We Need to Talk Read online

  We Need to Talk

  A.K. Rose

  © 2015, A.K. Rose

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  PROLOGUE

  Love must be as much a light, as it is a flame. –Henry David Thoreau

  July, 2015

  “We need to talk. Um, please, call me back?”

  That was all the message said. The voice on the line was familiar, but distant. It took Laura Brighton a few moments to place the raspy, gravelly timbre that she was hearing again after…what had it been? Fifteen years.

  Fifteen fucking years.

  She didn’t know what to think. What to feel. A wave of anger flooded her body, but a small amount of relief trickled in, too. She never had much of a poker face, her emotions were generally on display, like it or not, and all at once her face felt flushed and her pulse quickened.

  Yeah right. Now we need to talk.

  They were together a year. And then they weren’t, not that Laura had a say in it.

  They say time marches on. Old wounds heal, but the scars remain. And she definitely had scars from this relationship that ended a decade-and-a-half ago. Not physical scars, of course. Mel was not violent towards her, ever. No, these scars were emotional. They cut deep and they spanned wide. These scars prevented her from ever truly trusting a lover, from ever finding the one person she wanted to share her life with, because the one person she found broke her heart.

  The irony of this phone message, at this time, with those words was absolutely ridiculous.

  Laura’s life, at least on paper, was just about perfect. After years of toiling on partially finished manuscripts and a dump truck’s worth of rejection, her first novel was a critical success. Whenever she fell into the depths of those dark crevices in her mind—with the voices telling her she was a failure, a farce—she had to remind herself that she was successful. She was happy. She was living her dream life, as well as she could, anyway, without a love interest in her storyline.

  But now, this ten second phone message brought the skeletons out of her closet and drew out the doubt she had worked so hard to file away.

  Why now? Oh, that’s right. All of a sudden I’m “somebody.” That has to be why.

  She had always been a writer, but it took years of persistence, of rejection, of trying to actually be known as a writer. It took working her way up the ranks of the publishing world, of mentoring other writers, of learning her art to make her who she finally was: a published author.

  Do not call her back.

  Laura sat cross-legged on the floor of her kitchen, the cramped apartment surrounding her with its small but tidy familiarity, fighting the urge to give Mel what she wanted. She couldn’t possibly call back. That would be too easy and dredge up too much pain. After all, it was she that left a message—a very similar message—that went unanswered all those years ago.

  The last interaction they’d had wasn’t an interaction at all. It was a voicemail that simply said, “We need to talk. Please call me. I love you.”

  Laura never heard back. Never got the talk she so desperately needed from the person that mattered most in her life. Never got closure or even a reason for the sudden and surprising end to what was then—and still is—the most torrid romance of her life.

  ONE

  New York City, January, 1999

  “Mind if I sit here?” a confident voice asked from behind her left shoulder.

  “Sure,” Laura answered, not even looking up to see the individual requesting permission to join her at the small bar. It was a simple request, and she wasn’t really interested in whomever was asking. She was in her own little world, deep inside her head.

  In fact, being in her head was one of her biggest problems. She was fresh out of Wellesley with an English Lit degree. Twenty-three years old and, for the first time in her life, no one was telling her what to do. Who to be. The path had always been so clear until now, the moment the rubber needed to meet the road. Unfortunately, though, after years of doing exactly what was expected of her, no one gave her the map for this portion of her life.

  Now, she was in a Starbucks in midtown Manhattan, gazing vacantly out the large picture window at an electronics store with the whir of people going about their days slightly more in focus in the forefront. Even with all of the activity around her, she was hopelessly stuck with the thoughts buzzing in her head, trying to figure out what was next.

  Isn’t this what writers do? Sit in coffee shops and wait for inspiration? Wait, is Starbucks even a coffee shop? Shouldn’t I be in a more hip place where my internal angst can really seep out?

  “I’m Mel,” the voice continued, extending a hand, apparently looking for a handshake.

