoping for."
"You were hoping for something by offering me a cream horn?"
"A truce," he says.
"Truce?" My voice edges up in annoyance. "We haven't talked since the week before graduation, and even then, we weren't exactly friends."
A brief flicker of something flashes across his face. He narrows his eyes momentarily.
Don't say it. Don't say it.
"So that Facebook message doesn't count?"
"Talking requires two," I snap back. I want to crush the cream horn and throw it on the ground at his feet, truce denied, but I won't punish my dad for Mark's douchery. I whirl, walking briskly away from the bakery, leaving behind my tiny cart and a pound of my dignity.
I'm in such a fury that I nearly run headlong into the tall, blonde, knit-adorned body of Brie Baldwin.
"Ellie Jenkins?" She says my name like a question.
Brie: Best All Around.
"Hi." I smile.
Brie was always nice. That's how she earned her title, and how everyone described her throughout her high school career. Sweet. Nice. Thoughtful. She'd remember your birthday, always knew if you were going through a tough time and would find a way to make you feel less alone.
She pulls me into an unapproved, but not unwelcome, hug, and some of her wavy hair gets in my mouth. When she pushes back, her hazel eyes meet mine. They crease a little at the edges as she gives me another generous grin.
"You came! No one expected you to come."
Were people talking about me? Behind my back?
I bite my lips because they are edging up into a weird, maniacal smile. It makes me hate myself a little for caring what they think of me.
Still.
"I needed to make a trip home," I say.
"This is so unexpected, and I really wish I had time to catch up, but my daughter has a recital in twenty minutes. Ballet —" She makes a cringey face, but then quickly corrects. "It's mostly bouncing around in tiny pink tutus. So. Cute."
I used to assume Brie secretly sheltered a monster deep down inside. Like the Balrog in the Mines of Moria. I see a flicker of that in her eyes, but it quickly passes, and it makes me actually excited to get a drink with her at the reunion.
"We'll see each other at the reunion," I say. "And we can grab a drink." There I go, setting up for later.
She flashes a smile. "Or tonight! I think a few of us are going to meet at the Local for pre-reunion drinks. You absolutely must join us."
Ugh, I can't think of anything I want to do less, but it's a good opportunity to get the lay of reunion land, and maybe go ahead and start knocking items off my list.
"Count me in," I say, flashing her a toothy smile.
She makes a squee sound, then grabs me by the hand. I am officially back in high school. At least with Brie, it's not so horrible.
+
The Local sits on the corner of our town square, a small, dark building with leaded glass windows and a red door. I'd been a couple times with my mom when I visited during college, but I'd never gone on my own.
I adjust the top of my Little Black Dress so what little cleavage I have isn't spilling out. "Let's not give away the cow for free," my mom always said. I guess it stuck, because even as a full adult, I don't do overtly sexy. I don't knock people who do, but it's definitely not the Ellie Jenkins look.
I do love the subtle sultriness of an LBD.
I swing the door open, and step a black pump inside. It takes two point two seconds to find the old Stonybrook High crowd when Kyle Temple guffaws from a corner of the bar they've taken hostage. Still bigger than the average man, though less hard muscle and more soft dough, with stubble on his now not-so-chiseled jaw and a buzz cut to hide the male-pattern baldness already in effect, he's impossible to miss. I am so not hooking up with him, I don't care what the list says.
Brie waves as I approach. It's amazing how easy it is to pick everyone out. The bar is full of the most popular people, the fringe popular kids, and the ones who snuck into the party after everyone else was already wasted. There's Most Likely to Succeed laughing it up with Best Personality. By the bar, Class Clown cries on the shoulder of Best Dressed, who is sucking back a mojito and it looks like it's not her first of the evening.
And in the corner by the jukebox is Mark.
Fuck.
He's got a local brew in his hand and the whisper of his signature smile on his face as he talks to Most School Spirit who wears the same peppy high pony she sported all through high school. In this light, he looks younger and so much like he did when I was into him that I can feel my palms begin to sweat. Fortunately, I am an adult now, one who can purchase alcohol to help alleviate the threat of panic.
I beeline for the bar.
"Rum and coke, please," I say to the bartender. "Double."
"Well, fuck me, Ellie Jenkins," a voice comes from behind me. I pivot.
No thank you, Kyle.
"Hi, good to see you. Are you back for the reunion?" I ask. The bartender sets my drink on the counter and I hand him my credit card to start a tab. I take a generous gulp. Thank God for rum.
"Never left," he says, a lazy, already drunken grin spreading across his face. One of his front teeth is definitely rotted through. Oh, Jesus. "But I see California has done you GOOD."
"Well, this has been fun." Or the opposite. I bare my teeth in the impersonation of a smile, right as Brock Crawley walks up, smacking Kyle on the back.
Brock was always good looking. Tan and blonde, with a crisp polo and a pair of khakis. He looks exactly the same, only slightly broader with overly whitened teeth. I remember seeing that he was running for city council, and that he'd married Most Beautiful. As if on cue, a stunning woman with bouncy boobs and blonde hair comes into view.
"Welcome home," Brock says, but his eyes have already left me to roam the room for someone he deems more interesting. Christine, his wife, half-waves. I only saw Christine from a distance in high school. We didn't have any of the same classes, and I didn't even orbit her stratosphere, so I am shocked when she says:
"Good to see you, Ellie," and she actually looks like she remembers me.
