‘It’s . . . You look . . .’ He’s shaking his head. ‘You’re a stunner, Libbs.’
My smile betrays me, so do my words. ‘You did all this for me?’ I shuffle my feet. ‘Which means you openly take responsibility for torturing me with this Eighties intervention thing?’ My eyes are narrowed, sizing him up, trying to figure this out. ‘You do realize those dates were awful, right?’
His smile pulls wide. ‘That wasn’t intentional, but yeah, I do.’ He laughs.
My mouth drops. ‘Why? I mean, God, Jas.’
‘Because I had asked and asked, and you couldn’t see past—’
‘The stereotype.’ I shake my head and laugh again. ‘You’re clever. I’ve always said that.’ I drop my chin and peek up at him through my lashes. False ones. The make-up artist at the salon put them on. ‘And the makeover?’
‘Asking them to set up the Breakfast Club dates, yes, guilty, but it never even occurred to me to—’
‘So that was all Dora.’ I give a sigh. ‘But this . . .’ I point to my lack of hair, then my smart-casual outfit. ‘This was me.’
‘You do look pretty in pink. I like it; ’course, I liked it before.’ His smile softens, then pulls unevenly. ‘Oh, yeah – I broke your window, so don’t freak out when you get home.’
My eyes pop. ‘What? Why?’
He rubs a hand over his clean-shaven jaw, no trace of the warm smile from before. ‘You didn’t answer. You weren’t picking up your phone either, so—’
‘So you broke my window? Wait, why were you there?’
‘Told you I’d pick you up at seven-thirty, remember? That’s why I was late.’
‘Oh, God, that’s right. You’re the Basket Case.’ I laugh, remembering his email. ‘You dork, I told you no.’
He smiles and steps closer. ‘I’d say it worked out all right.’
‘Doesn’t explain the window.’
‘Yeah, well, you’ve had me worried, Libbs. Your Top Five. I got it. I figured it out. Message received loud and clear.’
My stomach drops. I actually forgot about that. ‘First rule of Top Five: once solved, you don’t discuss Top Five,’ I say softly, and look away.
‘Yeah, and the second rule is the same, I got it. But this isn’t a game.’ His voice has dropped to a low whisper and he’s leaned in close. ‘It’s your life. And you can’t end it before it’s even begun.’
‘What? No, well, yes, but . . .’ I’d be lying if I said I’d never thought about it, last night being no exception, but this was more a mix-tape connection with one sad thing in common. Maybe I just needed to talk about it. ‘It’s not exactly what you’re thinking.’
‘Then what was I supposed to think?’ Jas looks confused. He’s still leaning in close. ‘Nirvana, INXS, Milli Vanilli, Boston and Crowded House. Each group had a member that took their own life. So I thought—’
‘I meant more that each group lost a member before their time.’ It’s obvious to me now that I’ve been working up to sharing my story with Jas all along. ‘And it does mean something. Something personal, but maybe I can tell you another time? Is that OK?’ I half-smile, hoping he understands, then change the subject before he can let me know if he does. I have to. ‘So . . . this is pretty big, this gesture of yours.’
‘Yeah.’ There’s a pause, as if he isn’t sure of the new direction, but then . . . ‘I’ve heard that’s how they’re supposed to go. It has to be something so huge, so out of character . . .’ Jasper closes all distance between us, and lifts my chin with a finger so I’m forced to look at him. ‘So the other person knows it’s sincerely from the heart.’
Surprising flutters form in mine. I’m flattered, even intrigued, but I’m also still in love with Ollie, and that doesn’t just go away. And it never will, unless . . .
I may have realized before what had to be done, but only now do I believe I can do it. ‘What if I had one in return? A big gesture of my own?’
His eyes widen with curiosity.
I take a deep breath. ‘We both know I have to sell Pretty in Pink.’ I shrug, then offer a hopeful smile. ‘So . . . maybe we should move to LA and start things up again with Starcades.’ The words are coming just as they’re thought. ‘Because I can’t stay here, not with someone else owning my shop. I mean, if I want to finally start my life, then, yeah, I need a real start somewhere else, with someone else.’ I nervously glance at Jas. ‘What do ya think?’