  “Hi,” Laura replied, complying with the shake request by force of habit, not even looking up to see the body attached to the outstretched hand.

  “And you are?”

  “Oh, sorry,” Laura breathed out forcefully. “I’m in a bit of another place in my head right now. I’m Laura. Do people in New York always introduce themselves to strangers they sit next to at Starbucks?”

  “When the person they sit next to looks like you, yes, I think so.”

  Holy crap. Is this woman hitting on me?

  Laura was taken aback by the very candid admission and finally looked at her unrequested companion in earnest.

  The figure before her was a brunette in a business suit wearing stylish librarian glasses. Her hair was pulled up neatly and she wore just the right amount of jewelry; just the right amount of makeup. Sophisticated, no doubt, but she had a hint of mystery to her presence, perhaps a hint of trouble, too. This woman was incredibly attractive, no denying it, but, she was not Laura’s type. Of this she was certain. Laura’s “type” were stamped out of the male variety.

  And yet.

  “I’m sorry, come again?” Laura muttered.

  Mel leaned in to whisper her reply more directly into her target’s ear.

  “I said, when the person looks like you do, I’d be a fool not to introduce myself.”

  Her breath was warm and smelled faintly of cinnamon, causing the little hairs on Laura’s arms to prickle in response. Mel’s confidence was overpowering, and while she wanted to turn away and pretend this wasn’t happening, Laura was curiously mesmerized by this stranger who took a sudden interest in her.

  “Does that line generally work for you?”

  “I don’t know,” Mel answered, “I’ve never used it until now. You tell me.”

  “Well, I’m flattered, honestly I am. I hate to tell you though, I’m not gay. But, if I were, yeah, I think you’re on to something.”

  “Okay, then, not-gay Laura, tell me what’s troubling you. I have been told I’m a good listener. No strings attached, promise.” Mel was persistent, but not pushy. It was the sort of thing people liked about her—she had her act together, at least on the surface, and put out a comforting vibe.

  Reluctantly, Laura lowered her guard.

  It had been a long time since someone—anyone—took an interest in her, romantically or otherwise. She’d been in New York City for six months, just barely scraping by on odd jobs and only met a few people that she’d hardly call friends. Determined to succeed at all costs, she plugged along, but most days were a struggle just to get out of bed and look for some semblance of work. She had just about chewed through her savings and was faced with the unfortunate decision of whether to stay, or, go back to Ohio and live a Midwest life of misery. Her recent Christmas visit “home” reinforced to her that she did not want to have to play that car
d.

  It was odd to spill one’s guts to a stranger in crowded Starbucks, but then again, it was odd to be sitting in a Starbucks, a world of worry on her mind, trying to find the answers to all her issues. She hesitated just briefly before diving into it.

  “Well, where to begin, honestly,” Laura sighed, staring at the hole in the white lid capping her expensive coffee. “I’ve been in the city six months and I’m starting to realize everything I thought would happen when I got here isn’t going to happen. I’m a bit lost at sea, and I’m trying to find my way to the right path. It used to seem so obvious. I am a writer. I write. But, ever since I got here I have been falling flat on creativity, and I’m wondering if I made the wrong career choice. I haven’t found a decent job, and I’m just about out of cash, so I’m at an impasse for what to do next. I don’t want to have to go home a failure. Ugh. I’m sorry.”

  “Okay, this is a good start,” Mel countered. “Let me ask you something. How old are you?”

  “I’m twenty three.”

  “Twenty three. You are just a baby! You don’t know it now, but, you have so much to learn about who you are; who you’re going to become. At twenty three, you think you should be a huge success already, but in reality, you’ve just started to live. You need to have some experiences, some adventures, before you get to sit at a coffee bar and cry a river of tears over your troubles.”

  “I thought you said you were a good listener.”

