When I take my anxiety meds regularly, my thoughts are orderly and generally optimistic. It’s like those vitamin bottles proclaim — “resistance to stress” and “mood stability” or a “sunny outlook” — but with more consistent and obvious results.

     When I don’t take them, my thoughts are fragmented.

     Quick.

     Desperate.

     Looping.

     I’ll admit I’d forgotten to take them a few times — or maybe more than a few — in the early aughts. 

     But I took them much more diligently after the pie party. Nate and I had landed in a good place and I didn’t want to go back to wherever we had been before. So I tried harder.

     Nate came back for winter break and spent as much time with me as he could manage between family obligations and whatever else twenty-year-old males do. He’s always been private and I’ve done my best to respect that since the incident at the pie shop.

     Over time, Boston became less of a verboten term, and once Nate moved back, I scarcely thought about it. Or that other girl, whoever she was.

     We did talk about her, once or twice. It was in our thirties, when our memories had softened at the edges, and we were both stable and mature.

     But Nate kept to the fact he never wanted to hear anything about those “other guys,” and that was fair.

     Neither of us were saints in our twenties. Who was?

     I’ve heard some people refer to the aughts as the “naughties” — and I think it’s appropriate. Or at least it was for me. I don’t begrudge Nate not wanting to hear the details.

     When Alex left for college, we both moved out of our parents’ house and its barren vastness. I’ll admit, at times, I miss all the privileges that came with living there. But when I think back to it, I picture an abandoned, pristine, mansion. One time Erin called it the Overlook Hotel, and it wasn’t unlike the truth. I can see all those empty rooms, haunted with the promises of a life that never was. And then I don’t miss it, even slightly.

     Fortunately, I still had abundant connections and exceptional coordinating skills, so I became a party planner. It was Erin’s idea, actually. I had never considered a profession or a need for income. But when Nate and I decided to make a true go, I knew I needed to finally kill everything about Hannah. And that included dependence on my parents and their money; the money they’d chosen over their children.

     Annaleigh had to be all that was left. But the real Annaleigh, not the one I had invented to keep everyone intrigued — but distant — in my twenties.

     I was initially cautious about my friendship with Erin, but she proved herself over the years. We both left online journaling for our mental health, and I’m often grateful for her snarky — but truthful — commentary via text message.

     I’m still not comfortable when Joan is around, which is admittedly rare. She and Tom have book tours and press junkets, and whatever else successful power couples do. But Nate’s still friends with them, so they come to dinner every few years.

     When I see her, I know she is studying me, though I pretend not to notice. Perhaps I’m inspiring one of the books she’s written. I wouldn’t know because I’ve never read them. But I know that time  — and Tom — have given her enough tact to never ask about the past.

     Erin sometimes tells me stories and rumors that used to circulate about me. That I was some modern Gatsby, destined to be undone by my own longing and misspent youth.

     And then I know that I am lucky. And fortunate.

     I made myself into a better person. And then I became a better person.

     My story worked out, even though it felt bleak and desperate when I was young. Somehow, I endured, and I was rewarded with the love of my life.

     I hope you’re one of the lucky ones too.

     Week three is where I finally got the blow. Aaron’s profile picture changed. That meant he had definitely logged in. And although there was a teeny, tiny, infinitesimal possibility that he had overlooked my request, it seemed pretty impossible. He just wasn’t interested.

     In the words of Cher Horowitz, I had been brutally rebuffed.

     And that sucked.

     — —

     I called it the “Golden Age of Social Media,” and I meant it. 

     We were the first generation who immediately had a second shot at out high school crushes — instead of waiting for some god-forsaken reunion (that everyone knew was just an excuse to see who had gotten fat; not that I didn’t have my own Grosse Pointe Blank fantasies of attending with Aaron). 

     We were also the first generation to bond with another teenager in Austria who loved the same band — and have that be as easy as talking to the next door neighbor. It was easier, even, because we had more in common and online chats worked silently 24-hours a day.

     But we were also the first generation to deal with brand new social dynamics that never plagued our ancestors; ghosting, doxing, toxic relationships (those probably always existed, they were just more prevalent when we couldn’t easily avoid one another), anxiety, and doomscrolling.

     In the past, if you told Uncle William to “stay in touch” before he left on his wagon to Missouri, and then you never heard from him again — and never heard of him again — you just assumed he lived a great life and passed away on a buffalo farm.

     Even if you told your friend Cindy to call you, and then she forgot for five years (until she found the scrap of paper with your phone number in her junk drawer — by which time it had been far too long to call you) you sort of just assumed Cindy was fine. She married well, had three kids, and was living on a beach somewhere.

     Phone numbers were meant to be lost. Hand-written letters were supposed to go astray in the post. But here was everyone, at our fingertips, constantly within reach, and with brand new shiny photos of their successful lives.

     History had predicated that we weren’t supposed to stay in touch, but now, because we had stayed in touch, we had also never learned the skill of letting go. And that was exactly my problem with Aaron. 

     I doubt anyone ever hid their pen and paper to keep themselves from writing a letter. But you can damn well bet we all hid our cell phones to stop ourselves from texting people. We un-friended and ghosted to create separation. 

     And now all our optimism about Uncle William and good ol’ Cindy had gone.

     Now if we wanted to remain optimistic, we had to create new and increasingly grandiose excuses, like Tom Hanks trying to explain to Meg Ryan why he didn't show up for their clandestine meeting, in You've Got Mail, when he had every possible avenue at his disposal.

     But even with all my storytelling prowess and pop culture acumen, I was not up to the challenge. I knew Aaron failing to accept my friend request was a big, walloping, passive-aggressive FU.

     And over the years, I considered — many times — doing the same to people. But instead I decided to go the opposite direction and cut straight to the chase with everyone. I joined the group of awkward truth-tellers.

     We’d tell people they were toxic or that we had a better party invite, even though we got it later. We’d say we liked people, but not that way.

     And then we were accused of lacking social skills. Being too direct. Not minding people's feelings. 

     And then we eventually had anxiety. All of us. Every single one — the optimists to the former romantics to the realists. Because even those of us armed with positive mental acrobatics were bound to say the wrong thing to the wrong person at the wrong time — eternally captured in pixelated text — and cost ourselves our entire futures. 

     And it didn't matter who it was we were talking to — it could be our manager at work or that rando we met in the frozen foods section.

     We were doomed. And romanticism was dead.

     Maybe it wasn’t such a golden age. 

     It just worked out for a few people.

     And I mostly left social media.

     — —

     If you expected me to lie around in my dorm wearing sweatpants and eating ice cream, crying in a heap, you were not too far off the mark. But I comfort myself with the fact that I only let that go on for about two days — being fair, Joan wouldn’t let me linger in my stupor any longer than that.

     At my lowest point, I very nearly asked Annaleigh for Nate’s email so I could have him send a message to Aaron. But I fortunately had the sense to stop myself. 

     Instead, I obsessively refreshed TheFacebook, willing Aaron to respond to me. I vented awful, angsty, emotional garbage into my journal — in private mode, of course. I listened to depressing songs with painfully accurate lyrics (to quote Nick Hornby, “Did I listen to music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to music?”)  I questioned my entire life and purpose; if Aaron and I weren’t destined to be together, who was I? It was almost as bad as a breakup from a real relationship (I don’t like to give Joan the satisfaction of agreeing, but I was prone to theatrics during this period of my life).

     And then I eventually moved on (I’ll admit that part may have taken a little longer than two days… or even two months. And I slipped on my dedication not to check my friend list on TheFacebook a few times).

     Joan reminded me, emphatically, to stop living in the past and focus on my future, and I eventually did.

     Ted and I dated, briefly, but it didn’t work out. Despite our musical soulmate status, we were headed in two different directions in life. I still keep in touch (hah!) with him and Vaughn.

     Tom and Joan married — not immediately, but at a perfectly sensible age, like every other perfectly sensible thing they did. And if you pictured them becoming a power couple, you were right. And while their Livejournal connection had been my hopes and dreams of sophomore year, the real story is that I wanted what Annaleigh and Nate had.

     What Annaleigh and Nate have.

     You should have known I couldn’t leave you on a sour note, even after that bitter diatribe. I’ve grown up, after all. And, like I said, it worked out for a few people. (I’m okay too, by the way, but this was never my story. It was always Annaleigh’s).

     The second party was a bust. Annaleigh never showed up, Nate never returned, Tom and Joan spent most of the party necking (or snogging or whatever kids were calling it that year), and Ted Cavendish had to leave early because he had breakfast with his parents the next morning. Vaughn hadn’t come that night and, after a few failed attempts at conversation with Cherry, I ultimately decided to walk home alone (if Vaughn could do it, so could I!)

     I did make a pit stop at the restroom before I left. The regular restroom, for regular party-goers. It wasn’t the toilet in Trainspotting or anything, but it certainly wasn’t as nice as the one Vaughn had taken me to the night before. If I’m honest, that only made my memory of the other restroom more fantastical. And that might be why I never located it again. Reality and my drunken imagination can never reconcile.

     I couldn’t make any artful or elaborate journal postings about the night because nothing happened. But I was curious what bout of rumors would circulate regarding Annaleigh’s disappearance. I doubted anyone outside her friend group even knew who Nate was, so they certainly wouldn’t guess at that. Maybe they’d postulate that she’d come down with Tibetan flu, run off with Brad Pitt, or been abducted by aliens. You could never tell which direction the gossip mill would turn.

     I’ll admit, at the time, I wasn’t even certain Nate had gone to Annaleigh. There was a possibility he had taken one look at the plethora of pies (which would have done El Guapo proud) and run. And since I’d been drinking, I could have easily concocted the moment I saw the stars align for him. Maybe I just had indigestion.

     Of course, I later found out I was right about Nate’s moment on the rooftop. But we’ll come back to that. At the time, I had no grounds for my assumptions and had to dispel them as figments of my imagination.

     When I got back to the dorm, I checked the usual suspects on my laptop, including a breeze through TheFacebook, but there wasn’t anything of note. A few people I knew had sent me friend requests, now that I’d signed up, so I accepted them. But I could see Aaron had not accepted mine yet.

     Sometimes Saturday nights were duds, and not even milk duds (which I love) just soggy fireworks that failed to meet their potential.

     So I went to sleep and planned to take my Sunday closing shift after all.

     — —

     Around mid-morning, I was scrolling around online, listening to The Sounds (don’t know them? You should), when I decided to check Ted Cavendish’s journal.

     He had posted recounting the first two days of fall break, complete with a veiled remark about being vindicated in his feelings about “Letter from an Occupant” because he’d inspired a painting. He also had a currently listening track of “Combat Baby” by Metric (another A plus choice from Mr. Cavendish.)

     I decided to reply cheekily. “I’ll show you my painting if you show me yours. P.S. Another great song. Are you cruising my iPod or something?”

     I had a new email from Annaleigh shortly after that. I was surprised she hadn't purposefully misplaced the sheet of paper I'd written it on. 

     I don’t remember the exact wording of the message, but it was something to the effect of, “Nate says Aaron is an arrogant asshat. Steer clear. Thanks again for the songs.”

     This meant several things: she had not run off with Brad Pitt, she had not been abducted by aliens, she could be suffering from Tibetan flu, but most importantly, she had kept her word to ask Nate about Aaron. It was not the news I wanted, but since I’d been able to reach him (at least kind of) myself, I supposed it didn’t matter. And at least she hadn’t ignored me. Maybe she didn’t think I was an idiot after all.

     — —

     By the early afternoon I’d exchanged paintings with Ted (his was a stick figure bleeding from the head, mine was “incredible” and “exactly what he was thinking about” when he wrote his post), accepted a few more friend requests from other people on TheFacebook, listened to Joan explain her thirteen (not twelve and not fourteen) point plan for maintaining a long distance relationship with Tom (nevermind that they still had 6 days at their disposal before Tom headed back to Boston; that probably had it's own 7-point plan), and Aaron still had not accepted my friend request.

     I shuffled off to my Sunday closing shift, watercolors included (Sundays were slow enough to do homework or artwork at the counter) and hoped for the best.

     I wasn’t particularly put off by Nate’s comment to Annaleigh. 

     So what if Aaron wasn’t his cup of tea? I’m sure I wasn’t everybody’s favorite. And I’m sure I’ve been called arrogant at least once or twice. People loved to forget that in the early aughts you weren’t rewarded for being a good person, you were rewarded for having good taste. But sometimes that good taste made you come off like a highbrow twat (as Ted had put it). What did Drew Barrymore say? “You first make thieves and then punish them?” We valued elitism, then we punished it.

     And Joan wondered why I made so many comments about classism; as if we’d somehow managed to break the model several centuries later. We just warped it.

     Still, Nate’s comment had left me to wonder, at least mildly, if my memory was even serving me correctly. Maybe Vaughn was right about high school reminiscences.  Maybe my recollections of Aaron held an esteem they hadn’t earned. Or maybe he had changed.

     — —

     Sunday closing shift passed; the weekend was over. 

     The week started. It passed. 

     And with it, fall break ended.

     Everyone went back to school. The Boston kids went back to Boston, Ted went back to NYU, Tim Morris went back to his tiny liberal arts college somewhere in one of those middle states (I haven’t talked much about Tim, so don’t feel like you missed this detail. Other than my name confusion, he doesn’t have much to do with this particular story. But he was there, so I had to include him).

     Then two weeks had passed.

     Rumors had circulated about another party at Annaleigh’s. I was intrigued by the idea of a party without Nate, but Joan wasn’t interested in going. She had a set schedule with Tom and my rhetoric couldn’t nearly match hers. 

     So, when Friday night (another surprise, off-work night) rolled around, and Aaron still had not accepted my friend request, I was stuck in the doldrums. 

     Since fate was laughing at me, my hook-ups were also still busy. I didn’t feel like painting. Or watching TV. Or hanging around the dorm catching drips and drabs of Joan’s conversation with Tom when things got… heated (that’s the PC term, right?)

     I was planning to head to the college pub for dinner when I had a surprise email from Annaleigh. About her party. Sent directly to me. And only me. Apparently, I wouldn’t want to miss the party that night.

     In those days, attending a party alone was as arduous as climbing Mount Doom to throw the one ring into a pit of lava. Or maybe I’m exaggerating. It’s just how it felt to me. 

     But I somehow managed to do it.

     I put on some “getting ready” music to amp myself up (it was probably The Go! Team — I remember their first major album hit the record store around that time, and it always gets me going). I picked one of my own outfits, since Joan was unavailable for consultation, and I looked… not bad?

     The tally strikes for the evening — hook-ups busy, roommate busy, high school crush not accepting friend request — all seemed to be in the “loser” column. But Annaleigh had invited me herself, and that went squarely in the “not-a-loser” column.

     Maybe there was hope for me.

     — —

     It was strange attending an elite party, especially alone. I wasn’t sure where to stand or which fire pit to circulate at. If I’d felt like Fran Fine and Laney Boggs the last two times I attended, I was a regular Tai Frasier tonight. In my own clothes, I barely blended in, and I had little hope of a charming Paul Rudd rescuing me.

