To See You Again

by gard, marian

  Leighton saunters into the room, swishing her tiny hips side to side. She's petite, fair-skinned and often gets mistaken for years younger than she actually is. Like last week, when someone made the assumption that she was my daughter. I thought it was funny, perhaps because I know I don't look old enough to have parented her. But she was definitely not amused, and sulked in the car for at least an hour afterward. She isn't helped by the fact that she finished high school early and started college at seventeen, little brainiac. She told me once she used to be self-conscious about her aptitude in school, at times playing dumb just to try to fit in. I never felt self-conscious per se, but I could definitely relate to her plight. I, too, spent a fair amount of time purposefully underplaying my intellect. Those days are long over. Leighton is a book-smart little beauty, but she also has a certain innocence about her, which I find attractive. Tonight, however, all dressed up, she looks all woman and all beautiful.

  "Damn," I appraise her, as inarticulate as ever.

  "Hmm," she hums, sauntering toward me in a sexy strut. She's wearing a skintight, low-cut, black dress with sequined straps, and her hair is knotted up in a twisty pattern off her neck. "Does that mean you like what you see?" Even in heels she has to tip up on her toes to reach me. I lean down and kiss her cute mouth first, and then each cheek.

  "Very much so. I'll show you how much later, but now we have to go. I can't be late tonight." She kisses me and then pirouettes under my finger showing off her dress once more. I smile down at her and place my hand on the small of her back, guiding her to the door.

  Rachel

  Beckett shifts uncomfortably as we're standing around "schmoozing"—as he would say—with a couple of executives Tim knows. On the way here he joked that he'd wondered how many crazies they'd let in to a charity event for crazies. Annoyed, I corrected him that the charity was intended to support local organizations that help people with mental illness. His insensitivity can be really grating sometimes. I let him know as much, but I don't think he cared. He hates this type of event. He claims it's because his philanthropist mother dragged him to endless charity events as a kid and young adult, but I think it's because this setting requires Beckett to restrict his conversing to polite small talk. He comes from a boisterous and somewhat argumentative family. I've witnessed "debates" between his brothers that are more like two members of opposing political parties spouting off on cable TV, both completely deaf to the other, only interested in hearing themselves talk, rather than engaging an actual discussion. Beckett likes to be in charge and boss people around; nights like this force him into the background. His direct and assertive personality has made him successful in business, but a little less so in the girlfriend department. He had a series of short-lived, failed relationships before we got involved, though I doubt he sees the connection. For all of his intelligence, he's not exactly introspective.

  Things with Beckett had been smooth sailing until recently, when I showed some reluctance to take things to the next level. An opportunity to sublet my townhome had come up, which would've allowed me to move in with him several months early. I'll readily admit—to myself anyway—that I sabotaged the whole thing to buy some time. I didn't want to move in with him. Not then, anyway. The weird thing is, I'm not even sure why. I love him; he's sweet, smart, and good to me, even if he can be somewhat pushy at times. What the hell is my problem?

  Tim breezes over to me, after giving Beckett a polite, possibly bordering on curt, greeting and then he unceremoniously launches into strategy and direction on the night's dual goal of wooing Marshmen's CEO, Maxine Jefferson, and sizing up our competition from IWC. I think it stands for innovative something or other. It doesn't matter. My job is supposed to be to get to know the owner, who is allegedly here, gain as much information as I can, and then crush them when we get to the sales call. Tim is giving me the rundown of all he's learned, per his personal assistant, about this guy. So far, I haven't heard anything that sounds all that threatening. It doesn't sound like he's been running this company for long at all, and it was a merger, which sometimes equals disaster, for at least a year.

  "So, we think this guy is in attendance tonight, Tim?" I take another sip of my wine and glance over at a significantly less bored Beckett. This has just become a competition of sorts to him. Even if this isn't really his business, he's thrilled to be privy to Tim's strategizing. He gives me a little eyebrow raise that seems to say: game on.