  “I am. But what I’m trying to tell you, clearly unsuccessfully, is that it’s okay to be a bit off course at your age. Your life is unfolding in front of you. You don’t need to be doing exactly what you think you should be doing right now. You should be working a crappy job, meeting people, talking to strangers—learning who you are. The rest will come when it’s time. Trust me.”

  “Sure. We’ve known each other what, five minutes now, half of which you spent, I assume, trying to get me to go on a date. I should definitely trust you.” Laura knew she was being snippy, but couldn’t stop herself.

  “Girl, trust me. I know your type because I was your type. Fresh out of school, full of big goals and big dreams. Certain I could conquer this crazy city in a way no one else had before me. Reality’s a bitch, I’m sorry to tell you. It’ll happen for you, though. It just takes time.”

  Her coffee was cold and the activity on the street seemed to be even more of a blur. Laura pushed her drink away and studied the eyes of her de facto counselor. There was wisdom there, no doubt. Perhaps this Mel person knew things she needed to learn about. Perhaps she was right—there is no such thing as an overnight success.

  “Come to dinner with me,” Mel suggested, as she grabbed her coat off the back of the barstool.

  Laura looked away, unsure why this stranger wouldn’t back down. She had been honest: she was not gay, not even a little bit. Doubt crept in, though, a drop at a time. Someone so persistent was indeed attractive to her companionship-starved soul. The conversation slowed way down as she retreated into the dark recesses of her own mind.

  Right. Not even a little bit gay. Then why am I tempted to go dinner with her?

  The vacant stare into space must have seemed rude.

  “You act like I just asked you for the meaning of life in twenty words or less. Just come to dinner with me. We’ll talk. I get that you’re not into me that way, and that’s okay. But don’t deny me the option to be your friend because of some weird preconceived notion you have about my intentions.” Mel did her best calm, cool, and confident routine.

  The truth was, she was not giving up yet. She thrived on the challenge. The thrill of the hunt. Here was this fragile young woman, looking for direction and meaning in her life. Extrinsically beautiful, yes, but Mel sensed there was a depth to her that far exceeded her years. She was alone in the city and in need of direction. It could take some time to crack the code, but then again, with the straight girls, you just never knew.

  “I don’t know, really. I don’t usually just create a friendship out of thin air with people I’ve known for ten minutes. But then again, I also don’t usually spill my troubles so readily.”

  “Well, then, I think that means it’s meant to be. Let’s go to dinner, get to know each other. Maybe I’ll tell you about my troubles. Meet me at Serafina on 49th Street at 7:00 tonight. I know some people—I’ll get us a great table.”

  TWO

  When 7:15 rolled around and Mel wasn’t there yet, Laura started to doubt everything. Why had she agreed to dinner? Why was this persistent woman late? Worse, was she being blown off? Insecurity was the common thread that stitched her thoughts together, as usual.

  Just as she was about to get up and leave, Mel came rushing in, out of breath and looking slightly panicked, which seemed uncharacteristic based on the little Laura knew about her.

  “I am so sorry,” she started, before Laura even had a chance to say a word. “My last meeting ran late and then I broke the heel off my shoe and had to run home before I came here. I am usually very prompt! I hope you haven’t been waiting long?”

  “Not long,” Laura casually replied, beating back the questions flooding her mind. What am I doing here? Why am I being so casual? What do I even want out of this dinner? “But, I am hungry and you promised a great table. Are you ready to eat?”

  Two hours later, the duo were still talking, finishing up the last of their tiramisu. Mel was a vast expanse of insight and intrigue, having travelled the world with her job as a corporate headhunter. Not only was she well-travelled, she was well read. They talked about Faulkner and Rand and Rumi, and what it takes to be so passionate about words that you’d re-write the end of a novel thirty nine times, as Hemmingway so famously did for A Farewell to Arms.

