The Leftover Club

by Voight, Ginger

  I chuckled humorlessly. “Imagine how much time we’d all save if people just saw what was in front of them in the first freaking place.”

  He searched my face in the darkness. Finally he said, “Imagine.” He took my hand in his. “Promise me something, Roni.”

  I looked into his eyes. “What?” I said softly.

  “Don’t settle for anyone who doesn’t see you for the amazing woman you are.”

  I chortled. “Woman. Right.”

  “Right,” he repeated.

  I shook my head. “I really don’t know who you see when you look at me.”

  Dylan looked at me as though he might say something, but seemed to reconsider as he looked away. “Someone I hope that Bryan sees,” he mumbled. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “I’m not going to get hurt,” I promised. “I’d never give my heart away to someone who would hurt me.”

  He nodded. He knew.

  But then, everything fell apart by the end of the Mexico shoot. Max and Bryan were caught by one of the makeup girls, which had freaked the young actor out so badly that he quickly put the brakes on their relationship the minute they returned to California. He called Bryan less and less, and by May, they were officially dissolved.

  Max couldn’t risk his job by outing himself. In 1988, that was career suicide.

  Bryan was devastated. He stayed at my house more than he did his own, simply because I knew what he was going through. There were some nights he didn’t even leave for the night, and would sneak out the next morning.

  Dylan caught us once, but said nothing. And of course I could say nothing to him, to assure him it wasn’t what it looked like.

  By April, Bryan was sure he wouldn’t go to his prom. He was quite over high school. If he couldn’t go with Max, or any other boy who suited his fancy, it seemed like a lie to go at all. If it weren’t for Charlie, he might have abandoned the idea altogether. It was her dream to go, and the only dates we could guarantee in those days were with each other.

  So he agreed to go as long as we were his dates.

  You can imagine my surprise when Dylan decided he wanted to tag along with. He decided to go stag, to hang out with his friends, and – since Bryan had been a mainstay at our house for months – that meant the Leftovers.

  By May, I was buying a dress (no taffeta) and preparing for my prom, to be escorted by the two most popular boys in school.

  Go figure.

  Dylan’s father had gone all out in his absentee guilt. He rented a limo, which Dylan generously provided for all of us. He had also reserved a suite at a nearby hotel for any celebrations to be had after the prom ended. I was a nervous wreck by then, wondering what that could mean to be in a hotel with Dylan Fenn. I needed every single one of my posse to convince me to agree, and both Bryan and Charlie seemed hell-bent to do exactly that.

  Sadly, by prom, Charlie had come down with walking pneumonia and couldn’t even go.

  I sat between Dylan and Bryan as we approached the campus, wearing a corsage from both of them on either wrist. Dylan provided the booze and Bryan provided the herb, so we were in high spirits by the time we stumbled out of it, holding onto each other for balance.

  Our graduating class didn’t know what to think about our arrangement. By all accounts, Dylan and Bryan were competing against each other for the title of most important student on campus, up to and including Prom King.

  After my scandalous behavior in the early part of senior year, I didn’t make it to the ballot. This was fine by me. I wouldn’t know what to do with that kind of attention anyway.

  I got to watch from the sidelines, a Leftover till the day I die.

  I danced with both Bryan and Dylan, although the slow dances with Dylan were painfully uncomfortable. His hand was warm and firm on my back as he pressed me against his body. My head swam with unfulfilled fantasies that exploded instantly in my fevered brain at his soft touch. I could almost feel his kiss, much like the one he had taken with such authority in an abandoned parking lot by the Pacific Ocean. His nimble fingers danced across my bare skin, like when he unzipped my dress in his bedroom. His eyes were dark and unreadable, reflecting my own desires back at me whenever I dared to glance up at him.

  When they played Foreigner’s ’85 hit, “I Want to Know What Love Is,” I had to tag out of Dylan’s close embrace and rush to Bryan’s waiting arms. My best friend was working through issues of his own. He held me tight, pining over the man who had stolen his heart and dropped him cold. To outsiders, though, it appeared we had made our choices.

  It was probably romantic as all get-out to anyone who didn’t know what the hell was really going on.

  Bryan won Prom King, and Tiffany McGill won Prom Queen. They looked beautiful, and the stunning cheerleader who once chased after (and caught) Dylan Fenn gazed dreamily at the handsome, beautiful boy that no other girl in our senior class (except me) could claim.

  While they danced, Dylan once again swept me on the dance floor. “I’m sorry you lost,” I said as we swayed to “Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now.” Dylan merely shrugged.

  “Bound to happen. Can’t stay king of the mountain forever.” His eyes met mine. “Besides, it was never really about what a school full of strangers thought, anyway.”

  I chuckled. “That’s easy to say when they always loved you.”

  “It’s easy to say, period,” he assured. “None of this matters. In the end we all go our separate ways and fight our own path in the big bad world, win or lose. I’d really hate to think these were the best years of my life.” He glanced at Bryan. “Just look how quickly they end.”

