Christ, what a debacle.
The words "hackneyed," "predictable" and "idiotic" come to mind, but there's no need for him to weigh in: Sharon the liberal and her conservative counterpart are content to fill the vacuum with well-worn sound bites.
Jesus, his head hurts.
He squints, rubs his forehead and scans the sea of faces in front of him, trying to distract himself from the pain. He's always been a people-watcher: being able to predict John McAvoy's moods had paid rich dividends.
The crowd is mostly what he expects - young-ish, some well on their way to becoming grooving hipsters, completely unaware of the meta factor that comes with trying to be hip: after all, there are only so many "alternative" styles one can adopt before becoming a cliché.
Somebody in his peripheral vision – some feminine form way off in the back of the audience - captures his attention. As he squints at the back row, trying to make out her features, something about the way she's holding her head – half-cocked, yet defiant – seems familiar. He can't quite put his finger on it, so he squints harder.
It's only when she shakes her head - in exasperation, maybe - that his heart fucking stops.
Is that - ?
Her face is shrouded in darkness, but there's something about her form - feminine curves offset by squared shoulders - that makes him think it is.
Fuck.
As if on cue, a technician adjusts the stage lights, and for a second, her face is thrown into relief.
If he wasn't absolutely certain he was bat-shit crazy, he'd swear it's MacKenzie's eyes staring back at him, MacKenzie's face, with her big eyes and resolute stare, shining like a beacon in the darkness.
This isn't the first time he's imagined seeing her in a crowd, but it's the first time his body has reacted so viscerally.
For a split second, the pounding in his head subsides long enough for his mind to start chanting, it's her, it's her, it's her.
The surf (the inane babble on either side of him), which had been crashing in, disappears, and for a moment, the ocean he's standing in seems eerily calm: MacKenzie, with her brown hair shining under the lights, her hazel eyes bright and discerning, is staring back at him.
A moment later, she disappears, morphed into someone who looks eerily like her.
When she reappears, a powerful wave washes over him, completely pulling him under.
Is it her? Could it be her?
It's not until she's out of focus again that he's able to fight his way to the surface – just in time to notice the moderator has asked him a direct question.
A pat answer seems to suffice, so he quickly turns his attention back to the crowd.
Off to his right, some wisp of a girl stands up to speak.
Though it registers that she's asked perhaps the most moronic question of the morning ("What makes America the greatest country in the world?"), he's not really paying attention because he's looking for landmarks in the crowd, trying to figure out where the fuck "MacKenzie" is.
He barely notices the idiots on either side of him spouting pat, moronic answers and it's only when he hears his own name that he realizes the moderator is asking him to weigh in.
Shit.
"Freedom and freedom," he says carelessly and hopes it's enough.
At that moment, MacKenzie reappears with a look on her face he knows all too well.
It's the one that used to irritate the crap out of him, the one urging him to rise above his natural inclination to take the easy way out.
Come on, Billy, you can do better than that.
And then he imagines (he really must be losing it) that she's holding up a fucking sign ("It's not").
He keeps staring, instinctively waiting for further direction and when it comes ("But it can be"), he finds himself unleashing a torrent of vitriol.
The rest is history.
Fifteen minutes later he stumbles out of the auditorium, blinded by flashbulbs and an apparently overactive imagination.
Could it have been her?
He has no idea what the fuck came out of his mouth back there because the only word on his mind is MacKenzie.
Sharon the liberal is saying something to him – unflattering, no doubt - but he can't hear her.
He's heading for the exit, pushing through the double doors into the hallway, some sixth sense propelling him in that direction.
If by some miracle it was her, and he does happen to find her, what the fuck is he going to say to her?
He's spent the last three years berating himself for being so weak, for seeing her – for wanting to see her - in every crowd.
Where is that resolve now?
He has no idea – his body is in charge - and all it cares about is whether it was her.
A clutch of students crowds around him, but he ignores them, looking around, searching, until the lizard part of his brain kicks in and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
He whirls around, and there she is, walking away.
He'd know the curve of that back anywhere because it's seared into his brain.
His body tells him this is not his imagination, it's a lock, this is her, and before he can stop himself, he's bellowing her name.
"MacKenzie!"
The word is wrenched from his throat – desperate and bawling. It echoes off the wallpaper-covered walls of the 100-year old building, eliciting murmurs of surprise from the crowd.
They follow his gaze to where she's standing – frozen – her heart hammering in her chest.
He's seen her. He's ten feet away from her and he's calling her name.
Slowly, slowly, she turns to face him and when she finally raises her eyes to his, time crashes to a halt and all he can hear is the blood rushing in his ears.
It's her.
A flash of unalloyed joy surges through him that's quickly supplanted by regret and anger, and then he's choking out, "You."
Reading his lips, she nods and slowly picks her way toward him.
The crowd parts for her, understanding somehow this has nothing to do with them, and now she's standing six inches away from him, clutching a binder to her chest and shyly tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
Her eyes never leave his face and he can't stop staring, let alone open his mouth to form words.
She is so, so beautiful.
"Hello, Will," she says finally, and her voice is a balm coating his jangled nerves, bathing them in warmth.
"It's good to see you."
