In Twenty Years: A Novel

by Allison Winn Scotch

  She trails Owen and Colin to a booth in the back, near the jukebox.

  She watches a particularly lithe undergrad, in a tiny tank top and vacuumed-on jeans, thrusting her hips to the beat of the music. The girl knows everyone is staring, and she lures them in with her long legs, her perfect rhythm. Lindy loves this glorious undergrad for a flicker of a moment until she hates her too. Hates her for her beautiful legs, her lush skin, her gust of immorality.

  Everyone always says that youth is wasted on the young, but that’s horseshit, she thinks. Nothing is wasted on them. Look at them. Look at how happy they are, how invincible they feel.

  She slides into the booth next to Colin and feels the solidness of his legs as she presses next to him. He doesn’t seem particularly put off by this, so she leaves her leg where it is. She tugs her V-neck a little lower—her boobs were always her calling card—and then she bounces around until her crimson hair cascades down her shoulders.

  Owen catches her preening. “Aren’t you a lesbian now?”

  Colin cackles. “There is no way you’re a lesbian now! Come on.”

  “Well, I’m sort of a lesbian now,” she says, fidgeting with a used coaster left over from the person who sat there before. The table hasn’t been wiped down properly. She flicks off some crumbs left behind from old chicken fingers. “I don’t like hard definitions.” In fact, she was always a bit of a lesbian, she just never told them. Tatiana is the first woman she’s been public with, but not the first one she’s loved.

  She wonders if they’ll call her on her bullshit answer, but neither seems to care too much about her bullshit in general, which is both a relief and an insult. Colin busies himself flagging over the waitress, and Owen orders two pitchers of beer, which used to be five bucks but are now twelve.

  “So. Are we done with the Lindy Armstrong attitude, and can the evening now commence smoothly?” Colin asks.

  “Screw you.”

  “Seriously, Linds. Why come back if you didn’t want to? It wasn’t like this was mandatory.”

  “No, seriously, Colin, fuck off.”

  Colin seems to find this endearing, so he wraps an arm around her and pulls her into his shoulder, which is just as well, because Lindy doesn’t have an answer for him. What is she supposed to say? That she wanted to keep tabs on Annie? That she wanted Catherine to apologize? That she wanted them all to understand how she’d triumphed without them? That she couldn’t think of anywhere else she’d rather be, not because she wants to be here, but because she didn’t want to be in those other places either. Not playing the Fourth of July show tomorrow night, not really even making out with Tatiana. Is she supposed to explain, here, over stale beer and a grimy table, that she might need a break, just for a day, twenty-four hours, from her bright-lights, big-city life while she contemplates what comes next?

  “What about you?” Lindy asks. “Why’d you come?”

  “For Bea, of course. You weren’t wrong before. I never said no.”

  Before she can reply, a riff rings out of the jukebox, and it takes Lindy a moment to grasp it, maybe because it’s too familiar, something she’s slipped into so many times she can’t even recognize it’s home. But then the waitresses (in too-small, too-tight colonial corsets) squeal, the other patrons’ applause builds to a low thunder, and she realizes it’s her song (last year’s hit single “Don’t Apologize—You Already Lost Me”). She uproots herself, standing on the bench of the booth, and bows rather dramatically, and they cheer louder, and then everyone descends around her, snapping selfies, requesting autographs, generally reminding her why she’s royalty and the rest of them are not.

  Lindy’s mouth cramps by the time they’re done. She’s used to photo shoots and faking it for the cameras, but she’s weary in a way that drains her muscles from the inside out, like someone took her body and wrung it dry. She tells herself it’s from all this reminiscing, all this overdone sentimentality. She doesn’t do public sentimentality anymore; she saves it for her writing, and since no one sees that much these days either, it’s mostly boxed away, keyed off and private, invulnerable and unavailable for public consumption. Still, though, nearly dizzy with fatigue, she finds herself wishing for solitude again, wishing that maybe she could just have some peace.