  And that was when it hit me. Dylan was Dylan Fenn no longer. Bryan had dethroned the most popular boy in school, and I was too blinded by my devotion to Dylan to see it. I put my hand on his shoulder. “They’re not over, Dylan. Not by a long shot.” He looked unconvinced. “And hey, look at it this way. One day is better than none at all.”

  He looked down at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I shrugged and looked away. “Look at me.”

  “You mean the girl who landed the most popular boy in school?” he reminded and I rolled my eyes. “You think we’re so different, Roni. But we’re both the same person, just different sides of the coin. You hide your light, afraid to be seen, afraid to be excellent, and I worry that people will see through the façade and see how ordinary I really am. Some of us hold onto the mask because that’s all we’ve got.”

  “Dylan…,” I started but he cut me off.

  “But you,” he said as he spun me around. “You are the real deal. Your best days are to come. I predict that you’ll come back to the high school reunion and be the envy of everyone who made your life hell.”

  My eyebrow arched. “Everyone?”

  He grinned. “Everyone. We’ll all be eating our hearts out over you, baby. I guarantee.”

  “Then sign me up for the reunion,” I snickered.

  “It’s a date,” he said as he hugged me close. “Ten years. Twenty years. Thirty years and beyond.”

  I laughed. “You say that, but you’ll probably be married with ten kids by then.”

  He shuddered. “God, bite your tongue,” he grinned and I laughed. “I’m a lone wolf. You know that. If either of us is married, it’ll be you.”

  I chuckled and shook my head. I couldn’t imagine it. “Not likely.”

  “Fine,” he said as he held me closer. “Then it’ll be just you and me. I hereby declare to be your date in ten years. In twenty years. In thirty years and beyond. You’re never getting rid of me.”

  I got lost in those brown eyes. “Truth?”

  His eyes were dark and deep, like endless pools of melted chocolate. “I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true, Roni. Don’t you know that by now?”

  For a split second, I thought maybe he was going to kiss me – just like at the White Dance years before. But his attention was divided when he glanced up at Bryan, who approached, ready to
ditch Tiffany before she threw him in a broom closet to cement their regal new partnership.

  “My queen,” Bryan pronounced as he got in earshot. “Please save me,” he whispered into the nape of my neck. I nodded and pulled away from Dylan, even though it was the very last thing I wanted to do.

  And if I told him why, he’d have let me stay with Dylan. But I couldn’t leave my best friend hanging, not even for the promise of the hottest boy in class.

  I said nothing to Bryan as we spun around the floor. A DJ played “Footloose,” which we were encouraged loudly to do. I didn’t get off that dance floor for at least a half-hour afterwards. The instant I did, I wanted to find Dylan, who had disappeared out of sight from the moment he transferred me to Bryan’s waiting arms.

  It felt as though something important was happening, and for once I didn’t want to miss it. I wanted to find him, to talk to him, to ask him once and for all if he was serious when he said all those flirty things, or if it was just my overactive imagination.

  Was I really being leftover on purpose, to save the best for last?

  My question was answered when the broom closet opened and Tiffany stumbled out, with Dylan right behind her. Our eyes met briefly and he turned away. I spotted the hickey on his neck and the blush in his cheeks.

  Though I never could imagine being Dylan’s date for the prom, catching him with a cheerleader before the night was over was entirely predictable.

  “You’re never getting rid of me.”

  Which was Dylan-code for “Until something new and shiny comes along.”

  I knew I had my answer. Dylan would always be Dylan, and I would always be the one who loved him best from afar.

  I turned back to the dance floor, in search of the only boy at Hermosa Vista High I could be sure loved me as I was, Leftover and all.

  “Roni,” Dylan called, and I reluctantly looked back. I could tell by his bloodshot eyes that he had imbibed in the half-hour I had been gone.

  “What?” I said with a sigh.

  “Are you still going to the hotel?” he wanted to know.

  I arched an eyebrow. “Are you?”

  “Of course,” he said, and I stole a glance at Tiffany, who freshened her makeup in her ever-present compact mirror.

  “Of course,” I repeated.

  Bryan called for me from the dance floor. They were playing Michael Jackson, and my righteous dance skills were required. I squared my shoulders and turned briefly back to Dylan. “Bry and I will probably want some time alone,” I said, knowing full well that Bryan wouldn’t want to keep up this charade all night in front of the fawning cheerleader.

  In fact, he was probably itching to hit Eleete, and by this time I was anxious to join him.

  Dylan nodded as he pulled Tiffany close. “Have fun,” he said before they passed me. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  I said nothing as I watched them walk right out the door for the limo waiting outside.

  Epilogue

  June 20, 2008

  It has been a long six months. Longer, possibly, than the thirty years I’ve spent loving Dylan Fenn my whole life. I’ve lied to everyone, even myself. In the end, my romance with him went much like I expected it would. It caught fire quick, burned bright and then burned out before it could get too serious.

  And I knew that was what I could expect, that was why I had never allowed myself to indulge.

  What can I say? Dylan Fenn is a hard man to ignore.

  I guess that is why I’m sitting at my vanity, putting on my makeup and preparing for my 20-year reunion.