His smile pulls wide and his eyes shine, reflecting the excitement I’m starting to feel. ‘I think that’s some gesture, Libby London.’
My stomach drops. ‘But Jas, this . . . all of this, the Eighties intervention thing and you, well, it’s huge and new and I’m—’
‘You’re not over Oliver, I know. But maybe away from here, in time, you’ll finally admit what I’ve known all along.’
‘And what’s that?’
His denim-coloured eyes peek out from behind shards of wispy blonde hair and narrow a fraction. ‘That you’re secretly in love with your manager, soon-to-be-business-partner.’
The static from before now zaps straight through to settle in my heart. Again, I’m overwhelmed, but this time it’s with something else.
Hope.
The party’s a huge success. My new and improved Libby look is a big hit, even if everyone thinks I intentionally modelled it after Molly Ringwald. And everyone is having fun on the dance floor, except Theo, the Brain. He threw out his back while Princess Adrian was trying to teach him some new-fangled hip-hop move. Oh, I should introduce him to Dr Hong, my chiropractor.
From my table, I watch Dora and Dean dance. Well, Dean’s dancing. Dora’s kind of bobbing like a buoy in the water. Her head’s the only thing really moving. I’m truly happy they found each other, and they’re going to make great parents. I’m not looking forward to telling her I’m moving to LA, but I’ll fly back for the wedding, and of course the baby.
Finn’s flirting with the DJ. I can tell because of the way he’s standing, balanced on one foot and kicking the other one this way and that as he talks. He takes everything in his stride. Not much fazes him. I told him that once, and he said he had his challenges early on with his dad, so he figures he’s due a lifetime of easy street – although he loves to make mine as difficult as possible. I kinda love him for that.
The interpreter is dancing with Nigel the Athlete. It’s comical to watch. She’s stopped signing because she can’t keep her busy little hands off him, much to his delight. Dr Weaver’s jamming air guitar. I don’t think he cares. He’s had a few too many and is definitely dancing to his own beat.
Jasper’s beside me. The suit coat’s gone, the sleeves are rolled and his hair is back to a dishevelled mess, only shorter. ‘Did you want something to drink?’
‘Only if you can manage to find your way back,’ I say in all seriousness. Apparently the bar is the Bermuda Triangle. Every person who’s ventured off has yet to return with a drink.
Jasper eyes my cheeks, and the freckles that cover them. ‘Yeah, I think I can find my way.’ He smiles crookedly, with a chin-nod. ‘Just like you, Libby London, just like you.’
I watch him disappear into the crowd; the smile on my face can’t be helped. At thirty-three I’m at a crossroads, the middle mark of my life, and it’s a real-life Pretty in Pink – only I’m the one who’s choosing the ending, or rather choosing to finally begin. It’s a good feeling.
My eyes cast down with the thought. When I raise them, I see Ollie leaning in the doorway. Long, towering legs, a shoulder pressed to the frame, a hand hanging casually from his pocket. My heart stutters when he looks in my direction. He smiles, and my God, he’s still a rock star. He hasn’t changed a bit. But then, why would he?
He’s forever eighteen.
I’ve held him there, trying to stop time, trying to make amends, trying to hold on, when really all that’s left is to finally let go. Let go and live.
Even if he didn’t.
I don’t remember where we were going; on
ly that he had made me a birthday mix tape, and I was desperate to hear his words through the chosen songs. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wondered, what if he hadn’t been in the passenger seat? What if we’d left just five minutes earlier or later? What if I hadn’t looked down to mess with the cassette? What if . . .
I remember the Ferris Bueller debate, and how much I wanted to prove him wrong. But I’ve come to realize Ollie was right after all. Ollie said, ‘He’s real, Libby, just not in the context of Cameron’s depressed fantasy. He created Ferris, or at least that version of him, because he had to. He needed a hero.’
I have, too.
I’ve needed Ollie.
Life moves pretty fast, but my life stopped when his did. I wouldn’t allow it, didn’t deserve it and hadn’t wanted it to move on. But now?
