by Torrest, T.
But what is it about high school? Is it just the fact that you spend every single day with those people? Every single day over the course of four very formative years that bonds you forever? At the age of thirty-one, I had friends through work and around the neighborhood. I had lots of buddies from college. But for some reason, it wasn’t the same. Sure, I kept in touch. But I always found myself coming back to my center, my core. The tightest bond I ever maintained was with the group from St. Norman’s graduating class of ’91.
Lisa was my go-to, my partner-in-crime, my touchstone. Her husband Pickford was like the big brother I never had. Cooper Benedict was a childhood friend, and even though he lived down in Maryland, we still talked occasionally and made a point to get together at least once a year. Even Greg Rymer still lived right in town, and I managed to toss him some work every now and again.
Fourteen years after high school, and I was still surrounded by the people from my youth. Hell, it was like I was still living my youth. Years ago, I’d moved back to the town I’d grown up in. Not only that, but I was living in my childhood home as well. I was sitting in my old bedroom, staring at the same white-painted furniture that lined the walls, the same pink princess phone in my hand.
I twirled the cord around my finger as my eyes landed on the back of my bedroom door. I noticed the tiny drawing near the bottom, saw the small heart sketched in red Sharpie years before, registered the initials lovingly drawn inside. I’d scribbled it there a lifetime ago and had completely forgotten about it in all the years since… until the phone rang.
Because at that moment, I found my eyes zeroing in on the silly little spot as I spoke to my high school sweetheart.
“Oh, Trip. I’m so sorry.”
Chapter 2
AN UNFINISHED LIFE
Fighting down my nausea, I pulled my car into the driveway of the Malachi Bros. Funeral Home and parked near the back of the lot. I figured there was every chance that I’d be there for the entire day. I took a deep breath, checked the clock on my dashboard, and found that it was 1:05. The wake started at one, but I wanted to allow a little time for Trip and his family to have a few private moments before the mourners arrived. It would be the only peace they’d have for a while, once the steady stream of friends and family started running roughshod through their lives. My plan was to sit and wait it out for a few minutes in my car.
But then I saw the van.
Parked around the corner of the building was a white truck with a satellite jobby on top, so there was no mistaking the fact that it was a news van. I should have expected it, but I couldn’t believe the press was staking out the place on such a personal day. I was busy shooting scathing death-looks in its general direction, so I didn’t notice the photographer approaching my car until he was already at my window with a clacking camera poised between us.
Seriously, dude?
I opened the car door into his hip, but he continued snapping away, asking a barrage of stupid, nosy questions. “Are you family? Are you Trip Wiley’s girlfriend? Hey, over here! C’mon, lemme just get one shot! Who are you?”
I put my pocketbook in front of my face and shuffled toward the front door to the funeral home. I stopped with my fingers on the handle, just long enough to shoot back from behind my purse, “You should be ashamed of yourself! His father just died, asshole! Get a real job.”
Okay, not necessarily graceful, but my God. What a bunch of bloodsuckers.
Since my plan to wait it out had been thwarted, I had no choice but to head inside. The overwhelming smell of funeral flowers immediately smacked me in the face. It was too fragrant, and it made me feel even more nauseated than before. The lobby was quiet, save for some soft music playing. It was not new age or classical. It was doo-wop. I smiled to myself, quite sure that Trip had been the one to arrange for the unconventional selection of fifties tunes to be played in honor of his father. Very nice.
The director made his way out of a door located just off the lobby. He had mastered the sympathetic smile after so many years, and aimed one at me now. “Wilmington?” he asked unnecessarily. Malachi’s is a large home, but there would be no other deceased laid out that day. Terrence Chester Wilmington II was a very successful hotelier, with a chain of establishments dotted across the country. Aside from family and friends, there would be many business associates coming to pay their respects. But right then, I knew I would probably only find his immediate family and the occasional straggler like me.
Before I could make my way into the viewing room, I encountered Sandy Carron, Trip’s publicist, whom I had met briefly four-and-a-half years prior. It seemed like a lifetime ago when I’d interviewed Trip for my job at the time. I also registered that the last time Sandy and I spoke, she’d basically told me to go fornicate myself. But we both put that aside for the time being. There were more important things to deal with at the moment.
I wondered if I should reintroduce myself to her, but she came right over and hugged me hello. “Layla. Thank God you’re here. Trip’s been waiting for you.”
Trip’s been waiting for me?
I tried not to sound too startled, and asked, “Is he okay?”
It truly was the only thing I wanted to know. The only thing I could allow myself to care about right then.
Sandy pulled back, swiping a tear from her eye. “I wish I could tell you yes, but….”
Shit. The poor guy was a mess. He always had a tumultuous relationship with his father; a lifelong love/hate situation going on. I couldn’t even imagine what he must have been feeling.
“Hey, umm… am I intruding? I wasn’t planning on getting here so early, but I was accosted by a damned photographer.” Sandy rolled her eyes in understanding as I added, “I feel kind of awkward about being here right now. Maybe I should come back later.”
I started to hitch my purse higher onto my shoulder, but hadn’t even turned on my heel before Sandy grabbed my wrist. “No. Please stay. It would mean so much to him.”
