Ten Years Later
LISA MARIE LATINO
Copyright © 2016 Lisa Marie Latino
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information, address Long Shot Publishing, 333 Route 46 West, Suite 202B, Fairfield, NJ 07004.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
www.lisamarielatino.com
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ISBN: 099735240X
ISBN: 09780997352405
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016909786
Long Shot Publishing, Fairfield, New Jersey
Book design by Damonza
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
The clicking of her black high heels echoed throughout the quiet hallway as they expertly navigated toward her final destination. She opened the office door, and entered the cheery waiting room, lit up by the beaming sun outside.
She gave her name to the student receptionist, an awkward-looking teen age girl with big glasses and bad acne. She nervously sat in one of the stiff chairs in the waiting room. She was fidgety, folding and unfolding her hands as she looked around the room, marveling at how nothing had changed. She felt the girl’s eyes staring at her but pretended not to notice. As the seconds went on, the clock on the wall ticked louder, and she started scratching her right arm with panic.
“Carla?” the receptionist asked politely.
She snapped out of her daydream. “Y-yes?” she stammered, promptly stopping her scratching.
“Mrs. Wright will see you now,” she responded. “It’s the-“
“First door on the right, I know,” she said, rising from her chair.
She took a deep breath, collected her purse, smoothed out her black pencil skirt and started walking down the hall.
“Good luck!” the teenager called out to her merrily.
Carla nodded over her shoulder and slowed her pace as she approached the office door. She knocked.
“Come in!” a sweet voice called out.
Carla slowly turned the knob and was greeted by a familiar smiling face.
“Carla, how ARE you?!” the blonde woman exclaimed, extending her arms. “It is so good to see you. It feels like yesterday!”
“Hi, Mrs. Wright,” Carla replied, taken aback by the older woman’s enthusiasm, and warily threw one arm around her.
Mrs. Wright broke the embrace, took a step back, and gave her a look-over. “You were always one of my favorite students, and you are still as beautiful as ever. Turn around, let me see your backside.”
Confused, Carla let out a tense laugh and did a quick rotation. “Tada,” she sang weakly, facing the palms of her hands up and raising her arms, mock presenting herself.
Mrs. Wright’s bright smile was replaced by a look of sheer disappointment, and it made Carla promptly put her arms back down.
“Huh,” Mrs. Wright huffed, folding her arms. “Have a seat.”
“Oh, okay,” Carla said uncomfortably, quickly sitting down in one of the black leather chairs.
Mrs. Wright walked to the file cabinet, pulled out of a folder, and settled down in her oversized desk chair. “So Carla,” she began, leaning in front of Carla’s face. “Let’s see how far you’ve come since senior year, shall we?
Carla nodded nervously.
Mrs. Wright opened the file folder and started reading. “Your last name is still D’Agostino, so I take it you never married or you did but got divorced.”
“Nope, never married,” she said, shaking her head.
“That’s a shame,” she said sympathetically, marking an “X” in her file. “Many of your former classmates have been married for years, or on their way to becoming so. Do you at least have a boyfriend?
“No boyfriend,” Carla answered quietly.
Mrs. Wright furrowed her brow, making another mark on her sheet. She then had a thought, looked up and smiled. “Are you at least in a casual relationship?” She winked, her ice blue eyes twinkling devilishly.
“I haven’t been with a guy in over two years,” Carla deadpanned.
“Are you serious?!” Mrs. Wright exclaimed, clearly startled. “Honey, you are in the prime of your life, you should be getting laid all the time!”
“Not me,” Carla said through gritted teeth.
“Well, do you have kids? Sometimes the sex goes away after you have a child.”
“Clearly no kids,” Carla retorted. “Unless by Immaculate Conception.”
Mrs. Wright hurriedly turned the page in her file folder. “Okay, let’s get off the topic of relationships. Let’s talk about career. You wanted to be a sportscaster. Are you doing that now?”
“Not exactly,” Carla said, “although I do work full time for the country’s top sports radio station, W-S-P-S. I’m a show producer.”
“Lovely!” Mrs. Wright exclaimed. “What does a show producer do?”
“I get stats, player injury updates, take listener calls, or get coffee if the host needs it, that sort of thing.”
She scrunched her nose. “You get coffee?”
“Well, no,” Carla continued. “It’s actually more like tea or water. That’s better for keeping your vocal chords hydrated.”
Mrs. Wright’s eyes widened. “You did graduate college, right?”
“Of course, I did! I graduated cum laude from New Jersey University in four years, just like my mother wanted,” Carla said proudly.
“And you’re getting coff—excuse me, TEA—for a living?”
“It’s only one of my many responsibilities,” she said defensively.
“Uh huh. So in the midst of running around getting beverages, you don’t fraternize with your fellow co-workers or even guest athletes?”
“I do,” Carla said slowly. “I have a lot of friends all over sports.”
“And you still aren’t getting laid?”
