Moments In Time: A Collection of Short Fiction (53 page)

“I’m drinking this beer and you’re gonna watch me. Plus, I earned this,” I retort, jerking the beer away from his grasp and sitting next to Robbie.

He takes the drink from my hand, turns the cap and hands back the open bottle. I take a quick swig and set it down in front of me.

“So, what are you guys up to? I didn’t know you were coming, too,” I say to Robbie, nudging his leg under the table.

“Well, Robbie here thinks he needs my permission for something.” My eyes shoot to Jack, then back to Robbie and back to Jack again.

“What are you talking about? Permission for what?”

Robbie turns to me, putting his hand on my thigh where the dress has ridden up, “Well, I would like to ask you on a date, but I felt like I needed to make sure that it was okay with Jack.”

My mouth drops open, shocked that we’re actually having a conversation like this. Not only is it awkward to have someone
asking
Jack for permission to date me, but Robbie thinking he needs to ask me on a date
after
we’ve had sex comes as a surprise.

“Well, what did Jack say?” I need to buy some time here.

“I said yes, of course,” Jack chuckles. “Personally, I find it extremely funny that he’s asking you on a date, especially after the entire neighborhood heard the theatrics the morning I came to pick you up.”

My face instantly heats and it’s not just my face that’s turning red; I can see the flush creeping up my legs.

“Jack,” I whisper, shocked that he hadn’t said anything sooner.

“Oh, come on. I knew you weren’t in the shower when I was knocking. I knew exactly what was going on.” Jack raises his eyebrows repeatedly.

“Oh my gosh, Jack. Stop it.” My hands fly to my mouth, covering it before I say something about the night prior, when Robbie paid me for sex.

Robbie is laughing hysterically when my aunt brings over a serving plate of steaks and baked potatoes.

“What’s so funny?” she questions.

“Nothing, Mom. We’re just telling a funny story.”

I take my fork and stab a steak off the plate, transferring it to mine while Robbie eyes me suspiciously. I’m trying to ignore his looks, but I can feel his gaze even though my hair has fallen in front of my face, creating a makeshift shield.

“So?” Robbie asks.

“What?”

“Would you like to go on a date with me, Dallas?” When he whispers that in my ear, my senses are on full alert and that all too familiar shiver going down my spine would make me fall to my knees if I wasn’t already sitting.

“I would love to go on a date with you.” And there you have it, folks. I’m officially a reformed woman. Not only am I going places in life, I’m going to go on a date. And not the kind of date where a John picks me up on a corner, fucks me in the backseat of his car and gives me my sixty bucks. A real date—where a boy is going to pick me up, probably with flowers, and take me to dinner.

The moral of the story is this; not all fairytales have the typical, cliché start and finish. Boy meets girl, they fall in love instantly, get married, get the white picket fence and two point five children and drive a minivan. More times than not, someone is fucked up, has a shitty life and all it takes is one gesture of genuine care and concern to change everything. Robbie did that for me. He found me in the gutter, cared for me, turned me over to the people that love me more than anything and brought me back to life.

Robbie put the sparkle back in my sapphire blues.

About the Author

Ashley Suzanne is a married mother of three little boys, as well as a daughter, aunt, sister, best friend, birth mother, blogger, book whore, and author. Ashley is a native to the suburbs of Detroit, with most of her family living in Kentucky and New York.

Ashley may be found on social media at:

Facebook:
Ashley Suzanne Books

Twitter:
@itsashleyyo

Website:
www.ashleysuzanneauthor.blogspot.com

Books by Ashley Suzanne include:

The Destined Series

Mirage

Inception

Awakening

Façade

Epiphany

by Kahlen Aymes

Edited by Kathryn Voskuil

An off-Broadway actress struggles with whether to continue an online relationship that has been a constant presence in her life. But when the enigmatic man she chats with refuses to allow her to truly get to know him, she is forced to face the fact that words—while powerful—may not be enough.

“The glory of friendship is not in the outstretched hand, nor the kindly smile, nor the joy of companionship; it is in the spiritual inspiration that comes to one when he discovers that someone else believes in him and is willing to trust him.”

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

The final curtain had fallen.

It was dark and quiet after the last show of a national tour of a Broadway musical. It was huge, an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical and the biggest break of my career to date.

Touring and performing was exhausting and the loneliness? It was the
worst
. The endless stream of faces began to blur as the cities piled up behind the four buses and three semi-trailers that carried the cast and set over the endless miles of pavement.


The only constant was my roommate and cast-mate, Kayla. She was from Topeka, Kansas, and came to New Yo
rk after she ran away from home at the age of seventeen. I met her at after seeing her at a few of the grueling auditions, cut after cut as they narrowed down the cast for this show. The girl had moxie. I would miss her, but some of the people were catty and self-serving; those jealous few who begrudge others with any modicum of talent or success, and then there were the users who take no prisoners on their rise to the top. Them, I wouldn’t miss.

