by Larry Brill
“She won’t even let me call her that,” Carla grumped.
Julie climbed onto a stool on the opposite side of the table from the actress. She leaned forward, confused, certainly curious, but not all that angry with her. It wasn’t her fault. Nate was the one who had hoodwinked them.
“Miss Farnham. Tina. I don’t know what it’s like down there in your world, but I don’t appreciate all the pretending. Nate shouldn’t have lied to all of us about what he was up to. He used us. Worse, he manipulated people and he ruined things, relationships and lives, and, well, just about everything. He did it so he could have this great story to sell. I don’t blame you for buying it, but he treated us like a bunch of puppets on a string. Do you know what that feels like?”
“Every day, Julie. Welcome to my world.”
“And talk about selfish.”
“He said he really did set your boyfriend up with another woman. Until then, I thought he made up that part for the script. Frankly, I think he could have run with it a bit more.”
“That was the funniest part, if you ask me,” DeSean said.
“Nobody asked you.” Carla elbowed him.
“Are you in love with Nate?” Tina asked. She put both elbows on the countertop now and leaned in, staring at Julie through the blue flame of the coffee Bunsen burner.
Carla and DeSean leaned in from their corner of the table so that the four heads created a huddle.
“Yeah, I’d like an answer to that, too,” Carla said.
Everyone stared at her as if her answer carried the weight of the world. She knew the answer, but the answer was complicated. She could let them guess. “That’s personal. Are you?”
Julie’s lips worked halfway to a smile. It was nothing more than a joke that rolled off her tongue with little thought. She was kidding.
“Yes. At least I would be if not for you.”
That was awkward. Everything skidded to a halt.
Carla coughed. “DeSean, how would you like to see our espresso machine in the faculty lounge? It’s really something. Maybe you can help me figure out how to make it work.”
“I don’t drink espresso.”
“I don’t, either. And bring that notebook of yours.”
What was the actress thinking? Tina didn’t answer; instead she pushed her sunglasses up on her nose over her eyes. They hid what Julie assumed was a condescending look. The actress cocked her head, confirming it. “Let me tell you a story.”
“Is this going to wind up in your movie, too?”
“Of course not. Well, then again, I can see where it might be useful. No, probably not.” Then she explained to Julie how she had met Nate on the set of a film they were shooting in Aspen. “Nate was just another one of the staff writers, an extra pair of hands on the script. A nobody, really.”
But he caught her eye with some perfect insight for Tina’s character during a brief script meeting. It might have been the fact that Tina was playing a newly divorced character and Nate was still dealing with his wife issues and the breakup of their marriage. “The things he wanted to add touched me. Right here.” She tapped her heart. Tina said she was single again, between her second and third marriages, or was it third and fourth? No, definitely second. Their meeting turned into a long lunch together, followed by dinner the next night, and a night together that turned into a six-month relationship.
“But when I suggested we move in together, he wasn’t interested. Well, he was interested. Who wouldn’t be, with me? But just the same, he said he wouldn’t.”
They had one of those long, rambling conversations that lasted all night and revealed too much information.
“I know that feeling,” Julie said.
“That boy can talk up a storm. What it came down to, and the reason he didn’t want to set up house with me, was dealing with his divorce made him realize he was in love with a girl he’d known all his life. Oh, he loved his wife, but he never forgot the girl.”
A composition notebook sat on the lab tabletop an arm’s length from Julie. She pulled it close, opened it and studied the blank page as if it would give her the answers to a critical midterm. This was life and she was afraid she might flunk.
Tina stated the obvious. “He was talking about you. All those years ago. After reading his script, I knew it the moment we met, Jules.”
She stood, staring at Julie from behind her dark glasses before picking up her purse. “I’ve got a plane to catch. Better go.” She moved toward the door. “In the corner of my office, there is a stack of scripts and story pitches, project proposals and the like about this high.” She held her palm just below her waist. “Most are pure drivel. But the writer in each and every one would give their eyeteeth, their first born, abandon their spouses, and some would even crawl across hot coals to have their movies produced. It’s the nature of the business. This was Nate’s chance to break out of the pile. It’s the stuff of dreams. And what does he do? He throws that fat opportunity back in our face.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nate skipped out on our meeting to sign the contract. He refused to even negotiate with us for a better deal. No sale. No deal. No movie. I talked to his agent. Jack says he doesn’t want anybody to have it. Maybe he was still drunk. Maybe it was the hangover, but I think it’s because you threw him out last night. Jules, I like that he calls you that, what he wrote wasn’t just any old story. It was moving. It was beautiful. It was a love poem. For you.”
“For me?”
“That’s why I came here. I thought you ought to know. You don’t look like you have any magical powers, but you sure cast some kind of spell over him. What’s your secret? I might need it for my next husband.” The actress had gone off the deep end. It was all far too dramatic and probably made up. But she was okay with that. It was soothing in a B.S. kind of way.
“I gather you want me to talk with him. You want me to convince him to give his story to you.” Julie was insulted. These people would do anything to get what they wanted. Crush people and break hearts in the process? Who cares?
