The Pier

By Joseph Lanzafame

A pair of 1980s college sweethearts, separated by their insecurities, meet years later. Can they make it work this time

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781257485253

Book preview

14

Chapter 1

Dear Daylan:

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry, but I’m not sure why. After seeing you the other day, I’ve been unable to think of anything but you or, more specifically, us. And when I think of us, I think that I’m sorry. I know that must not make much sense to you, it doesn’t make complete sense to me. Maybe, I should go back to the beginning.

You know most of the story, but I’m going to tell it anyway, for myself as well as you. Hopefully, when I’m done, we’ll both understand a little better.

Seana and I were the best of friends. We had met as freshman in college and in the next two years had become close companions, spending all of our free time together. While anyone who knew us might have thought we were lovers, we were merely great friends who enjoyed dancing and laughing together as much as two lovers ever could.

You and Seana were childhood friends. The two of you had done everything together when you were growing up, but now that you went to schools in different towns, you saw less of each other. So, despite the strange connection the three of us shared, we never all came together - until that night.

Seana and I had met a few friends at Club X for a little dancing, a little drinking, and a lot of laughing. The club was crowded and we were huddled together in a corner booth, a little breathless, swirling the ice in a fresh round of drinks. Seana and I shared almost all of the same classes and, though September was still nearly two months away, we were already planning on another year of studying together and playing together. And then things changed forever.

Hey, Mike, how come we’re only friends? Seana asked me.

I would have choked on my ice if any other beautiful blonde woman had asked that question, but it was Seana, so I just smiled and asked, What do you mean?

I mean everyone thinks we’re a couple except us. Why do you think that is?

Because we’re more highly evolved than they are sexually. We’ve accepted a warm, platonic friendship. The rest of them can’t separate intimacy from sexuality.

That’s a nice little essay for Psych 101, but do you really believe that? Seana asked glancing at her watch and then the door.

Well, I wouldn’t normally put it that way, but yeah, I believe it. I’m not sure why we are the way we are, but I accept our relationship for what it is. Don’t you?

Sort of. But sometimes it seems kind of - well, unnatural. Shouldn’t two people of the opposite sex who enjoy each other’s company be…er…more than friends?

Yes and no. Love is a special kind of intimate relationship. You don’t become romantically involved with everyone you feel compatible with, do you? Maybe we are too much alike.

And opposites attract? Puh-lease. That is so cliché. Seana laughed as she glanced at her watch and the door.

A little maybe, but…

More than a little.

Okay, so it’s a lot cliché, I said, raising my arms in mock surrender, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s not true. Maybe to be great lovers you need to be enough alike to be compatible, but different enough to be exciting. Maybe we’re too alike to be exciting to each other.

Are you calling me dull? Seana said, putting her fists on her hips and feigning anger.

No, I said, laughing, I’m just trying to answer a question that I never expected to be asked.

You’ve really never wondered why we aren’t romantic? Seana asked becoming serious again.

I… Maybe once or twice, I confessed, my neck getting warm.

Seana laughed. I embarrassed you.

Sooo, I said. Why does our relationship suddenly concern you so much?

Seana glanced up from her watch. I met a guy at work, and…well, I really like him but I’m not sure how you’ll feel about him or how he’ll feel about you…

Seana, I think it’s great. Go for it.

Let’s just wait and see, she said, looking at the door.

Are you waiting for someone? I asked, turning to look at the door myself.

Maybe. You know my friend Daylan, the one I told you about? I asked her if she wanted to come down here tonight and she said she might.

You mean I finally get to meet your little artist friend. This is exciting. Maybe she can entertain me for a while and you can feel less guilty about abandoning me for this new boyfriend of yours.

He’s not my boyfriend - not yet - he may not even like me that much.

Hey, what’s not to like? If he doesn’t fall absolutely head over heels in love with you, give me a call. I’ll knock some sense into him.

Thanks, Seana said and then jumped up and started waving her arms.

I turned just in time to see you waving back. I took you in in one long glance, your auburn hair and slim build, your peaches and cream complexion. But one thing, more than anything, grabbed my attention and held it. Your eyes. Dark and moist, they pierced the room and drew attention away from your almost too bright smile.