My face hurt from pasting a smile on my face day after day, when inside, I felt like crying. Performing would be pure perfection if it wasn’t for the incredible, aching loneliness that accompanied every moment I wasn’t on stage. Artistic types are usually close-nit or total loners, but I longed for a happy balance.


I had a few weeks off before the next audition and it was welcome. I was beyond tired. I’d bounced around with the touring company for the past three years and while exhilarating and a wonderful way to see the country, I was ready for it to end. I loved singing and performing on the stage; the applause was like a drug, feeding the obsession; but I needed a break.


I sighed heavily and fell back on the smooth, shiny black surface of the empty stage. One or two of the backstage lights casted gloomy shadows i
n the auditorium. I stared at the shadowy grids above me; a uniform jungle of black metal that held the track lighting fixtures. All of it would be dismantled and loaded up for the last time tomorrow. The scent of paint and newly tooled lumber hung in the air. The scent had become so familiar. No matter what city, what venue, the scent was the same.


I raked both hands over my face and drew my knees up until my feet were flat on the floor. My whole life had become like the show; repetitive, practiced precision… a flawless role I played. I laughed harshly at the irony of it. I even had my own personal
phantom, like the character I’d been playing; made even more daunting by his facelessness.


Thank God for wireless internet, Twitter, and my Kindle. As far as I was concerned, these were the three most important modern marvels ever created. Screw Facebook
(sorry Mark Suckerbutt, or whatever-the-hell your name is), the suspension bridge and indoor plumbing. Well, maybe not indoor plumbing, but it could hardly be called modern, considering the first aqua duct was invented between 600 or 300 B.C. in Persia or Syria or somewhere equally obscure. The Romans finally ran with it, but it took those poor bastards 500 years to build. I cringed again.
He
was the reason I knew about that shit. I groaned inwardly; resentful that he invaded any part of my existence when he refused to be real.


We met online while I was traveling on the bus between San Francisco and Los Angeles. He was writing a play set in Medieval Europe during the Crusades and since I was an actress, our mutual artistic backgrounds made it easy to start
up a friendship. At first I blanched at his script; the subject matter of the work seemed depressing and stiff to someone as expressive as myself. He was elusive but curious. He wanted to know about me, but his own responses were vague, still, we became friends. When someone tried to pirate his scripts, I helped him figure out who and how to stop them. Remember what I said about the wireless internet? It was the thing that allowed me to stay connected my friend, to take those thieving bastards down, and not go batshit crazy on the road.

What I was able to figure out, he was smart, maybe a genius; well-read, and probably had tenure at some ivy league, rich-bitch university. Playwriting was a secret no one in his real life new about. That part I didn’t really understand. Why would you keep a talent like that secret?

Obviously, the dude had to be a nerd, but whatever; I was bored, so it didn’t matter. Plus, I liked our conversations. We had a lot in common, and I sensed, would discover more if he’d only be more open. I needed someone to talk to who actually had something to say of substance. The well-intentioned, yet shallow people that surrounded me on a daily basis made my head hurt. In that one way; he was real. Substance.


As time wore on, my perception chang
ed. It turned out he wasn’t boring in the slightest, but who knew about the rest? It didn’t really matter to me in the beginning. His mind intrigued mine, and soon I came to rely on his presence in my inbox and the encouragement that we offered each other despite the fact that I didn’t even know his name beyond his online ‘persona’. He was equally vague on chat and twitter. Sometimes we talked for hours about nothing at all, but there were those few moments when his walls started to crumble ever so slightly and part of him would creep into our conversations. I felt he wanted to tell me more, yet something held him back. I knew it, but on those rare occasions when he unconsciously opened, the door slammed shut the second he realized it was happening. It left me bereft and frustrated every time.


I pieced together what I could, based on the little things he’d let slip, people he mentioned, places he obviously knew well, because
inquiring minds want to know
. I’m cursed with a brain that works endlessly to figure shit out; two and two makes four every time; never the grey area of three or four-and-a-half. Always fucking four, you know what I mean? And really, that was the thing about me the intrigued him.


The problem was, in the arena of our friendship, what he knew about me could fill Lake Michigan
, but he shared so little information about himself, it couldn’t fill a petri dish. After a year of conversations, I still knew very little of who he was. I knew he was generous, caring… the substance stuff, but not the labels the world puts on people that define how they live and make public the legacy after death. The way he always kept in touch and got back to me right away when he thought I needed him reinforced the friendship, despite the holes in the information.

I didn’t pry or push him for more than
he was willing to say. I waited - albeit, not so patiently, telling myself that someday he would trust me enough, while inside I was silently screaming whenever he would abruptly end a conversation just when I felt we were making progress.