I tried not to read too deeply into her statement. Surely, she was just trying to make me feel comfortable.
Sandy led me to a set of doors at the back of the nearly empty room. It was unnaturally quiet, save for the non-sequitur doo-wop playing softly in the background. My eyes grazed the rows of empty chairs until they landed on the two women sitting in the front. Even from the back of her head, I was pretty sure I recognized Trip’s sister Claudia, and next to her was Mrs. Wilmington, whom I would have known anywhere.
And kneeling in front of his father’s casket, shoulders slumped and defeated, I saw Trip.
My heart wrenched at his beaten posture, the pain evident in his grieving form. This was not the invincible hero people saw on the movie screens. This was a fragmented human being. This was my old friend Trip; the boy I had loved and the man who had broken my heart.
He stood and swiped a hand through his hair as he turned away from his father’s body. His eyes made contact with mine, and there was about one split second of hesitation before something insane just… happened.
Understanding passed between us in an instant, the destiny that had been mapped out years ago finally coming to light. Suddenly, in that one flash of time, everything had become excruciatingly obvious.
Every choice we’d ever made, every road we’d ever travelled brought us to this place.
Every bad decision, every stupid screwup, every bit of drama.
Every beautiful second together, every miserable hour apart… led us here.
All the tumblers had unexpectedly fallen into place, unlocking our fate with an almost audible click! and we didn’t realize how much our lives had been on hold until that moment.
We loved each other.
We belonged together.
And we were finally, finally ready to acknowledge it.
We hadn’t seen each other in over four years, but that didn’t mean a goddamned thing right then. The time apart almost visibly shed as we stood there, looking into each other’s eyes. For all our h
eartache and yearning and our many, many mistakes… it was simply the past. We were bound by it, but what we were really seeing was our future.
It was there, in that spot, in the middle of the Malachi Bros. Funeral Parlor on Colfax Avenue in Norman, New Jersey, that we finally recognized our forever.
Trip closed the gap between us in five long strides, and there we were, falling into each other all over again. He grabbed me, his arms like a vice around my middle, gathering me to his crumpled form, just bawling into my neck. My arms clamped around his shoulders, holding him to me, the tears streaming down my face as well.
Trip cried like he did everything else: completely. His body racked with trembling sobs, and I joined him, crying so hard I thought I’d never stop.
There were no words that needed to be spoken, but I whispered, “I’m so sorry, Trip. I’m so sorry,” and I was apologizing as much for his father’s death as I was about ever letting him go.
He pulled back, not even trying to hide his pain, peering at me through a haze of tears. “Oh, God, Layla. Oh, God, how I’ve missed you.”
My heart positively stopped, but even still, I tried to explain. “I didn’t even know… I never really thought…”
He shook his head, cutting off my words, trying to pull himself together. “No. We’re not doing this here. We’ll talk later, but right now, I just want to hold you.”
So I let him.
We held each other and we cried and there was no one outside the two of us, there, in that moment.
It did not matter that we hadn’t been in the same room together for almost five years. It did not matter that we both almost married other people. It did not matter that he was an insanely famous actor and known the world over. It did not matter that I was not.
He was simply Chester and I was Lay-Lay.
We were us again.
Chapter 3
AT LAST
After an eternity, Trip released his hold on me to plant his hands on either side of my face. He swiped the tears from my cheeks with his thumbs as the smallest of smiles escaped from his lips. “You’re here.”
I gripped his wrists in my hands, smoothing them with my palms. “I’m here.”
He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, kissing the spot near my temple. “You ready for this?” he asked, as his hand slid down to grasp mine.
I’ve been ready for fifteen years, pal.
But as it turned out, the “this” he was referring to was our immediate situation, because he led me over to his mother. I could see that Mrs. Wilmington had hardly aged at all. What little age I could see on her face could probably be more attributed to the immediate stress of the situation rather than the passage of time.
I gave her a quick hug and offered my condolences as Claudia reclaimed her jaw from where it had fallen to the floor. I guessed her brother and I had made quite the scene. “So, this is the infamous Layla Warren. You were right, Drip. I actually do remember her.” Then she directed her next comments to me. “Let me ask you something. Is this Rymer character an actual person?”
I had to remember where I was and stifled the laugh at Claudia’s question and her nickname for her little brother. (I logged it away for future torture.) But her jab had lightened the tone in the room, enough that by the time the first mourners filed in, we found ourselves chatting casually with them. Well, as casually as possible with a dead body in the vicinity. I’ve always been amazed at the lengths people will go to just to avoid talking about the real reason why they’re in that room in the first place. It seems borderline disrespectful to the person in the box. Maybe when someone had been dying for years, it made for an easier time once it finally became official.
Trip kept me glued to his side on the receiving line, introducing me to every family member and business associate as “my Layla,” leaving no room for doubt just exactly who I was to him. It was incredible that he’d just assumed we were together, the split decision having been made (sort of) only moments prior, yet there was Trip, treating me like I was his long-time girlfriend.
Which, I guess, in a way, I kinda was.
