by Alana Lorens
She hadn’t heard from Arran for almost four months. He had two songs on the charts; he had to be able to afford a phone, or a stamp, even, by then. Despite what he’d said to her, she had to realize that what she was clinging to was a fantasy. Like she’d thought all along, real people never got that chance, the one in all the books and movies, the chance to be with a soulmate. If there even was such a thing. How long did she intend to be an idiot?
So she did say yes. She married Tim Grange in a small ceremony at his family’s church, with a few of her friends and a lot more of his high-class companions there. Their first dance at the reception was to Copper Moon’s “That Girl’s the One I Love.” Only she understood the irony.
Those friends Tim cultivated got him a transfer to Pittsburgh, a step up to head manager level at a restaurant there. Bored by sitting around the house every day, Leyla worked at his new restaurant for a while, but he seemed agitated that people thought he couldn’t afford to take care of his wife, so she quit after a few months. More bored than ever, she went back to school to study creative writing, taking that inventive spark she and Arran had shared and polishing it up.
Even while she filled her days with new experiences at the university, Tim wasn’t happy. “What is it costing us for you to spend your days with all those young guys, hmm?” he would ask. “Are you having nooners in the student lounge?” and, “How can books cost so much?”
She tolerated the complaints for the first three weeks of the term; then she finally snapped. “What do you want from me, Tim? I thought we would be partners here. I tried to help you at work, but you didn’t want me there. You didn’t want me to waitress at any other restaurant. I don’t have a lot of training to do anything else.” She rubbed her forehead, trying to stave off the headache that would inevitably follow their fights. “So I’m at school, trying to learn something so I can contribute to our household. Is that asking too much?”
“Yeah? And what about the men?” he asked, arms crossed.
Nope, the headache was definitely coming. “What about them? They’re students. They study. I study. We all study. None of them does my homework for me.” She gestured to the laptop on the table and the papers and notes lying all around it.
Tim snorted. “Writing stories. Why didn’t you at least take accounting, or something useful?”
She took a deep breath and counted to ten. He’d taken her away from home, he’d dumped her in this frozen land, and he worked eighty hours a week. She was entitled to have this one good thing in her life. “Thanks for your input,” she said.
“You’d better not be fooling around,” he said. “Jane told me you like to hop into bed with guys you think’ll be famous some day.”
That statement stunned her into silence. First, because she couldn’t believe Jane would have betrayed her confidence in that way. Second, because…well, because. What I loved about Arran was his down-to-earth reality. Nothing about his fame. If anything, his fame is what ruined any chance for us.
She choked over the words. “Don’t worry, Tim. There’s no one else.”
Late for work, he let it drop. She became even more isolated, worried he’d think an association with anyone was something more than it should be. Not that she had many friends. Her soft North Carolina drawl let her neighbors know she didn’t really “belong” in Steelers’ territory.
Tim worked long hours at the restaurant, too tired when he got home to be much of a husband to her. They hardly had time together to go out to all those fancy clubs he kept telling her about.
She was left on her own. A lot.
To compensate for those lonely nights, she sought out stations on the radio that played Arran’s songs, and she bought his music, listening to it when she was alone. She wasn’t unfaithful to her husband, but more than one night when he worked till the wee hours of the morning Leyla fell asleep thinking of that night in Asheville when she’d met the man she dreamed of, and lived that dream, just for a day.
Tim, however, wasn’t so dedicated to their marriage. She should have known; that’s what all the magazines said. A spouse who constantly accuses the other of infidelity often did so because they knew they were cheating themselves. One evening he showed up with one of the girls from the restaurant, a stacked redhead still wearing her uniform, a dribble of salad dressing down the front of her apron. “Ley, we need to talk.”
Leyla looked from Tim to the young woman, trying to remember her name. Ashton, Ashley, Ashtray, something like that. The way she snapped her gum, like she had so many better things to do, clued Leyla about the subject of this little “talk.”
Tim’s failure to meet her gaze told her something else; that it was Ash’s idea to end his marriage, not his. He didn’t even have the courage to admit his own failure. Leyla bit her lip, keeping her disappointment at his failure, and her own, trapped inside. Let him say it. Let him let her off the hook.
He stumbled over the words, looked at her with brown eyes full of frustration. “It’s just not working,” he finally said. “I’m…I’m moving out.”
Shouldn’t she feel more than this? She searched her heart but found she didn’t even sense relief. Just…nothing. Tim was right. It was time. “Don’t bother,” she said. “I don’t need a house this big. Just give me a week to get my things together.”
Even as she spoke, she noticed Ash looking around the living room with an acquisitive air. Yeah, and when he’s tired of you and “working late” every night, do you really believe he won’t do the same to you, honey?
But she wasn’t her sister’s keeper. Leyla had enough to do just to look out for herself.
