Landslide (30 page)

“Alright then, game on,” I all but accept the challenge out loud. There are a million and one things I feel like saying to him and although I’m still torn on which to lead with, most everything I’m considering is instantly forgotten, being no match for what comes out of his mouth when I reach his table…

“Erica,” he says, all self-important, my name coming out of his mouth sounding almost but not quite condescending.

Rather than calling him a bastard to his face for once or throwing myself across the cluttered table to show him just exactly how happy I am to see that he’s alive, all I can think of is standing in his kitchen the morning after Holden’s funeral.
 

“Mr. Hastings.”

It just slips out and before I have the chance to have any feelings at all about my prosaic rebuttal to his impersonation of his high-handed father, I catch his lips flash a lightning-quick smirk. It tells me he knows
exactly
how he sounded, but not whether it was intentional, which means he could either be playing with me or has succumbed completely to the egotistical DNA he was born with, even though his dad was the last person on Earth he ever wanted to emulate. Then the pompous jerk takes another long hit off his cigarette and sort of squints at me through the veil of smoke, waiting for me to say something else even though it’s his stupid turn, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why he’s making me work so hard for…well, anything.

“So. You’re alive.”

“As you see,” he says, inclining his head just barely and raising his eyebrows again, but this time it’s not as if he’s daring me. Instead it’s like he could be shaking his head and muttering, “Really? That’s all you got?” and I feel like slamming my palm to my forehead in shameful agreement. Of course I don’t do that, though, because I’m not about to give him the satisfaction, especially in front of all his friends who, of course, are hanging on every word we say, few as those words have been.

My palms itch and my mouth starts watering when he brings the cigarette back to his lips and I can’t help it… “Can I have one of those?”

For a brief, contemplative second he looks at me, exhales, and then without breaking eye contact, he decidedly smashes the cigarette out while saying, “I don’t smoke anymore.”

“
Humph
. Clearly.” The sarcastic remark is shot out with the acknowledgment to myself that the passing of time more often than not changes people and that’s perfectly fine, but based off the kind of person I used to know him as and the kind of person he seems to have become, I’m not entirely sure I like this new Cole. He’s kind of a dick.

“And you never should’ve started,” he adds but punctuates his statement with a quick wink, which brings me back to being at an utterly complete loss as to how
either
of us is feeling about this unexpected meeting.

The sound of one of his friends clearing his throat has me turning my attention from Cole’s face and forgetting what I was going to say again though.

“I, uh, take it you two know each other…”

My eyes flick back to Cole to see him nodding and giving me another contemplative look, except this one is considerably longer than the first and it’s something close to accusatory. “Mmhm. Erica and I go way back, don’t we…?”

It was weird; the way he said it. As if he left something out there at the end or cut himself off from saying anything else.
 

I’m trying to figure out what more he could’ve said that he would’ve had to stop himself from, although I immediately reply without giving the answer much thought. “Yeah, we do…back to the beginning of time, right?”

“That we do,” he agrees and nods again.

“But it’s been how many years now? Si—”

“Seven, sweetheart,” he immediately corrects before glancing down and plucking the straw and an umbrella out of a piña colada to take a huge gulp straight from the glass, “It’s been seven years.”

And that’s when it hits me. Why his question sounded so strange. He’d left off any of his typical terms of endearment and he did it on purpose. When sweetheart came out just now, I think it was habitual, but it also became clear by how he said it that, at this specific moment in time, he isn’t all that happy with me. And well, I guess I don’t blame him; although, I have just as much reason to not be all that thrilled with him in return.

“Right, seven,” I mutter and decide to forgo berating him like I first wanted to. However, bygones can’t always be bygones even when we want them to be nothing else. “You know, I went ahead and had a funeral for you,” I tell him, but I don’t say it in a punishing way at all; it’s more like I’m trying to find the humor in actually doing something like that in the first place and admitting it out loud.