I was too much of a cynic even then to believe in love at first sight, then again I was too young to really understand love at all. As I watched you approach our table, gliding through the thin gaps in the crowd, flowing through the room with an easy grace, I remember thinking that you were probably a great dancer.

I stood up so that Seana could slide out of the booth to greet you. The two of you hugged, exchanged a quick greeting and a laugh that was almost a giggle, and then Seana brought you back to the booth where I was still standing.

"Mike, this is Daylan," Seana said, as though you were her discovery.

Nice to finally meet you, I said, offering my icy hand.

Nice to finally be met, you said with your usual carefree spirit.

Can I get you a drink? I asked. I’m almost surprised I managed to speak, I was completely mesmerized by the way the dim light played in the depths of your eyes.

Molson Golden, you responded without a pause, steadily meeting my gaze which had lasted long enough to be called a stare.

I hesitated for a split second longer before tearing my eyes away to look for a server. I couldn’t see any nearby so, reluctantly, I left you for the first time and headed to the bar.

As I was leaning against a stool, waiting for the beer, I watched you talking with Seana in the booth. Or, more accurately, I watched you talking in an empty room. Your lips danced with a vital animation, golden words spilling onto the universe in which you reigned. Your eyes sparkled, two solitary stars in an otherwise empty galaxy, emanating a will, a spirit too grand for any mere mortal woman. It had suffused the way you walked, the way you talked, even the way you nodded your head to the right as you physically punctuated your speech. It still does.

Walking slowly across the crowded room, the sea of people magically parting for me to pass, I saw only you. The cold sweat of the beer in my hand is the only sensation I can recall. As you turned and your two dark gems reached out to grasp me, I knew I was lost. As I reached my enervated arm out to you and our hands brushed as you took the cold bottle from my numbed fingers, I believed that I was forever yours.

It wasn’t the way you looked exactly, nor the way you walked exactly, nor even the way you talked exactly. It was something in your eyes when you said ‘Molson Golden’.

I sat down on the end, next to you. Your presence disrupted the normal group dynamics, you were the center of attention. I hung back, watching you, wanting to speak but unable to think of anything that seemed important enough.

Well, my soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend doesn’t seem to appreciate me except when he thinks someone else does, you were saying.

You must be exaggerating, Seana said.

No, he even threatened to beat up my art teacher after he helped me with my project one night. He’s insanely jealous, you said, still smiling sweetly. It’s almost laughable considering he was the one who had an affair last summer.

Where is he now?

Home in Boston, I think. Of course, maybe he’s having an affair in Vermont. I go down to visit him every couple of weeks but things just aren’t right between us. Every time I go down, we end up fighting about something stupid like picking a movie or a restaurant. I’m tired of his temper, and it gets worse when he drinks. What do you think I should do with a guy like that? you asked, turning to me.

I…it’s hard to say since I don’t know him, I began, trying not to blush. Psychologists say that couples don’t fight about real issues, they transfer their anxiety onto less important things. Maybe he’s just acting out some other problem.

You mean me? you asked, suddenly serious.

I…I don’t know.

I guess I know you’re right, but after three years I just can’t bring myself to accept it. I mean, when I think back on all of the good times we had… It seems like everything I’ve done during college involved him. Art shows, parties, dances - all with him.

The others had returned to the dance floor and we found ourselves alone together for the first time.

I know it’s hard to break up after all that time, I said, not really knowing at all having never had a relationship last longer than six months. But, you’ve got another fifty or sixty years ahead of you, if this isn’t what you want, then…

It’s not that easy. When I’m here and thinking straight, I know I should break up with him. But when I see him, I just want to grab him and hold on, no matter what. Sounds kind of stupid, huh?

No, not at all. Whoever said love was blind was never in love. Love is just plain dense. Seeing someone you care about always makes your heart beat faster and your mind run slower.

You laughed, that high lilting laugh you sometimes have, almost a giggle but from much deeper. That’s me in a nutshell - the artiste. All heart and no mind.