  "Yes. In fact, I believe that's him right over there." He gestures across the room to a tall blonde-haired guy in a sharp black suit talking with a tiny, very animated blonde-haired girl. "His name is Collin Jackson."

  Everything. Stops. I can't breathe. Tim is still talking, but I'm hearing nothing. I'm staring at the back of my former best friend, whom I haven't seen in ten years, who has now been declared my competition in the biggest event in my career thus far. This feels like a cruel twist of fate even my nightmares couldn't conjure. I've considered what it would be like to see him again in a number of scenarios; this was never one of them. So many thoughts are crowding my brain at once that if it's possible to actually think nothing—that is what I'm doing. Tim is saying my name. Once, twice, three times.

  Beckett tugs on my elbow. "Are you OK, baby?" His voice breaks through the haze. I turn to face both of them and their sharing the same concerned expression.

  "Um, yes… No… I don't know," I stammer, struggling to speak coherent words with the scant amount of moisture left in my mouth.

  Beckett pulls me close to him and Tim stands in front of both of us, shield-like.

  "All the color has drained out of your face. Are you feeling faint?" Beckett's eyes narrow with concern.

  "A little." I extract myself from his embrace and move past Tim. "I'll be fine, though. I think I'll go to the ladies room, and um, freshen up a bit."

  Tim nods, the worry still plastered across his face, and Beckett offers to walk me there, but I assure him again that I'll be fine. Spinning around and not looking, I take a half step and slam right into someone. Cold liquid splashes in my face and runs down my cheek, and I let out an embarrassing, involuntary yelp. Perfect. I look up to discover that the drink I'm now wearing all over my face actually belongs to a completely stunned Collin.

  "Shit." My voice is barely audible—not that I can hear much over my pounding heart.

  "Collin! What's going on with you? Help her out." The mini-barbie standing to his left shoves a handful of cocktail napkins into his hand and then turns her attention to me. "Are you OK?"

  I stare down at my cranberry-colored satin dress and am relieved to see that it appears nearly untouched. I return my gaze to hers and nod, mumbling a series of apologies and ‘I'm fines', while somehow managing not to make eye contact with Collin. He says nothing, but I feel his intense eyes on me. He has regained his composure enough to hand me the second wad of paper-thin napkins that his girlfriend swiped off a passing hors d'oeuvres tray, and I use them to wipe up my neck and face.

  "Will you excuse me?" I squeak to everyone and no one in particular. They all nod awkwardly and step aside making room for the little train wreck that is me. I shuffle past everyone concentrating on not tripping in my high heels as I exit the ballroom into the hallway. By some grace of God the bathroom is straight ahead. I practically sprint into it, wishing I could lock myself up in there for the duration of the night, whimpering like a teenager at the prom. I enter the first open stall and lock it shut, exhaling for what feels like the first time in minutes.

  Chapter 8

  Collin

  I inhale and exhale deeply, attempting to calm my nerves. I've never been so thankful to hear someone speak at a charity event in my life, because it has forced Leighton to cease her badgering about Raven. She isn't going to let this go. I glance at her and she's literally sitting on her hands. I cut her off as soon as they introduced Maxine and had to angle my chair away from her to deter her whispering. I was doomed as soon as she caught me staring at Raven. I'd mumbled t
hat I knew her from somewhere, and that was all it took for Leighton to practically dragged me across the room toward her. I can't get the image of Raven's horrified expression out of my mind, and I feel sure I should leave her alone, but I seize each chance I get to steal a glance at her.

  Out of the corner of my eye I can see her long, slender neck, and for some inexplicable reason, it takes me back to the first night she and I really hung out as friends. We'd been in class together for nearly an entire semester and were approaching our final project. Our professor had insisted that we pair up with a critique partner. Neither of us even asked the other; it was just assumed.

  Collin (1996)

  I see Raven seated in the back of the basement coffee house we both love to frequent, her face buried in a book. I weave through the tables and booths and dump my backpack on the table. She jumps.

