by Emma Nichols
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Overdue
Jennifer Millikin
Overdue Copyright © 2018 by Jennifer Millikin
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to business, institutions, companies, events, or locales is completely incidental.
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Overdue
Milo Andrews is trained to detect and disarm explosives, but the thought of attending his high school reunion terrifies him more than any bomb he has neutralized. Aurora Callaway is the only reason he’s attending. Her beautiful smile and brave nature dominates his dreams. Aurora never knew how Milo felt about her, but that’s about to change. The truth is long overdue.
1
Milo
I was trained to stay calm under pressure. That’s why I don’t look like anything is wrong. But inside, I’m one hand motion away from turning my truck around and getting the hell out of Linwood. There’s nothing here for me. Except mama, of course. And the possibility of seeing her.
She’s the only reason I’m here. My last-minute agreement to go to my high school reunion hinged only on the fantasy of seeing Aurora Callaway again.
In ten years I haven’t been able to get that girl out of my head.
Girl. Hmm… My fingers rub my jawline, the stiff little hairs already sprouting despite my morning shave.
Aurora isn’t a girl anymore. I know. I looked up her up on the Internet. Couldn’t help myself.
She’s a woman now. A woman with generous curves, blond hair falling to the center of her back, and those denim blue eyes. Soft, sweet, All-American, but with a mouth that just might sass someone’s grandma.
She runs a blog now. Authentic Aurora.
I have spent way too much time perusing the site, sifting through articles. Some are written by her, some authored by contributors on her staff.
The picture in her bio looks like the girl I watched from afar in high school, still with fire in her eyes, but muted somehow. What dulled her flame?
If it weren’t for her, I’d never have responded to the reunion weekend invitation. I was a nobody in high school. I had a few friends, and we were all nobodies together. My crush on Aurora began in freshman PE, after she stomped on someone’s toe when they tried to cop a feel during square dancing.
Fucking square dancing. Why would anybody need to learn that? My turn with Aurora didn’t go well. My hand was sweating and when it was time to move to a new partner I saw her wipe her hand on her black standard-issue physical education shorts.
Aurora wasn’t the most popular girl in school. That was Mia Franco. Mia also had blond hair and blue eyes, but to me, that’s where the similarities ended. Mia spent a lot of time looking into the compact she kept in her back pocket. Aurora kept her eyes on the world more than she did her own face. She watched people, like she was cataloguing their actions. I think Mia feared Aurora’s brazen attitude, her willingness to be herself, and therefore decided she needed to be friends with her.
The biggest difference between Mia and Aurora was that Aurora was nice. Junior year, I watched her help someone up who’d gone sprawling when his foot got too friendly with a freshman pole. I get that the roof that covers the sidewalks needs support, but does it have to come from curved poles that stick out of the ground and give every student tripping anxiety? Poor Grady Cox realized every student’s fear, and it was worse because he held a project in his hands. And it went fucking everywhere. There was an empty aluminum can rolling around on the concrete, making an unpleasant tinny sound, and something that looked like tin foil limbs laid in the grass. But it didn’t end there.
“Why couldn’t you see where you were going, Cox?” That dickhead Troy Jessup yelled out, hands cupped around his mouth. His brown-nosing friends laughed beside him. Bullies travel in groups, which meant Troy was never alone.
Aurora was bent down, retrieving pieces for poor Grady Cox, when she looked up at Troy with disgust.
Not that he noticed. Nudging his buddies, Troy made his hands into a megaphone again. “Were there too many cocks in your mouth? Did they blind you?”
Troy wasn’t even close to being smart, and hadn’t figured out that his favorite joke got old. Nobody cared about Grady Cox’s last name anymore. Except for Aurora. She handed Grady his dismembered project (maybe it was a robot?) and walked over to Troy. Looking back on that moment, I realize now she didn’t show any signs of what she was about to do. No angry looks, no stomping feet, no fisted hands. Calm and collected. And then, with all her calm and all her collection, reared back and punched Troy in the baby maker. I grabbed my own baby maker when it happened, a phantom pain splitting me in half. Somehow, through his childlike screams from his prone position on the ground, I felt the pain of having my own dick punched.
Aurora’s eyes were wide, like she’d surprised herself, but she never backed down. She didn’t apologize. She crouched down and said something to Troy and then stood up and walked to class. Word spread like wildfire, and Aurora was gone for the next week. Suspension, I heard people whisper. When she came back, the guys were terrified of her. And so were many of the girls. Behind her back they called her Dick Punch.
But me?
My crush had morphed into love.
The only thing stronger than my love for Aurora was the sheer terror I experienced every time I got within five feet of her. No matter the air temperature, sweat popped out on my palms.
She talked to me once. Senior year. She tried to ask me a question in our Civics class. I clammed up, my shoulders rammed so far up they could’ve passed for clunky earrings, and I stared at her without saying a word. She waited long enough for it to get awkward, and then quietly walked away. I jabbed a pencil in my forearm because I was so mad at myself.
That won’t happen again.