     I couldn’t linger near the champagne fountain because my self-discipline was not to be trusted (and drinking too much when you’re solo at a party is a big no-no), so that ruled out hanging out by the bar.

     There was a stage set up that night. (Who was going to play? I hoped Annaleigh’s music tastes held and it wasn’t about to be — well, I won’t diss on my most-hated-bands of the nineties and early aughts. Let’s just say, I hoped there wasn’t any yarling ahead. I didn’t want to hang out near the stage anyway, just in case.)

     I eventually found a less-populated fire pit with an open couch and settled in to examine the rest of my surroundings.

     The stairwell, where I expected to see Annaleigh descend, was blocked off by wooden stage props that resembled the New York City skyline. (Where did she find these things? Where did they go when the party ended? Was there an entire warehouse of props somewhere in her house?)

     Drink carts arrived with cosmopolitans and manhattans, so I assumed the party theme was NYC.

     To seal the deal, Annaleigh was suddenly lifted up and over the city props as though she was recreating the poster art for Moonstruck, and landed gracefully like a black swan. She wore the type of taffetta gown designed to grace runways and red carpets, not rooftops.

     If I thought she resembled a modern Audrey Hepburn the first time I saw her, I thought it even more, now. I wouldn’t have been surprised if Givenchy himself had risen from the dead and designed Annaleigh’s gown.

     Maybe all these fanciful descriptions from her party-goers were exactly how the rumor-mill kicked up such ludicrous tall-tales. But there was certainly no denying that Annaleigh had presence.

     She glided around between fire pits, saying gracious hellos and exchanging pleasantries. I watched her with keen interest and noticed even more of Joan’s mannerisms than I’d originally seen. And then she finally floated in my direction.

     “Erin! You made it!” she said, when she spotted me.

     The sparse party-goers at my fire pit eyed me as though I might be someone of importance, instead of an ugly duckling, but turned back to their conversations when they finished assessing me. I did not pass muster as a person of interest.

     “I made it,” I said awkwardly.

     “No Joan tonight?” she asked tentatively.

     “She’s busy with Tom.” I saw a flicker of relief pass over Annaleigh’s features and for the first time, I realized the truth. The remarkable, fantastical, inimitable Annaleigh — patroness of the exclusive rooftop college party — was a shadow of Joan. I’d had their Pokemon evolutions reversed.

     But before I had much time to think on it, Annaleigh surprised me and sat down on the couch. She hadn’t sat down with anyone else. She’d merely flitted from one area to the next. Suddenly, I was a person of interest again, and I saw the other people at the fire pit spying and whispering. I wondered who I’d be cast as in their versions of the night (maybe another kind Linda Cardellini comparison was coming my way).

     But Annaleigh’s timing was always precise, and someone did a mic check at that exact moment, ceasing whispers, and turning everyone else’s attention to the stage.

     Annaleigh leaned in closer to me. “My song-code game has ended,” she said.

     “Oh. Did you, uh… win?” I asked.

     She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “In a manner of speaking.”

     What did that mean?

     I had a thousand questions but I wasn’t sure how to ask a single one. I had to consciously remind myself that a normal, good person is more interested in what the other person has to say, so I finally settled on a statement. “I’m glad it worked out.”

     Annaleigh gestured at the stage and said, “I thought you’d appreciate this.”

     I didn’t immediately recognize the band that took the stage, but as soon as they started playing, I realized Annaleigh had set up a private concert from Interpol. I wanted to ask how she made all this happen — and why (was this supposed to be a thank you?) — but she stood to leave and whispered in my ear. “If you want to use the private restroom, just give your name to the guard at the door.”

     And then she swept off to another group. And I didn’t see her again for the rest of the night.

     I still hardly knew her. But I’d made it onto the list for the special friends-only bathroom.

     And I never fell back off that list.

     I’m not bold. I know I’ve already confessed this.

     But people see what they want to see, so sometimes it’s easy to manipulate them.

     I met Nate in our senior year of high school. It was Pi Day and our math teachers were having a lunch-time event; if you recited the first ten decimals of pi, you could get a free piece of pie. 

     I was terrible at math, and so was Nate, but we both loved pie. So we memorized the numbers.

     It was like a movie meet-cute. 

     Nate walked by with his friends, engrossed in eating his slice of pie, and not paying attention. 

     Meanwhile I was walking the opposite direction, and someone called my name in the distance, so I turned to see who it was. 

     Nate’s pie collided with my dress, while I still had mine in my hand. He was polite and tried to apologize, but I was upset and I had an image to maintain, so I took my pie and shoved it right in his face.

     Nate was a transfer student. He didn’t know me when I was Hannah. So, to him, this was a popular girl he’d heard a few rumors about smothering his face in pie.

     I looked like a B-I-T—well… you know the word. I really try not to use profanity for Alex's sake.

     Our relationship obviously evolved after that, but pie has always been part of our unspoken love language.

     — —

     There was a light tapping at my bedroom door and then I heard his voice. “Leigh?” he said.

     I took the biggest breath I’ve ever taken, and opened the door.

     I spent a long time thinking about the right outfit for this moment, and I finally decided the simplest outfit was the best. 

     I was wearing a t-shirt he’d left here and a pair of boyshort underwear. 

     And nothing else. 

     I was not ready for a party.

     Nate blinked at me. “What’s going on?”

     I took his hand, the same way I had last night, and pulled him into my bedroom.

     “We need to talk.” I said. “I need to talk.”

     “And you couldn’t do it without sending out truckloads of pie?” he asked.

     I sat down on my bed and he sat down next to me.

     His eyes darted to my chest and back up.

     I wasn’t wearing a bra under the shirt.

     “You look good in my shirt,” he said a little gruffly.

     My reserve would have faltered. 

     I wanted it to falter. 

     It’s why I hadn’t worn a bra.

     But I had to be the girl he met those few years ago. The one who took the reigns and shoved his face in reality.

     “We need to talk about Boston,” I said.

     — —

     Things had been great between Nate and I before he went to Boston. Really great.

     But we’d both decided not to try something long distance.

     We hadn’t even really broken up. 

     Neither of us liked goodbyes.

     It was just a real loose open agreement with a lack of promises.

     I was still a mess after he left.

     It was one more person abandoning me.

     All I had learned from my parents' absence was to soldier on and pretend everything was fine.

     To get abandoned over and over and over, but keep going.

     And I did my damnedest at it.

     — —

     “Boston,” Nate nodded and looked at his shoes. “You saw that post earlier didn’t you.”

     He sighed, laid back on the bed, and stared at the ceiling.

     “I shouldn’t have written that,” he said vaguely.

     I didn’t need vague. I was tired of vague.

     I needed the truth.

     And, thanks to the chemically-induced calm of my anxiety meds, I felt nominally ready for it.

     “Who did you mean? Me or her?” I asked.

     “Leigh —“ he started, but I cut him off.

     “I love you, Nate. Do you love me?”

     Nate sat bolt upright. “Shit, Annaleigh.”

     My full name.

     That was rare.

     “You can’t just drop that on me,” he said accusingly.

     “I’m not dropping anything,” I said. “I’ve told you before. I’ll admit, not directly, but I’ve told you. And I feel like you never want to talk about it.”

     Nate grumbled, stood up and walked to the other side of the room, facing the wall. “Why did you decide to do this now?” he asked.

     “Because you scared me, Nate.” Then I added in a near whisper. “And I want you to come home.”

     “I thought it was understood. I thought you understood.” Nate sighed and turned back to me. “It’s not about you. It wasn’t about you.”

     I started crying then. 

     I didn’t mean to. 

     Nate came over and kneeled by the side of the bed. He took my hands in his.

     “I can’t come back,” he said.

     Then I did mean to cry.

     “I have to finish school,” he added. “I can’t promise what will happen two years from now. It’s a really long time, Leigh. And we’re still young.” 

     He paused as though he was deliberating carefully. Then he continued.

     “I suppose I’ll either move back or we’ll figure something else out for Alex. Okay?”

     I’m not sure I ever understood hope before that moment. 

     I’d certainly never had a reason to feel it before.

     Then I was really crying, full, body-wrenching sobs. And I collapsed into Nate.

     “Why didn’t we talk about this before,” he asked.

     I couldn’t talk, I just shook my head.

     “Okay,” he said. “But we have to talk about it later. No more silent codes.”

     He held me and whispered in my ear, “I love you too.”

     — —

     I don’t know what time it was when I woke up.

     Nate had fallen asleep too. His hand was on my arm like I would go adrift if he let me go.

     I watched him for a minute, then reached over, cupped his chin with my hand, and woke him up.

     “We missed the party,” I said.

     Nate chuckled sleepily. “There’s no party without you.” He took his hand off my arm and stretched

     “I’m going to have to explain this,” I said.

     “Tell everyone you were sick.” 

     That would start its own rumors.

     I’d have to think about it later.

     “So,” I said.

     “So,” Nate said back.

     “You’ve been seeing someone in Boston.”

     Nate closed his eyes and breathed out slowly. “Do we have to talk about this?”

     “You said no silent codes.”

     “It’s not a silent code. It’s an uncomfortable topic and I’m not interested in quid pro quo.”

     “Fair,” I said. 

     I didn’t really want to talk about her. Or the guys.

     “We said we’d keep it open when I left for school,” Nate said evenly.

     “We did.”

     “So,” we both repeated at the same time. 

     We were staring at each other now.

     “You really unloaded,” Nate said. “Why didn’t you talk to me sooner?”

     “My therapist says I’m not a great communicator. I just bottle up and then explode.”

     “You think,” Nate snorted. “How many pies did you order?”

     I winced shamefully. “Let’s not talk about the pies.”

     “Quite the grand gesture,” Nate said.

     “Well, you love pie.”

     “Yes, but we aren’t living in a 90’s rom-com. This is real life.”

     “I needed to say I was sorry about last night. About… pushing you.”

     “You don’t play fair, Leigh.” Nate sighed. “And that makes me unfair... to other people. That’s why I made that post.”

     “And then deleted it.”

     “I hid it. I realized my venting was going to do more harm than good.”

     “I’ve definitely had a rough day,” I admitted.

     “You weren’t supposed to see it.”

     “Oh.”

     “But I’m glad you did.” He put his hand back on my arm and stroked my bicep with his thumb. “It got you to talk to me. Directly.”

     “I’ll work on that,” I said.

     Nate was here. He was stroking my arm and staring into my eyes. I was… happy.

     Before I could get too distracted, I needed to keep a promise.

     “I owe someone a favor. Do you know an Aaron Jones that goes to Berklee?”

     Nate scoffed. “I do and he’s an arrogant asshat, if it’s the one I’m thinking of.”

     I grimaced. At least I had asked.

     I’d email Erin tomorrow.

     Now I could take care of some other business.

     “There’s something else I’d like to work on, since we’re alone now,” I said, sliding my hands under Nate’s clothing. 

     But I’ll leave the rest to your imagination.

     For Nate’s sake.

     My second Annaleigh party was not unlike the first. I still felt like Laney Boggs, transformed by Freddie Prinze Jr, and presented to the popular crowd — not that I was comparing Joan to a 1990s teenage heartthrob, she was much more altruistic (it’s part of why I could never hate her for being both beautiful and smart) — but she was definitely the instigator and catalyst for this stage of my life.

     The comment Joan had made about timing was my Jenna-Elfman-angel-stripper moment (and you really have to forgive me for continuing to return to the same film. It was just so deeply ingrained in this particular period and episode of my life that the events are a near-perfect road map to the story.) The time was now; a path to Aaron had fallen at my virtual doorstep and I needed to take it before it disappeared into the black-hole of the internet, where even the Wayback Machine couldn’t reach it.

     Before we left our dorm, I had managed to send my friend request — with the “Friend” option selected, and a small note “hey, remember me?!” — to Aaron. I did it before I could over think it, or second guess it, or spiral out of control in my typical self-loathing. 

     Of course, after I sent it, my mind went into overdrive and I was ready for another night of binge-drinking toward Hemingway-esque self-destruction. My vow from the prior night was 100% out the window, flown away like a cartoon tweety bird.

     Since I already knew where the champagne fountain was located, I marched straight up to it the minute we hit the rooftop. I was Christopher Walken on SNL, but my only prescription was more alcohol.

     And because fate works in ways that only fate itself understands, Ted Cavendish was also at the champagne fountain.

     People don’t turn brave within a thirty minute stretch, no matter what the movies show us, so I won’t put any more gravitas on this moment than it deserves. I won’t pretend that messaging my high school crush and then almost immediately approaching the guy I word-vomited on the night before made me a sudden heroine. It’s more that Ted was between me and the only immediate salvation I saw, or understood, in that moment. I was twenty, wanting to obliterate the feelings in my chest, and alcohol was the only solution known to me.

     “Hey Erin,” Ted said as I approached the fountain.

     “Hey,” I said. And before the moment could turn awkward I added, “you’ve got good music taste.”

     Ted laughed. “You found me out, huh?”

     “You were a mystery for a few hours there. But Joan decrypted things for me.”

     “She usually does.”

     “True,” I replied, reaching for a glass of champagne.

     “Hey! You were painting,” Ted exclaimed.

     I would have hid my hands, but since I was now holding a beverage, the movements required to avoid spilling would have involved a type of contortion known only to Looney Toons characters, as they cleverly evade a falling anvil. Alas, I am human, and my fate is to be hit by anvils, so I had no choice but to own it.

     “Yeah. Your dissertation on ‘Letter from an Occupant’ inspired me.”

     “Really?!” Ted seemed genuinely surprised. “I don’t know if you read the comments, but everyone else seemed to think I was a highbrow twat.”

     “I didn’t read them. But I work in a record store, so I’m pretty regularly called a highbrow twat for my musical elitism. I guess you’re in good company.” I remember making a mental note to read the comments on his post later. I don’t remember if I actually did.

     “Yeah, Vaughn mentioned you work in a record store. She also said you were pretty wrecked last night.”

     Shit. She had talked to him. What had she said? What had I said?

     “Yeah,” I said awkwardly. I had been doing fine, but I was suddenly ready to dart away from the champagne fountain like the Roadrunner evading Wile E Coyote (to continue my clever cartoon similes). Unfortunately, I couldn’t see which fire pit Joan and Tom had settled at.

     As if Ted had read my mind he said, “Don’t worry. She didn’t spill any of your girltalk.”

     What even is “girltalk”? I still don’t know, but at the time, I was definitely willing to let it slide unexplained.

     “Cool,” I said lamely. “I didn’t know she was your sister.”

     “Step-sister, yeah.” 

     That explained the last names.

     An awkward silence was starting to fall, and I didn’t do well with awkward silences. They made my normal amount of awkwardness rise to extreme levels. Then I would say something one-hundred-percent embarrassing. It was the exact moment I had feared when Joan made her checkmate argument about timing and coerced me into attending this party.

