by Rose Croft
It was in our English class, junior year, when I felt comfortable enough to talk to her. I liked to give her a hard time because she looked so cute when she blushed, and when she laughed…that was the best because her smile was breathtaking.
What I liked about Loren was how much she seemed to appreciate my art. Most people didn’t or they thought I was weird, but I always caught her watching me sketch as though she were fascinated by it—never judgmental. She earned a few more points in the coolness department when I hung out with her at her parents’ house and discovered we shared a common interest in music.
Up to that point, I had been attracted to her as any teenage boy would be to a pretty girl. If something came of it, great; if not, move on. That was before I had read Loren’s poetry.
When I did read one of her poems, my first reaction had been disbelief that she actually wrote something so great. It was dark and so completely opposite of who I thought she was. My dick had physically gotten hard, and the content wasn’t even sexual in nature. Anytime she showed me her weaknesses through her writing, it nearly drove me over the edge.
After I finished my second drink, I was still restless. I made another one and checked my phone. I saw a text from Alyssa from more than an hour before.
“About to board the plane. Miss you already.”
I knew she was still in flight and would be for a few more hours before landing, but I responded,
“Miss you, too.”
I tossed my phone down on the couch and guilt consumed me. I was texting my girlfriend while I lusted after a girl I hadn’t seen in years. I downed my drink, hoping that the rush of alcohol would numb my brain and make me forget about her.
I was one of the pallbearers, so I arrived at the funeral home early the next day to receive instructions on what to do. I visited with Loretta and family as more people filed in for the service. I recognized some friends from high school, and we briefly caught up and shared funny stories about Mike.
The service was about to begin, and I still hadn’t seen Loren. Every brunette who strolled through the door made my heart involuntarily beat a little quicker, but then I got hold of myself. When I saw the other pallbearers I joined them.
As the service began, I glanced back and saw Loren sneaking in to take a seat in the back. She walked in cautiously, balancing in her high-heeled shoes. She made more of a spectacle than she knew. I wanted to chuckle. Our eyes connected, and I quickly averted my gaze, giving my attention back to the person at the podium.
Next Mike’s brother, Evan, would go up to give a speech, and I twisted my head to see him leaving his seat to walk to the podium. “Um…” He cleared his throat and leaned into the mic. “I’m Mike’s younger brother…” His speech began somewhat stilted, but the longer he spoke, the more comfortable he became. He recounted family stories that made the audience laugh, and then he turned his attention to me. “Andrew and Loren…I know you’re here somewhere. I can’t count how many stories Mike told me about the three of you. You guys meant the world to him.” My gaze was pulled back to Loren. She stared at me with a pained look on her face. Her sadness always got to me, and today was no different.
As a pallbearer, I stayed behind after the service to help put the casket in the hearse. I caught Loren’s eyes before she slipped out with the crowd. I wondered if she would be going to the cemetery.
When I arrived at the burial plot, I saw her standing behind the small crowd. After the ceremony, people were giving their final condolences to the family, and I spotted Loren hugging Mike’s mom. Then she turned around, and I watched her teeter toward me in her high heels on uneven ground. I sure as hell hoped she wouldn’t fall.
She wore sunglasses, but I knew she’d been crying because she was swiping her nose with a tissue.
“You holding up okay?” she asked shakily as she stopped in front of me, laying her hand on my arm.
“Yeah. How about you?”
“This just made everything seem so final.” She bent her head as she rubbed the tears off her face. When she raised her head, she smiled tentatively. “Do you remember when Mike would tell a story? He sounded just like Ned Flanders from The Simpsons, except he threw in every descriptive obscenity he could think of. It was so funny.” She laughed through the tears.
I smiled at the memory. “Yes, he was a funny storyteller.”
“You called him a master bullshitter, right?”
I nodded. I recalled that day with her in the library so many years ago.
After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Loren said, “It’s so good to see you again. I hate that it was under these circumstances.”
“I know.”
She threw her arms around me and held me with a silent desperation. I patted her stiffly, trying to get my emotions in check. “Andrew, I’m so sorry.” Her body shook and she sniffled.
I wanted to comfort her but couldn’t allow myself to give in to my already unstable feelings. I let her cry as I consoled her awkwardly, wondering if she were sorry only for the loss of Mike, or sorry for what happened between us, too. And the longer I held her, the more I wanted to keep holding her.
Finally she pulled away. “I guess this is goodbye.” Her smile was twisted. “I saw one of your movies on TV last night. I’d seen it before. It was really good. I’ve seen all of your movies.”
“Thanks,” I said, rubbing my hands on my coat, trying to wipe away the sweat, not liking the way her compliment affected me.
She pushed her sunglasses back and ran her fingers under her bloodshot eyes. Her face was splotchy from crying, and she had mascara running down her cheeks. She was a mess—she was a beautiful disaster.
She took a steadying breath. “I’m so proud of you. You followed through with your dreams, and I always knew you were talented. I just wanted you to know that, since…” She faltered. “We probably won’t see each other again.”
The finality of her words went straight to my heart. I wanted to talk to her. I needed to know what she’d been doing all of these years. I didn’t want to let her go.
