Lost in La La Land(68)

Or, ending the story as she did, in the world she created.

It was exactly like Choose Your Own Adventure.

And when the asshole mayor read the story, which I knew he would, he would understand that I blamed him far more than I blamed myself.

Another lie, but who was counting at this point?





Chapter Thirty-One


Manhattan, New York, 2033



The crowd made me nervous, even though I was hidden from them behind the curtain. What had I gotten myself into? How had I been so insane as to agree to this? Where were my sociopathic tendencies that enjoyed a narcissistic boosting that swelled the ego as this surely would?

“Emma?”

I turned, feeling all the color drain from my face. “Marguerite.” Her name tasted like ash and yet I’d never felt so excited to see her face.

“You look so good.” She burst into tears and ran at me. All the time, all the years and hateful words between us, melted away. Her hands around me, clinging to me, felt exactly as they had before. As they had on that day when I saw myself through her eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Marguerite,” I whispered. I had longed to say this but it was her that had walked away, declaring the finality of the friendship. I never had the courage I needed to mend this. As always, I was afraid it would be rejected, that I would be.

“I’m sorry, Emma. I abandoned you and you needed me.” She stepped back. “I wasn't strong enough for you.”

“No, you were exactly what I needed in that moment. You saved me. Did you read the book?” I asked. I had to know if she saw the part where the friends showed up and suddenly the narrator realized the fall she had taken.

“I did. It’s beautiful and tragic and I suspect all true.” She tried to smile but it came up a grimace through the tears.

“Thank you for being there when I needed it.” I hugged her, noting the shake in my hands. They never did this anymore. I never shook like this. “How’s Lola?”

“Gone,” she whispered. “I should have called. I wanted to.” She started to cry harder. “She passed peacefully last year. Sweet and feisty until the very end.”

That was when my tears hit. “Gone?” I'd wasted so much time on myself that I had missed my own dog’s death. Even if she wasn't my dog anymore. “I’m so sorry,” I offered, wiping my face. I wasn't certain how I would sign books with puffy eyes and a runny nose, but it was looking like I would have to.

“Me too. She was a good girl. The kids made a grave for her in the yard at the farm. You should come out and see it.”

“I would love that.”

“Where is he?” she teased. “Where’s the huntsman?”

“Mike?” I cleared my throat and wiped my face some more. “He’s not here. He hates bookstores and large groups of women and wearing clean jeans.” I tried to sound as if I was recovered from the shock of her being here.

“I’ll wait around for you, after.”

“No!” I nearly shouted it. “Don't go. Stay. You can sit at the table with me. I was supposed to have some assistant I don't know, but this is better.” I was terrified she might leave. “We have so much catching up to do. How are the kids and Stan?”

“Good. The same. Honestly. Life with kids means things stay relatively the same for a long time. We do sports four days a week, volunteer for school shit, I work, I make dinner, I do laundry, Stan works, we try to have sex on the weekends and sometimes Tuesdays. I drink way more wine than I ever have, sometimes out of to-go coffee cups at the sports things. Sometimes in the bathroom while I eat candy that I hide from everyone else.” She laughed and hugged me again. “I have missed you, friend.” Her fingers trembled like mine did.

“I missed you too.” I kissed her cheek, and pulled her to the curtain. “Stay with me, okay?”

“Okay.” She smiled wide, not grimacing but looking like herself again. In her eyes and face I saw something I’d not noticed before.

We were older.

We had both aged, not a lot but enough to notice. She had aged with kids, even sporting some gray hairs. And I had aged with grief, self-denigration, and torment.

But we were on the other side. Her kids were older and my grief had thinned, some of it washing away completely.

As some random person announced my name, the curtain opened, and I beamed at the very large crowd of eager fellow bookworms. I waved and sat as the line started. Each woman telling me about their experience in the brief moments they were given to speak.

I signed and laughed and tried to be as real as the story was, allowing each person’s interpretation of my work and their experience as the reader.

It lasted for hours.

My fingers cramped.

My butt hurt.

My back ached.

But my heart swelled.

Not only was Marguerite at the signing, and by my side, but the bookworms accepted me and my book.

It was a great moment, humbling even.

The cowriter who had made the work shine smiled at me, nodding his head as if letting me know what a good job I’d done.

I smiled back, grateful for his way with words and scenes.

As we left the shop, I was full. My heart and soul felt as if they were glowing. I linked arms with Marguerite and listened to stories of kids and Lola and all the shit I’d missed being a selfish and horrid person.