     My mouth had begun to open and my brain was ready to say, “So, I messaged Aaron on that website Cherry mentioned.”

     But somehow, Ted rescued things before a single syllable escaped my mouth.

     “I’m really honored to have inspired a painting,” he said. “Could I see it sometime?”

     I didn’t know there was a balloon in my chest until that very moment. But it deflated and my esophagus slackened (can esophaguses do that? Is that the right plural? Is it esophagi? Where was Joan?!) The champagne bubbles were also starting to loosen me up. “Yeah, for sure,” I said. 

     Then Ted looked at his watch and said, “I wonder when Nate’s gonna get here.”

     My curiosity was piqued and I was more than happy to take the segue.

     “What’s the deal with him and Annaleigh anyway?”

     Ted shrugged and kind of kicked at the ground like it wasn’t his business to share. “Nate doesn’t like to talk about it, so I don’t know much.”

     Dead end.

     But then Ted surprised me again. “I know they ended things when he moved to Boston for school. But it’s always been like… did they really end things?” he shrugged. “I think they’re too wrapped up in each other to actually let it go.”

     He paused a minute and looked in the distance, then he turned back to me. “Have you listened to the new Stars album?”

     “Yeah! That opening track wrecked me.”

     “Me too,” Ted said. “But that song ‘The Big Fight’?”

     I nodded and he continued.

     “I pictured them when I heard that.”

     I thought back to the song a minute and it seemed really tragic. Was that why she was crying at the store? Even with these extra facts, I didn’t feel any closer to understanding the mystery of Annaleigh or her parties.

     “Anyway, he’s in town. So, she won’t show up until he does,” Ted said.

I remembered Vaughn’s clockwork (or was it “swiss watch?”) comment.

     “Has she ever not shown up?” I asked.

     “No. Because Nate always comes.”

     There’s some type of divine timing that happens during cornerstone moments of your life. You catch buses you could never catch, you know your phone is going to ring before it trills a single note, the sky almost exactly matches a painting so recognizable — and yet unknown — that you think you stepped into the moment the artist painted it. Suddenly, everything seems aligned and there’s even something in the air, some unattainable feeling that only Maude and her odorifics machine could capture… The next moment was one of those moments.

     Nate stepped out onto the roof — before Annaleigh, tonight — and carts full of pies rolled up, pushed by silent attendants.

     The air suddenly smelled of oranges, chocolate, cardamom. There were more pies than I had ever seen, or have ever seen since. Some were even in wooden boxes and had colors, shapes, and textures I wouldn’t have immediately recognized as pies. Cart after cart of pies filled the rooftop.

     They far outnumbered the cake and champagne carts of the prior night.

     And whatever private message Annaleigh had sent to Nate with this action registered across his face immediately. He scanned the rooftop with a question in his eyes that he already seemed to know the answer to. Then he turned back into the darkness and disappeared.

     There were some obvious logistical issues to starting a relationship with Tom. Namely, I did not live in Boston, nor was I planning to move there.

     I did, of course, note that Boston had become an epicenter for our friend group. So, if I did want to relocate, I would at least have a strong social network available. This was an important factor for my book release plan. 

     On the flip side, I was already so far along with my degrees that it would be a processing nightmare, involving multiple wasted hours in the admissions and records office, to transfer schools. Not to mention applying to other schools. I certainly couldn’t spare those hours.

     My mind was running through scenarios and potential outcomes — some people call this strategic thinking, but for me, it’s just my all-day, every-day thinking. I suppose if I changed careers I’d make an excellent actuary, though I don’t love statistics, even though I love data modeling. I digress.

     Erin knocked on my door when I was midway through the third sub-point of my fifth potential scenario — as well as applying my make-up — and I mentally filed my thinking away for later.

     “Yeah?” I said.

     Erin opened the door, blinked at me, and threw her hands out, “Really, Joan?”

     I assumed she was talking about the outfit I had lent her, since nothing else would have made sense within the context of her statement.

     “You look great!” I assured her.

     I had given her a skirt, even though I knew she never wore skirts. But she really needed to break out of her bounds. It’s important for people to address their fears and perceived weaknesses head on. And Erin never does that. It’s part of why she’s still pining after that ridiculous pop-tart guy.

     “My thighs —“ Erin started, but I cut her off.

     “Look normal, and if they are bothering you, I also have pantyhose you can borrow.”

     “Hose?” Erin wrinkled her nose. “Are you ninety?”

     “They have a smoothing effect,” I said. “And can help with chafing.”

     “What do you know about chafing, Joan?”

     “It was in a magazine article about why women should own pantyhose.”

     Erin rolled her eyes. “And the low-cut top? Which magazine recommended that? Maxim?”

     “Cosmo. ‘How to get a raise without asking.’”

     “Jeez, Joan.”

     “You have nice breasts, Erin. Stop hiding them,” I said matter-of-fact. “And make sure you walk tall.”

     “Oh, I’ll walk tall, with my breasts jutted out. And then you’ll really be glad you brought me.” Erin strode into my room impersonating a tall chicken — or at least that’s how it looked — and I burst out laughing.

     She dropped her act and stared at me. “Joan. I really don’t want to go.”

     This is the one and only social cue that is obvious to me — slumped shoulders, quivering face — it was time to activate my motivational speaker mode and propel Erin toward her future. “Your weaknesses are also your strengths, Erin.”

     She scoffed at me. “How is always-putting-my-foot-in-my-mouth a strength? I’d love to hear this one from Dr. Joan.”

     “I haven’t started my doctorate yet.”

     “Figure of speech, Joan.”

     “Right.” I let my mental wheels turn a moment, tossing her statement around in my head.

     “Are you solving a Rubik’s cube or something?” Erin asked. “Your eyes are fluttering like Neo learning Jiu Jitzu in The Matrix.”

     “No. I was just thinking about what you said.”

     My thinking isn’t unlike solving a puzzle, you slide and rotate pieces of information until they come together in just the right way. And the solution to this puzzle didn’t take too long because Erin had given me the same speech for different reasons.

     “You’re honest. That’s your strength. People always know where they stand with you. I say the wrong thing all the time.”

     “For reals,” Erin said.

     “But it’s because I’m not acting or pretending. You don’t either,” I continued. “We just both need to work on our timing, like you were telling me the other day. We haven’t worked out when to say something.”

     Erin bit her lip and seemed to think about this herself, but then we were both interrupted by a knock on the dorm room door.

     “Tom’s here!” I said cheerily. 

     “Gimme a sec,” Erin said and disappeared into her bedroom as I went to let Tom in. 

     I had a few brief moments to turn my thoughts back to Tom — and our potential relationship — as I strode toward our door. 

     So far, as pros and cons went, long-distance made the most sense, but there were a number of sub-plans that required itemization for me to even consider agreeing to the amount of time and effort involved in a long distance relationship. Not because I was concerned about other people, of course, but because we would need regular, meaningful correspondence and he was a twenty-year-old male nearing his sexual prime, so we would need to navigate his physical needs. These things required thorough consideration and preparation, which would mean additional time out of my schedule.

     I’d like to say my thoughts continued to propel in their extremely productive and organized manner once I opened the door and saw Tom again. But the reality is that my stomach suddenly flip-flopped and I felt like a manic schoolgirl. I was definitely not used to these feelings and they were a clear indication to me that Tom was special, and therefore any of the perceived difficulties of a long distance relationship were a requirement I needed to fulfill.

     In short, my thoughts came to a dead halt for once.

     “There she is,” Tom chuckled, “Thinking a thousand thoughts at once.”

     “I was just thinking about how you live in Boston and I live here,” I said.

     Tom smiled. “Fortunately, you don’t have to solve the problem alone.”

     “Right,” I said.

     Right. Tom and I weren’t in a debate against each other — though there were probably some menial, minuscule details we were going to quibble over — we could build a plan together. I didn’t need to solve the entire puzzle by myself because I wasn’t the only qualified person to think it over.

     This was going to be new for me. But we should always lean into new experiences because that’s how we grow as humans. That’s in my book too, part of the chapter on embracing fears and weaknesses as strengths.

     It was time to move into the future, together.

     When I got home from the record store, I tried really hard to regain the feeling I had the night before — when the weekend was still ahead of me and Nate had arrived and my dreams were going to come true. When I was in command.

     I did more breathing exercises, I took an anxiety pill, and I even considered calling my therapist — though I knew she’d berate me for not taking my anxiety pills regularly — before I thought better of it.

     I — Annaleigh Jones —  needed to get everything under control, to engineer my fate.

     And I thought, like I used to, what would Joan Hartley do in this situation?

     Of course, I knew Joan Hartley would have just strode straight up to Nate, said she loved him, shrugged her shoulders if he said he didn’t like her, and left to live the rest of her life. She was blunt and brave.

     So, really, it had to be what would Annaleigh — who needed to maintain her intrigue, because that’s all people valued about her — do?

     I would make my journal post, of course, with one of the songs Erin Brewster gave me, but there was no telling when Nate would see it. He could disappear for long stretches, especially when he was home with his family. 

     It didn’t seem immediate enough. 

     I wanted to put things in motion. 

     I needed him to choose me and not that other girl.

     I was also worried because Alex would be dropped off in another hour and I’d need to hang out with him and play surrogate parent. But I knew I was distracted. 

     Extremely distracted. 

     And he didn’t deserve that.

     I wandered into our kitchen, pulled open the snack fridge, and my eyes landed on leftover chocolate cake.

     The answer was obvious.

     I had to throw another party.

     The best party.

     I had to lure Nate in.

     I never throw back-to-back parties. They do take some amount of planning to execute to the degree I prefer. But I could certainly make some things happen fast.

     I sent a few gossipy people messages from my Sidekick. Then I went to my room, sat at my computer, and sent IMs to a few of my actual friends. I knew at least one of them would call Nate and take care of the invite for me. 

     Last, and most important, I called my grandmother and made sure Alex could stay another night. This took a little arm-twisting wherein I agreed I would join them for lunch tomorrow, but it was a small price to pay in the face of destiny.

     Everything was in motion. My anxiety meds were kicking in. I was becoming the puppetmaster. 

     — —

     Alex is as good of a twelve-year-old boy as you can expect from absent corporate parents.

     Honestly, I’m not sure why my parents decided to have a second child, especially when they already paid so little attention to the first one. And especially when 8 years had passed between having them. 

     When I reached my teens, and knew more about these things, I presumed Alex had been an accident, but there was certainly no way to confirm my suspicion. And I wasn’t the kind of noxious thirteen-year-old that would tell their five-year-old brother no one wanted him. So, I never focused on it.

     Now Alex is nearly thirteen himself, so it’s possible he’s figured it out on his own. But we certainly don’t talk about it. And Gran and Grandpa would consider the entire topic undignified. They’re rather proper and formal. They never even mention anything about our parents’ arrangement, though I’m sure they disapprove.

     At any rate, Alex has us, plus Miriam — when she drops by — and he doesn’t really know any other life.

     I keep him sheltered.

     I keep him safe.

     I love him, even if my parents don’t.

     — —

     My journal post was simple. I just put two words. “I’m yours.” And then I put “Transatlanticism” by Death Cab for Cutie as my currently listening track. It was such an obvious pick that I regretted asking Erin for help. 

     Her Interpol recommendation had great lyrics, but it wasn’t conveying what I wanted. 

     I wanted him to know I loved him. 

     I wanted him to end whatever thing he had going with his Boston girl. 

     I wanted him to drop everything and come to me, since I couldn’t come to him.

     After I made my post, it was time to orchestrate the party, call in some favors, and pick a killer outfit. 

     An irresistible outfit.

     Nate had to come to me.

     He had to.

     I have to take this moment to clearly state: I'm still mad at Zach Braff for popularizing Zero 7 in Garden State. The number of times I had to say to my friends “I told you about them three years ago and you never listened” was truly painful.

     There, I said it.

     You can call me a hipster douchebag if you want.

     Getting back to the story: I remember laying on my bed, with some pleasant Euro Electronica (it was probably Zero 7 — which is why I thought of them — but it could have been Air; my memory’s fuzzy on that bit. I just know the resonant sounds of a vibraphone always soothe my conscience), playing in the background. 

     I was trying to convince myself that although I’d shared Annaleigh’s secret with Joan, I hadn’t shared her crying breakdown in the sound booth. So, I wasn’t a complete piece of shit. Just, mostly.

     In those days, this was all pretty normal. You go to a party, you have a pretty good time, something happens at the end to make it terrible, you go home and write acerbic garbage in your online journal that you don’t really mean, then lather, rinse, repeat.

     I didn’t actually think I was a piece of shit (at least not because of this). And I didn’t actually think it was that terrible that I shared a secret from someone I didn’t know well — whose relationship was obviously well-known to her friends — with one of my close friends. I mean, if you’re really black-and-white about it, yes, I should have kept the secret. But I was good at painting grey zones for myself and this felt like an obvious one.

     Still, Joan should feel a little sorry for pressing, and I needed to make a point. So, I didn’t plan to leave my bedroom until the album had ended.

     I was staring at the cracked paint on the ceiling, repainting the evening in my head, when Cherry’s comment about TheFacebook floated back to me.

     I snatched up my laptop, dragged myself up to the headboard, and typed “TheFacebook” into my web browser. I’d sign up for anything in those days, so I went ahead and created an account with my university email. Our campus wifi was spotty and our email servers were notoriously slow, so I checked my regular email while I waited for a verification message from TheFacebook.

     To my surprise, I had two new Livejournal followers. One was obviously Vaughn — I could tell from the username (had I talked to her about my journal last night?) The other one had a handle I didn’t recognize.

     I looked them up immediately and imagined myself as a modern-day Velma (I got the odd Linda Cardellini comparison here and there, so it wasn’t completely baseless) as I went sleuthing.

     Good list of interests — no pop-tarts though (not that I was expecting those to be listed). Last posted a few days ago. Currently listening — “The Slow Descent Into Alcoholism” by New Pornographers — great song and band. Posts all written in lowercase — not a big issue, I wasn’t a grammar Nazi like Joan. Nothing specific that helped me decode who this person was.

     I went several posts deep, but the tapestry of topics (like mid-terms and sandwiches), great song lyrics (let this be the epitaph for my heart / cupid put too much poison in the dart / this is the epitaph for my heart / because it's gone, gone, gone [Magnetic Fields. Underrated]), a pretty well-written dissertation on “Letter From An Occupant” (guess they were on a New Pornographers kick), and random statements weren’t weaving a picture of anyone I knew.

     I shrugged and chocked it up to a random internet person with really good music taste. We had a few shared band interests, so that seemed probable. I was never bold enough to befriend a stranger, myself, but I couldn’t begrudge other people.

     My university email had finally loaded and I verified my request to join TheFacebook. I created my profile with a few sparse details — female, single, work at a record store — the least embarrassing photo I had of myself, and went searching.

     Cherry was right, there were a lot of Aaron Joneses in the world. But finally, I found him. Aaron Jones of Berklee College of Music. My heart hitched as his crooked smile stared back at me. There he was. My ever-so-slightly-pixelated high school crush.