Tina Farnham paused after opening the classroom door. She took the sunglasses from her face. Disgusted. “Give me a bit more credit, please. No, that ship has sailed. Wouldn’t touch it now. I’m doing this because Nate is my friend, still one of my favorites. I may not have thought twice about this story if it came from someone else. But from Nate? It was the story that, when we were together, I would have wanted him to write for me. About me. He’s in love with you and you know it. You’re too smart not to. No, I’m here helping out a friend, maybe two friends if you’ll let me. What you kids do from here is your business.”
By Sunday morning, she still hadn’t decided what to do about Nate. She spent the weekend going back and forth. Pulling weeds in the backyard on Saturday, she wanted to do the safe thing. The practical thing. She would let him go on his merry way and avoid getting emotionally caught up with someone as unpredictable as him. In the shower, the water was hot and the soap was unusually sensual as she lathered her body with her bare hand instead of a washcloth. Why not take a little risk?
Because it wasn’t sensible.
Would you rather be sensible and lonely or shoot for the moon and enjoy the ride?
She tried to ignore the battle in her head as she walked home from the Happy Yen Mini Mart under a partly cloudy sky and air that smelled like spring was around the next corner. A small, rectangular and unmarked brown box greeted her at the base of the front door when she got there.
She opened it at the kitchen table, and there were two items inside. The first was a sheet of binder paper on top with a note from Nate, asking her to meet him after school. No place and no time. Nothing more.
The second item was a navy blue piece of fabric. It wasn’t until she held it up that she recognized it, a sweater that brought her to tears and made her laugh. The fabric was coarse, but the sentiment was sweet, and it melted her heart in a way only Nate could.
Pinned to the lapel, a scrap
of paper with a clumsy script meant to resemble a child’s handwriting:
Our first kiss.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Into the Sunset
By the following Friday, Nate had confessed it all to Sister Sam. Samantha. She taught seventh grade science at St. Christopher of the Cross Catholic School. She was the only nun on staff these days. Back in his day, sisters ran the joint. You couldn’t launch a decent spitball without hitting one. The current principal, Mrs. Kennsington, assigned Sister Sam to monitor him as long as he was going to hang around the front steps after school and make sure he wasn’t a pervert. He couldn’t blame her, but convincing the principal took quite a bit of doing on Monday afternoon.
Mrs. Kennsington didn’t really believe it was all in the name of love until he walked her down the hallway lined with sixty years of class photos, stopping near the end and pointing to the mug smiling from the third row of portraits, second from the left.
“That’s me. And that’s Julie Cooper. She’s going to meet me here after school.”
Four days later, he was still waiting.
Sister Sam was thirty, though she looked ten years younger. It was the fresh face and freckles, he decided. Nate twirled a white carnation in his hand. He liked Sister Sam. He never had a problem with the nuns when he was growing up, but he never saw them as real people. They were all born a hundred years old with a no-nonsense attitude. They knew everything, so they liked teaching and they were all at least seven feet tall. Samantha Jean, on the other hand, was once a little girl, had parents and siblings, still liked to roller-skate around the playground when no one was watching, and she stood a shade over five feet tall. They talked a lot over the course of the week. She even had a semi-serious boyfriend in high school, so she could relate to Nate’s plight.
The playground had fallen quiet, parents had fetched all their students, and there was no action left in the school day. “It looks like it’s safe to leave me out here now, and I’m sure you have better things to do than babysit me. I might stick around a little longer.”
Sister Sam asked if he would be back on Monday. Nate said he would, as well as Tuesday and beyond. “As long as it takes.”
Samantha said she would stick around, too, another half an hour. “I’d hate to miss something.” So they talked about stuff until the shadow of the cross on the building’s gabled roof crept across the sidewalk and headed into the street. They turned their heads at a putt-putt-putt approaching. Julie putt-putted and sputtered to a stop with a last-minute lurch at the curb on a scooter. It was one of those Vespas you saw people riding along cobblestone European streets in the movies. And it was pink.
“Is that her?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Cool ride. Cool color. I’ll be going now. This is going to make a great story for the gals at the convent over dinner tonight. Email me an update, promise? Good luck.”
Nate met Julie at the bottom of the steps.
“I was in the neighborhood,” Julie started. “I got your note. I wondered if you would still be here.”
“Seems I can’t let go of the past. Or maybe it won’t let go of me.”
“Like a dog with a bone minus all the slobber.”
“Clever, Cooper.”
Julie tapped his shoulder as she slipped around him on her way up the steps, pausing on the first one. “For me?” She took Nate’s carnation. “The last time you handed me a flower, a thorn bit my hand. It was bleeding when you left.”
“Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Nate said it naturally and then recognized how much it meant in the grand scheme of his screw-up.
“It’s okay. That scratch under your eye is looking pretty good now. Who would have thought roses could be so dangerous?” As she made her way up four more steps to the top, she said, “I guess we wounded each other.” Julie laid a hand on the railing, turned and gave him a sideways glance, a hint of a smile and pointed the flower at him as if it were a magic wand. He swallowed hard. It was déjà vu all over again.