  Lindy finds a free stool at the bar and leans over, her boobs doing the work to grab the handsome bartender’s attention. He smiles from the opposite counter and makes his way toward her. “We have a Fourth of July special. Blue beer with red limes. You look like a girl who might like blue beer and red limes. Can I interest you?”

  “If that’s the type of girl I look like, then I think your radar is broken.”

  He laughs easily—great teeth, rich, dancing eyes—and Lindy mulls the option of a one-night stand. How complicated could that be? Not too complicated not to make it worth it.

  The bartender pours her a club soda at her request and tells her he’s at grad school here studying Chinese art, which Lindy pretends to be interested in. She fiddles coyly with the swizzle stick and nods her head often while her phone vibrates in her pocket. She ignores it the first time, but by the fourth buzz, she reluctantly gives in.

  Well, shit.

  She’d forgotten about the lies she’d told her team (including but not limited to: publicist, manager, Rock N Roll Dreammakers producer, trainer, nutritionist, stylist, assistant, and, well, Tatiana) to make her escape back east. That she had a wretched stomach flu. That a house-call doctor had been summoned. That he’d insisted on bed rest for at least three days. That she couldn’t perform at tomorrow night’s show because of her tenuous frailty. That she was so exhausted he suggested they release a statement saying, “She was exhausted.” (He was a house-call doctor to the stars, after all.)

  Evidently, at least half of Smoke’s has posted to Twitter, with a few especially adept patrons blasting out photos to Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram simultaneously. Under other circumstances—frankly, right up until this particular circumstance—nothing would delight Lindy more. However, given the breadth (and depth) of her untruths, said circumstances prove different.

  The texts from her publicist are not happy.

  The texts from her manager come with expected fatigue at her irresponsibility.

  The texts from the producer, particularly since he’d scrambled to find a replacement for tomorrow night’s show and was now paying Christina Aguilera double the usual rate, are really pretty fucking pissed.

  The texts from Tatiana are confused:

  I don’t understand . . . are you in Philadelphia? Why would you be in Philadelphia? I thought you were sick? I was worried. I AM worried!

  The text from Leon is elated:

  Philly! You’re there solo, right? I’m revving up the Jag!

  He’s already on his way.

  8

  OWEN

  Owen has had one beer too many. No, actually, he’s probably had about five too many. He stands for the first time in hours, when the lights glare on at 2:00 a.m. after last call, and now it’s time for all of the drunks to go home. (For the record, Owen finds this 2:00 a.m. closing time entirely too early—outrageously early! Who the hell needs to go home now? If you’ve made it to 2:00 a.m., you should be entitled to keep going, for Christ’s sake! Also, he hasn’t been out past 11:00 since he doesn’t even know when.) He clutches the wood framing on the back of the booth for balance and tries to shimmy out.

  OK, maybe six beers too many.

  Shit, he thinks. Catherine’s gonna go apeshit.

  Then he thinks, Oh well.

  “We shut this place down, dude!” He smacks Colin’s back and then burps loudly enough that Lindy is distracted from her incessant texting, which she’s been absorbed with for the better part of the hour.

  “Finish off the pitcher.” Owen thrusts the remains of the warmish, deflated beer toward her, but she flicks her hand, disinterested, so he
raises it to his own mouth and chugs. His aim is mostly dead-on, but some of it dribbles down his chin to his salmon-colored polo, and now it kind of looks like he’s been neck-sweating.

  He squeezes Colin’s shoulder.

  “We’re staying out, man! We can’t go home yet!”

  Colin has been cheek-to-cheek, deep in conversation with a woman who claims she’s in grad school for social work, but Owen suspects is a junior . . . or senior, if he’s being generous.

  But he’d never say a word, never do anything but gaze on with, well, yes, a little touch of jealousy. She might be twenty, and that might be a little gross (is it gross—maybe it’s actually impressive!), but damn . . . hit it, Colin! Who is he to cock-block Colin? Every once in a while Colin is tagged in a shot on Facebook, and he’s always got a smokin’ blonde or a lanky brunette by his side. Good for him, man!

