I knew this was it. Now was the moment. But as I listened to her babble about the recently single status of her best friend, I couldn't bring myself to tell her. The overwhelming urge to push it aside and deal with the pain alone was overpowering. And so I stood, hands in pockets, mind raging with indecision, and I let her have her happiness. It wasn't been happiness coursing through my veins, it was something else entirely.
My chest ached and shoulders burned as I refocused on the road and pushed the memory of her from my mind, something I'd been doing a lot of lately. Denial -- my coping mechanism of choice.
I had no way of knowing that tomorrow would be the first step in our fall.
two
Auburn tapped on my door at five to ten the following morning. Always on time and eager to please. She had a bright future, I was sure of it.
“Morning.” I set my pen down and grinned, my heart picked up a few extra beats whenever she entered a room.
“Morning.” She smiled brightly before sliding a chair closer and plopping down in it. She shifted, tossing her feet on the edge of my desk, white Chuck Taylors loosely tied and slightly scuffed. I eased back into my chair, relaxing into our old habit of easy conversation.
“Make yourself at home.” I gestured with a playful grin.
“Thanks. You know, I kinda miss this place.”
“Really?” My eyebrows shot up. “College beaten you down already?”
“No,” she answered simply. “I love it, but it’s good to be home. We’ve had so many great conversations here. Hemingway to Cather…I remember everything.” She slid a half smile my way as she mentioned a couple of our favorite authors. I breathed a little easier knowing she remembered, knowing it'd impacted her like it had me.
“How are your classes?” I was conscious of maintaining professionalism despite my urge to delve into more personal territory.
“They're all pretty good, except algebra, for obvious reasons.” Her face twisted with irritation. Auburn hated math, it was a weakness we shared and something I'd revealed to her years ago when she was struggling with a particular geometry teacher. “So how have you been these last few years?
“Pretty good, thanks.” Good was about the last thing I'd been, but now wasn't the time or place. “So talk to me about what you're worried about with the project.”
“I just have no idea what to write about.” She ran a hand through her hair. I couldn't even count the number of times I’d watched her do that over the years in my classroom. “You don't understand, I have the most boring life in existence.”
“Ok, remember firstly the story is fictional. I want it written in the style of a memoir -- inspired by true events, and then expanded upon in a fictional way,” I explained. She sighed and pulled her hair over one shoulder, fidgeting again. “You just have to be inspired,” I finished.
Her eyes caught my gaze, drifted down to my mouth and back again before she continued. “I go to school, I study, I work, I read books. No tragedies in my past...I'm just boring.” She shrugged, as if distracted.
“Some of the greatest stories ever told are about the everyday mundane experiences that we can all relate to. Reading isn't always about escaping to faraway lands, the best books are the ones that resonate on an emotional level. The author and reader are connected by a tin-can string of words across thousands of miles and hundreds of centuries.” She ingested my words for a moment. “You just have to unearth the gems within the everyday.”
“Hmm...” She squinted her eyes at me, still skeptical. “Sage advice. I like your romantic literary sensibilities,” as she shook a finger in my direction in the dorkiest version of herself possible. Her silly sense of humor had me smiling from ear to stupid ear. “There still needs to be some drama though...” Her face was once again serious as she returned to brainstorm mode.
“That's where the fiction comes in,” I offered, feeling more invigorated than I had in too long.
“And people like a love story...” She was thinking out loud again. This exchange had become equal parts creative and entertaining. Auburn and I had our own language when it came to brainstorming. We seemed to share thoughts and complete each other's sentences as we volleyed back and forth.
“Love is everlasting. Gatsby spent his whole life pining for one girl. Bam! Greatest modern love story ever told. What about that guy yesterday? Maybe there’s something in there.” I was eager to get lost in casual conversation and get my mind off of my life of late.
“Jake? Meh…he’s fun, but there’s really no greater meaning to be mined there.”