Ollie lowers his chin with questioning eyes. I know what he’s asking. Will I be OK? Am I all right? Am I sure?
My heart sits in my throat, the dull and constant ache sharp and overwhelming because I know that I have to be. I blink back tears, smile through them and nod. He mouths, Love you, Shortcake, then lifts a hand to his lips, presses a kiss and sends it my way.
I smile. There’s nothing left to say, there’s only this, only us, and a lifetime of loving followed by an inevitable goodbye.
This is really goodbye.
I take in a deep breath, and slowly let it go.
Finally let him go.
‘Libbs? Hey, you OK?’ Jasper approaches with drinks in hand.
Wiping at my cheeks, I turn towards him and smile. ‘Yeah . . . for the first time in forever, I think I’m gonna be just fine.’ I stifle a laugh. God, these two horrible weeks have been treacherous – and yet they’ve been the best of my life, because they’ve forced me to claim one.
Claim mine.
So it turns out my birthday wasn’t a noose hanging over my head after all.
It was a lifeline.
I’ve been holding out for a hero for over sixteen years . . .
And today of all days, I’ve finally arrived.
Epilogue
‘Are you cold?’ Jasper asks, and adjusts the moving van’s heat. It doesn’t work well, and although the setting sun’s still bright, early winter’s bite is stronger.
‘I’m OK.’ I flip the collar of my oversized jean jacket, the one covered in concert badges, and wrap my arms round myself. I’m back to my Eighties wardrobe vibe: it’s who I am. I didn’t need to be Claire after all. Being Libby’s just as cool. Not everything needs to change. Leaning on the door, I stare out the window.
The further west we travel, the more the season winds back. We started with barren maples and dormant grass, and are now passing fields of green. It’s still chilly at night, however. I lean heavily against the door and let my eyes close a minute. It’s been a long couple of days of travel – well, a long three months.
It’s amazing how much has happened. Dora’s baby bump has ballooned to epic proportions. If Dora was a Weeble before, now she’s simply round. But since this is her last go at pregnancy, she’s determined to enjoy every uncomfortable minute. It’s a fantastic attitude.
My attitude on my previous birthdays has been nothing short of dismal. But since this is my first go at really living, I’m determined to embrace them moving forward.
We all met at Shermer’s on East Broadway before I left. One last get-together for our original Breakfast Club: Dora, Dean, Finn and myself. Jas, although invited, opted to meet us afterwards with the van, saying he had a last-minute errand. And just like normal, our once-a-weeks, fuelled by New York’s finest short-stacks, involved news, and not just any random bits of gossip, but something fantastical and life-changing.
That day was no exception.
‘I can’t believe you’re going to LA, Libbs,’ Dora said, pouting and twirling her fork in the pool of syrup on the half-empty plate of waffles. She had already taken mine.
Finn patted her arm. ‘But we can visit. Think of it: all of us meeting in the city of angels, taking Hollywood by storm. Wouldn’t that be divine?’
‘I’ll be back in no time for the wedding, Dora, and as soon as you call with baby news, I’m on a plane. I promise.’ My own words sounded foreign to me. I was leaving. I was really going.
‘Oh, we could get tickets to Ellen,’ Finn said, already planning their trip. ‘And we could take those tours, you know, the ones that drive through the Hollywood Hills and point out where the stars live?’
‘And to think, Libby, this all started because of Jasper’s Eighties intervention,’ Dean said before finishing off his orange juice.
Dora scoffed. ‘Jasper’s idea, sure, but we made it . . .’ She looked up, as if searching for the right word.
‘Brilliant?’
‘Magical.’
‘Cuckoo like Cocoa Puffs,’ I said, smiling.
It is crazy. I really said goodbye to everyone. But at least it’s not a permanent farewell, right? Even my nightly sob sessions have taken a sabbatical. In fact, I’m doing great. I’m optimistic and excited for a new start at life. But I know how this works: like I said before, when you struggle with any level of depression, you have periods of coping, not the other way around.
This time, however, I’m prepared. Since I’m currently above water, I placed a call before we left to safeguard for the next time when I’m not.
I called Dr Papadopoulos’s office and asked for a referral in LA.