I take another gulp of rum and coke.
"So you live in LA now?" Brock asks.
"I do," I say. "I write for TV." Let's cut to the chase.
"Oh, my God!" Christine says. "That's so awesome. I love TV." I force back a snort. "What show do you write for?"
"Cooler Than You.".
Her eyes light up. "Oh, my God, I love that show!" she squeals. Her smile is genuine and ecstatic.
A few others I vaguely recognize — but couldn't care less about — approach, and just like that, everyone is chatting and reminiscing, and since I don't have anything to add to the plethora of stories about that time Kyle was "so fucking wasted," I peace out, downing the last dregs of my drink as I scan the room for Brie.
Damn it. She's talking to Mark. Of course she's talking to Mark — I don't want to talk to Mark. Not at all. Not yet. Not ever. And, since I'm staring at them, and probably sending intense vibes in their direction, Mark's eyes trail across the room and straight to me. That dimple pops.
I decide to detour to the bathroom to gather my wits. I need a plan of attack. If I were writing this scene, I'd have an outline for how all the components would play perfectly together so the heroine (me) gets exactly what she wants. But this is real life. I can't write it the way I wish it would be, despite what Andy and my friends in LA think. You can't predict human nature, no matter how good you are at reading the subtle signs of body language.
I walk down a short, dim hallway to another red door with the word "Gals" painted on it in gold. I shove through the door and am greeted with the sound of someone vomiting in the nearest stall.
My eyes go wide. She's left the stall door open. I can see the strap of her purse from here, splayed out on the ground and coiling around the heel of her shoe. I slink forward, curiosity getting the better of me. There, wearing a pair of black, skin-tight jeans, a loose-fitting sweater with leather cuffs and about twelve bangle bracelets on her left wrist, is none other than Roxy Draper: former best friend.
"Fuck this," she says to the inside of the toilet bowl.
The edges of my vision blur. My skin feels weird and slick, and I visualize running away. I mean to run away, but instead I clear my throat and cross my arms.
"Drunk already?" My voice is cold, with an edge of hostility I kind of despise because it makes me sound nefarious and not in a sexy way. I swallow, my jaw tightening.
Roxy doesn't sit up right away. Or turn. Her shoulders slump inward and she presses her palms to the toilet seat, heaving again. It's a horrible sound. After a few seconds she spits — I can hear it splash. And then, inexplicably, I'm leaning forward with a stack of paper towels from the counter behind me. I press them into her hand. She still doesn't look at me, but she does take the towels and wipe her lips, flushing the toilet as she does.
Her sigh is heavy. Still crouched on the ground, she turns sloppily and leans back against the toilet. She lifts her eyes to mine. Smudgy black liner around big, green eyes. Three earrings in her left ear. Two in her right. Her lip kicks up into a half-grin. After all these years, I have never forgotten that Roxy grin.
"Ellie Bellie," she says, but her voice is hard. Not like ice; more like metal forged from the fires of Mount Doom.
"Do you need some water or something?" I ask.
"Aw, aren't you sweet?" she says, her tone clear. She does not think I'm sweet. "This is just great. You know how long I've gone without a drink?"
"Thirty seconds?"
"Six months," she corrects with another sly grin. "Back to day one." She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a medallion. Dark Blue with a triangle and a six in the center.
"Maybe coming home wasn't such a great idea." I can feel myself pitying her, so I try to keep my body language closed off. If there is one thing I don't do, it's pity people. Some would say I judge others a little too harshly, and that's why. I have high standards.
That's all.
Roxy never responded well to pity anyway.
"Hi," she says. She pushes up from the ground, wobbly, like she's got new doe legs. I extend one hand to stabilize her. I pull it away just as fast.
Our eyes meet for a split second.
"Hi," I say back.
"Back from the city of Angels," she says, pushing past me to the counter. As she does, she tosses her sobriety medallion into the trash. I hear it plunk. She turns on the faucet and washes her hands. I keep looking forward, at the toilet where she was just heaving chunks. I will not let her get under my skin.
I turn, cock out my hip and say, "And where are you coming from?"
She flicks her eyes up to the mirror, looking straight into mine.
"Here and there." She rinses her mouth with water and spits, turning off the faucet. She spins, but she's unsteady, still, so she uses the counter for leverage.
It's amazing how you can go from the best of friends to strangers so easily. Ten years after graduation and we hadn't spoken once. We'd stopped speaking after Brock's party. We'd stopped listening a long time before that.
She snatches my handbag from around my wrist and unzips it, pulling out my tube of lipstick. My face pinches in surprise. She works fast. Without looking in the mirror, she applies a coat of pink to her lips, caps the lid. She rubs her lips together and wipes around the corners like a pro.
"You gonna hide out in here the rest of the party?" Roxy asks. My mind is stuck on how she flippantly violated the sanctity of my lipstick. I don't respond.
She discards my purse on the counter and is out the door, leaving me behind to clean up her mess.
Like. Always.
A/N:
What was your favorite neighborhood hangout in high school?
Mine (Victoria's) was a little local ice cream shop with chocolate dipped cones 😍
VOTE VOTE VOTE (upper right corner - click ze star).
xo
V + F