Not this weekend.
This weekend I’m going to talk to Aurora Callaway. I’m going to do all the things I wanted to do ten years ago.
2
Aurora
I thought coming back to this town would stir up memories. I drove right past the mall, the Dairy Queen, the taco place Mia once threw up in while I held her hair.
Maybe it would’ve been easier if my parents still lived here. They took off for Florida the second I left for college. I was the last of the Callaway crew, and my parents were ready to be empty nesters. No crocodile tears for my mother. They drove me to NYU and waited the appropriate amount of time for me to get settled in my dorm room, and then it was peace out.
My parents have frequent mentions in my blog posts. They were good parents, the kind who planned summer vacations that would educate and present culture to their three daughters. What I learned most from those trips to Europe and South America was that there is a lot more out there than my Pennsylvania upraising taught me. That’s why I have sister sites in Mumbai, Buenos Aires, and Johannesburg. I’m working on adding more cities, but that takes time. It’s all in the plans for this year though. I work my ass off. My blog is my life.
Work almost kept me in New York. If it weren’t for my assistant, I would’ve skipped this reunion. At first I RSVP’d with an excited, Yes, I will attend. I even opted to attend all the functions. I fell into the trap of remembering all the time we spent at The Straights. The scent of the bonfire, trying Fireball for the first time. Reminiscing over time at the lake pulled me back into my teenage years.
As the reunion grew closer, the work began piling up. It’s
not the writing of the blog posts. That’s almost easy, at this point. It’s the social media, the digital marketing, the re-branding plan that’s coming up this summer.
Bindi, my assistant, practically pushed me from my office this morning. I’d been there since five, getting an early start because I knew I was supposed to leave at noon. I was trying to keep a low profile, but nothing gets by Bindi. Usually I loved that about her, but today that did not work in my favor.
She popped her head in at five minutes to noon.
“Why aren’t you shutting that down?” She nodded her head at my computer.
“I will,” I told her. It was kind of a lie. I was in the middle of an email.
“You sure will,” she announced, striding to my desk and shutting the laptop. I barely got my fingers off the keyboard in time. I frowned at her, but she only smiled.
“I’m your best friend,” she told me, “I’m allowed to do things like that. Now go.”
I sighed, acted huffy, but ultimately I listened to her.
I drove all the way to Pennsylvania with my senior year yearbook open on the passenger seat. Every time I got stuck in traffic, which was frequent because the George Washington Bridge and the Jersey Turnpike are always in a perpetual state of traffic, I looked through the pictures of my graduating class. To make things interesting, I looked at only the pictures and tried to remember the names. I was fifty/fifty, which probably isn’t great.
I’m proud of myself for remembering Milo Andrews. He was an odd guy. So nervous all the time. Mostly I remember him because of that time I had to wipe his sweat from my palm. I tried to do it discreetly, so nobody would see and make fun of him, especially Troy Jessup. Talk about a cuntbiscuit. Bindi would be proud of me for using the word she taught me at lunch yesterday. I still don’t understand the putdown, but if anybody is a cuntbiscuit, it’s Troy Jessup.
My room at the Hilton is fine. I’ve stayed at a hostel in Nuremberg, and the Ritz in Paris. As long as there is clean water to wash my face, I don’t care about the amenities.
The cocktail reception starts in twenty minutes. I’ve applied my make-up, curled my hair, and put on a red boho dress with tiny white flowers printed on it.
Pulling out my iPhone, I dictate one last email while shoving my feet into tan wedges. I thread delicate gold hoops through my ears and take one last look into the mirrored closet door.
“Linwood High, here I come.”
3
Aurora
Mia works at the mall. She told me the name of the clothing store, but I forgot it as soon as it left her lips. I was in shock, the wheels in my mind in motion, churning up ideas for directions her career could go in. She didn’t make it in LA, but maybe in New York…
Walking into The Leaning Pine was awkward. So is this stupid name tag stuck above my left breast.
I’m happy I’ve seen Mia, but now that I’m here I’m certain I never should’ve come. My cheeks hurt from fake-smiling.
Almost everyone is married. Almost everyone has kids. It’s a painful reminder that I’m not. I’m not even close. But I was, once. Three years ago.
I cough quietly, throw back my shoulders, and take a larger than typical sip from my white wine. Going back to three years ago isn’t something I’m interested in doing tonight. Or ever, really. Some boxes are better left with the lid on and locked up tight. Especially when the box contains my severed heart.
I plaster on a fake smile and try to turn on my listening ears. Amanda Malcom, now Sterling, is talking a mile a minute. Her teeth are so white I think I may need to put on my sunglasses. And her fake eyelashes sprout out from her eyes like spider legs. Must be the fact that she’s on TV. According to her, the camera sometimes sweeps her way because you know how it is when your husband is famous. She giggled and pushed my forearm in a knowing way, like I’m supposed to understand just exactly where she’s coming from. I want to ask her if she knows how many memes are floating around about her televangelist husband, but I keep my mouth shut and spread my cheesy grin as wide as it will go.