I over-compens
ated by letting him know everything about me; showing I could be trusted, that I respected him and his work, that I would never do anything that he would consider hurtful… that I could keep his deepest secrets safe. Oh, who was I kidding?
He knew
he could trust me completely, but it never seemed to be enough. I didn’t know if it ever would be, and more than frustrating, it started to hurt. He knew it; still it didn’t change, and it didn’t end. So really, was he my friend if he knew he hurt me and didn’t change it or stop it? It hurt me to see him as anything less than I thought him to be.


We discussed using the power of silence against those who hurt us or those who had now become our common enemies; offering empathy and kinship when either of us dealt with
jealousy and ignorance within our craft. Keeping to yourself can be a good shield, a barrier to that which can expose, hurt, defile. I got that. But why did he feel the need to be that way with me? It made no sense.

I faced his ambiguity regarding his personal life over and over again, finally breaking down and confessing that his infernal silence was even more damaging when wielded against one’s friends; most damaging to me who really cared about the person he was inside, not the persona he might be to the world. Lucky me, I was rewarded with five days of the dreaded silence. Clearly…my point had been made. My hurt feelings demanded that I did not reach out.

That silence… it lasted until he decided to inquire about my location, my mother’s health, wish me a good weekend or something equally impersonal. It seemed so obvious, the contact was just as important to him as it was to me. One way or another, the conversation began anew, but with my questions still left unanswered. Anything important to me was bypassed time and time again, always leaving me empty and helpless, wondering why I cared or even bothered.

I sighed and gazed into the dark endlessness stretching before me. It was an enormous exclamation point on my thoughts.
Darkness, silence, and vague nothingness
…mock away, you insidious bastards! Fuck you, all of you! My eyes burned with the sting of tears and my throat constricted painfully.


The how and why our situation began seemed irrelevant as time passed and the pattern continued. We had commonalities that kept us both engaged: words, music, art…love, compassion, frustration. I liked his depth; he liked my snarky, inquiring personality a
nd my humor. My ability to solve the toughest of puzzles seemed to intrigue him and fire his need to create one I might not be able to crack.


Over time, even faceless words began to transform into living, breathing reality and superficial conversations, i
ndustry bullshit and career discussions weren’t enough. How many times can you talk about the same thing without wanting to slit your wrists? I wanted to know the person behind the words, and wasn’t that the natural conclusion to the months of conversations? Questions and sadness flooded my mind and heart. Where would we go from here? Could the friendship be so askance without fading into nothingness or one of us going insane? My fucking head was going to explode and my heart was breaking.

It didn’t change. My honesty when he requested information was the juxtaposition of quipped responses toggled with his stoic silence. That remained constant. I had to accept it the way it was, or move on. His refusal to help me understand the reason behind his reluctance stung. I wasn’t asking for line item details about his life or to come to Sunday dinner, but how could we be friends and not want to know more about each other? Finally, I confessed my frustrations. While I valued his friendship, I didn’t feel valued in ret
urn. I said it multiple times, giving him several opportunities to let the friendship go. And always, I got the same answer. “We are friends, I do value you…”


Ugh! Honestly, I didn’t understand his penchant for remaining in contact when he refused to be real. What was the point to it all? Part of me prayed that we’d keep in touch, but a larger part prayed it would end because of the emptiness it created.
Why?
My mind screamed.


Why couldn’t I know him? Why couldn’t he trust me enough?

“Why no closer, but not nothing?” I asked.


I was met with more silence followed by another round of vague statements that couldn’t qualify as answers.


Would the reason that kept him from owning it, make him let it go? No. Never. He’d never tell me what I wanted to know or admit we weren’t really friends, but still he kept the door cracked open.

After a few days, he would find some other reason to connect, blowing the whole heavy conversation and all my questions off.
Again
. For a long time, I let him get by with it. I didn’t want to give up on someone who had become important to me. But, I was at my wall.

And now, finally, my work took me to his city. We didn’t discuss his location, but he knew that I knew. My last curtain call was probably as close as I’d ever get to him.

Would this be the end or the beginning? I was sure of one thing: it
would be one or the other
. When I left this place, I would no longer seek out his friendship. I steeled myself for the result. We both had enough superficial friendships; people that prodded and pulled at us…we didn’t need that from each other. At least, that wasn’t what I needed from him. Not what I wanted.

He certainly had a choice, but his would determine mine. If it didn’t matter, what did I have to lose anyway? But it felt like I had a lot to lose. I had to own my own value. I deserved more. I struggled with trying to figure out what he gained by leaving me hanging. Was his ego so fragile that it needed constant reinforcement at my expense? Well, fuck him and his passive-aggressive bullshit! I shouted the words in my head.