  "Hey, Collin! Geez, sneak up on people much?"

  I glance down at where a watch would be on my wrist if I ever wore one. "Um, weren't we planning to meet tonight?"

  "Yeah, but not for another—" she glances down at her actual watch and her mouth falls open slightly. She looks so cute like that. "Whoa, I totally lost track of time." She grins at me pointing to her text. "Good book."

  I nod and take a seat. She is dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans, and has her hair tied back loosely with dark, wavy wisps escaping haphazardly. I glance at her face, and notice that as near as I can tell, she's makeup-free. I'm not used to this; most of the girls I know get themselves all decked out when they're hanging out with a guy, especially if they're single, like Raven. I confirmed that little fact about her last week. She's so beautiful; I guess she doesn't need to bother with all that.

  She digs around in her bag and extracts a folder, which she immediately holds tight to her chest. She gives me a bold look. "I want you to be brutal. Give it to me straight, Collin. I need this project to be good."

  I grin at her. "Um, OK." I put my hand out and she continues clinging to her folder. "Are you going to give it to me, or are you hoping my x-ray vision will kick in?"

  She flashes me a smile and slides it across the table and then cocks an eyebrow. "And where's yours?"

  I lean down and pull out some ragged notebook sheets and toss them on the table in front of her. "I'm sure it's total crap so get out your red pen."

  "Ah Collin, with that can-do attitude you can achieve anything!" She giggles, seizing the stack of papers lightning fast, like she fears I'll retract them. Smart girl.

  We sit in comfortable silence as we read through each other's work. I would say I'm surprised at how good her writing is, but I've been in class with her all semester, and she's the best there is. I feel myself sweating. What is she going to think of my work? In fact, for the first time in ages, I found the motivation to really put forth effort on something, simply because I knew she was going to read it. We spend the next few hours going through each other's work line by line. You'd think it would be tedious and awful, but time flies.

  "Looks like we're closing the place down." Raven gestures around the empty coffee house. I follow her gaze, surprised that I hadn't noticed. "Let's leave a big tip and get out of here. The staff are shooting daggers at us with their eyes and I come here too often to risk getting my coffee spit in!" She whispers.

  I shift in my chair to look behind me and see two employees lined up behind the counter with expressions that are split pretty evenly between annoyed and bored. I start shoving stuff into my bag, and she does the same.

  "Do you want to go hang out somewhere? I drank so much coffee that I don't think I'll be able to sleep anytime soon." I feel a surge of nervous energy while waiting for her reply. What the hell? I think I was in Jr. high the last time a girl made me nervous.

  She looks at me tentatively. "Sure, I guess, but not much is open right now." I note the apprehension in her voice and am scrambling to read what's behind it.

  "I have to develop some photos…would you um, like to come along?" Truly, I could do this any time, but I prefer after hours when I don't have to feel rushed. We each toss some bills on the table and she slings her bag over her shoulder, following my lead out the door.

  "Like to the dark rooms?"

  I feel my palms getting sweaty. Maybe this was a bad idea.

  "It's OK. It was a stupid idea."

  "No, I'll go," she says, falling in line next to me. "I just had no idea they were still open at this hour."

  I give her a wry smile. "Well, they're not exactly."

  She's quiet for a minute and I'm rapidly trying to think of a way to tell her I'm not hitting on her, without it coming out like an insult.

  "Is this like foreshadowing, or something?"

  I laugh. "What?"

  "You know, if this were a scary movie or book or something, would this be the part where the audience starts yelling at the girl to run in the other direction?" I just stare at her. I have no idea where the hell she's going with this. "I don't know—the whole thing just sound kind of murdery," she says, looking up at me with her huge, blue eyes.

  "Murdery?" I laugh again. "What?"

  She shrugs. "I don't know. Dark room, empty building… no one can hear my screams…sounds pretty murdery." Her lips are pressed together in a tight smile.