****
Leyla sat down at her computer, absently loading up her browser while she sorted through her mail. Most of it still had her married name on it, even though she’d now legally changed it back to Brand after the divorce that had taken four years. She and Tim hadn’t really cared enough about each other to end things with any passion. She’d opened new social media accounts with her maiden name, too, wanting to shuck that whole experience as quickly as she could, once it was finally over. She didn’t mind being on her own. She had her writing; at least her husband hadn’t damaged that gift. She could create in peace.
She tossed three-quarters of the mail in the wastebasket. Stupid junk mail. That along with a bill her ex was supposed to pay. If he didn’t get around to changing that soon, she’d have to call her lawyer. If her ex made her do that, she’d be sure he got nailed to the max, just because she didn’t ever want to speak to her bloodsucking lawyer again. Ever.
Nothing exciting in her email, just a photo from her dad, some picture his neighbor had taken of him and his beagle. She checked her game sites, then the headline news from the Post-Gazette, before moving on to her Facebook account, which she kept very private, information for friends only.
A survey of the posts on her news feed since the night before showed her that her friends had gotten drunk last night, that a Serenity charity showing was happening down on the south side later that month, and that one of her friends needed some seed for their Farmville spread. She also had a message in the top left corner. She clicked on it.
Is this Leyla Brand from Asheville, NC, 2005? If so, pls msg me ASAP
The message came from an account titled Bonsai Boy.
Leyla frowned. Who the hell was this? Not someone she’d known through her husband. Most of those connections had been in Pennsylvania. Maybe one of her waiter friends from her Olive Garden days? Maybe that crazy neighbor from her little apartment on Merriman, the one who used to peek in her windows at night to see if she was naked.
Well, that was one contact she didn’t want to renew, thanks.
She refused the friend request, closed her browser and went back to the current story she was working on, a light chick-lit-style tale of a country girl in the big city. Write what you know, isn’t that what everyone said? People in Pittsburgh were so different from her friends in the South. It was like the cold winters froze
their hearts, so they couldn’t look you in the eye or care about their neighbors. Especially one divorcee, living alone in an efficiency on the second floor of a slate-toned row house on Mount Washington.
She could have gone home, but she’d never gathered the courage to move. Her lawyer, as much as she hated him, had secured her a nice five-year alimony plan, considering the affair and the fact she’d given Tim all the assets. She didn’t want any thing of his. His money, on the other hand, gave her space to write. She’d picked up a freelance gig, stringing for the City Paper, which supplemented what she got from Tim. It gave her a byline at least once a month. She liked the idea she was making a living as a creative person.
Like Arran.
Copper Moon had broken up. She’d read that on the entertainment pages of some online gossip site. Arran had decided to go on as a solo act. His music moved from broad middle-of-the-road rock to the soft rock category, his plaintive guitar accompaniment plucking the strings of her heart along with his instrument. Arran had even played in venues near Pittsburgh; Leyla had only been able to attend once. She sat way in the back, her eyes closed, just listening. Most of the time, she found it easier to sit in her room and listen to his CDs, imagining herself at the concert. Or in his life.
Quit procrastinating. Back to the writing.
****
One evening the next week, another message popped up on Facebook after she’d had her skinny-girl TV dinner, the last thing in her freezer.
Is this Leyla with an E from Bele Chere 2005? If so, please answer me.
The message, like the last, was from Bonsai Boy. Leyla with an E? Now that sounded a little more familiar. Who was this Bonsai Boy? She clicked through to his homepage but found he kept most of his information private except for those he’d chosen as friends. All he listed publicly was his hometown—Salinas, California—that his occupation was “farmer,” and that his birthday was March 11. A Pisces…Who did she know with a March birthday?
When was Arran’s birthday? Had she ever known that? She couldn’t recall him telling her. It hadn’t been relevant. Damn.
Think, Leyla. Someone should know. She typed an Internet search for Arran Lake, seeking one of those intrusive fan pages that collected information like a crazed stalker. She found several and clicked through, to be confronted with a host of photographs of Arran: in concert, on the red carpet, with his arm around a succession of young actresses or musicians his name had been linked with over the years. He was still jaw-dropping gorgeous, even six years later. The site featured articles about his concert schedule, his charity to raise money for the homeless, and… There it was. His birthday. March 11.
Could it be?
She went back to Bonsai Boy’s page, then his message. Why would he list his occupation as farmer, when he was a famous performer? She thought back to the two of them strolling through the greenhouse at the Biltmore, when he’d known so much about the plants, his education in that field.
Could it be?
Only one way to find out.
She took a deep breath, trying to sublimate her suspicions, and typed in her response: Bele Chere 2005 was a long time ago. Why are you interested?
She waited for several minutes, wondering even as she was doing it why she thought Bonsai Boy would be hovering, vulture-like, over his message board. No response came. She silently ribbed herself for being a sap. She grabbed her purse and ran out to the grocery to replenish her bare cupboards.
When she came back, she forced herself to put away everything from her three sensible, reusable cloth bags before she looked at her computer. No reason to get her hopes up. After six years, why would Arran bother to look her up now? Maybe it was just some crazy person with a sick sense of humor. No reason at all to be excited.
Then why did her heart speed up every time she glanced over at her laptop, waiting for her on her plastic-and-steel computer desk?