“I thought we were off that subject,” Carla said sweetly.
Mrs. Wright frowned.
“However,” Carla quickly said, “I am the producer for the stations top-rated show. The next natural step is for me to get my own sports talk show, just as I always wanted!”
Mrs. Wright perked up. “That’s great! I’m sure you’ll be on air before you know it, given you have no, um, PERSONAL distractions,” she said pointedly, raising an eyebrow. “Having a job like that will make the rent easier to pay, and it will probably score you a lot of dates.”
“Rent?” Carla asked innocently.
“Yes, like on an apartment,” Mrs. Wright explained as if she were speaking to a child. “Unless… Do you own a home? Do you have a mortgage?”
“I have neither,” Carla answere
d slowly. “I still live with my parents.”
“YOU DO?! At your age?!” Mrs. Wright shrieked in horror.
Carla shrugged. “Radio doesn’t pay all that well.”
Mrs. Wright shook her head furiously. “Maybe it’s time you think about a career change.”
Carla frowned. “Mrs. Wright, you seem very upset with most of my answers.”
Mrs. Wright took a deep breath to compose herself. “No, I’m not, it’s just that…” she trailed off.
“It’s just what?”
“You were such a vibrant student. I expected much more out of you at this point in your life. Your peers are light years ahead of you, and frankly, I’m concerned.”
Mrs. Wright’s words hung in the air as the two sat in silence.
“…And your ass has gotten even bigger, to boot,” Mrs. Wright whispered.
Carla stood up, blinking back tears.
“Well…I’ve traveled to Europe! I may not be getting laid now, but I have had sex since I graduated; I wasn’t doing THAT ten years ago! I may not have the most glamorous job, but I have my foot in the door! And I may not be married or have kids or whatever like everybody else but hey, my time will come! Isn’t that something to hang my hat on?”
“NO!” Mrs. Wright exclaimed, slamming her hands on the desk and jumping up inches away from Carla. “You need to grow up. You aren’t a little girl anymore. Yet you are still the same person you were ten years ago… twenty years ago…SINCE BIRTH! How are you going to change this course? You are going nowhere in life, fast!”
Carla gulped.
“Get out of my office! And don’t you come back until you’ve made something of yourself!”
“But…but…” Carla stammered.
“OUT!” Mrs. Wright demanded, pushing Carla towards the door, and giving her a final heave-ho into the hallway. Carla turned back towards the door, just in time to see Mrs. Wright give one last scowl before slamming it shut.
“She’s right, you know,” a familiar voice creepily whispered. Carla spun towards the voice and noticed a group of zombies, led by Carla’s mother, slowly closing in on her…
“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” I screamed, shooting up from bed. I panted as I looked around the dark room, touching my sweat-soaked face, chest, and arms.
“It was a dream, it was only a dream,” I breathed, feeling relief washing over my body. I reached over to my left and turned on the lamp sitting on the white ceramic nightstand. The soft glow lit up the pink walls of my bedroom. I climbed out of bed and stood in front of the mirror, studying my face.
“More like a nightmare,” I muttered to my reflection. I turned back to the nightstand and fixed my gaze on a brown piece of paper staring menacingly back at me. I swiftly grabbed it and plopped back down on my bed.
This will be the source of many nightmares to come, I thought as I read the gold foil script writing for the umpteenth time since it came in the mail earlier:
Save the Date!
June 24, 2017
Honey Creek High School
Class of 2007’s
Ten Year Reunion!
(More Details to Follow)
I flung the pre-invitation across the room like a Frisbee. I fluffed my pillow in aggravation, turned the light off, and tried to go to sleep. Key word: tried. But as in many aspects of my life, I was unsuccessful.
What else is new?
1
My days off are precious to me, so it’s really unfortunate that my unstable psyche got in the way of much-needed shut-eye. The birds chirping outside my window signaled that I should just give up and get ready for brunch with my friends at eleven.
I turned on the hot shower and tried to relax in its warmth, but instead, when I closed my eyes all I could do was play back my dream. It was too (unfortunately) on-the-money for it not to be real. (Except for the zombies; what was that about?)
After my shower, I wrapped myself in my favorite white terry cloth bathrobe and plopped down in front of my computer to write. One of the promises I made to myself after high school (and actually kept) was to keep a journal of my misadventures so I could look back years later and laugh at what a fool I was (and turn it into an Emmy Award-winning television soap opera series one day). Lately, though, my writing has been anything but award-winning. Since the end of my last relationship (two years ago!) with someone I thought was The One, my journal has been reduced to quarter-life crisis rants that only seem to worsen my mental condition and self-esteem.