  I’m not a cock-blocker, man, he thinks. He should get his.

  Not that Owen’s been in a position to really cock-block for the past decade. Sometimes, yeah, back when he was still working at the firm, and they’d all go out for closing dinners or deal drinks, and a few of his buddies (both married and single) might try to score for the night because they were celebrating. But those days are far behind him—five years behind him—and now, as far as Owen is concerned, at this exact moment no one should ever not tap what he wants, who he wants, when he wants. Goddamn it! Why shouldn’t we always get exactly what we want?

  When was the last time Owen got exactly what he wanted? Five years ago, maybe, when he quit. Five years is a long time to wait to feel gratified. Not that he doesn’t love the time with the kids. Piano lessons and tennis matches and science projects and all that. Still, it turns out that five years of science projects does not exactly lead to personal fulfillment.

  But Catherine pays the bills, and he’d known this was the deal. He’d wanted this to be the deal. He just didn’t realize how much he’d dislike it. But what’s to be done now? He’s not a hot property in the legal field, and even if he were, he can’t ask Catherine to stay home! It’s not like she can just up and quit the way he did. This notion makes him even less happy: that he was utterly disposable in his own little world, whereas she sits atop hers. No one noticed when he gave his walking papers—well, his assistant brought him a pumpkin muffin on his last day, and a few of his “work friends” pitched in for a decent bottle of wine.

  Owen miscalculates the depth of the bottom two steps leading out of Smoke’s and stumbles out the front door onto the still busy sidewalk, the thick air assaulting his already clammy face. Lindy grasps his elbow, steadying him, as a summer student strolls past and yells, “Bitches, I need a cheesesteak!”

  “Shit, man,” he says, mostly to himself, since Colin is plugging the possible sophomore’s number into his phone, and Lindy is ducking her head so no one else recognizes her. “I really want a cheesesteak. Do you know when the last time I had a cheesesteak was?”

  Lindy doesn’t answer, so he says, “Senior year, man! Senior fucking year!”

  “How important can a cheesesteak be to you?” Lindy asks.

  “Goddamn important!” he yells. “Also, what is with your attitude? I love you, Lindy, I love you!”

  “I don’t have an attitude.”

  “You do,” he slurs. “You do.”

  She stares at her phone rather than dignify him, as they hover under a street lamp waiting for Colin to close the deal.

  “She’s, like, twelve,” Lindy says finally.

  “Don’t cock-block,” Owen answers. “Don’t be a bitch and cock-block.” Then, “I didn’t just skip out on my job, FYI. In case you think I’m, like, some pathetic, emasculated househusband.” He stumbles over “emasculated,” and Lindy leans in a little closer, as if proximity will help his enunciation.

  “I didn’t think—”

  “Catherine wanted this,” he interrupts. “Jesus Christ, Colin, can you hurry the fuck up? I’ve never needed a cheesesteak more in my life!”

  Then back to Lindy. “We agreed on it! That it would make everything easier. That someone needed to be home with the kids, and it sure as hell wasn’t going to be her.” He rubs his collarbone, which surely smells like old beer. “I mean, she’s not a bad mom. I didn’t mean that. Shit. I’m drunk. I really need a cheesesteak.”

  “It’s hard, I’m sure.” Lindy tries to fake sympathy.

  “Don’t have kids,” Owen says. “It complicates everything.” Then he slumps against the lamppost. “No, that’s awful. I love my kids. Oh my God, I love them so much.”

  “Mason?” Lindy’s face is hopeful, like maybe she’s gotten the name right, but Owen doesn’t notice.

  “He’s the best, man. And Penelope. She’s gonna be twelve. Oh my God, my baby is almost a teenager.” He drops his chin to his chest. “Being a dad is the best thing I’ve ever done. I like being home with them. Since when has the world decided that’s a terrible thing? Shit. Maybe we could get a babysitter, but it’s not like I’m that employable. I mean, I kind of sucked as a lawyer . . . well, I didn’t suck but . . . I brought it up to Cathy a few weeks ago . . .” He shakes his head. “That went well.”

