Lost in La La Land(66)

His expression instantly grew nervous. Our trust had only gone so deep, both of us scared of the level of commitment we were in.

“I’m writing a book.” I took a sip of wine and let that sit in his head.

“About what?”

“All of it. The whole story. It’s so far-fetched I think it might make a great story. I’m co-writing with an author. I sent the story to an agent, just the first couple of chapters and the whole synopsis and she liked it. She knows an author who would be able to add the extras. She said the first draft, the meat and potatoes, should be written by me and then the extras would be done by a professional writer.”

His eyes widened. “Holy shit, Em. That’s insane.”

“I know.”

“That’s amazing. Are you scared of admitting the truth of it all?”

“Yes and no. I’m finding it cathartic to write it all down.”

“Add cathartic to the list of things you say wrong.” He shook his head, grinning. “This is insane but I’m excited for you. I think you’re right; this is cathartic, cleaning even.”

I didn't bother telling him that cathartic meant cleansing. He was too cute.

“And will you publish it while Lana’s still a zombie?”

“No. I will wait until she’s gone.” I shook my head. “The book isn’t about her anyway. It’s about me.”

“Are you the good guy or the bad guy in the story?” he asked carefully.

“Which do you think?”

“In your head?” His eyes burned right through me. “You’re the bad guy. The better question though is, am I in it?”

“You are.” I lost my appetite but forced a bite of salad into my mouth. “Is that okay?”

“No.” He tried to sound serious but a smile crept up and it wasn't even the bitter one. It was the one I loved. “But the story might not be the same without the charming construction worker.”

“It would be very dark without the light,” I agreed.

“Add light to the list.” He tried to sound as though he was joking but all the humor had left the meal. “Burns the steaks and rains out the game.” He cocked an eyebrow. “I think we might have to start setting rules for things you’re allowed to discuss during happy time and what you have to save for your therapist.”

I never did tell Mike, but his mom was wrong. Once you got his brand of humor, he was very funny. Maybe even as funny as he thought he was.

“You know I only tell my therapist lies.” I grinned, saved by the light again. “I prefer to hear about his problems anyway. They make mine seem like nothing.”

“I know. How is old Frank these days?”

“Well, he’s confirmed that his daughter is pregnant, which he’s suspected for months now. She’s showing and well past the point of options, and his wife is going to church again, which he didn't sound excited about. She gets a bit fanatical. And his son has dropped out of football and is dating a girl Frank doesn't approve of. Her parents let him sleep over so Frank isn’t letting him leave the house. It’s a mess. And his blood pressure’s up, so we switch it out, sometimes I take the couch and sometimes he takes it.”

“I cannot believe you pay him to let him tell you his troubles and then lie to him about yours. You have the weirdest life I've ever heard of.” Mike chuckled and started eating again.

“I know it.”

The rain clouds I’d brought to the table left, carried away by the wind. This was our dance. I was gloomy and he was light. And then he was serious and grumpy, and I was cheerful and mocking. And we switched it up, helping each other carry the load.

His burdens became mine and mine his, and together neither of us ever had to take on too much.

I loved the realness of this world, and the truth that was so large inside him that it overshadowed all my lies.





Chapter Thirty


Manhattan, New York, 2032



The dress felt wrong, too tight and not long enough. The mirror had lied when it showed a dress to my knees and slightly baggy.

“Is it hot in here?” I asked Mike.

“No, stop asking that and quit fidgeting with your dress. You look great, calm down.” He sounded annoyed, but I didn't recall asking him if it was hot before this.

My eyes darted nervously, searching the crowd for the one face I dreaded seeing. One I hadn’t seen in so long I didn't recall it the way it might’ve been, only the way it was when he screamed at me and tore at my clothes.

A sea of dark clothes and gloomy faces filled the small church on Pierre Street.

When her parents made their way to the front of the church and sat, heads held high and eyes dry, I felt sick.

They’d abandoned her, sold her into marriage to save their livelihood and then abandoned her when she needed them most.

I hated them and didn't even know them. We had never met, except that one phone call, that one cry for help.

Lana’s coffin sat at the front, closed casket naturally. By the end, she’d been hardly more than bones and skin.

Her death lay heavy on my heart, and shoulders, so I leaned on Mike as I wondered about things. Things like had I left her unresponsive, all those years ago when she first got lost in la la land, would she have ended up here sooner? She could have avoided the entire tragedy by remaining unresponsive and slowly fading. My conscience wouldn't be clearer, but Gilda would be alive.