So, I did something stupid. “Hey, can you wait a minute? I need to tell Mike’s family goodbye.”
Her eyes widened as she ran her fingers over her cheek. “Okay.”
“Don’t move,” I warned lightheartedly but I seriously feared she might disappear like she did in the past.
As I said my goodbyes, I kept glancing her way, to make sure she was still there. She didn’t leave. She had her sunglasses back in place and was playing with her hair as she rocked on her heels. Unfortunately, I was also aware of how her black dress showcased her cleavage. You’re at a funeral, Andrew, I had to remind myself.
It was difficult to keep my voice level as I approached her. “Do you want to grab something to eat and talk?”
“Sure.”
We met at a restaurant nearby. It was quiet as it was between the lunch and dinner crowds. We were seated in a dimly lit booth in the corner, and she told me she was going to the restroom to fix her face.
“Hey, what would you like to drink?” I asked her before she left.
“Cab Sauv,” she responded over her shoulder as she walked to the bathroom. My eyes were glued to her butt. This was not good.
A few minutes later, my phone rang. I saw that it was Alyssa. “Hey, babe.”
“I’m on break between shoots. How was the funeral?”
“As good as funerals can be, I guess. Very sad, but the service was nice. Loretta said we needed to come back soon and visit.”
“Aww, that’s sweet. I love her,” she said. Of course…she loved everything. “What are you doing now?”
I saw Loren rounding the corner. “Uh, I’m having a late lunch with Loren.” I didn’t know why I felt guilty saying it. I was just visiting with an old friend, right?
“Well, tell her I said hi.”
“I will. I’ll call you tonight.” The waiter set our drinks on the table and motioned that he’d be back.
“Okay. I mi
ss you.”
“Miss you, too.” Loren slid into the booth as I replied and hung up. “Alyssa said hi.”
“That’s nice. Why couldn’t she stay for the funeral?”
“She had a photo shoot in New York.”
“She’s a model. How cool. How long have you been together?” She tilted the glass to her lips as she gulped a generous amount of wine.
“About six months.”
“Oh.” Her voice rose as she took another drink. Her tone sounded a little snarky. Why would that be?
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing. I was just responding like oh, that’s nice.” She laughed as though I were overreacting. I probably was. My body was already acting like a hormonal dumbshit around her. She tilted her head; her eyes were hooded. “Is it serious?”
I folded my hands together on the table. “Yes. I think so. It’s the longest relationship I’ve had in a while, since you.” I couldn’t believe I had just admitted that to her, but there was something about her that made me feel I could speak honestly with her. In the past we’d been able to talk about anything—okay, most of the time.
“I hope it works out for you, Andrew. If that’s what you really want.” The sentiment was polite, although it seemed she’d forced the words to come out. If she gripped the stem of her glass any tighter, it would snap.
The waiter approached and asked for our orders. Loren ordered a house salad with vinaigrette on the side and another glass of wine because she’d almost finished her first one. I still had half of my drink left.
“That’s all you want to eat? A side salad?”
She nodded. “I’m not that hungry.”
When the waiter walked away, I said, “So tell me what you’ve been up to since high school.”
“I graduated with a degree in journalism. And went through several temp jobs. I now copy edit auditing guides,” she said as she checked her nails.
“Do you like it?”
“Not really. It’s a boring job that doesn’t require a lot of brains, and the accountants who write the books are pompous assholes who question any changes I suggest. And it doesn’t pay much.” She picked up her wine glass and took another big sip.
“Why don’t you look for another job?”
“I don’t know. I guess because it’s safe, and I don’t deal well with change.” The waiter brought out our plates as Loren was about to polish off her second glass. She asked for another. I raised my eyebrows but didn’t comment.
“Do you still write poetry?”
“No.” She scrunched up her face up as though she thought it was a childish question.
“Why?”
“I haven’t been motivated in a long time.”
“Did you do anything with the poems you wrote?”
“No.”
“Why not?” She was damn good at writing. I loved her poems. I hated that she made it sound like her work was meaningless.
“Because I didn’t know what to do with them, and you were apparently the only person who liked them. When I told my parents I wanted to write poetry, they said that being a poet was not only a horrible career choice, but also just plain stupid.” She sighed heavily and put her hand to her forehead. “I closed the notebook permanently. I don’t even know where it is. Maybe in my bedroom closet at my parents’ house. It’s been several years. It was a foolish dream after all.”
“No, it wasn’t.” Why couldn’t she ever see that? And, why couldn’t her parents have been more supportive? What kind of people were they? I already had an idea, firsthand.
Her glass lingered in front of her lips. “It doesn’t matter anyway.”
Seeing her mouth constrict in pain felt like taking a punch to the gut. “It does matter. It mattered to me.” The words hung in the air, under the thick cloud that was closing in on us as we spoke. For some reason, everything seemed heavier—my mind, my soul…my heart—and I didn’t want to travel down this road again. “Why don’t you try to eat something?”