Quick synopsis: The One was a guy I met the summer I graduated college, at a bar. (I should have known then; you NEVER meet The One at a bar!) We went on to have a solid, three-year relationship. About three months before Armageddon broke loose, he had locked himself up in his room to study for his Series 7 exam. Being the supportive, caring, understanding, saint-like person that I am, I gave him his space (well that, and because the faster he made money, the faster we’d get married, I reasoned. I had a deadline to be married by the time I was 25, and the clock was ticking!) So you could only imagine my despair when one day, I logged onto Facebook and noticed that The One’s profile contained some very puzzling information. Seeing he was online, I instant messaged him:
Carla D’Agostino: Hey!! Gotta couple questions for ya….Care to explain why “Mark Falcone has listed his current city as Encino, California???? Surely that little detail didn’t come up in our phone conversation last week.
Mark Falcone: Uh yeah…Carla, I have something to tell you…
Turns out, he met a girl on an online dating service, LoveAtFirstSite.com, fell head-over-heels in love with her via Skype, and moved out there. He didn’t have the decency to break up with me in person, or on the phone, or even in a well-thought-out text, while still living in the Eastern Time Zone. I had to stumble upon our relationship’s demise on my own, on a public social networking site. What a guy.
After our breakup, he fell off the face of the earth. He immediately deleted his Facebook profile and changed his phone number and e-mail address. His family and friends shunned me, and I have no clue of his whereabouts. (Not that I investigated; my best friends Andrea & Katie did. My Italian pride would not allow me to be that pathetic girl who tracks the guy down and begs him to come back, at least in this case anyway.)
You would think after being dealt a blow like that, the gods would look down on me, have mercy on my soul, and shower me with all the best that life has to offer (and in the same breath, rock the earth so hard that California finally did fall into the ocean).
You would think…
Two years later, I’m still stuck. Hell, 27 years later, I’m still stuck. I live in the same house I was born in, hang out with the same friends I’ve had since diapers, and deal with the same old heartbreak.
I typed out the play-by-play of my dream, and followed it up with everything I would have said to Mrs. Wright, had she not kicked me out of her office:
I didn’t have these dreams for myself, Mrs. Wright. Don’t think for a second that this is what I wanted out of life. I know I am capable of doing so much more than I am. I have no idea why I haven’t moved to the next level. What do I DO to change this dead-end path, once and for all?
The only answer I had was a mimosa, STAT! How many more hours?
■ ■ ■
“UGHHHH!” I moaned while lying back in bed. (No, I didn’t meet a guy at brunch, so get your mind out of the gutter.) The zipper of my size 6 Capri jeans wouldn’t go up over my ever-expanding pouch, so I lay in bed and sucked my stomach into my spine, hoping that would do the trick. “Come on, let’s go; let’s go,” I pleaded softly to the zipper. This was the last thing I needed after being attacked by my subconscious. Ever so slightly, the zipper inched up, and in one big burst of strength, I pushed it all the way up.
“YES!” I exclaimed in a Marv Albert-type celebration, pumping my fist in the air. I hadn’t been able to get those jeans on all spring! However, as I jumped in front of the mirror, my enthusiasm was immediately replac
ed by horror—the tightness of the jeans forced the fat around my waist to pour out. To quote the great Stewie Griffin from Family Guy: “Putting a pretty shirt over your muffin top does NOT make you a cupcake.”
“Shitttttt,” I whined, immediately unzipping the denim. I had to lie back down on the bed again to get the jeans down my body, and once they were finally off, I flung them across the room, landing on top of the wretched save-the-date.
I don’t get it, I thought as I feverishly went through my closets for the 30th time that morning. I’d always been curvy, but when I hit 27, my hips just ballooned out. I didn’t change my diet habits (I alternated between eating clean on the weekdays and completely pigging out on the weekends) or my workout schedule (because I didn’t have one), so why did my body morph from “dangerous curves ahead” to pleasantly plump? Weren’t these changes supposed to happen at menopause, or at least after childbirth?
“Your body knows you are never going to have kids so it’s giving up from now!”
Mrs. Wright’s Satanic voice boomed in my head.
I sighed as I pulled out the flowy white sundress that I’ve probably worn 50 times since the weather started getting nice because it’s one of my few items that still fit. I paired my outfit with some cute beige wedges and silver hoop earrings. I hairsprayed my dark brown wavy mane while giving myself one last look-over, and headed out of the safe comforts of my bedroom and into the lion’s den.
It was pretty much a guarantee that whenever I came in contact with my mother, it always ended up in a fight. For living in the same house, we didn’t come face-to-face all that often, since our schedules were totally different. But when we were home at the same time during waking hours, I tried to avoid her at all cost, especially on self-pity days, but what was I supposed to do when I couldn’t, parachute out of my second story window and make a run for it?
Luckily, I saw that she was on the phone while wiping down the kitchen counter. I threw a wave as I walked swiftly past her.
“I’ll call you back. Carla just got downstairs,” my mom said hurriedly.
I picked up my pace. “Mom, I’m leaving, there’s no need-” But it was too late, the phone was already back in its cradle. Checkmate.
Ten Years Later Page 1
