Call It Love
One: Nostalgia
Present
The languid summer heat at the lakehouse always made Al dream.
Last year, around the same time, he'd given Eliza a diamond ring for their tenth anniversary. He'd gone to great lengths to make sure it would be a surprise; not even Katie, their daughter, could have guessed that Daddy had snuck out to the jewelry store when he was supposed to be buying groceries and spent an hour looking at all the diamonds, carefully examining all the different cuts and colors, picking out a band, and finally bringing it home a few weeks later in a little velvet box. The outcome couldn't have been better: a cushion cut diamond in a crown-shaped setting on a silver band, surrounded on both sides by three round, smaller diamonds in a leaf pattern. The gems themselves were lovely and bright, the design of the ring simple but charming. Eliza's eyes had watered over in a rare moment of sentimentality, and that night, they made love on open sheets, his hands in her long brown hair and her lips on his smooth shoulder, two empty glasses of red wine gleaming on the nightstand, moonlight cooling on their skin. He held her in his arms afterwards, and she pressed her ear to his chest, and it was like time hadn't moved beyond their honeymoon, or even beyond their first few years of dating.
And yet, even as she'd drifted to sleep, and the air stilled with the lateness of the hour, he felt deep in his flesh that he was . . . misplaced. That some power up above had played the wrong hand at the wrong time, or possibly the wrong hand at the right time. That he was a piece in a puzzle that connected together just fine, but was the wrong design—puppies instead of kittens and roses instead of daisies. He had hazy, half-formed thoughts of another life that could have been his, where he would be living in a neat bungalow instead of a one-point-two million-dollar house, saving up for a few cats and a new cast-iron skillet instead of a second jet ski, maybe have one car instead of three (the third was a vintage 1969 Dodge Camaro that Al had had his eye on for years and took out to get a tune-up regularly, but couldn't bear to drive on a daily basis). Katie was the apple of his eye, but in this other life, he couldn't imagine having children or a wife like Eliza—bold, outspoken, beautiful Eliza with her olive eyes and generous hips and ambitious career path in law. There would be someone else instead, someone who had fine-boned but strong hands, who would read a novel while Al made dinner and use an old-fashioned typewriter to compose poems instead of drawing up legal documents on a laptop. Someone who looked homely and warm in hand-knit sweater vests and house slippers. Someone who was always there and knew just what to say and felt just right even when he wasn't doing anything special.
He.
What was a passing fancy, Alfred wondered, and what was real love? How could one tell the difference? If one still thought about that other person even fifteen years later and dreamed about him at night and saw him at unexpected moments of the day, out of the corner of one's eye, only to turn back a second later and realize that it was someone else, a shadow . . . was that love, or just old memories coming back to life, tugging at heartstrings because they wanted to be remembered?
Al could never find the answer to any of his questions, just like he couldn't erase his old relationship, no matter how he tried, and he had come to accept that fact over the years, married man that he was. But was it normal to miss the scent of chamomile and lemon tea even when he walked past rows of teas and tea bags on his way to pick up coffee for Eliza every time he went to the store? Was it natural to experience a flash of warmth whenever he saw knitting needles next to a ball of yarn, even when they belonged to Grandma Katarina, his testy mother-in-law and Katie's namesake? Was it conventional to smile at a half-eaten granola bar, even when it was in someone else's hand?
If only he could take his life apart and rearrange the pieces, reassemble the puzzle the correct way. But what was the correct way? And how could he be thinking like this when he was living the American Dream, the lifestyle that anyone else would kill to have?
What more was there?
Al took off his glasses, rubbed them on his shirt, and put them back on again. He sighed. He had no idea what had gotten into him. Fifteen years down the line with success staring him in the face at every turn and a wonderful family, and here he was, wishing for the crazy, reckless passion of his college days.
I must be getting old, he thought. I'm turning into a thirty-six-year-old old man. He had to smile at himself.
It occurred to him, rather suddenly, that he could call. Pick up his smartphone, dial some numbers, and reforge a connection. Talk like friends, share some stories, do some catching up. Maybe meet up for a drink or two, if he was in the area. All of the basics.
That's all right, Alfred. I'll teach you all of the basics, and we can go from there.
The words made him jump, and he started to look around in surprise, but then he realized that they were only in his head. There was no one there except him and his steadily flushing face.
He hadn't been called Alfred in years. He hadn't thought of that voice in even longer; and since that was the case, he hadn't imagined that when he did, it would come back to him with such vividity. It had to be the summer heat, getting to his head. Yes, that was what it was—the heat. He needed some cold water splashed on his face, a talk or two with his wife, and then he would come to his senses and they would enjoy the rest of their vacation in the company of their daughter and some good champagne. They could go out in the boat tomorrow. It would be eighty, if not more, and sunny. No clouds in sight.
He was aware of, yet blind to, the fact that he would have to make a choice sooner or later. Even though he was settled, content, well on track for the rest of his life . . . there were possibilities. Many of them. And sooner or later, he would have to acknowledge that he was the only one who could decide whether or not to do anything about them.
A/N: Trying out a new overall format for this story, so no more unnecessary pairing spoilers, no more warnings (not that this story really needs any), less fluff in the author's notes, etc. On that note, I'm back with new material! Hope you guys bear with me as I get back into writing fanfiction - I'm really rusty after virtually zero practice in the past who knows how many months.
If you have any questions about any of my other works (such as whether or not I intend to continue them), I would appreciate it a lot if you PMed me instead of commenting about them in a review here. As always, I welcome you to share your thoughts about the story itself! This is just a beginning, and a rather short one at that, but I'll have more in store for you in the future. Happy writing!