  I pull the key out of my pocket and pause before sliding it into the lock, arching one eyebrow. "So, let me get this straight. You think there's a chance I could murder you in here and yet you followed me to the basement anyway?"

  She punches my bicep. "No! I'm just messing with you, while simply pointing out that asking some chick to come down here with you alone at night is kind of murdery. But lucky for both of us, I'm not some random chick, I'm your friend, so I'm not worried about it."

  Just now it hits me. I gaze back down at Raven and realize she is my friend and somehow, some way, she's managed to become one of the closest friends I've ever had. She's quirky and weird, but smart as hell, and I feel different around her…relaxed.

  At the sound of the lock releasing I say, "Well then, as your friend, I feel obligated to tell you that ‘murdery', is in fact, not a word."

  She rolls her eyes and pushes me the rest of the way into the room. "OK, Dr. Webster, enough of your nitpicking. Let's get this show on the road."

  I grab a chair, sit down, and start unloading the camera equipment that's permanently stowed in my backpack. She's messing with her messenger bag on the other side of the room and I steal a glance at her. If she were any other girl, I would've made a move by now. There's a part of me that's practically screaming to push her up against the wall and kiss her until she's breathless and wanting much more of me than just my lips, but I can't risk it. I don't think she sees me that way at all, but even if she did want that from me, too…when it was over I would have no clue how to keep her in my life afterward. I run my fingers through my hair and let out a sigh. I want this girl in my life for as long as she'll stick around.

  Chapter 9

  Rachel (Present Day)

  An hour and half later we've made it through dinner, and I've managed to compose myself somewhat. I've tried to shift my focus to the task at hand, as well as to give Tim reassuring smiles anytime he looks my way. I'm praying he hasn't changed his mind about me yet. It isn't that Tim is unfair, but he isn't exactly known for second chances either, and there's no shortage of talented people in my office who would happily take my place in a heartbeat.

  I haven't so much as glanced in Collin's direction since taking note of his table's location upon my return from the ladies room. I feel his presence, however, in the same way in which I suspect a person senses a spirit in a haunted house. He feels like that to me, too—like a ghost of my past—appearing before me. In spite of seeing his solid form right in front of my eyes, I can't escape the sensation that his body is just an illusion; the real Collin is gone, ensconced somewhere in our shared history, safely locked away. I expended so much energy searching for him years ago, that it took me a long time to accept he really wasn't goi
ng to be a part of my life anymore. I sit here feeling like some spell has been reversed, releasing Collin into the here and now. Only it has altered him in some way; most notably, putting him in a suit that previously would only have been imaginable had he been pretending to be a Wall Street exec for Halloween. Who is he? Who has he become? I can't decide if in order to compete against him I need to imagine him to be someone completely new or if I need to think only of his dark, angry side that was at least partially responsible for our friendship's death. I go with neither, and try not to think about him at all. Instead I turn my attention to the guest speaker: Maxine Jefferson.

  She is the new CEO of Marshmen's department stores, a long-time chain throughout the Midwest that in recent years has lost its luster, especially among younger shoppers. She has been tasked with its revival—reinventing its image—a challenge that makes our company's collective mouths water. Tim feels attending a charity function near and dear to her is important, and I'm sure he's right.

  Maxine rises to the microphone and clears her throat following her introduction and applause. I'm surprised at how much she looks like the picture I saw of her in the press release. She's a tall woman with short, wavy, dark hair and an impressively trim figure for someone I'm guessing to be in her mid-to-late fifties. She leans in to speak. "My daughter was diagnosed with bipolar disorder three years ago." Suddenly, all attempts to forcibly forget Collin's presence are thwarted, as I'm spun back in time to a conversation he and I had early on in our friendship.

  We'd just finished eating an incredible meal he'd prepared in my tiny galley kitchen in the apartment I'd rented sophomore year. "Collin!" I exclaimed. "My God, where did you learn to cook like this? I couldn't pull off anything even close to this. In fact, that may have been the first time the oven's been used since I moved in."