     I blinked. My Ethan Embry moment had arrived. What was I to do? How was I to proceed?

     I started a friend request and then stopped. 

     “How do you know this person?” The screen blared at me.

     That was a loaded question. “Classmate” wasn’t technically accurate anymore. “Friend” wasn’t 100% true. “Friend of a Friend” could have been valid, but we traveled in different circles and I wasn’t in touch with anyone he had been close with. “Family” was definitely false (my dirty thoughts would have been really messed up if we were related). “I don’t know this person” was the closest to accurate. But if I selected that, the website essentially told me to f’ off. 

     I picked “Friend” and had the option to enter a message. Suddenly the cursor was blinking at me and I felt something like stage fright.

     It’s not that I hadn’t meticulously crafted a note in my head — all those hours digging around Livejournal had left me plenty of time to imagine what I would say. It was that the moment had finally arrived and, believe it or not, I was scared. I’d only said it to Joan to strengthen my argument, but in that moment I realized it was the truth; I was scared shitless.

     I’d always had the option to Felicity the whole thing and just go to Boston, stand on Boylston Street, and find Aaron. But that was bold and brave. I was neither. I was a chicken. And I liked my wasted hours chasing my romantic dream. I had a fantasy. Something to dream about and look forward to.

     If nothing happened with Aaron, what did I have?

     People talk about bravery as though it’s the absence of fear. But that’s like Chauncey Gardner walking on water because he doesn’t realize he can’t. And no one in their right mind would call Chauncey Gardner brave. 

     Bravery is a complete obliteration of a realized fear by standing and facing it. It’s not brave to do something that doesn’t terrify you — even if it’s something that terrifies other people; like that guy that walked on a high-wire between the Twin Towers (yikes!) That guy was fearless (and crazy, in my opinion). But I also wouldn’t call him brave. 

     As an adult I can reflect back on this moment and think myself a truly pitiful fool instead of the heroine I was meant to be. 

     I can also yell at myself like I’m watching a horror movie — “Don’t go upstairs, you idiot!” Except I’d be yelling, “Push the button and own your fate!”

     Instead, I closed the laptop and flopped back down onto my bed.

     I wasn’t ready.

     — —

     The electronica album eventually ended and I had no reason to lie around in my bedroom on a perfectly good Saturday evening, especially with my laptop reminding me I was a spineless jellyfish (complete with random B-52’s sound bite of what I’m sure a jellyfish sounds nothing like). 

     The bright side of my evening was that the journal dissertation from the random stranger had put a really interesting image in my head. So, I snatched up my watercolors and wandered back into the living room to paint in front of the TV.

     Joan had gone into her own room and shut the door, so I had the room to myself. 

     I sat down to watch some other late 90’s classic (I can’t remember which, now) and got to work.

     I don’t like to talk about my artistic process, but when I’m in it, I’m pretty in it, like Ted Cavendish had said about his sister. So I got really into my painting and didn’t even realize Joan came back in the room until the VHS player stopped and started auto-rewinding whatever I had been watching.

     She must have been there a while — and I’m sure it had been killing her sitting quietly — because I caught her facing the TV and casting a sidelong glance at me.

     “Joan, the movie ended. You don’t have to pretend you’re watching it.” I sighed.

     I honestly felt pretty good at this point. Sure, I didn’t have the guts to message Aaron and I had still been a slurring mess to Ted Cavendish, but I had acquitted myself of my transgression with Annaleigh’s secret, and my painting was going to blow my professor away on Monday. 

     I kept painting anyway, to make Joan think I was still mad. 

     “I think I owe you an apology,” Joan said.

     “You think you do? Or you do?” I knew I was quibbling, but for a person with exceptional language skills, Joan could make some very passive aggressive statements. And she was particularly terrible at apologizing.

     “No, I do owe you an apology.”

     “I agree.”

     “I’m sorry I left you at the party.”

     “And…” I prompted.

     “And prodded you until you shared Han — I mean, Annaleigh’s, secret.”

     She paused for a beat and I could almost see her head filling with rebuttal arguments for why it shouldn’t matter that I told her, but she managed to literally bite her lip before any of them spilled out.

     “Thank you,” I said succinctly.

     The dam broke and Joan started spewing, “It’s hard being motivated and driven and wanting people to be their best. And things don’t just happen for me, like you said, they take a lot of energy and work. I work so hard! And my mouth and my brain are never going the same direction at the same time. And —“

     I cut Joan off here, because I knew she’d just keep going. And I’d obviously already given her enough to think about — and feel bad about — for the last few hours.

     “I know, Joan.” I said. “What’s rule #2 of your forthcoming book?”

     “It’s okay to use your opponent’s weaknesses against them if it strengthens your argument.” She thought a moment. Then a look of realization and shock hit her face, followed by pride. “Erin Brewster! I’d be mad at you if I wasn’t so proud.”

     I shrugged. “I’m still mad you dragged me to a party and abandoned me for Sandy Frink.”

     “Who’s Sandy Frink?”

     “Nevermind, Joan.”

     She looked at my artwork, “Erin, that’s amazing.”

     I paused to study it. I really did think my professor was going to like it (He did, by the way. And I still have it.)

     “Thanks,” I said. I was not great at taking compliments. There’s something about that somewhere in Joan’s book too (though I don’t remember the exact wording) and I knew I needed to get better at it, but I supposed thanking a person was at least a start. I was still trying to be a better person, even if I’d already failed a few times.

     “I got the idea from a random Livejournal follower.” I told Joan the username, but I’m not going to share it here, for privacy purposes. Needless to say, she instantly responded.

     “That’s Ted Cavendish.”

     “What?!” I blurted.

     My good feelings immediately evaporated.

     What kind of stupid, garbage public posts did I have on my journal? And why would Ted Cavendish want to read them? Even though I barely knew Ted, I was embarrassed enough that I wanted to melt into the floor like that scene in Amelie where she suddenly becomes a puddle.

     “Erin, what exactly happened last night?” Joan asked.

     I gave the rundown of my conversation with Ted — including how I accidentally called him Tim once — my Bridget-Jones-level verbal diarrhea about Aaron, and how Vaughn took me to the restroom, cleaned me up, and got me home.

     “You know Vaughn is Ted’s older sister, right?”

     “What?!” My second shock in the last three minutes. I distinctly remember wondering if twenty-year-olds (I was a new twenty and it seemed old at the time — poor fool) could have heart failure, because I was certain I was about to. 

     What had I shared with Vaughn? Had she shared some of it with Ted? Had it changed his mind about me? Had they told me they were related? They definitely didn’t have the same last name….

     I wanted to crawl into some giant pit in the ground and be eaten alive by a ravenous beast — a justifiable fate for my naive stupidity. The Descent hadn’t come out yet, but if you can conjure that image in your head, it’s essentially what I was imagining.

     “Yeah, she graduated from Columbia and moved back home last year.”

     Since I didn’t have the ability to melt into a puddle or split the earth open to be eaten by a minotaur, I threw myself down onto the floor and wished really hard instead. I probably looked like an awkward deflating potato as I did it. I had already been sitting on the floor, and there wasn’t a lot of space by our coffee table, so I sort of tucked and rolled and fell sideways.

     Joan grumbled, “Why are you always so theatric, Erin? This is not a big deal.”

     “To you,” I retorted.

     Joan was about to reply when that good ol’ heart-jumping instant messenger sound — you know the one — sent its digital bing-bong from her room. So she left me in my blob state.

     I was determined to stay there all night until I could convince myself to start feeling better again. In fact, I planned to stay there the rest of the weekend. I began constructing an elaborate Ferris-Bueller-level (maybe I had put an 80’s movie on, not a 90’s one?) scheme to get myself out of the Sunday closing shift tomorrow. Then I could truly commit to blob-dom.

     But Joan came out of her room and threw a new outfit at me. “Tom says Annaleigh’s having another party tonight. It’s time for you to man up.”

     I was Odysseus, tied to the ship mast, and Joan had slit my ropes to feed me to the sirens. 

     I couldn’t skip a second Annaleigh party, even if I was utterly mortified to see her (and Ted) again. But you had best believe I tried — fruitlessly — to convince Joan otherwise.

     Tom and I talked all night. 

     The word “magic” is overused to define moments of human connection, at least in my opinion. But I’ve also never put much stock in loquacious explanations of the feted strings that tie two people together. So, I guess I’ll defer to calling it magic.

     I’m not sure when we fell asleep or what the last thing was that we said. I know at some point Erin came home and then left again. I heard the door of our dorm open and close, but I couldn’t tell you the times. Tom was blocking my view of the clock but I didn’t want to move and wake him up. So I did my best to stay still. This was not an easy feat for me.

     I’m not a particularly heavy sleeper. Or even a very good sleeper. That made it especially strange that I managed to fall asleep with Tom in my bed. Or rather, especially magical, since that’s the word we’re using to describe my night.

     The fact I hadn’t stayed asleep wasn’t as surprising.

     I was staring at the ceiling, playing back the evening, and drawing connections between the rumors about Annaleigh and my memories of Hannah, when Tom finally stirred awake.

     Tom turned to face me. “I should have guessed.”

     I blinked my eyes and washed away my imaginary ceiling drawings.

     “What?” I asked.

     “That your brilliant mind would already be going five hundred miles an hour at nine o’clock on a Saturday.”

     “I can’t help it!” I tried to hide under the sheets in mock embarrassment.

     Tom peeled the sheets back off my face. “You can’t hide from me, Joan Hartley.”

     “And whyever not, Tom Bradley?”

     “Because you finally surrendered and I refuse to retreat from your fortress.”

     I furrowed my brow, “That’s not very sexy imagery.”

     Tom laughed in a way that shook his whole body and I couldn’t help but smile.

     “Okay, I’ll forgive your lapse in diction,” I said. “But you owe me breakfast in return!”

     Tom leaned over and kissed the tip of my nose. “You got it.”

     “Ah ha! I win!” I threw my arms in the air to celebrate my victory.

     Tom smiled at me. “You always win, Joan.” He lightly traced the side of my body with his hand and my skin prickled. “But I’m not done making my argument.”

     — —

     We eventually got breakfast. Then Tom had to go home. He reasoned that his parents had flown him in for fall break, so he was obliged to spend time with them. I conceded this point, despite my preference for him to spend the entire day with me.

     Productive tasks can be squeezed into most moments so, after Tom left, I took my laptop and sat at my secondary desk in the living room; it’s important to have various work spaces to help your ideas free-flow based on different settings.

     I had just finished revising a chapter of my book and switched over to cataloguing my memories of last night — which is a habit I thoroughly encourage everyone to keep; It allows you to free up so much mental space and also own your own story — when Erin came home.

     “Joan,” Erin whined.

     “Yes?”

     “The last twenty-four hours have been utter garbage.” Erin beelined for the couch and faceplanted into it.

     “I beg to disagree.”

     Erin rolled over to study my face. “Did you finally end your self-imposed dry spell?”

     “Maybe,” I said coyly.

     “Don’t play shy with me, Joan,” Erin said as she sat up.

     “It would be extremely rude to kiss and tell,” I said. But my irrepressible smile was a clear affirmation.

     “Good job, Tom,” Erin whooped. “I can’t believe you decided to cure his ‘Hartley Heartache.’ Actually, I take that back. I bet you used him to cure your lonesome lady blues.”

     “I don’t have ‘lonesome lady blues,’” I huffed. “And nobody used anybody.”

     “So…” Erin let her sentence trail off and waggled her eyebrows at me.

     “None of your business.”

     Erin sighed and plopped back onto the couch again. “I’m hard up, Joan. And I was a total idiot in front of Annaleigh. The least you could do is share some juicy details.”

     “What do you mean?” I asked. “She disappeared even before Tom and I did.”

     “She came into the store today.”

     “Oh?” I said curiously, my mind drifting back to my imaginary Hannah-Annaleigh map. I hadn’t charted a comparison of known music taste to rumored music taste yet. Granting, eight years could really impact music preferences. I would need to account for that factor in my modeling.

     Erin draped an arm over her face as though it would stop me from prying. “I’m not supposed to share anything else.”

     My attention snapped back to Erin. “What do you mean?”

     Erin sighed. “I mean she asked me not to share anything else.”

     Secrets are like mysteries. And I love solving mysteries. Plus, Erin always cracks after I start asking questions.  

     “Why?” I prodded Erin.

     “She didn’t explain,” Erin attempted to evade me by turning toward the couch cushions so her back was facing me. But there was no way I was letting her off the hook. I was sure there were juicy facts I needed to know.

     “If I guessed, you wouldn’t lie. Right?” I tried.

     Erin grunted. I knew she was terrible at lying. 

     I don’t mean to take advantage of people’s weaknesses, but when you have a rhetorical tactic in your hand, that will easily win your argument, you need to use it. You should remember that the next time you’re facing an opponent.

     I stood up and started pacing. Pacing always helps me connect dots faster. “She wanted your help picking an album for someone and she hates your taste in music?”

     Erin snorted. “Please.”

     Weak argument. I agree. Erin’s taste is pretty solid.

     “You accidentally called her Hannah,” I tried.

     Erin scoffed, “I didn’t even know that was her real name until last night.”

     “Well, I called her Hannah at the pie shop.”

     Erin turned back toward me. “Pie shop?” she asked.

     “Yeah.” I paused my pacing. “Tom and I ran into her and Nate at the pie shop.” 

     “How did they seem? Was Nate mad at her?” Erin asked.

     “Am I asking questions or are you,” I said pointedly. “And what does Nate have to do with anything?”

     Adding Nate to the equation wasn’t helping me. I didn’t know him all that well. He hadn’t gone to my school, so I had only been able to study him at non-school events, which I attended rarely. He knew Ted and Tom, but I don’t remember why. I made a mental note to gather more details from Tom about Nate.

     Erin sighed.

     I decided to answer her question. It might lead me to another clue.

     “I don’t know. They seemed fine. You know I’m terrible at reading intersocial relationships.” I spun my wheels a little and attempted to reformat my argument. “So, this has to do with Nate.”

     Erin sighed again, “And you know I’m terrible at keeping secrets, Joan. Can I just have this one? It seemed really important to her.”

     A normal person would probably stop after their friend made such an earnest request, but when I’m on a roll, I can’t help myself. Plus, there was something weird about Hannah, I mean Annaleigh, last night. And it had been plaguing me all morning.

     I started pacing again.

     “Erin,” I said. “Did Han — I mean, Annaleigh, remind you a little bit of…” I trailed off because I didn’t want to sound arrogant, but I wasn’t sure how to say it without being straight. “Of me?”

     “Yes.” Erin said plainly. “But next level. Like Bulbasaur vs. Ivysaur.”

     I understand maybe half of Erin’s references whenever she speaks. Vernacular, parlance, jargon, I can pick these things up. But pop culture is a little elusive for me.  So I didn’t get her comparison and I stopped my pacing to stare at her blankly.