I’ve only been here for thirty minutes and I’m already fantasizing about picking up a bottle of wine and heading back to my hotel room. I could be drunk and watching a sappy romance in less than an hour.
Yes, that’s what I’ll do. Sneak out, and try again tomorrow at the lake. Maybe I’ll have more of an appetite since there will be something else to do other than reintroduce ourselves.
Tomorrow is billed as a family friendly water day.
On second thought…
It might not be such a good idea to go. Severed heart and all.
Amanda spots someone behind me and excuses herself. She didn’t look interested when I told her I run a woman’s lifestyle blog. She’d asked if it urged women to create a Godly home, and when I responded that it didn’t discourage that, she feigned interest from that point on.
Tossing back the remainder of my glass, I turn to go.
But then something happens.
I freeze.
I’m one hundred and eighty degrees from where I was two seconds ago, and my legs have stopped working.
Who the hell is that?
Tall, at least six feet and some change, and huge. Broad shoulders, his strength evident through his light blue v-neck t-shirt. It hugs him just enough, but not so much that he looks like a muscle head. He’s wearing jeans and a black leather jacket hangs down, the collar gripped by one of his hands. It’s like he took the suggestion of wearing cocktail attire and shoved his middle finger down it’s throat.
This guy, whoever he is, is a man’s man. Even from across the room, I can tell. His stance is different from every guy I’ve ever met in the city. They all walk fast, like they need to fill every second of their time going somewhere or doing something. This guy steps into the room assuredly, but with an unhurried pace.
His eyes scan the room. His gaze sifts through people, and I can’t take my eyes from him.
He has got to be from St. Martin’s Academy. Their reunion is also this weekend, and he must have somehow wandered into this private room instead of going to The Leaning Pine deck where all the St. Martin’s snots are supposed to go. Of course they got the view and the fresh air and Linwood got stuck in a four-walled room. Typical.
Mr. Wrong Place spots me. His eyes are on my face, widening in recognition. The hard look on his face softens.
There is no way this jaw-droppingly sexy man is looking my way. Nope. No way.
I turn and look behind me to see who he’s giving that panty-disintegrating look to.
There isn’t anybody behind me.
But there is a mirror over the bar, and I can see him in it’s reflection. He smiles. His eyes meet mine in the mirror, my fingers gripping the bar. Slowly I turn around.
Oh shit, he’s coming this way.
My hand flies to the side of my neck and grips it.
The private room, packed with 2008 Linwood graduates, slips away. Instead there’s a tunnel, me at one end, the prey. Mr. Wrong Place is the predator, coming towards me with a steady gait. The corners of his mouth curl into a smile, but it’s the warm, knowing look in his eyes that has me racking my brain.
Did I meet him at the soup kitchen? Members of the honor’s society at Linwood and St. Martin’s Academy had a joint volunteer event my senior year. Maybe that was it?
Name tag!
My eyes fly to his chest, searching wildly for a small white rectangle with his name in black Sharpie. Like mine.
There’s none to be found. A second middle finger to the reunion coordinator.
He’s only a few feet away from me now, stepping around small groups of people to get to me. They look up at him with the expression I’m certain is on my face. Bewilderment.
He stops, directly in front of me now, and my breath feels like it leaves my body. My limbs feel hollow. I’m a furiously beating, obviously affected by this man, heart. With a head. And a mouth that doesn’t follow the rules.
“I think you’re in
the wrong place,” I tell him.
His grin twists up only on one side. “I think you’re wrong about that.”
His voice is deep and thick, caramel wrapping around…well, everything. Caramel wrapped everything.
Clearing my throat, I tap my name tag twice with the tip of a Va-Va Voom red painted nail. “I think I’m right. St. Martin’s alumni coordinator is probably clutching your name tag in her fist right now.” I lift a fisted hand between us and raise my eyebrows.
He chuckles. “You haven’t changed.”
I tense. My limbs have found me again, and they’re ramrod.
“You’re Linwood?” I wince at the question. Mentally I search the yearbook still lying open on my passenger seat.
“Class of 2008.” His voice is quieter now, just above a whisper. He steps up beside me at the bar. Instead of sitting down, he pushes a barstool out of his way and leans an elbow on the bar top. He orders a beer, and the bartender sets down something reddish brown colored.
Mr. Wrong Place, who is apparently in the right place, sips from the frosted glass, his Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows. The light illuminates a small bit of stubble on his throat. My fingers curl back into my palm, my nails pressing in until I’m sure I’ve left indentations. Anything to keep me from running my fingertips over that stubble the way I want to.
I bet it would leave goosebumps wherever it touched me. I bet he could make my back arch off the bed. He could turn me into caramel covered Aurora. I wonder if his—
“I don’t expect you to remember me.” His glass is back on the bar top now. “I’m—”
“Wait,” I say, holding up an open palm. “Let me think about it. I love a challenge.”
He smirks, and I get the feeling he may already know that about me. Or, he remembers that about me.