She forked a piece of lettuce and shoved it in her mouth, chewing and swallowing just wanting to get it over with. “It mattered to me, too,” she said quietly, laying her fork on her plate. She hung her head as though bowing in prayer. “You mattered,” she mumbled.
Fuck! I thought I was well on my way to moving past this. Past her. But today was testing my willpower.
“Okay.” She laughed shakily. “Jesus, do I sound like Debbie Downer or what? Enough with that. How did you end up writing movies?”
I studied her for a moment longer trying to get my thoughts together. “It really happened by accident. I was taking journalism classes in college, like you, and there was a new class opening that taught screenwriting. I needed some extra classes to graduate so I enrolled. We started out writing short scenes, and I really liked it. My professor said my dialogue was good, and he was very encouraging. I thought I’d try turning the short pieces I’d done in class into a full story. After I graduated, I continued to work on my script. I didn’t know what to do with my finished project, so I contacted my professor, and he helped me with revisions. He knew a local guy who was starting a production company, and he liked the script. It kind of went from there. I was extremely lucky.”
“It’s not luck. You’re very talented.” She leaned on her hand and her eyes were a little droopy. Her full, sinful lips curved in a half-smile. “How did you create the story? I mean…did you have a preconceived notion of what you were going to write? Or did it just grow organically as you went?”
“It was a combination of both. I thought about some of the people we knew in high school and ratcheted it up—some characters were definitely overblown, some not so much.”
“I think Miley’s character was spot on.”
I chuckled. “Good eye, Loren.” It felt good to talk about my work with her—as if we were working on class papers again or discussing her poetry.
“And, kudos to your version of douchy Steve.” Her voice was harder as she stabbed her salad like she wanted to kill something. “I’m glad he was publicly humiliated and blackballed at the end of the movie.”
“Thanks.” I was flattered that she paid attention to details of my movie, but this…was personal. I remember how difficult it was when I wrote Steve’s part. It was kind of my way of letting go of the past. I’d kept it bottled up for so long, and it was freeing that I could finally let it out, in a way at least. I was glad Loren appreciated that. I did it for her, too. “That part was difficult to write. I hoped I’d done a good job portraying his character, and at least there was some kind of justice in the movie.”
“It was perfect.” Loren filled me in. “I hear Steve’s not doing so great right now. He supposedly got kicked off the baseball team and kicked out of school his junior year in college because he got busted messing around with the coach’s daughter, who was only sixteen. The only reason he wasn’t thrown in jail for statutory rape was that sixteen is the legal age of consent in Arkansas, and the daughter swore it was consensual.” None of this surprised me about Steve.
She continued, “His coach made sure no other school would accept a transfer, either. And Miley dumped him. I think he bounces from job to job now and has three kids all from different baby mamas. Jamie told me this.”
“You still keep in touch with Jamie?” Should’ve known Jamie would have the scoop on other people’s lives.
“Yeah, we talk occasionally. She’s married to someone she met in college and is about to have her first child.” She stared down at her plate, fingering her fork. “Was I really that quirky?”
“What?”
“You know…the brown-haired girl who was shy and always carried her notebook around, journaling about anything and everything. Was that me?”
My blood raced through my veins. Jesus, I wrote this movie six years ago. Was it that obvious? I honestly never thought anyone would take interest in my work back then, much less Loren. Never even thought it would be picked up. It was just something I knew I h
ad to write. “You may have inspired that character.”
She laid down her fork and brought her hands together under her chin. “Is that how you saw me? As a shy, quirky girl?”
Shit. She was drawing me in again, as if I didn’t already know the time we spent together could potentially be hazardous for me. “You were…just you, Scout. Shy, yes. You liked to write too, so apparently you inspired me in some way.”
“I think I’m flattered, Andrew. And you are crazy talented, as if you didn’t already know it.” She dazzled me with her beautiful smile worthy of a glam photo.
I was caught up in the moment, but my words were truthful, regardless. “You’re talented, too, Loren.”
“You don’t have to patronize me because you’re successful.” She rolled her eyes like it was her protective shield and slapped her hands on the table. “When I was in college, I thought I would go into news writing, but I dropped the class because we had to come up with timely issues around campus, controversial issues to write an article about…” She rubbed her temples. “And I had nothing. I couldn’t think of a damn thing to write about. I went around campus trying to find something, anything to write about, but nothing came to me. It was like my brain was paralyzed. So, I dropped the class rather than fail it. The next semester, I changed my focus to public relations, but I didn’t love my PR classes, either. Writing PSAs and press releases was boring to me. And I didn’t try to get an internship like most of the other students in my class. I just lost interest in my goals because I felt like I sucked in this field. Yes, I graduated, but I did the minimum that was required of me. I never went over and beyond what I needed to do. I never stayed up all night writing poetry, as you probably did with your screenplays, because at that moment I thought I had zero talent as a writer. Instead, I took full advantage of the college life, partying and more partying.”
I guess I must’ve been watching her with a sad look on my face. It did depress me that my wonderfully talented Scout was sitting in front of me with her fingers clamped around the edge of the table. Her body was ramrod straight in the booth, defensive, as though expecting someone to give her shit about her choices in the past.