     “Pokémon. It’s like their metamorphosis or whatever.” She waved a hand dismissively.

     “Good word,” I nodded. “Metamorphosis.” 

     I resumed pacing.

     It was like Hannah went into a cocoon for eight years and when she came back out, she was my doppelgänger, also a good — and untranslatable — word.

     “So Hannah went to another school, became Annaleigh and…” the dots still weren’t connecting. “Where does Nate come in?”

     “They’ve been seeing each other,” Erin said.

     “But he lives in Boston.”

     “I know.”

     The dots on this piece of the mystery connected immediately. “Did you ask Annaleigh to ask Nate about Aaron?”

     “God. It sounds even more high school than it felt.” Erin made one of her miserable, piteous noises and crossed her arms over her face again.

     “Did she say no?”

     “No. She said she would.”

     “So what’s the problem? How does that make you an idiot?” I thought back to her original statement.

     “You should have seen the look on her face. Even you would have been able to read it. It was like I put my foot in cow manure and then spread it on her fancy jacket.”

     “Erin, you need to get over your classist views.”

     “When I’m older.”

     I rolled my eyes. “So, she was upset that you asked. So what?”

     “There’s some obvious rift between her and Nate and she doesn’t want you and Tom to know about it. Okay? There.” Erin was getting a little huffy, I think?

     “Okay.”

     I was silent a moment, trying to piece the rest together. Erin had given me a lot of information, but the picture still wasn’t coming into focus. “I still don’t understand why she was at your store.”

     “They play some kind of game, her and Nate. They use song lyrics to send messages.”

     “Why not just talk to one another?” I didn’t understand.

     “Because some people are private. And romantic. And things don’t just happen for them like they do for you, Joan. So they’re scared.”

     Normal people get goosebumps on their spine or something  — maybe it’s a twinge in their ear? Like that ringing ear thing when people are talking about you? — and they know they should drop a conversation. But I still wasn’t getting it.

     “Scared?” I asked.

     “Yes, scared. Like I was scared last night when a decent guy showed interest in me. And instead of stepping out of my obsessive — but safe — fantasy, I word-vomited all over him about my clandestine high-school crush. And you were gone with a dude who pined after you and found you on Livejournal. Life’s not that good to the rest of us, Joan.”

     Erin rolled off the couch and headed for her bedroom.

     “So nothing happened with Ted?” I called after her.

     “No. And I vowed to be a better person last night because of it, but thanks to your incessant questions, I’ve already failed.”

     “It’s not like you gave me the nuclear codes.” I countered. “Who cares if Nate and Hannah have a long-distance relationship where they exchange songs? That’s a ridiculous secret to keep.”

     “That’s not the point, Joan. And she goes by Annaleigh now.”

     Erin closed her bedroom door and turned her stereo on.

     I wasn’t really sure what I had done wrong. Or why Erin was so upset about it. But I did finally get a kind of sour feeling in my stomach. It was like I was supposed to do something and I missed the cue. I just couldn’t figure out what it was.

     I had somehow managed to drag myself to work the next day. 

     My head was full of fuzz and my ears were ringing as though I’d gone to an Iron Maiden show the night before, but I showed up. Like I said, I’m as dependable as Old Faithful, even when it kills me.

     Around mid-morning it had been my turn to play an album and I admittedly picked sad bastard music (ask anyone who worked in a record store, High Fidelity was pretty spot-on. Empire Records, on the other hand, missed the mark). 

     The Delgados were soothing my broken soul with their upbeat pessimism when I saw Annaleigh enter the store. This was an unexpected turn to my self-pitying day.

     Even though there was absolutely no way she remembered me from the night before — she’d plowed into Nate, offered everyone cake, and then vanished before anyone could introduce me — I was drawn to her like a moth to a beautiful, glittering flame. Not to mention, she knew Nate, and Nate might know Aaron. And I just couldn’t help myself.

     In the light of day, Annaleigh’s pale complexion nearly glowed. I’m sure customers’ heads turned toward her as though the sun had just entered the building, jangling the bells on the front door and gliding into the Jazz section. Or maybe it was just me who was absolutely starstruck.

     Last night I hadn’t caught the color of her eyes, but today I could tell they were a stormy grey-blue. She had the same leather jacket on, but now it was over a t-shirt and jeans. I couldn’t quite make out the band logo, or I’d have used that as a segue. Instead, I addressed her as if we’d met.

     “Hi Annaleigh,” I said, walking up to her in a manner I hoped said, “cool record store employee” and not “pushy salesperson” or “awestruck über fan.”

     She looked at me blankly. “Sorry, do I know you?”

     “Not really,” I said sheepishly, “I was at your party last night with Joan Hartley and Tom Bradley.”

     Something cloudy passed over Annaleigh’s face and it was obvious this fact wasn’t in my favor. Fortunately, now that I was closer to her, I could make out her t-shirt. And, although I was no audiophile, like Lane Kim, I at least had decent indie pop tastes.

     “Tegan and Sara just released a new album a few weeks ago. Have you heard it yet?” I gestured at her shirt.

     She looked down, as though she’d forgotten what she put on that morning and said. “Oh, no. Not yet. I’m actually here for that posthumous Elliott Smith album that just came out.”

     Elliott Smith? Kind of melancholy. Was she a fellow sad bastard?

     “From a Basement on a Hill,” I said, and headed toward the new releases.

     Annaleigh followed me as I snatched up both albums, plus Arcade Fire’s “Funeral.”

     “Trust me on this one,” I said, and handed her the stack.

     She inspected the Arcade Fire album and then said, “Can I listen to these?”

     “Sure,” I said, and led her to our listening booths. “If you don’t mind some suggestions,” I glanced at her to confirm, but she didn’t respond, so I just plowed on. Why not? “Try the title track on the Tegan & Sara, and the 9th track on the other two.”

     Annaleigh glided into the listening booth, in that demure but assured way she walked, and closed the door. 

     I went back behind the cash register, graceless and hungover. But also puzzled.

     Why was Annaleigh here getting her own albums? Surely she had some ‘man-in-black’ to do her shopping. And it couldn’t possibly matter to a wealthy person if they spent $15 on an album that turned out to be a total dud -- like that time I bought a Love Spit Love album because I liked their cover of The Smiths’ ‘How Soon Is Now.’ (Don’t judge. It was the 90s. I was young. Now I worked in a record store and could avoid those fiascos. Plus I had better taste.)

     At any rate, it made absolutely no sense, but I also couldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. This was my opportunity to potentially, possibly, get information about Aaron from Nate via Annaleigh, like a Rube-Goldberg device.

     I was busy devising an excuse to get Nate’s email address from Annaleigh when the last bass notes of ‘If This Is a Plan’ faded out, signaling the end of the Delgados album, and I realized Annaleigh had been in the listening booth for a while. Hadn’t ‘The Drowning Years’ been on when she went in there?

     When I walked over and tapped on the door, like any good salesperson checking in on a customer (instead of a plebe checking on a princess, which was how I felt), there was no answer. I opened the door slowly and there was Annaleigh, crouched on the floor, headphones on, with her eyes closed, and silent tears streaming down her angelic face.

     I cleared my throat, but she didn’t respond, so I lightly touched her shoulder.

     Her eyes shot open. “Sorry,” she said, obviously embarrassed. She wiped at her face and stood up. “Those were great tracks.”

     Was this an opening? It felt like an opening. But also a private moment? What would a good person do? I thought back to my vow last night.

     “I know I’m only a friend of a friend of a… well, you get the idea. But if you want to talk about it, there’s a great coffee shop across the street, and it’s time for my thirty,” I said.

     “Thirty?” Annaleigh said, blankly.

     Right. Rich.

     “Thirty-minute break.”

     “Oh,” Annaleigh said. She seemed to turn this over in her head a moment. “How well do you know Joan Hartley?” she asked.

     “Pretty well,” I said. “She’s my roommate.”

     Evidently, this was not a good answer. I could feel Annaleigh hesitating. What exactly was her history with Joan anyway?

     “I’m not a journalist. It can be off the record,” I offered. 

     At the time, I felt like I was being honest, but I definitely shared everything with Joan later. In my defense, Joan was very persuasive, like one of those lawyers on The Practice, convincing the jury that an indisputable criminal wasn’t guilty. I mean, consider how she plied me out of the couch last night; she was a master of rhetoric.

     “Okay,” Annaleigh conceded. “I could use your help with something.”

     Me? Help Annaleigh? How? Sell her another album? I guess I hadn’t given her Rilo Kiley’s newest one yet….

     “Sure,” I agreed, without knowing what I was agreeing to. “I’ll see you across the street in five.” I turned to leave, then realized I might need to clarify. “Five minutes, I mean.”

     “Right,” she said, in a tone that implied I was an idiot for clarifying.

     How was I supposed to know that “thirty” didn’t make sense but “five” did?

     I didn’t bother defending myself, of course. I was about to have coffee with Annaleigh. Every underclassman would’ve killed to hear whatever Annaleigh wanted to ask me. 

     I was intrigued, worried I would sound like Vinnie Antonelli (in My Blue Heaven) no matter what I said, and still cautiously optimistic this conversation was a stepping stone in my search for Aaron.

     I also really needed a coffee. My head was splitting.

     Nate wouldn’t talk to me after the pie shop. I tried to apologize, but he just said, “Leigh” and shook his head, and I knew this was another thing we couldn’t talk about.

     I’m not promiscuous, if that’s how I’ve come off. 

     Nate just makes me crazy. Like I have an itch that can’t be scratched by anyone but him. I couldn’t help myself. I wasn’t thinking. I was a wild animal, like he said.

     I’m sure I sound pathetic. 

     I vowed, when I changed my name, not to be pathetic. And not to have regrets. And to never be lonely.

     But my bedroom was lonely that night. 

     My whole house was lonely. 

     My entire life was lonely.

     And I had a lot of regrets.

     — —

     When I woke up in the morning, I performed my normal ritual.

     It goes like this: Turn on my computer. Launch AIM. Open Livejournal. Go to the bathroom.

     When I returned to my computer, my heart caught in my chest, anxiously, as I checked to see if Nate was online or had made a new journal post.

     And it was there. That single, awful sentence that gut-punched me.

     “How do I tell her I’m somebody else’s.” And a currently listening track: “Twilight” by Elliott Smith.

     — —

     I don’t think I’ve explained the game we play. Or the game I think we’re playing, anyway. Nate and I haven’t talked about it. It’s just assumed.

     I’m not even sure who started it. Or when exactly it started.

     One of us posts a song with obscure and enigmatic lyrics. And then the other one does the same thing. 

     We send each other private messages this way. Like our own special little code across the internet.

     — —

     I laid in my bed and cried. I’m not sure how long. 

     The sentence was obviously about me. That’s why Nate wouldn’t talk to me.

     That’s why he was so mad.

     Whoever that girl in Boston was, he’d made a commitment to her. And I was in his way.

     But why had he come with me last night? He should have told me no. Nate was confusing but not sleazy. 

     Maybe I was missing something and the song would decode it. But I scanned my iTunes library and I didn’t have that album yet. So I couldn’t listen to it and allay my fears.

     I refreshed the page, to see if he had posted anything else, and instead, the post was gone.

     But the damage was already done, and my head wouldn’t stop spinning.

     I needed to go to the record store. It was imperative.

     — —

     I expect you are wondering why I didn’t just call Nate and ask him directly what his journal post meant.

     But I wasn’t prepared for him to say that he loved someone else.

     Our game was safe when I didn’t ask questions. 

     Answers were not safe.

     You might’ve also wondered why I didn’t just download the album. 

     I could have downloaded it. But I like physical CDs. The pictures and the liner notes. The stories the artists share.

     I like stories in general. So I suppose I need to share my back story, since I haven’t yet.

     My parents travel. A lot. I don’t know where they are, when they will come home, or if they even remember where home is, at this point.

     I have one younger brother, Alex, and on party nights, I send him to our grandparents. I don’t proclaim to be an excellent adult, but I’m at least proud of that. I’m supposed to look after him, after all.

     We used to have a live-in nanny. But when I turned 18, my parents decided this wasn’t necessary anymore. I was the adult of the house.

     The only adult of the house.

     They didn’t tell me this, of course. Or Alex either. They told our live-in nanny.

     Her name is Miriam and she still drops by from time to time. She pretends she is in the neighborhood, though I know she isn’t, and I always have a sinking feeling of abandonment when she leaves again.

     But she doesn’t work for us anymore. So I never ask her to stay.

     I never ask anyone to stay. 

     Including Nate.

     — —

     This quivering girl, who said her name was Erin Brewster, sat across from me at the coffee shop. She looked incredibly hungover, and I felt a little bad since I knew it was from my party.

     I probably looked hungover too, after all the crying I’d done today.

     But if I’ve learned anything about being Annaleigh, you can never let anyone see your weaknesses. You can’t look pathetic or pitiable. You have to own every moment.

     So I ignored the fact that this stranger had just seen me crying at the rinky-dink record store. I ignored the fact that we were sitting together in a strange diner that smelled of old bacon and stale fries. And I especially ignored that I, Annaleigh, had requested her help.

     I sat as firmly as I could and pretended she hadn’t just seen me vulnerable.

     Pretended Nate wasn’t about to leave me.

     Pretended my world wasn’t about to end.

     “So,” Erin started. “I’m happy to help you with whatever. But I could actually use your help too.”

     I’m used to this. People assume I have connections — and it’s not untrue. But then she continued, “I need to get in touch with that guy Nate.”

     Suddenly my guard dropped again. Another chink hit my metal heart. It felt more like jello today.

     I did not want to talk about Nate.

     “Oh,” I said.

     I did my best to look cool and unaffected but I was obviously faltering, because Erin quickly continued. “I just want to ask if he knows an Aaron Jones who goes to Berklee.”

     “Got it,” I said. 

     Boston again. That awful phantom who stole my limbs and haunted all my rooms.

     — —

     I went to Boston once, to visit Nate.

     He took me all over. Boylston and Newbury streets. Mass Ave. and the Smoot bridge. We crammed into a single car of drunkards to take the T to dinner.

     It was magical. And we were together and happy.

     But I couldn’t leave Alex the way our parents had left me. So I couldn’t move to Boston. 

     Nate had school, and I didn’t.

     He stayed there, and I didn’t.

     — — 

     “I can ask him,” I told Erin.

     She looked visibly relieved and then asked, “How can I help you in exchange?”

     I wasn’t used to asking for personal favors; usually I granted them. So it put me a little more at ease that things would be even. “Song lyrics,” I said.

     “Like what?” She said, puzzled.

     “I’m in a sort of game,” I explained, “And it’s my turn to send back a message. But it has to be in song lyrics.”

     “That sounds pretty cool,” Erin grinned. “Like a secret code.”

     “Exactly.”

     “Okay, what are we trying to say?” Erin asked, leaning forward.

     Now I needed to articulate without sounding desperate or revealing too much. I tried a casual tone,  “I need to say I love somebody without actually saying it.”