  Laura had to admit it, the woman was captivating. She was smart and witty, and her company made the time fly by. Never had she encountered someone with such varied tastes in literature who could hold up a legitimate conversation that scratched below the surface and into the meaning of words; of art; of life.

  “You know, this was a great dinner,” Laura offered, sipping her coffee and extending the olive branch to make up for her skepticism earlier in the day. “I would have never imagined we’d have so much to talk about—so much in common—when we met at Starbucks. I mean, who does that? Who just walks up to a stranger and starts up a conversation?”

  Mel smiled a sly, mischievous grin, and took her time answering as she smeared the last of her cake over the restaurant’s white plate with her fork.

  “Someone who looked across a loud, crowded room, saw a beautiful woman and couldn’t live with herself for not at least saying hello.”

  Laura’s fair complexion reflexively turned three shades of bright red. How should she even reply to that? The evening had been so nice. Good food, great conversation, and for the first time in . . . ever . . . she felt she had a connection with someone that went deeper than small talk. They’d talked for hours and yet, she there was still so much to say, so much to learn about each other.

  “Too much?” Mel inquired, breaking the silence that resulted in her answer and knowing she had probably crossed the line.

  “No, no. It’s just, I have had such a wonderful time talking with you tonight. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who is coming from where, well, from where I’m coming from, you know? Someone who has read what I’ve read and likes obscure artists and bands and who has been all the places I want to go. Those are some pretty slim odds, and I’m struggling because I don’t know how to process what you just said against the fact that we could have a great friendship developing.”

  “Maybe don’t process it? Maybe, for once—and I’m just guessing here—don’t overanalyze the moment and just enjoy that we’re having it? Look, I am not going to lie and hide the fact that I’m extremely attracted to you. To both your external and internal self. I didn’t know it at the coffee shop, but you are a pretty damn deep well for twenty three.”

  Mel continued with caution, “I will probably fl
irt, I can’t help it. But, also, give me some credit here. I am perfectly capable of having friendships with women that don’t end up in bed. Have you never had a gay friend before? We’re not sex-crazed monsters, you know.”

  “I’m sorry, I know, it’s really narcissistic of me to think that because you’re gay you must only want one thing.” Laura backtracked. She had a weird feeling in the pit of her stomach. “I do have to admit, a tiny part of me does kind of like the attention.”

  The words came out before she could stop them.

  What the hell? Do I actually want her pursuing me?

  “Of course you do. Everyone likes to be told that they’re interesting and gorgeous. I’ll tell you what. I really like you, and I want to get to know you better—in a platonic way. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable, so I promise I’ll drop it. Okay? But, if you ever change your mind, my door is always open. And, that’s the last I’ll say about that. Now, what are you doing on Friday night? I got two tickets to Rent on Broadway at work today. Interested?”

  “Most definitely.”

  “Good. Then, let’s get out of here. I’ll walk you home.”

  “Okay, great. Wait.” Laura stopped. “How did you know I live within walking distance?”

  “I have ways, darling. I have ways.”

  THREE

  For the next two days, Laura went about her life in exactly the same way she had since she arrived in Manhattan. She woke up as early as possible, which really wasn’t “early,” cleaned up the mess in the kitchen her roommate Marcie reliably left each night, cursed Marcie in her head, hit the job listings on Monster.com, sent out some resumes, and then, started to write.

  Laura Brighton’s true best friend had always been words. Growing up the Cleveland suburbs was a struggle—she was labeled a nerd early on in middle school, when cliques were forming and friendships were being cemented that would last through high school. She didn’t have many friends because of this—it wasn’t cool to be smart—but she had books that took her away to better, more exotic, more interesting places. She had the words of Dickens and Thoreau and Laura Ingalls Wilder. These words never, ever mocked her or let her down. They simply sat on their shelves, encased in beautiful covers, waiting patiently to be tapped for inspiration, for education, for comfort. Even now, in this uncertain time, when a permanent dark cloud seemed to sit on her shoulder, she had words. She always had words.