  Lindy’s brow creases into tiny chopsticks, like she’s worried that Owen is about to start crying.

  “Oh God, please don’t start crying!”

  Owen lifts his head and rolls his eyes up at the night sky. He can’t recollect the last time he was this drunk. Or drunk at all. Catherine isn’t home often enough for them to build a proper social life in Highland Park, and Owen’s not the type to go to dinner parties alone. Sure, he has a few guy friends—husbands of the women he knows from around school (his “work friends” fell by the wayside after a few texts about plans that never materialized)—but these aren’t toss-five-back-and-pour-your-heart-out friendships. They talk about the Cubs and the White Sox and the Bears, and sometimes, when conversation is really waning, the Blackhawks. If the Bulls are on a streak, them too. You don’t have to have three pitchers of Budweiser (and that’s just your own portion) to talk about the Bulls. Also, they all have careers, work talk, client horror stories. Owen just sits there and nods, his shame quietly boiling in his gut, rising up, rearing its head until recently. Now he can no longer ignore it.

  “My wife hates me.” He sighs.

  “No,” Lindy says.

  “She’s such a fucking genius. I mean, the choice was obvious: her or me. Of course it was her. Have you seen her company? She, like, rules the world.”

  “I don’t know. You’re smart.” It comes out like a question.

  “No,” he slurs. “She’s perfect. Always was. Remember?”

  Owen loses himself for a sliver of a minute to that time: how they shared a full-size bed with no complaints of toes poking the other; how they would sneak away during finals week in the library stacks and make out where no one could see them; how, while everyone was planning boozy spring breaks to Mexico or Florida, they went home to her parents’ house, where they did things like look through her elementary-school photo albums and help her dad move his tools around his garage. They were perfect.

  He wishes he knew when they took such a strident detour from their happiness. It’s impossible, though, and not just because he’s wasted right now. Rather, because it’s not like there’s one event that imploded them—no infidelity, no betrayal, no awful abuse that he could point to and say, “That’s when we began to sour.” No, their contentment just trickled away, bit by bit, as each of them drifted out on their own separate waves, the water lapping beneath their feet, and they each, separately, pretended not to notice the current pulling them apart.

  Lindy takes pity on him.

  “Remember how Bea used to say that if you were miserable, you were the only who could change it?”

  Owen is surprised to remember this, and from Lindy’s wide-eyed expression, she’s surprised that it came to her too
.

  “That’s weird,” he says.

  “What?”

  “You being insightful.”

  “I can be insightful!”

  “In your music,” he says. “Not in your life.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Well, anyway, I’m not miserable.”

  “And I’m not always a bitch.”

  “I’m just drunk,” he rambles over her words. “Really. Catherine basically rules the world. We’re happy. We’re perfect. I couldn’t ask for anything more.”

  9

  ANNIE

  Annie lies in bed, her hair fanning across the pillow like a crown, and keeps checking the time on her phone, wondering when Colin is going to get home. Wondering too why he had to chase Lindy down the street rather than stay and reminisce with her. Someone was always chasing Lindy down one street or another, but not Annie. She’d rather lie here like a bug in a rug than dash after Lindy, thank you very much.

  Annie wonders what it would take to make Colin chase her down the street. Probably nothing; there’s nothing Annie could do to make herself worthy enough for Colin to pursue her. She opens the front-facing camera on her phone and studies herself through the dim, muddied light on her screen. Even with some fine lines here and there, she’s prettier than she used to be: The freckles across her nose no longer embarrass her, the glow of her skin has gone from youthful indifference to downright illuminating. Her lashes are lush, her brows are thick and arched like all the current runway models. Her highlights blend so seamlessly into her base color that you’d never know they weren’t natural.

  She drops her phone to the duvet.