     Erin narrowed her eyes and had my number immediately. “Is something wrong between you and Nate?”

     Shit. I sat back in the booth, all my cool, completely lost.

     I was about to start spiraling, quickly.

     I needed my breathing techniques. 

     Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Hold.

     “Sorry, it’s just pretty obvious,” Erin added. “You two have your ‘thing.’” 

     She used air quotes. I hate air quotes.

     “And you disappeared together last night,” she continued, “And then you came in looking for an Elliott Smith album….”

     I closed my eyes. This was easily becoming the worst day of my life. Why did I decide to talk to this girl? She couldn’t help me.

     Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Hold.

     Speak.

     “Please don’t tell Joan and Tom,” I said.

     “Sure,” Erin replied.

     “You’ll keep your word?” I pressed.

     “Yeah.” The word hitched a little as she said it, so I doubted her instantly.

     Great. I don’t like when I’m not in control of the narrative.

     — —

     When I changed schools, it was an opportunity.

     I didn’t copy Joan Hartley, so much as a few things about her.

     Like the way she set her jaw, the disinterested air she had when the topic of conversation didn’t suit her. Maybe a dash of the confidence she always seemed to emanate. How “together” she always seemed.

     A few people changed schools with me, so it wasn’t as though I could completely reinvent myself. Not quickly, anyway.

     But it wasn’t that difficult.

     A teacher asked what I went by, and instead of Hannah, I said Annaleigh. 

     If needed, I said my name was printed wrong or that Annaleigh was my unrecorded middle name. Most teachers didn’t question it though.

     I decided who I was. Who I was going to be.

     I was in control.

     — —

     My anxiety eventually leveled and I didn’t need to measure my breathing.

     I sat quietly, recomposed, sipping my coffee every now and then. 

     But I had regrets.

     Again.

     Erin Brewster had pulled a pen and notebook from her messenger bag and was absorbed in the task I’d set.

     I was sure she’d use lyrics from The Cure, The Smiths, Radiohead. Obvious things.

     A small eternity of coffee sips and pen scratches passed.

     I should have done this myself.

     Finally she spun her notebook around to me.

     She had neat writing.

     And I hadn’t given her enough credit.

     Yo La Tengo, Interpol, The Dears, Death Cab for Cutie, Belle & Sebastian.

     I didn’t even recognize some of the songs. Who was Badly Drawn Boy?

     “How are they?” she asked nervously.

     “Pretty good,” I said. “But, I’ve already done this one.” I pointed at a Postal Service song.

     “And that didn’t say ‘I love you’ well enough?” Erin seemed mystified.

     I shrugged noncommittaly. 

     I wasn’t about to explain Nate. I barely understood him myself.

     “Okay, what about this one? I would literally fall over if someone I liked sent me this song.” Erin pointed at The Zombies - “The Way I Feel Inside.”

     “Way too obvious.” I shook my head.

     “Okay, this is a newer one.” I followed her finger to an Interpol song I didn’t know.

     “Do you have it?”

     Erin nearly snorted, but stopped herself. “Yeah. Of course. The store has most things.”

     “Let’s go,” I said, and put a twenty dollar bill on the table.

     It was way more than our coffees cost, and I saw Erin staring at it awkwardly, but I just swept toward the door.

     I was going to be in control.

     I was going to get what I wanted.

     I would not be left behind again.

     I love Nathan Richards. 

     It’s not a secret to anyone, including Nate. I’ve written to him about it in at least seven very nicely worded emails and four AIM away messages. Of course, I didn’t say it overtly. Just in so many words. Sometimes even in song lyrics.

     I’d say it out loud, if the occasion ever seemed right. But I often feel him silently urging me not to. Like it will make things harder if do.

     He lives in Boston, you see. And I don’t. This is a complication for us.

     Sometimes we talk on the phone for hours, and it’s like he’s just on the other side of town, where he ought to be.

     Other times we don’t speak for weeks, and I try not to stare at my computer, willing him to sign into AIM.

     I fill my time with other amusements. 

     Sometimes other guys. 

     But no one is Nate.

     I wasn’t sure he’d be in town tonight. I was standing at my window, hoping he would come, and there he was, walking up to my house.

     Maybe when you wish for something hard enough, it comes true. I hope so, anyway.

     It was going to be a lovely party. A “let them eat cake” party. And when I stole off with Nate, I left plenty of cake for them to eat!

     I’m a little surprised he came so willingly. Sometimes he likes to tease me. To make me wait for my entourage to leave. To show he’s bested all my suitors — as if that was necessary.

     Other times he decides not to stay. He leaves early with one of our friends, and I wonder why I bothered to throw a party.

     The parties are for him, of course, though I’ll never confess it.

     Our smarter friends, like Tom, probably know. They will have worked out the timing; analyzed my theatrics. 

     I don’t care so much, when Nate’s not in town. But I have to throw them anyway, to keep up appearances. To maintain the mystique of Annaleigh.

     Little Hannah Jones was nobody. But Annaleigh, she’s an enigmatic millionaire; the Jay Gatsby, everyone wants to know. She doesn’t just throw a party; she is the party.

     If I don’t maintain my allure — even spread the odd rumor here or there — it will all come crashing down around me. And I’ll be alone. Again.

     But let’s not think about that now. Nate is here and I am whole.

——

     In the elevator, Nate leaned into my side and whispered in my ear, as if his words were too scandalous for the walls to hear.

     “Your outfit is slaying,” he said, his lips brushing my earlobe.

     A shiver went up my spine and I was certain that he wanted me, desperately.

     I slid my hand gently over the front of his pants, to prove it to myself, and he flinched.

     Nate’s shyness was part of his appeal, to be honest.

     “Let’s wait until we’re in your bedroom,” he choked out.

     “But we’ve never done it in the elevator,” I teased, flexing my fingers.

     Nate moved my hand back to my side. “Your elevator has a camera.” 

     “Spoilsport,” I grumbled. But I pushed the down button anyway, and we began our descent.

     Nate tried to straighten himself out and took a few deep breaths, but it wasn’t helping.

     I grinned from ear to ear. “You want me too badly,” I observed. 

     I was awfully cheeky when I was feeling confident. 

     Nate leaned forward and bit my neck.

     I gasped as my body came alive with want.

     “Don’t tempt a wild animal,” he said, as he pulled back.

     I knew he was right about the camera, of course. And I didn’t need one of the night guards blabbing to my parents about a pornographic elevator ride. It just sounded fun.

     My bedroom was only four floors down, but it felt like an eternity was ticking by. Finally the elevator dinged and the doors opened.

     “Come on,” I said, grabbing Nate’s hand. I twined my fingers into his, ensuring he couldn’t slip from my grasp, and tugged him down the hallway.

     __ __

     I don’t need Nate. 

     I know it, in my core. But, when he’s around, it does sometimes feel like he’s my lifeblood. Like he enhances whatever is best about me. And whatever is worst.

     I know he has a female friend in Boston. Maybe several.

     I try not to be jealous. After all, I have a menagerie here as well.

     But I secretly hate their guts.

     Maybe not secretly.

     One time I was so consumed by the idea that he was comparing me to her, that I just lay still and let him plunder me.

     Corpses aren’t sexy. I know this.

     I know it was a turn off.

     But my brain wouldn’t stop, that time. It beat me down and turned me into a piece of meat.

     Tonight I was going to win. Nate’s every x-rated dream would come true.

     I would undo him.

     And then he’d leave Boston and move back home.

     He’d come back to me. 

     Only me.

     — —

     We were laying side-by-side, both ravaged. Nate was stroking my hip bone and then suddenly looked puzzled. 

     “Leigh, you don’t even like cake,” he said.

     “I know,” I smirked. “But if I served pie, you might not have come with me.”

     “I do love pie,” Nate stated earnestly.

     I wanted to ask if he loved pie more than he loved me. But I was afraid of the reply. And that’s exactly why I hadn’t served any.

     — —

     Post-coital doubt always floods my brain, no matter how confident I’m feeling about Nate beforehand.

     My other boys are nothings. I leave them in bed, after. 

     I shower and I wonder about Nate and if he’s thinking of me.

     The boys leave. Or try to talk me back into bed.

     I never go back.

     With Nate, I am too bare. And I am stuck, bed-locked next to him, hoping he’ll whisper those three tiny words that I never quite trust. Because we never say them out loud.

     — —

     I sighed, happily, and sank into the booth at our favorite pie shop. I was always glad when Nate wanted to hang out longer.

     Nate sat next to me. “Looks like the Rocky Horror crowd is here tonight,” he said.

     The glittery, sequined, rowdy group of cross-dressed teens and twenty-somethings took over an entire corner of the restaurant. Some of them looked familiar, but I only really cared about Nate.

     I turned to ask if he wanted to share three slices of pie, and was interrupted. 

     Joan Hartley stopped at our booth, hand-in-hand with Tom Bradley. “Hi guys,” she said.

     Tom ushered Joan into the booth, across from Nate and I, then sat down himself.

     Apparently I had to share Nate too. 

     “Hi,” I said, shortly.

     “I used to love coming here with my dad,” Joan said, looking around fondly. “We’d play Jeopardy. And if we answered correctly, we got a bite of pie.”

     “Only you would force someone to take a quiz to earn dessert,” Tom chuckled.

     Joan swatted at him. “It was my dad’s idea!”

     “And I’m sure he’s skinny as a rail because you stumped him every time,” Tom teased.

     Joan looked self-satisfied. “He is on the thin side,” she admitted.

     Tom burst out laughing.

     I grimaced. They were cute. But they were derailing my night with Nate. And I hadn’t seen Joan Hartley since sixth grade, when I was still Hannah. They needed to go.

     I opened my mouth to say something just as Nate slid a hand onto my knee under the table and began to rub soothingly.

     Fine. I kept my mouth shut.

     “So, I read fall term was pretty rough,” Nate said to Tom.

     “Yeah, they’re definitely trying to separate the wheat from the chaff,” Tom grimaced.

     Chaff sounded like shaft, and I was still feeling hungry. Nate’s hand on my knee wasn’t helping. Maybe we could forget about the pie and go back to my house…. 

     I moved my hand over to his crotch and began rubbing him the way he was rubbing my knee.

     For a moment he stilled like a deer in headlights. Then he cleared his throat and took his hand off my knee.

     I knew he didn’t like this. He preferred private affection. But, like I said, his shyness was part of what I loved about him. And besides, no one could see anything under the table.

     Joan was saying something to Tom, but I wasn’t really listening. I was thinking about how Nate was getting hard under my hand.

     Nate closed his eyes and let the tiniest sound out of his mouth, then grabbed my hand and shoved it back into my lap.

     I knew I had pushed things too far. 

     Tonight he was bringing out the worst part of me.

     The conversation shifted to Boston. The wedge between Nate and I.

     I hated Boston.

     VI

     Erin’s Story
     ——

     When the cake carts were replaced by champagne carts, and Nate never re-appeared, I had no choice but to drink away my sorrows. And with drinking came the story.

     ——

     The story goes like this:

     Just before graduation, Aaron Jones had lent me a book. We had English class together, so this wasn’t completely random. But I’m sure I read more into it than I should have.

     To me, this had been an invitation to connect over a story he loved. There was a type of thoughtfulness involved, an expectation that I would be as transformed by the book as he was, a declaration that this book — and thus he — belonged in my life.

     Isn’t that what people mean when they lend someone a book?

     If I shared the title of the book, or what it was about, it would slant your opinion on the subject. So I never add those details when I tell the story. And usually I’m so drunk and senseless that no one bothers to ask. I’m sure they just want my piteous rambling to end.

     Only Joan knows the details. And that’s probably why she finds my quest so ridiculous.

     At any rate, despite my many failings, I was very dependable about returning things. So, when graduation rolled around, I had to bring Aaron back his book. And I did, on graduation night, the very last time I had seen him.

     A normal person would have put their phone number inside the book. And if they were one of those die-hard “marking a book is sacrilege” people, they would have put it on a post-it note and called it good. But this was before the age of widespread cell phones; most high-school kids didn’t have personal contact numbers. So, the only way to reach me would have been my parents’ house phone. And that would have been utterly embarrassing and obvious. Boys never called me.

     So I didn’t write anything in the book. Not even a goodbye note.

     And Aaron Jones went off to college with his book returned to him. And I had absolutely no idea what became of him or how to contact him. All I knew was that he went to Berklee and hopefully still loved pop-tarts.

     ——

     Ted Cavendish had been kind all night.  Maybe even flirted with me.  But the story landed between us like an albatross; I was emotionally unavailable and he was a nice guy not looking for a meaningless hook-up (which was all I could offer in those days). And maybe I had accidentally called him Tim once (I don’t think I spoke to Tim Morris that night, which makes this even more egregious to admit).

     He probably said something polite, though I can’t recall exactly what. Then he disappeared into the dark and I didn’t see him the rest of the night.

     Joan and Tom had vanished somewhere as well. 

     For reasons I didn’t understand, Vaughn decided to rescue me. She leaned over from where she was sitting and said, “Annaleigh has a special bathroom for close friends. I think you could use a visit.”

     I remember my stomach roiling at that exact moment, a noxious blend of sugar, alcohol, and despair. I knew she was right. So, I accepted her outstretched hand and finally left the couch — for absolutely none of the reasons Joan had wanted.

     Annaleigh’s house turned out to be as Labyrinthine as I imagined, and I was glad Vaughn knew where she was going. To me, the stairs and paintings were all moving as though Annaleigh lived at Hogwart’s castle. (It wouldn’t have surprised me if she did; it would have been a great rumor.)

     I’d love to share beautiful, tangible details that would recreate the grandeur of Annaleigh’s guest wash room, but I never went back there. Or, if I did, it looked so incredibly different by daylight that the two places must exist in different realms, like some mirror-world. 

     The only thing I truly remember is that the toilet seat had a warmer (every bathroom in this house must have had one), and I felt oddly comforted by its heat on my cheeks as the contents of my stomach spilled out. Granting, Vaughn’s calming voice probably helped a little.

     I’m sure whatever publicly available restroom Annaleigh offered her party-goers would have been fine for my digestive overture.  But only a private bathroom could allow for the type of post-party bonding that occurred between Vaughn and I.

     I don’t remember much of what she said — and I definitely don’t remember what I said — but I do know this was the defining moment where we changed from “people who both knew Joan” to friends. It was one of those private, late-night/early-morning conversations that bonds you to another person in a way that a daytime conversation can’t; like Heather Graham calling Julianne Moore her mom in Boogie Nights.

     Paul Thomas Anderson really spoke to my soul in those days. If I’m fair, he still does.

     The only thing I clearly recall Vaughn saying was, “Erin, people will try to tell you that high school is over. You’ve probably even told it to yourself. But the truth is: high school is never over. A few people mature, but most of them stay exactly the same. And time makes them petty, jaded, and cruel. You should stop looking for this guy you thought you knew. He won’t be who you think he is.”