In retrospect it was a pretty immature thing to do, but at the time, I was so hurt, angry, and convinced he wouldn’t survive that I thought it would be easier to just get saying goodbye out of the way and go on with my life by believing he was already dead. It was almost as if I was freeing myself of the future pain and grief I would go through. The kicker and what ultimately had me going through with the event was that just the idea of having to wait for the eventuality of his certain death was unbearably suffocating. So, after I called countless times to take what I’d said back and sent I don’t even know how many texts that went unanswered, I buried him, mourned his loss for a while, and then I forced myself to live my life.

Hearing the self-deprecating laughter hidden within my words without having to strain himself in the slightest, he sort of chuckles at me. “Hope you’re not holding a grudge or plan to hit me again for missing another funeral, ‘cause I didn’t even get an invite to that one.”

“You would’ve if you had ever answered your phone.”

I’m trying so hard to keep all bitterness from my tone, facial features, and body language, because mixed in with my sucky attempt at appearing as unaffected as he seems to be by seeing me again could possibly underscore my crazy this evening, I was thinking I shouldn’t mention some of these things to him quite so soon, if ever. At the same time though, I feel like he should at least know that the second I hung up on him, I felt remorse for that and for what I said right beforehand. And to some extent, I also want him to have an inkling as to what his leaving did to me.

So the fact remains; I
am
affected. I’m all over the place with how I feel and I don’t think I can hide it. I’m not even too sure that I should. This whole interaction reminds me of playing a strategic board game like RISK, and analyzing my position and next move, another thought occurs to me…there’s the outside chance that he’s doing what I’m trying to do and just succeeding far batter than I am. With that in mind, I decide to give him a little more truth to see how he handles it.

“Doubt you would’ve enjoyed being there, though…I called you a bastard in the eulogy.”

Up until that day, it’s a word I’d
never
used in conjunction with Cole. Ever. And he knows it. I know his feelings about how he was conceived and therefore his upbringing, and being a legitimate bastard isn’t something I would ever poke fun at him about. But, I wasn’t making light of it during his funeral. I was mad. And, I was heartbroken.

He sort of slowly nods in acceptance, and finally, he gives me a response that rings with authentic feeling. “Yeah, I’m sure you probably said a lot of things that are true, and I probably deserved every word. Please tell me you didn’t sing ‘Candle In The Wind’ though…”

I laugh. I mean, for the first time in what feels like forever, I actually laugh out loud. I’m not sure if it’s because his words didn’t come out sounding cold and distant, or if it’s because he’s finally warming up by teasing me or what. Whatever the case, it doesn’t matter because I’m able to see that the Cole I thought I’d buried isn’t gone completely, and the relief I feel is inordinate. It’s empowering and gives me the confidence that I feel I need to drop my guard even further so that I can hopefully unearth more of the person I thought was gone forever.

“Are you kidding? I’m not sacrilegious enough to risk being haunted by your umbrageous ass for the rest of my days, and I’ll have you know your funeral playlist made it onto a CD so I could listen to it in the car, it was so good.”

“I got a whole playlist, huh?”

“Yep.”

“‘Dream On’ make the CD?”

“Of course.”

Like I wouldn’t include Aerosmith? Come on. It was the opening song for crying out loud. The closer was The Fray’s “Be Still” though and suddenly, I have to force myself to swallow and take a breath before I start hearing the lyrics in my head and remembering details…like the incredibly supple petals and exquisite shading of the blood red-tipped yellow roses I buried in place of him, and the way the heavy fog landed and pooled into drops on their lush leaves before I threw them into the shallow grave I’d dug. Giving in to those memories would result in crying my bereaved eyes out just exactly as I did that day when I recounted a lifetime of both the good and the bad, as if he weren’t actually alive and well and right in front of me now.

“You know, Cole, I
did
know you fairly well and the whole service wasn’t hateful…some of it was rather touching and you probably would’ve shed a tear or two. I mean I even mentioned your damned car.”

I’m rewarded with yet another nod of acceptance, this one tinged with humor, and then he asks, “What’d you wear?”