“You know, these steps have always been special for me,” she said.
“You, too?” Nate was feeling the heat now. He rubbed one foot against his other ankle hard. He wanted to make sure this wasn’t one of his fantasies. No, it was real, for sure. And he felt like a kid again. He watched her drift from one side to the other. Then she looked down at him, tapping the flower in her palm, and said, “Our first kiss. You finally remembered.”
“I never forgot it. Not really.”
“It was here on the steps. Fifth grade. The Christmas pageant?”
“We came out here to get cupcakes from your mother’s car after the play. You were dressed like Mary.”
“And you were Joseph. And you kissed me. On the lips, before we went back inside.”
“And that snitch David Cox ratted us out to Sister Mary Constance. Boy, did she let me have it.”
Julie nodded. “I got the lecture about what nice girls do and don’t do.”
“I blocked it out for years, emotionally scarred, because it was such a painful experience.”
“Kissing me?”
“No, that I beat the snot out of David for ratting me out to Sister and got three raps on the knuckles with her ruler and a week of detention."
Nate moved to the top step and sat down. He studied the sky and the street. Julie sat down beside him.
“Thank you for coming,” he said. “I was sure you would, then I started to worry that I screwed up again.”
“It was touch-and-go there for a while. I’m so tired. I’m tired of being alone. But I’m still not sure about this. About us. Too many times we had moments like this. I don’t know why I should think it will be any different this time.”
Nate wanted to tell her about his déjà vu and dreams of pretty little raven-haired loves on the steps before he was old enough to know love. Better to save it, if this was going where he hoped, and bring it out when they were old and gray and time validated the inevitability of their soul mate-ness.
“I’ve been thinking all week. What exactly did you mean, you know, that cute little line you dropped about rewriting the future?” she asked.
“It’s like this. Go ahead and laugh if you want. Let’s agree that I’ve always had a part of me stuck in the past. That’s not so crazy, but where it gets crazy is that there were times when I would think of you and I could force myself to believe that if I only wished for it hard enough, if I meditated, ruminated, or even opiated really, really hard, I could go back in time and fix things. Things like us. Sometimes, when I was really down, it actually pissed me off that I couldn’t make the impossible happen.”
“That’s when you decided to get professional help?”
He wasn’t sure she was kidding, but whatever. “So I came home, thinking I would build this wall and live in the past as much as I could until I felt better.”
“And you’re sure you don’t need therapy?”
“Ah. I may have been living in the past, but I always stayed in the moment. I knew the difference, but it made me feel better. Then it was weird the way things fell into place with the job at our old school and you being there. Like it was meant to be. I thought that would be enough. But that first day I saw you was when it really all came into focus.”
“And what was that?”
“Not only was it stupid to pretend I could recreate the past, but I didn’t really want that. I had this incredible second chance at convincing you to give me a second chance, and I was going to do everything I could to keep from blowing it again. Does that make sense?”
“In the way only you could. So why did you have to write about it?”
“It’s what I do. I dream; I write; I wanted to write about us.”
“But that’s what makes no sense. You had the chance to achieve something you worked for, that you dreamed of all of your life, and you turned them down when they were ready to buy it.”
“Yeah. Funny. It was our story through and through. We
were living it, but if it wasn’t going to have a happy ending, I didn’t want to make one up just to please them, and I didn’t want them tacking on some stupid ending that wasn’t real. Then it wouldn’t be our story anymore. And it seemed like the story was going to end exactly the same. Nowhere good.”
Nate crossed his arms and leaned forward against his knees. He tilted his head and, with closed eyes, drank in the late-afternoon peace.
“What are you doing?”
“Savoring this for a memory I’ll want to pull out thirty or forty years from now. God, it’s a shame we don’t learn when we’re young to stop and smell the roses. No matter how hard you try, you have to put some history between yourself and a special moment to understand how great it is.”
Julie stood. She went to the scooter, lifted the seat and pulled a ball of navy fabric from the storage compartment. He stood and followed her to the sidewalk. She offered it to him. The sweater was worn and faded St. ChrisCross blue. A gold patch with the school’s initials covered the left pocket. On the breast, next to the top button, his note, Our first kiss, pinned to it.
He hesitated, took it in his hands and then pushed it back to her.
“I want you to have it.”
“I’m still not sure it’s the right thing.”
“Take it for now. Keep it until we break up.”
“How can we break up when we’re not together?”
“We will be if you wear my sweater. I know it doesn’t fit and all that. But I’m asking you. To, uh, you know, go steady?”
“Until we break up? That could be ten minutes from now.”
“Or it could be ten years, or never.”
She held the sweater to her chest and dropped her chin, thinking. Deciding. She buried her nose in the fabric. “It smells musty. I don’t think anyone would tell you to stop and smell the polyester.”
“What? You’ve never heard that before? I’m thinking of having a T-shirt made with that saying. Stop and smell the polyester.”
Julie kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Okay,” she said, and returned the sweater to the compartment under the scooter seat and picked up her pink helmet. She drummed her finger on it, looking at Nate with more light in her eyes than he had seen before. Studying him.