There were a few times Trip would crack and start tearing up again, normally at the sight of a particularly close friend of his dad’s or a family member he hadn’t seen in years.
But when Lisa and Pickford strolled through the door, he positively broke.
The boys didn’t hesitate to throw their arms around each other, Trip just crumbling against his old buddy Pickford. The two of them used to have quite the bromance back in the day, and the passage of time obviously hadn’t done anything to break that bond.
Lisa and I held hands as the tears ran down our cheeks. It was so amazing to have the four of us in the same room again, even if the circumstances weren’t quite so ideal. But having us all there was exactly what Trip needed in that moment. What he’d needed for years.
I was lost in that thought as a familiar voice behind me said, “Aww. You two faggots finally making it official?”
We all stopped for a beat and turned to find Rymer standing there, giving us the finger and wearing a wide grin. At a wake.
Trip was the first to crack up. “Rymer, you compassionate bastard!”
We all laughed as those two hugged hello, breaking the serious vibe of the moment.
Rymer and his filterless mouth. Thank God for him.
* * *
The repast was at the Wilmingtons’ house. The burial was set for the following day, but the cemetery was way out on Long Island, so Mrs. W., Claudia and Trip intended to make it a private affair. Originally, they’d planned to have the dinner at the country club one town over, but that idea was squelched once they realized the press had caught wind of the news. The club sent all the food over to the private estate instead, escorted by their entire waitstaff.
Mrs. Wilmington entertained everyone in the solarium at the back of the house. It was a large room with floor to ceiling windows that looked out over the rolling, snow-covered lawn of the backyard. I’d only been to the house twice in my life, and both times, I’d never made it past the foyer. It was interesting to finally get to see the full layout of the place. But even from my incomplete glimpse, the house turned out to be just as huge and imposing as my memories. I had a stab of guilt at how comfortable I felt, knowing Mr. Wilmington wouldn’t be lurking in some darkened hallway with a jab at the ready.
Trip refused to let me leave his side, and if I wasn’t so thrilled about it, I would have felt a little smothered. But after all those years apart, I was anxious to make up for all the time we’d lost. I guessed he was, too.
Eventually, he led the five of us into a parlor off the main room, ditching his jacket over the back of a couch before slumping to sit down on it. Just the simple act of watching Trip unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling his black shirt up to his elbows was enough to liquefy my insides. I knew I was supposed to be focusing on the solemnity of the day, but my stomach wasn’t cooperating, flipping uncontrollably at the sight of Trip lounged out on the sofa. He was pure, unadulterated male sitting there.
He was wearing his hair a bit longer than usual; still perfectly golden, artfully mussed, and practically begging me to run my hands through it. There were some new crinkles at the corners of his fathomless blue eyes, and the dimple in his left cheek had become more pronounced, but the new lines only added an effective ruggedness to his almost-pretty features.
His feet were crossed at the ankles on an ottoman, his elbow propped casually on the arm of the couch, his fingers at his temple. The emotional upheaval of the day played out on his face, his eyes taking on a smoldering squint, making him look a little sleepy. He flexed his fingers together and gave a yawn against an outstretched bicep.
Yeah. You’re right, Chester. Let’s go to bed.
He pulled me to sit down next to him, practically on his lap, throwing an arm around my shoulders. I caught Lisa’s eye and bit my lip. It was like not a single day had gone by. Right there were Lisa and Pick, sitting on the sofa
across from us. And there was Rymer, occupying the easy chair in between. If Cooper and Sargento were there, I would have sworn it was 1991.
Pick slung himself across the couch and settled in at his wife’s back, his stretched form leaning into the sofa, his mile-long legs taking over the space. He waggled a finger between Trip and me and said, “So… I see this is happening again.”
Lisa elbowed him in the ribs, and I could have cheerfully strangled him, but Trip just chuckled. He met my eyes, gave my shoulder a squeeze, and answered, “Hell yeah it is.”
I melted at the satisfied grin he aimed at me.
“Took you long enough,” Pick jeered.
I was smiling into Trip’s eyes, but directed my reply to Pickford, “Some of us weren’t as smart right out of high school.”
At that, Lisa and Pick shared a knowing look.
Rymer was taking in the scene, his head darting back and forth between the four of us. “For chrissakes! I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.” That made us chuckle as he hauled himself off the chair and added, “Alright. I’m getting a drink. Who needs? Ladies? Pick? Trip?”
There was a moment of unease before Lisa and I answered that we were fine, Pick put in an order for a Coke, and Trip cleared his throat. “I’ll take a water, thanks.”
Rymer started to navigate around the coffee table, shaking his head. “Coke? Water? Jesus. Be careful you don’t spill any on your skirts. C’mon you pansies. Let’s do a shot or something.”
The smile suddenly dropped from his face, realizing what he’d just said. I mean, we were all there because Trip’s father had just lost his battle with alcohol. Trip had just recently kicked the habit himself. “Oh, Trip. Man. I’m sorry. I wasn’t even—”
“Dude, no. It’s alright. Don’t worry about it.” Trip offered a genuine grin to his friend, who nodded his head before exiting the room.