The question catches me off guard; my first thought is to lie though and say I wore a trench coat, a red thong, and nothing else, but um…
I
might currently be okay with riding this ridiculously emotional roller coaster in my head, but if Cole or anyone else were to catch on that I’m zooming up and down at this breakneck pace like I am, I’ll probably have to start promising that I’m really and truly not bipolar or off my meds. Also, I’m not sure why he’s asking. Like is he trying to call my bluff in thinking that I’m making up this funeral thing or is he genuinely interested?

Honestly, this whole showdown has been beyond odd, in addition to the fact that it’s taking place right in front of his stupefied friends whom I’ve yet to be introduced to. And make no mistake, they’re clearly uncomfortable listening to us, but they’re too intrigued to interject again or start their own side conversations so that it’s not so obvious that they’re following our banter like a tennis ball being hit back and forth.
 

“Um, well…to be honest, it was a pretty casual affair and I didn’t put a whole lot of thought or effort into my appearance, because…well, I was the only one in attendance, so I went in jeans and a t-shirt with my uh…high school letterman’s jacket over it because it was cold and rainy, which is also why I didn’t wear any makeup or do anything to my hair except throw it into a ponytail,” I admit and wait for the teasing. He surprises me once more by giving me an honest to goodness smile, one that I haven’t seen in person in over seven years, sparkly white teeth and all.

“Now I’m really sorry I missed it…sounds like a perfect sendoff. Of course I want final say over the music, but other than that, feel free to plan any and all of my future interment services.”

“Okay, but you know, you could just not die again.”
 

“I didn’t die the first the time, Erica. We already covered that,” he says, the accompanying smirk on his face has me conflicted again between wanting to punch him in the nose or grab his face and kiss it. Then the table practically jumps and Cole only half-heartedly tries to hide the tiresome roll of his eyes. “
But
, we haven’t covered the introductions…”

He then proceeds to say names as he nods towards each of his friends to indicate them while his hands are busy gathering his keys, and the majority of his attention shifts to typing texts. I guess. All I know is that his phone is in his hand and he’s alternating between looking at it and sort of at me as I say hello to each of his friends, but not, like, really
at
me. It’s more like he’s looking through me. Although before I can expend too much energy or thought trying to figure out what he’s doing or figuring him out in general, I feel a presence behind me and turn to see the gorgeous brick house smiling down at me with his hand extended.

“Hi, I’m Payton. I’m gay. It’s all his fault,” She-Ra in He-Man’s body nonchalantly informs me and indicates Cole with his chin.

“Uh…okay. Hi,” I smile back and shake Payton’s outstretched hand, but in my head I’m virtually screaming, “Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God! Cole
is
gay!”

Wait a minute. What does this mean? Was he always gay and just really good at pretending to be straight or…? Because if he wasn’t always gay, then maybe you turned him. Remember Captain America? Not more than three weeks after your pathetic one night stand with him, you saw him swapping spit with a guy in the middle of the quad…

Yeah, but I never found out for sure that his change of heart in gender preference had anything to do with me.

“Jesus, dude, again?” Cole’s friend, Ryan, asks rhetorically and rolls his eyes.

But you always had a question about Cole. Maybe he’d been questioning himself too and that whole summer with you is what helped him realize the answer.

God, that would really suck.

Jerry nods in agreement and tells him, “Yeah, man, you gotta quit introducing yourself like that. A simple, hi, my name is Payton works for most everyone.”

Wouldn’t it though? I mean it really makes a girl second guess herself, not to mention that if you were to have actually kissed him instead of hitting him, it probably wouldn’t have had the same effect as you intended it to. Just saying.

Suddenly becoming not so self-assured in my best bra and lucky jeans, I take my hand back from Payton and look at Cole just as he stands up.

“Hey, yeah, and quit blaming
me
for
your
sexual orientation, you queer. I just told you that in my opinion, when a person pretends to be someone or something they’re not, they’re not doing anyone any favors, least of all themselves,” he casually says to Payton, although I find myself not knowing what to do or how to take the pointed look Cole aims at me when he finishes his statement.