After she dragged it out as long as she could stand it, she took a cup of coffee to her desk and pulled her cheap chair close. Her Facebook page showed two messages waiting for her. She opened the first.
If you’re the right Leyla, you’ll know the answer to that.
The words hit her like a splash of icy water.
She opened the second message.
Have you lost something you can’t find?
She read that three times before she grasped the words. What did the writer mean? Had she lost what? She had a bunch of single socks—the dryer had eaten the other half of each pair. She’d lost her marriage—but that was more good riddance than anything else. She’d have to think about that before she responded.
Back to the writing.
She turned on the radio for some background music. It was almost time for the Top 40 roundup. Might as well see what Arran was up to, right?
Neil Patrick Harris was sitting in for Ryan this weekend, and that tickled her. She’d always liked his humor. She turned up the music and settled in to write, the evening plan to create a scene where the heroine, Dayla, dumped her cheating man. She would embellish it, of course, but she could certainly draw on real life. She knew the pain of betrayal.
The countdown moved up the chart, and she let her attention wander from the music as she got into her narrative, fingers tapping furiously on her keyboard. She—well, Dayla—had just slapped her soon-to-be ex when NPH announced that Arran Lake’s latest song had moved up six slots to number four. “And now, Arran Lake, with ‘Have You Lost Something You Can’t Find?’ ”
If she’d had a mouthful of coffee, she would have spit it out onto the screen of her laptop. She went still, silent, listening to the words.
Have you lost something you can’t find?
When you moved on, you left it behind
A gentle touch you just can’t forget
You wake up, alone, in a cold sweat.
.
Too many miles away for her to see
Too many years have passed for me,
But I can’t give up, the dream’s still real
Life hasn’t changed the way that I feel.
.
Why can’t I admit I was wrong, that it’s done?
My heart won’t let me let go, till I’ve won.
.
Her eyes filled with tears before he even got to the second stanza. The chorus felt like a punch to the gut. She lost the rest of the words, her mind spinning down into her heart like a tornado’s vortex, throwing her whole world out of balance. She always imagined he was singing just to her, when she heard his songs. This time she knew it for sure.
She clicked back to the Facebook message, mesmerized by the blinking cursor. She’d been convinced he had put her aside, dazzled by his new world of fame and success. All this time, had he really been regretting that he’d left her, back in Asheville?
Overwhelmed by a rush of emotion, she typed in one word. “Yes.”
This time, she did get an immediate response. Her message window popped up, Bonsai Boy at the top of it.
Where are you? Are you well?
I’m fine. She felt so awkward, like a kid on a first date. How are you?
Well, that was brilliant. She groaned and wished she could take the letters back.
Better now. Have you heard the song?
I did. I really liked it.
Oh, gods. Really? She sounded like a babbling idiot.
A message popped up with a friend request from Bonsai Boy.
She hesitated only a moment before she accepted the request, then she clicked back to his page, now that it was revealed to her. No photos of him, but several of what looked like farm fields and maybe an orange grove. And what were those green fruits? Avocados? Those tiny expensive California avocados?
He answered first. Pittsburgh! I never would have thought there. What took you to Pittsburgh?
She realized he could now see her page, too. Long story. Long, stupid story, actually. But it’s over. The last thing she wanted to talk about with him was Tim. Better change the s
ubject. You’re a farmer?
LOL. Yes. Told you that was always my first calling. Even finished the degree, finally. Got one heck of a spread. You’ll have to visit.
That surprised her. Even with the song, she hadn’t anticipated an actual reunion. She might think of him often, moon a little when she heard him on the radio, but the chances of seeing him again, in person? Surely, that was impossible. He was a superstar now, and what was she? A budding writer who didn’t even have a real job or a car. Back in Asheville, they’d both been working stiffs, driving crappy cars, living check to check. Now what would he ever see in her? She didn’t know what to say.
As she struggled for a response, the seconds ticked by, blossomed into minutes. Finally words came up in his message box.
Leyla, I’ve got an emergency here. I’m so sorry. Leave me your address and phone number. I promise I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.
Then the little green dot in his message box disappeared, indicating he’d gone offline.
She stared at the box for awhile, reading his request. Did she dare send her address? She thought not. Why open that can of worms again? She’d broken her heart on that particular set of jagged rocks before; she didn’t intend to do it again.
She read everything on his page, noted his list of fifty-two friends, none of them she knew, none of them famous. She read that his constant companion was a spirited golden cocker spaniel, but that he was otherwise single. She devoured it all, then turned off her browser without leaving him any information and went back to her manuscript. But as much as she wanted her fictional story to distract her, she couldn’t make it work. She turned off the laptop and went to bed.
****
Over the next several weeks, they had several disjointed conversations, left in messages on each other’s pages. The time difference and what was clearly his busy schedule still ate away at their ability to connect in real time. Leyla found herself disappointed, which indicated to her that her refusal to provide him with her personal information might be a mistake. She still cared about him. He was still wrapped inside her heartstrings.
