Page 7 of Maybe in Another Life

“It’s my first night back in Los Angeles,” I remind her. “I want to look good.”

I had on a black shirt and black jeans, with long earrings and, of course, a high bun. But then I thought, you know, this isn’t New York anymore. This is L.A. It was sixty degrees out this afternoon.

“I just want to find a tank top,” I say. I start filtering through the clothes I have already thrown across the room. I find a teal shell tank and throw it on. I slip on my black heels. I look in the mirror and fix my bun. “I promise I will clean this all up when we get back.”

I can see Mark laughing at me. He knows I sometimes don’t do exactly what I say I’ll do. No doubt, when Gabby asked him if I could stay here, she prepared him by saying, “She will probably throw her stuff all over the place.” Also, I have no doubt he said that was OK. So I don’t feel too bad.

But I don’t think that is why Mark is laughing, actually. He says, “For someone so disorganized, you look very pulled together.”

Gabby smiles at him and then at me. “You do. You look, like, glowy.” She grabs the doorknob and then says, “But looks aren’t the measure of a woman.” She can’t stop herself. This political correctness is just a part of who she is. I love her for that.

“Thank you both,” I say as I follow them to their car.

When we get to the bar, it’s fairly quiet. Gabby and Mark sit down, and I go up to get our drinks. I order beers for Mark and me and a glass of chardonnay for Gabby. The bill comes to twenty-four dollars, and I hand over my credit card. I don’t know how much money I have in my account, because I’m afraid to look. But I know I have enough to live for a few weeks and get an apartment. I don’t want to be a person who nickels-and-dimes, especially when Mark and Gabby have been sweet enough to give me a place to stay, so I just put it out of my head.

I bring the two beers to the table and turn back to get Gabby’s wine. By the time I sit down, another woman has joined us. I remember meeting her at Gabby and Mark’s wedding a couple of years ago. Her name is Katherine, I believe. She ran the New York City Marathon a few years ago. I remember faces and names really well. It’s easy for me to remember details about people I have only met once. But I learned a long time ago not to reveal this. It freaks people out.

Katherine extends her hand. “Katherine,” she says.

I shake her hand and say my name.

“Nice to meet you,” she says. “Welcome back to Los Angeles!”

“Thanks,” I say. “Actually, I think we’ve met before.”

“We have?”

“Yeah, at Gabby and Mark’s wedding. Yeah, yeah,” I say, as if it’s coming back to me. “You were telling me about how you ran a marathon somewhere, right? Boston or New York?”

She smiles. “New York! Yes! Great memory.”

And now Katherine likes me. If I’d come right out with it, if I’d said, “Oh, we’ve met before. You were wearing a yellow dress at their wedding, and you said that running the New York Marathon was the hardest but most rewarding thing you’ve ever done,” Katherine would think I was creepy. I have learned this the hard way.

Soon some of my old friends from high school start trickling in, the girls Gabby and I hung out with: Brynn, Caitlin, Erica. I scream and shout at the top of my lungs when I see each of them. It is so nice to see familiar faces, to be somewhere and know that the people who knew you at fifteen still like you. Brynn looks older, Caitlin looks thinner, Erica looks just the same.

Some of Mark’s friends from work show up with their spouses, and soon we are crowding around a table too small for us.

People start buying other people drinks. Rounds are on this person or that person. I nurse my beer and a few Diet Cokes. I drank a lot in New York. I drank a lot with Michael. Change starts now.

I’m up at the bar again when I see Ethan walk in the door.

He’s even taller than I remember, wearing an untucked blue cotton button-down and dark jeans. His hair is short and tousled, his stubble a few days old. He was cute in high school. He’s handsome now. He will only get more handsome as he ages, I suspect.

I wonder if he has crow’s-feet like I do.

I watch as he scouts around, searching for me in the crowd. I pay for the drinks in my hand and walk toward him. Just when I worry he’ll never see me, I finally catch his eye. He lights up and smiles wide.

He moves toward me quickly, the gap between us almost instantly reduced to zero. He throws his arms around me and squeezes me tight. I briefly put the drinks down on the edge of the bar so I don’t spill them.

“Hi,” he says.

“You’re here!” I say.

“You’rehere!” he says.

I hug him again.

“It’s really great to see you,” he tells me. “Beautiful as ever.”

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