  Obviously I wasn’t going to go. I told everyone I wasn’t going to go. When Bryan and Meghan conspired to purchase a dress for me, and make plans for a limo to pick me up from work, I wasn’t going to go. I proclaimed it loud and clear to everyone that I, Veronica Lawless, had no intention of going.

  And I likely would have kept that promise had it not been for a near-catastrophic fight with my best friend just the day before yesterday, when he finally told me what kind of idiot he thought I was being.

  “I never thought I’d see the day when you’d be both a liar and a coward,” he told me as he squared off with me in my front room. “But selfish too? That’s kind of the last straw, Miss Thing.”

  I spun on him, incredulous. “How can you say that to me? Like you haven’t been here these last few months?”

  He knew how I had virtually changed my life completely around. I quit my job by March, because I never wanted to see Dylan Fenn again. He had broken my heart, that was what we had all been waiting on, and it had happened. I no longer needed to bide time at some agency as a glorified personal assistant. Instead I moved Meghan and I back to Orange County got the hell out of show business and started to work as one of the business managers for a popular resort. It doubled my pay and the benefits were stupendous, not the least of which was no threat of ever running into Dylan again on a casual basis.

  I made the same stipulation to my mother, telling her that her matchmaking days were over. It came as no surprise to either of the Moms when things went to shit. I think for Bonnie, I was her final hope. Now she was willing to let Dylan lead his own life, which, at the present, kept him busy in Hollywood.

  As did his new – and public – romance with his costar, Emma Sterling. You couldn’t fling a dead cat in any direction in L.A. without running across some kind of promotion for their new film. They attended movie premieres and awards shows, arm in arm, with the same shining smiles.

  According to Taylor, Dylan had even taken Emma to Big Bear for a springtime getaway with his dad.

  I was sure he approved of the softer-spoken Emma after my last little scene.

  It only proved my making the break as clean and as permanent as possible was the best idea for everyone, Dylan in particular.

  If I had told him I was pregnant that day, he likely would have stayed in Los Angeles out of obligation and guilt, giving up on this movie and finding some “regular” job for the stable paycheck. I knew better than anyone that wasn’t the life that he had ever wanted for himself.

  Now he only had himself to worry about.

  As always.

  As the months marched on, I sort of martyred myself. I was the one who sacrificed my happiness, letting him free before he could really disappoint me. After his quick rebound with Emma, I knew that he would never change, and I was foolish to expect him to.

  I relived every moment of our courtship, including the first frustrating twenty years, in an effort to prove to myself letting Dylan go without a fight was the best thing. He wasn’t the marrying kind; he wasn’t the “forever” kind.

  He was simply a romantic, who fell in love intense and often, to chase away all the demons his father had unknowingly planted. He learned young that he never wanted anyone to see through the façade and leave him for something – anything – that he knew was better.

  Still, knowing all this stuff and truly believing it are two different things.

  In the end it doesn’t matter. Our lives connected and then drifted apart, like most of the people from high school.

  I just never expected that to happen with Bryan and me.

  “Yes, selfish,” he had quickly agreed. “And stupid besides.”

  As I stood there, agape, he continued. “Do you know how many people would give anything so that the person they loved would love them back? It’s the slap in the face of every other Leftover.”

  I chuckled. “You forget. They all got their chance.”

  “I didn’t,” he reminded.

  “Then what’s stopping you?”

  He thought about that for a moment and then said, “What indeed.”

  I was on his heels as he marched out of my house. “Where are you going?”

  He spun to face me on the doorstep. “I’m going to go ask Dylan Fenn to be my date to the ball.”

  He slammed the door behind him, leaving me speechless.

  Was he serious? Clearly he couldn’t be serio
us. Dylan wasn’t gay. I didn’t even think he was bi.

  When Olive phoned yesterday to ask if I would be her date to the reunion, I quickly shot her down. But she suggested I might not want to miss it. That Dylan and Bryan were going to have all sorts of tongues wagging this year.

  “You’re not serious,” I breathed.

  “Stranger things have happened,” she said, in a roundabout way reminding me of what happened between us. “He told him about the club, Roni. Dylan knows everything.”

  “Everything?” I squeaked.

  “Everything,” she repeated.

  So here I am, preparing for my reunion, waiting for my date to come around in the limo.

  I glance into the mirror, where I can see my daughter fussing with my hair. “Give up. It’s a lost cause.”

  She rolls her eyes with a dramatic sigh. “Why do you make things so much harder than they have to be? You’re beautiful. Show it off.”

  I study my reflection. My hair is shorter, swinging free around my shoulders. It was Meghan’s idea. She found it in a hairstyling magazine and thought it might make me feel young again, since everything that was happening in 2008 was destined to make me feel ancient.

  She bends down to apply my eye shadow. It’s a coppery mix she swears will bring out my eyes. “Taylor loves it on me,” she grins.

  “Taylor loves everything on you,” I say.

  Theirs is a good relationship. They are both solid kids with a strong sense of self and ambitions for the future. Best of all, they live more than 80 miles from each other, so they are forced to conduct most of their relationship courtesy of phone calls and texts.

  However we did have a recent, candid and necessary discussion about birth control. She started the pill the beginning of May, with my blessing to decide for herself when she’d be ready to take their relationship to the next level.