‘Hello?’ I said when I heard the click. I’d been on hold for a few minutes, subjected to easy listening, and when the song switched, it tripped me up. After a few bars, I recognized the I Dream of Jeannie theme song, set the phone to speaker and maybe danced a bit while I did a last-time sweep through my apartment.
That’s when I noticed the converted 45 record clock still hanging on the wall, the one that featured ‘That Joke Isn’t Funny Anymore’. And, still frozen at four, it wasn’t. Not that it was ever a joke – that’s the time my accident occurred. It served as a reminder so I’d never forget; not that I ever could.
After a minute, I dug through a box where I’d stashed needed junk-drawer items: corkscrew, lighter and yes, batteries. Lifting the plastic clock, I flipped it round, swivelled the dial to the correct time and placed the two double-As inside.
And just like that, the past moved forward.
And wow, am I moving forward – from the hustle and eclectic energy of New York City to the cooler vibe of Los Angeles. I promised Dora I’d call when we stopped for the night and I’m sure she’s worried, but Jasper’s not ready to call it a day. He has a schedule, and although my frequent rest-area stops are messing with it, he’s determined.
So was Dora.
‘You’ll call as soon as you stop somewhere?’ she’d asked, but it was more a reminder. ‘And then again tomorrow night, and when you get there, right?’ Dora was in Dora mode, all worked up, hormonal, and wearing belly-banded bossy-pants.
But I knew it was just a cover. This was new territory for her, because she was always the one running ahead: first to college, then marriage, having a child, even her divorce. But now? I was the one leaving to embrace a life of my own. Finally. And strangely, saying goodbye when you’re the one leaving is easier than being the one left behind. Who knew?
‘I’ll call, don’t worry,’ I said, trying to keep things light, but knowing I’d fail. We hugged, and just like before at the dress shop, a moment passed between us. An understanding among friends. Sisters, really. Nothing else needed to be said. She knows and I know, and it’s enough. More than enough. Real friendships are like that. They breathe. The link exists even in the pauses, and the connection lasts a lifetime.
‘And you give me your word you’ll be back for the wedding?’ Dora asked, dabbing at her eyes as we finally broke apart.
‘God, of course.’ I sniffed. ‘And do you give me your word you’ll talk to your mom about that hideous fish-gut dress?’
Dora laughed, full and loud. ‘No promises.’
Finn leaned over, pecked my cheek, and gave me specific instructions ‘Make sure you find a two-bedroom place, because I, for sure, will be coming for visits and I don’t do couch-camps, got it?’
‘Got it,’ I said, and smiled. Finn had teased me as a child, sat beside me at Ollie’s funeral and loved me like a sister as an adult. It was only fitting that he’d helped me bid farewell to Pretty in Pink.
Along with another colleague who specialized in commercial law (not the Criminal), Finn oversaw the store’s sale to the Lander Property Group. I thought the formality of signing the documents would take maybe thirty minutes. That’s all it took the first time. The business simply changed hands when the lease had been signed over.
Not this time. Not at this level. Too many attorneys and too much money required pre-negotiations and renegotiations. After I reviewed the final paperwork several days prior to the day of sale, I thought, what could be left? A million more signatures, as it turned out. My hand actually cramped. When the last required ‘sign here’ tab was pulled, I froze with the pen mid-air.
Finn leaned in close, with brows furrowed but reassuring eyes. I peered at him anxiously, not saying a word. My mouth had gone dry. There wasn’t enough air, and the room shrank. I mean, this was it. I’d scribble one more Libby London, and it was gone.
Pretty in Pink was gone.
Everything I’ve known and worked for. Everything I was. One autograph, and it was signed away. Would they love her as I had? Would they take care of her? Would they appreciate the building’s strange quirks, know what to do when it stormed and the power tripped? Or that the back room would sometimes flood from the storm drain? Or how to fix the neon sign when the ‘k’ in Pink flickered?
How much remodel were they considering? They mentioned new carpet, a paint job and replacing the front door that sticks when the temperature shifts. Would she still be the same underneath the new shine?
Holding Out for a Hero Page 21