     Her advice sounded sage (she was four years older, after all). But even as the validity of it landed in my chest, I knew I wasn’t done looking for Aaron.

     I don’t remember how or when we left the bathroom. And I don’t remember how we exited Annaleigh’s house, or how I managed to guide Vaughn to my dorm room. I know she insisted on walking me home — she was one of those cool, tough women who was unafraid to walk alone at night — or maybe it was early enough in the morning by then that she wasn’t worried (my memory of this portion of the night is truly thinner than a strand of hair).

     When we reached my room, she raised a hand to the side of my face, assessed me carefully, and said, “You’ll be alright, Erin Brewster. Go to bed.”

     Then she left and I collapsed on my bed, still dressed in Joan’s clothes, weighed down by the squandered potential of a great night.

     Why had I told “The Story” to Ted Cavendish? Why was I looking for the memory of a person I barely knew when there was a kind, available one in front of me?

     I could invent all kinds of excuses for myself. But truthfully, I was just a rude trainwreck that night. And I knew it.

     I had drifted off to sleep vowing that I would be a better person in the morning — and never touch alcohol again. It was a redundant thought that never stuck until my late thirties. But at least college students have ambitions.

     V

     Joan’s Night

     When Tom messaged me — out of the blue, by the way — on Livejournal, I can’t deny I was surprised. We were never particularly close in high school. Sure, we had all the same honors classes, and he was the only one erudite enough to challenge me in debate club, but I’d never thought much of him. I’d never thought much of any guy, to be honest.

     I wasn’t a prude. I was just focused. And boys were messy.

     Then Tom showed up tonight and he wasn’t a boy.

     There are at least twenty other words and phrases — in English alone — to describe what Tom is now, but “hot” is the most effective. So, I hope you’ll forgive the lack of creativity. I think it best conveys the point.

     Suddenly there was a man in front of me. Brains, body, and apparently interested in me. 

     I was never the best judge of these things. Erin either had to spell it out to me or the guy needed to make a completely unwelcome pass at me, so it was obvious.

     Maybe I was oblivious.

     I should use that as a counter-argument the next time I’m accused of being a prude. Self-deprecation always improves the efficacy of dismissive statements and excuses. You should try it the next time you’re attempting to dissuade or persuade someone.

     And yes, my internal monologue often takes the form of punchy phrases fit for self-help books. 

     My forthcoming tome is called, “You Should Do It.” It’s close to the Nike slogan, but far enough to evade copyright issues. I’d tell you more about it, but I find didactic books can be quickly condensed to ten or less main tenets. So, I’d rather retain my arguments for when you read the book. No need to “blow my load,” as they say.

     Coming back to the point of things, after several asides, which I do hope you’ll forgive me for; my mind often digresses on one too many tangents at once. Though, don’t worry, I’ve reeled things in for my book. 

     The most important fact is that Tom wasn’t the only surprise of the evening. 

     __ __

     I hadn’t been to the pie shop in a while, but I always loved it there. Diners have a homey, welcoming feel, like they belong to everyone. So, I always felt like this one belonged to me.

     Tom had his arm around me and I was comfortable. 

     I’ve been told that I exude confidence. But as I said before, I’m oblivious. So it’s a baseless compliment, to me. Still, I imagine I looked confident.

     Meanwhile, Hannah — I mean Annaleigh — probably looked exactly the opposite, to a normal person. But, I’m not the best at reading people’s faces, so my curiosity easily got the better of me. As soon as the conversation hit a lull, I asked the question that was searing in my skull.

     “So, Hannah, why did you change your name?” I asked.

     Tom coughed next to me, in the same way Erin often does when I’ve been too blunt. And Annaleigh’s face was more obviously uncomfortable to me now. So I quickly followed up with something kinder.

     “I wish we’d stayed in touch so I had known,” I added. 

     “A lot has changed in eight years,” Annaleigh said. She cast her eyes down and I was probably meant to take this as a sign not to ask more questions, but I couldn’t help myself.

     “How’s your family doing? Your parents always seemed so exotic, off to here and there,” I said, in what I hoped was a cheery tone.

     “I’m sure they’re fine. I don’t see them much,” Annaleigh said softly.

     Tom poked my knee with his free hand and shook his head at me.

     Got it. Don’t ask more questions. I tried to think of some smalltalk, but I already knew how the weather had been and I had already shared my anecdote about the pie shop. I wasn’t sure what else a person should say to someone they hadn’t seen in eight years.

     Tom came to my rescue, but I missed his exact comment because I was thinking about how it would be to debate side-by-side instead of against one another. That was a pretty sexy thought. Although the sex would probably be better if we were throwing out points and counterpoints. Creating friction. 

     My mind was drifting.

     “Joan?” Tom said expectantly.

     “Sorry,” I said, “My mind was wandering. What were you saying?”

     “I was saying maybe we should leave Annaleigh and Nate to their evening,” Tom said.

     I liked that idea. Maybe I could test my theory about having a debate in bed. Erin probably wouldn’t be home yet, and even if she was, I doubt she’d begrudge me; I never brought boys home and she brought them home somewhat frequently.

     I blinked away some vivid imagery of Tom and I, sweaty and tangled, and remembered I was meant to reply. “Yeah. Let’s go. You can walk me home.”

     Tom got out of the booth and offered me his hand. Such a gentleman. 

     As he walked me out of the pie shop, my head filled with its typical plethora of questions. What would have happened if I had noticed Tom more in high school? Would we have dated? Or would I be pining after him like Erin and her pop-tart crush? Was I right to leave Erin at the party alone? She looked like she had been having fun with Ted. But maybe I was wrong.

     Either Tom was a mind reader, or some part of my internal babble had escaped my mouth because Tom said, “I’m sure Erin’s fine. Ted may have even worked up the courage to make a move on her.”

     Tom paused and pulled me into him. He looked at me a moment, maybe picking his argument, then tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “So, have I earned the right to kiss this beautiful head of yours?” he asked.

     “Straight for the kill,” I sighed, placing a hand on Tom’s chest. I’ve never been a gym-fit fetishist, but I may have been revising my opinion.

     Tom smiled, “I can be blunt when I want to be.”

     And then I kissed him, because I didn’t see the point of wasting more words. We could argue more later.

     Annaleigh (a person formerly known to Joan as Hannah Roberts) was fair-skinned with dark hair and pixie-like features. She was certainly less beautiful than Joan. However, she carried herself like a person of importance, as if she were Princess Anne about to address the Roman paparazzi.

      She was dressed in a black leather jacket and velvet slip dress. She looked willowy and walked just like a couture model ought to; full of a confidence I’d never be able to achieve.

     As I was admiring her air (read as “viewing with jealousy”), an unknown guy plopped down next to me and shattered my reverie.

     “Nate must have gotten here,” the guy said.

     “Most likely,” Tom replied.

     “You didn’t mention Ted would be here,” Joan chided Tom.

     Ted reached a hand out to me, “Ted Cavendish.”

     “Erin Brewster,” I said, taking his hand and shaking it.

     Evidently, Joan knew several people here, all of whom appeared to be in town on fall break. Vaughn Feldman, Cherry Glass (her real name), Timothy Morris (Tim, Ted, & Tom; this got harder after I had a few drinks), and Fred Baxter (eugh, couldn’t that guy take a hint?) all joined our fire circle. 

     In a matter of minutes, they’d struck up conversations about who’d gone where and how college was so far. If I hadn’t already felt like an outsider, I definitely felt like one now. From third wheel to eighth wheel, like some ugly offroading vehicle.

     Fortunately, Ted turned out to be earnest about his introduction.

     “So, Erin Brewster, what’s your major?” he turned his attention to me.

     “Painting,” I said, slightly embarrassed. I was sure Joan’s friends all had highbrow majors like Business and Political Science.

     Ted picked up both my hands and studied them quizzically. “No inspiration today, I see.”

     I blushed and pulled my hands back. “It’s my day off.” Not technically a lie, though I was obviously deflecting.

     Ted smiled kindly, “Sorry, my sister’s an artist. I can always tell when she’s ‘in it’ -- or in a dry spell -- based on the cleanliness of her hands. Yours need some paint.”

     “So, who’s Nate?” I asked, changing the subject from my lack of inspiration.

     Ted looked at the doorway and, as if divine intervention had planned it, a well-clad college-student, with perfectly coiffed hair, stepped onto the roof. Like Tom, he was wearing a tasteful blazer over a soft-looking black sweater and black jeans. He looked way more put-together than any of the guys who went to our school.

     “That’s Nate,” Ted said.

     Suddenly the group’s conversations had all stopped, and they were focused on this new stranger.

     “Like a Swiss watch,” Vaughn stated, from her perch.

     I hadn’t sized Vaughn up yet, but she seemed too sophisticated to be in college. I later discovered my assessment was correct. Vaughn was four years older but had a brother in Joan’s class. I never wanted to hang out with underclassmen, but I guess she found it productive. Or at least did at the time.

     “I wish she’d let him off the hook,” Cherry bemoaned. 

     “Pretty sure it’s the other way around,” Vaughn countered.

     “An ouroboros,” Tom added.

     “For the Layman, please, Tom,” Cherry said.

     “The ouroboros is a snake that eats itself,” Tom explained.

     “It symbolizes cycles, recurrence, or the concept that ‘all is one’,” Joan chimed in.

     I noticed she had an arm slung around Tom’s shoulders, as if to state he was hers for the night. Or maybe just to stave of Fred Baxter. From the look on Tom’s face, he didn’t seem to mind one bit. 

     “Isn’t it also the symbol of the Auryn in Neverending Story?” I offered.

     “Oh, that thing,” Cherry said. “I just wish Nate was more… available. I live in Boston too. Annaleigh’s all the way out here.”

     So Nate and Cherry were some of the Boston kids. This was useful information.

     “I’m available,” Fred offered.

     Cherry wrinkled her nose. “For a reason, Fred.”

     Fred was mock-wounded. “Sooner or later I’ll win you, Cherry Jones.”

     Vaughn scoffed, “Last weekend it was Noelle Hutchins. The one before that it was Lucy Stone. The one before that—“

     Fred cut Vaughn off, “I have diverse tastes.”

     Joan snorted and wiggled closer to Tom. He took the opportunity to protectively move a hand onto her knee. She didn’t flinch or start. In fact, she looked more comfortable than I’d seen her with any suitor at a party. Maybe Tom’s ‘Hartley Heartache’ was on the mend.

     Nate reached our group at the same time Annaleigh did, like a mathematical equation about two trains leaving two stations at different speeds, destined to collide. 

     Reflecting back, I think I immediately felt the air crackle. Or maybe that was just a detail I added to my journal post later. Either way, there was something magnetic that passed between them. I instantly understood Tom’s comment about the ouroboros.

     The rest of the party had moved on from watching Annaleigh, her grand entrance now complete, but our group was trained on her like a hawk as she glided into Nate.

     “Nate!” Annaleigh exclaimed, wrapping her arms around him.

     Nate looked sheepishly at the group before hugging her back.

     Was he one of those dudes Avril Lavigne lamented about? A Danny Zuko, trying to be cool in front of his friends? I initially disliked him for this.

     “Hey, Annaleigh,” he said.

     Annaleigh released him slightly, her arms still looped behind his neck. “I wasn’t sure you were coming.”

     “Me either. My parents were a little last minute.” 

     The 411 on Nate, as I learned from Ted, was that he had two middle-class working parents. So the idea of paying for a fall trip, so close to winter break, had seemed a bit much. They’d caved at the last minute and Nate had flown in earlier that day. Ted and Tom had known he’d be here, but Annaleigh and the rest of the crew didn’t.

     Our school didn’t have a fall break. But there’s no way my parents would have flown me home so close to the holidays. So, I felt a small kinship with Nate. Maybe his earlier glance was just because he felt awkward in front of Annaleigh (Hannah)’s wealthy friends. 

     How do people change their names like that anyway?

     My attention was snapped back to the party as Annaleigh clapped her hands together and said, “We should have cake!”

     Somehow, without anyone noticing, a bar cart topped with slices of decadent-looking chocolate cake had arrived just outside our fire circle. I threw a glance at a few of the other fire pits, and they all had cake carts next to them as well. 

     Was this a party or a Michelin-rated restaurant? Where were the attendants? Did food apparate like in Harry Potter? How did Annaleigh orchestrate all of this? Did she even know the people at the other fire pits? These were the quandaries that clouded my head as everyone moved to take a plate of cake.

     Much as I wanted to disappear into one of the many dark corners of the rooftop and meticulously document the entire experience, I had a directive for the evening.

     I’m not a bold person. No one would describe me as one. But I remember pushing my way into a conversation with Cherry out of sheer lust; Joan and Tom were becoming more entangled by the moment, and I wanted what they had.

     “So, Cherry, you mentioned you’re at school in Boston,” I started, interrupting her as she took a bite of chocolate cake.

     Great timing, Erin, I thought to myself. Very classy.

     Fortunately, Cherry was classy. She slowly chewed her cake, swallowed, and answered me as though I weren’t a carbuncle at her posh high-school reunion. “Yes, I’m at Emerson.”

     Was she a fellow art major? Maybe Joan’s friends were more colorful than I’d thought. And Emerson was really close to Berklee, if I remembered my Mapquest search correctly.

     “I’ve heard great things about Emerson,” I said, hoping this was my lead.

     “Erin’s a painting major,” Ted offered. I guess our conversation was more interesting to him than chocolate cake; he was the only one without a plate.

     “Oh. That’s nice,” Cherry said. So, she was an art major, but we weren’t going to bond over it.

     I tried again. “I’m trying to find a friend of mine that goes to Berklee.”

     “Those kids are… interesting,” Cherry said. 

     Apparently she was not at Emerson for Communications. My diction will never be on par with Joan’s or Tom’s, but I’d still have done better than ‘interesting,’ which is about the most disinteresting word in the English language.

     Maybe this conversation wasn’t going to get me anywhere after all. Regardless, I plowed on; Ethan Embry didn’t give up on Jennifer Love Hewitt and I wasn’t giving up on Aaron.

     “His name is Aaron Jones,” I cut straight to the chase. (And yes, in case you just realized, we’d be Aaron and Erin, if I ever managed to find him.)

     Cherry thought a moment. “That sounds kind of familiar. But there are a lot of Joneses in the world.”

     This was certainly a dead end. Where had Nate gotten off to? Maybe he’d be more help.

     My eyes started to scan the area when Cherry added, “He might be on TheFacebook.”

     “What is TheFacebook?” I asked, clueless.

     “It’s this new website for college students,” she said.

     A website. Okay. I could try that. Still, Nate might have a better tip, if I could only find him.

     The way heads turned and whispers passed, I began to worry I looked like Fran Fine heading into the Sheffield’s house on the Upper East Side. But their gazes slid across Joan as well, and she looked like a knockout, all beautiful hair curls and sequins (thank goodness she hadn’t thrown me that top instead; the Fran Fine comparison would have been spot on). 