That’s not what I said.

I know, I was just kidding. You really are very insightful. Are you sure you’re not a therapist masquerading as a chemist?

Positive, I said, laughing. I’m more qualified to have a therapist than to be one.

We both laughed and as our laughter drifted away from us, I could almost see it swirling with the smoke and mixing with beat of the bass. Somehow, at that moment, I believed that my fate was forever tied to you. I knew it was silly then, I know it sounds silly now. Love shouldn’t happen that way, but in my heart, I knew I couldn’t help myself and probably wouldn’t even if I could.

Your eyes sparkled with laughter and you became more symbol than substance, you became all of my hopes and my dreams for the future. I felt almost suffocated by my life, so much more left to be done. But looking in your eyes, I dared to dream of a time and place I could barely see, of a life I could hardly imagine. Somehow I knew that you were the missing piece, and though your heart still belonged to another, that night you were with me. For those few stolen moments, that was all that mattered.

C’mon, you said, your voice reaching through the haze of my thoughts and pulling me back to the present, let’s dance.

I followed you, willingly though mindlessly, my heart skipping with every step. A song was just ending. You guided me through the mass of people on the dance floor into an open space, our own private niche amid the crush of twisting and undulating bodies.

You turned to face me as a new song began: What I like about you by The Romantics. Do you remember? I can still hear it. What I like about you. What didn’t I like about you? Though I hardly knew you then, all I knew I adored, and all that I didn’t yet know I embraced and jealously guarded.

We started to move. I tried to memorize every graceful swing of your body, every bounce of your hair, every flash of light from your eyes. I moved as rhythmically as I could, feet on automatic as I felt my way through the song. I felt swept away. The music was playing and my heart was singing a new song, a special song whose words were so new and yet so completely comfortable.

The Romantics wound down and the DJ switched tempo to a slow dance. Almost Paradise from the movie Footloose. The movie seems trite and dated from where we sit now, but at that moment, on that dance floor, I was Kevin Bacon.

I put my hands out to you, palms open, and shrugged. I left it up to you whether to accept or decline my tacit invitation to continue our dance. You shrugged back, a silent acceptance, and stepped between my open arms, placing your hands palm down on my shoulder blades and pressing your cheek to my chest. I let my arms fall down to the small of your back, barely touching you, yet my fingers melted from your heat. Even now, all of these years later, every nerve in my body tingles with remembered sensations: the cotton of your blouse tickling my fingers, the sides of your waist pressing against my wrists, my cheek nestled in your hair.

We rocked back and forth, turning slow circles on the dance floor. As many times as we’ve danced since, no song, no symphony of songs has ever held the magic of that one. I had never been happier as far back as I could remember which, at that moment, was only three or four minutes. As the steps accumulated and the song played on, I wanted to say something, anything, to extend the magic for one more moment, one more song, the rest of our lives. But, my troublesome shyness and my fear of breaking our sacred silence stilled my dry tongue.

I pulled my head back so I could look at you. You felt me move and lifted your head and smiled. I never knew whether your smile was your own or the mere reflection of the unconscious smile I must have been wearing. The music slipped away and took our dance, and our special moment, with it.

As the bass kicked in again, we were suddenly surrounded by people again, no longer dancing in the starlight, no longer alone in the clear, crisp air of a mountain top dancing to a song written only for us. The bass and the bodies pounded against me and I could have gagged on the smoke in the room. Looking down at you, I wanted to kiss you. I wanted to kiss you more than I ever wanted anyone or anything. I hung suspended from my own indecision, my thoughts fleeing through the present on their way to the future. We were four bars into Shout before I suddenly remembered where I was and that I was holding you, so I stepped back and released my near embrace.

Let’s get a drink, you said softly, looking a little flushed.

I didn’t even have time to respond before I found myself following you to the bar.

You ordered two beers. When we were served, instead of going back to the table with the others, you leaned against the bar sipping your drink.

You twirled the barstool between us. Thanks…

For what?

For the dance and for the beer and, well, just for listening.

"My pleasure. Next to talking, my favorite thing is listening - followed