     Joan didn’t seem to notice, she simply strode along. “Tom said it was just up ahead, on the corner of Baker street.”

     As we came to the back stairs of an enormous building, and another group surveyed us, it dawned on me that people may have thought Joan was Annaleigh. If I didn’t know Joan, her confidence and air would have made her a candidate in my book as well. 

     Why didn’t Joan already know Annaleigh anyway? All the other locals seemed to know one another. Her friend Tom even knew Annaleigh.

     I was busy trying to puzzle it out when Joan suddenly halted in her tracks.

     “Hold the phone. Tom got hot.” 

     It was one of only two times I saw Joan, with all her confidence, wit, and beauty, waver. She looked shell-shocked. Then Tom flashed her a conciliatory smirk from his perch on the back porch and she was back in form, striding forward.

     Tom Bradley was a tallish business major who’d gambled on wearing a nice blazer to an outdoor college party. And he evidently knew he’d gotten hotter since the last time Joan saw him because he had no trouble owning it.

     “I think I scared you a moment, Joan ‘Heartache’,” he said as he ambled up to meet us. “I didn’t know it was possible.”

     “Joan Heartache?” I questioned.

     He turned his smile at me. “She wouldn’t give any guys the time of day in high school. We all suffered from Hartley heartache.” 

     “I was busy with college prep,” Joan countered. “Erin, Tom. Tom, Erin.” She gestured between the two of us, then fixated on Tom. “Don’t call me ‘Joan Heartache’ ever again, Bradley!” 

     “Resorting to last names to underscore your ire,” Tom tsked.

     “Resorting to obscure synonyms to express frustration,” Joan shot back.

     “Needlessly engaging in verbal sparring to display your intelligence,” Tom teased, his eyebrows furrowing in mock admonition.

     Joan huffed. “Well, your counter arguments are making yours transparent.”

     I began to feel uncomfortable in their linguistic foreplay (was this how they spent their time on Livejournal?) and attempted to break the ice. Or, if we’re being honest, attempted to satisfy (or is it sate? Maybe I should ask Tom) my own desires. “So, Joan says you go to BU.”

     Tom, whose face looked half adoring and half fearful, turned his attention from Joan to me. “Yeah. Closest I could get to Harvard,” he said. “Maybe Joan’s right about my intelligence.”

     “Don’t play modest, Tom. It doesn’t suit you.” Joan jabbed a finger into his chest.

     “I concede.” Tom held his hands up, his already wide smile somehow widening to an almost Cheshire Cat state.

     He really did have a charming demeanor. I briefly wondered what he looked like in high school and why Joan was so shocked at his transformation. But I had a mission.

     “A high school friend of mine went to Berklee,” I started.

     “And you’re hoping I might know them.”

     Tom was pretty smart. Or maybe my face was so full of obvious anticipation that he could read me better than a children’s picture book.

     “Yeah,” I said lamely.

     “Sorry, but I don’t really cross paths with those kids. The Berklee Bubble is pretty insular.”

     My heart sunk like a dead peach pit in my chest and my already poor poker face must have melted with it because Tom reached a comforting hand out to my shoulder.

     “There are some other kids from Boston in town tonight. They might know your friend,” he offered.

     Joan snorted. “Erin’s search for her ‘friend’ is a waste of time.”

     If I didn’t know Joan better, I’d have found her comment cruel and her look at Tom’s hand on my shoulder oddly territorial. Was Joan jealous?

     I took a tiny step back, so Tom’s hand dropped back to his side, and this seemed to soothe whatever strange beast I’d seen flash behind Joan’s eyes. 

     “A friend is someone who stays in touch, or at least tries to,” Joan continued. “Like how you found me on Livejournal,” she said to Tom.

     Suspicion confirmed!

     Tom was a natural mediator and came to my aid. “Friends can go years without speaking to or seeing one another. Like Fletch. You two were buddy-buddy in high school and you haven’t spoken since the summer. Is she still your friend?”

     I could tell Joan didn’t like this argument. And I had no idea who Fletch was, but the mention seemed to sting Joan. Now I felt like I needed to be the mediator.

     “Aaron was more of a crush,” I confessed sheepishly. “We weren’t super close, but we were friendly. He lent me a book once.”

     “Oh lord. The book. Here she goes,” Joan rolled her eyes. 

     Joan had heard my story at least ten times (probably twenty) during drunken confessions on our dorm room floor. And maybe once or twice at a party she’d dragged me to. Fortunately for her, I wasn’t drunk yet, so I wasn’t in the mood to share anything else and left it at that.

     “I’m just hoping to reconnect.”

     I saw something soften in Joan’s countenance, as it often did when she realized she was being particularly blunt, and she graciously changed the conversation. “So, what’s the deal, Tom. Did you become one of those fit freaks that hits the gym every day?” 

     Still blunt but not directed at me anymore. 

     Tom chuckled. “Let’s catch up inside. You don’t want to miss Annaleigh’s entrance.”

     The cloud of rumors around Annaleigh’s entrances were particularly fanciful. I’d heard she descended the stairs like Norma Desmond, ready for her close-up; slid into the room on her knees, like Marty McFly; and even — the most fantastical — drifted down from the sky on a trapeze like a Cirque du Soleil dancer. They all sounded farfetched and overly theatric, but Joan and I certainly didn’t want to miss the chance to verify the rumors.

     As Tom ushered us into the house, I’m sure my eyes grew into saucers.

     For all the talk about Annaleigh’s parties, no one had quite conveyed the enormity of her house. Maybe it was implied from the fact her guests managed to fit on the rooftop, but I hadn’t really thought about it. To be honest, some of the allure would have been lost if I had. And this strange back-alley entrance, flanked by men clad in black (did she seriously have her own bouncers?) made the whole experience feel more like some elite speakeasy. 

     Maybe The Strokes had actually played a set here.

     Velvet ropes marked a path to a simple stairway, and I could just barely peer into the darkness on either side of the walkway, but it seemed to go on forever. Her parents were obviously loaded.

     I counted seven stories with fourteen landings as we climbed. And they were steep. 

     I had enrolled in tennis class to satisfy my general education credits, but it did not prepare me for cardio or quad work. Plus, I usually cut that class (only gym brats, like Tom, would get up at 7 a.m. for a Phys. Ed. class). My legs were screaming.

     Why wouldn’t Annaleigh allow people to use an elevator? Certainly a house this grand must have an elevator (or maybe even one of those diagonal inclinators like the pyramid hotel in Las Vegas. Nothing would be surprising in this castle.)

     I was just about to comment that no party could be worth this type of exertion when we reached the last landing, which opened onto the building’s roof.

     We stepped out into what I can only describe as a courtyard, even though it was far above the ground. There were twinkle lights threaded across intricate arbors, a winding path with low-cut bushes, and multitudes of deep, couch-like daybeds arranged around tiny glowing fire pits. Oddly, no one had ever mentioned those, or how the seating made small, private conversation circles.

     Along one side of the roof there was a magnificent built-in bar and it did, in fact, house an enormous champagne fountain. Endless free champagne, confirmed.

     “This is incredible,” I said.

     “Unreal,” Joan echoed in awe. 

     Tom led us to an empty fire pit marked with a “Reserved” sign. Maybe he wasn’t wrong to wear a blazer after all. 

     “Reserved?” Joan said quizzically.

     “I know people,” Tom said, with his irresistible grin.

     Somehow, neither Tom or Joan were out of breath. Meanwhile, my heart was still strumming along to a Sousa march. I flopped down, sank into the plush cushions, and began laughing. 

     “I’m back on the couch, Joan!” I declared with triumph.

     Joan rolled her eyes. “And if you think you’re staying there for this whole party, you have another thing coming.”

     Of course, her attention quickly turned to Tom and the forty thousand questions she wanted answered. 

     I tuned them out. Why play third wheel?

     I was busy compiling what would become an epic Livejournal post, capturing every detail of the rooftop in evocative language, when the hostess (or maybe patroness was a better word. I should have asked Tom) suddenly made her appearance.

     She did, in fact, descend a stairwell. It was hidden at the back corner of the roof, in a spot I hadn’t catalogued yet. But her movements were less theatric and more elegant, maybe even measured. This was no Cecil B. DeMille moment. Why were people so absurd with their descriptions?

     Joan, who was seated with her back to Annaleigh, turned to survey the scene and said aloud. “Is that Hannah Roberts?”

     Tom coughed and whispered at Joan. “She doesn’t like people to call her that. She goes by Annaleigh now.”

     Who was Hannah Roberts? I guess the six degrees of Annaleigh (whose last name I now knew was Roberts) included Joan after all.

     It was the golden age of social media, or at least that’s how I’d like to think of it. We’d all just gone off to college, fresh in the country’s ideals that no child should be left behind, and eventually joined an online group that stated our selected major may leave us living in a cardboard box — a fact that fortunately did not remain true for most of us.

     I met Annaleigh at a party. More specifically, her party; a somewhat weekly affair with no formal invitations, the mystique of some young Gatsby, and several incredible, and unbelievable, rumors (had The Strokes really played an unplugged set there?)

     At that time, everyone seemed to know someone who knew Annaleigh. For me, it was a high school friend of my college roommate, Joan Hartley. So, when Joan asked if I wanted to join her, I couldn’t help but succumb to the intrigue.

     It was an atypical night for me since I worked in a record store and, being the newest hire, was usually working Friday nights. In most cases I would have been loath to lose my free Friday night. But Friday nights were also date nights in those days — an update to the Beach Boys’ Saturday nights — and I was not only dateless at the time, but all my hookups were also busy. I’d been just about to settle into the dorm room couch for my twentieth binge-watch of Can’t Hardly Wait on videotape — commercials and all — when Joan had made her pitch.

     “Erin, is this how you want to remember your college years?” she said pointedly.

     I looked down at my pajama pants, stained with watercolor (because who needs a paint rag when you have pajama pants?), and considered a moment longer than Joan was comfortable with.

     “It shouldn’t take you that long to consider,” she sighed with exasperation.

     “I can’t help it if I’m a romantic.”

     Joan had just come out of the bathroom, clad in her bathrobe, and a sweet-smelling steam was emanating from the door behind her. Her hair was still wrapped high on her head in a towel, but she had a hairbrush in her hand, and she pointed it at me for emphasis. “This is not romantic. It’s sad.”

     “I didn’t mean me, in this exact moment. I meant my obsession with Can’t Hardly Wait.”

     Joan huffed and disappeared back into the bathroom, her voice only slightly muffled by the steam. “You need to forget your long-lost high school crush who ate pop-tarts every morning and didn’t bother to give you his phone number at graduation.”

     I knew she probably had a point. I’d secretly been trolling around Livejournal for months, clicking on random usernames of people who shared my interest in pop-tarts, hoping I’d suss out which one belonged to him. So far, my searches had been fruitless, like his favorite pop-tart (brown sugar cinnamon).

     I sunk deeper into the couch, which was a bit difficult as it wasn’t a particularly fluffy couch, but I wanted to emphasize my commitment to my current state. “I’m comfy.”

     “Comfort is an excuse for mediocrity and stasis.”

     Joan was also incredibly smart and double majoring in business and psychology. I still wasn’t sure why the administrative powers-that-be had roomed us together. I was an art major on partial scholarship from a small Midwest town and she was an upper-middle-class local with an analytical brain; we essentially had nothing in common. Of course, whenever I mentioned this to her, she always responded, logically, that room assignments were meant to mix things up and foster social relationships.

     “I like stasis,” I tried.

     Evidently Joan could tell I was wavering because she re-emerged from the bathroom to make her kill.

     “Tom said some kids from Boston are in town.” She could tell my ears perked up, because she began to smile wryly. “It’s statistically unlikely one of them will be your pop-tart boy. But you’re the self-stated romantic.” 

     She disappeared back into the bathroom, knowing I couldn’t resist.

     “I fear for anyone who crosses you in business.”

     “My powers of persuasion definitely have their perks,”

     “These parties can’t possibly be as amazing as everyone says they are.” I pulled the hood of my jacket over my face, already dreading the fact that I would need to put on real clothes to go out.

     “Tom says they’re even better than everyone says they are, and Tom’s not one to mince words.” Joan walked out of the bathroom, hair and makeup done up perfectly. I really did fear for anyone who crossed her.

     “You said you haven’t seen him in 6 months. Maybe he changed.”

     Joan strode toward her bedroom to undoubtedly find an amazing outfit that hit just the right blend of casual beauty — as was her way. “His posts on Livejournal would suggest otherwise.”

     Of course. Of course, she was able to find a dude from her high school on Livejournal. In fact, he probably found her. If she wasn’t so nice, I’d have hated her guts.

     “I don’t have anything to wear to a fancy rooftop party,” I tried meekly. “I’ll embarrass you.”

     Joan scoffed from her bedroom. “Erin, please stop this pitiable act. You’re gorgeous, you just don’t make any effort.”

     I grumbled unhappily. “We can’t all make things look effortless, like you. So, I don’t see the point of trying.”

     “Exactly my point.” Joan emerged from her room, surprisingly still in her bathrobe, and flung her selected outfit at me instead. “Wear this, let me do your makeup and hair, and the only ones who will be embarrassed are the slimy guys who mistook you for a five.”

     “I thought Annaleigh’s parties were too high-class for those guys,” I smirked at my own joke.

     “Don’t be naïve. There’s slime in every class. And high-class slime is worse,” she stated matter-of-factly. “Like that awful Fred Baxter.” She disappeared back into her bedroom.

     Fred Baxter was another upper-middle-class local, and his unrequited, non-pop-tart-related crush was Joan. And every other woman with a pulse. He was most certainly a high-class slime, always making gross passes at us, like that guy Upchuck in Daria.

     I looked at the outfit Joan had thrown on top of me. It was a sheer long-sleeved top and some dark jeans.

     I held the top up with trepidation and peered through its see-through middle. “I will definitely be embarrassed if I wear this. And overly popular with the slimes.”

     “You’re supposed to wear a camisole under it,” Joan retorted, as though it were obvious.

     “Oh.” I finally heaved myself off the couch and disappeared into my own bedroom to get dressed.

     Apparently Joan began to worry I would back out of her manipulation, because she started yelling at me across the dorm from her bedroom, upselling Annaleigh’s party. “Tom says they never run out of champagne. And if it rains, she just pushes a button and a ceiling appears.”

     Endless champagne and magical ceilings. I hadn’t heard those bits before, though someone had once mentioned a champagne fountain. Maybe that was the same thing. It all sounded fascinating, to be sure, but Joan should have realized she had me on the hook from her Boston comment.

     As if Joan had read my mind, she yelled out across the apartment again. “Everybody knows somebody who knows Annaleigh. So maybe one of the Boston kids will know your guy.”

     My stomach roiled. Was there really a chance I might find a connection to Aaron? After all these months? And all those nights on Livejournal….

     Joan suddenly appeared at my bedroom door and looked me over. “It’s almost working,” she said, and reached a hand out to me.

     I had no choice but to take it and follow her.