It's your voice.
It's your voice that hits me first, dredging up memories – shells to my shore, you are scattered along the landscape of my mind.
And I freeze up.
I freeze up, like it is winter in Maine. But it isn't… it isn't winter and this is not Maine.
This is L.A., somewhere in the middle of the year, and you are not picking up the phone.
It could be because you are out. It could be that you don't even live here anymore and your name in this book is just an old story. It could be that you hear me breathing and you don't want to know who is calling you in this way.

But it is me, blank as a sheet of paper, not knowing what to say now that I've called you.

"Spence…"

And it is automatic, me calling you that, even though I've probably lost the right to do so.
Even though I've not said it out loud, kept it to myself like a secret, I've thought of the syllables sliding over my lips a thousand times.

"…seven years is a long time, isn't it? Um, Spence, if you are there… could you, I mean… would you… fuck…"

And it is automatic, me hanging up the phone roughly and kicking the side of this booth, shoving the door open in a rush of anger.
Because I've lost the right to call you up, haven't I?

Ashley comes back in the way she left, the hotel buzzing and a couple of photographers catch her.
Flash. Flash. Flash.
And she keeps her sunglasses on, tight smiles to all of them, just stopping short of running to the elevator.
But in this climate-controlled box, with wires moving slowly, Ashley takes a breath.
And then another. And then another. Until she feels like a shadow of herself again.
Whoever the fuck that is…

Kyla left a note on the other side of the door, rightfully avoiding prying eyes.
It is an apology and a condemnation at the same time, ending with a repeat invitation to see Aiden up at the border of whatever backwater town the boy decided to heal in.
She could go, if she could sneak away. She has one more show to do and then a week before heading across the ocean.

And Ashley looks at her cell-phone, fingers itchy to dial up that new number once more.
That's when she would find a cigarette, once upon a time, and light up.
It would mellow out those strung out parts of her personality, leaving her still wanting but calmer about it and less prone to erratic notions.
Like darting up to the mountains to talk to an old friend.
Like calling Spencer and not knowing what to say.
Like actually listening to her sister.

But there isn't a pack in sight and, even though Ashley could call the front desk and find a million cigarettes at her disposal, she doesn't do it.
One more show, that's what she repeats to herself as she looks at herself in the mirror.
One more show… and she looks at the circles under her eyes, from too many nights with not enough sleep… one more show… and she tries to remember what this whole career in music was supposed to be about… one more show and then Ashley Davies has a week to kill.

One week before the whirlwind kicks up again and she is useless against its force.

"Ashley Davies, what are you going to do with this mini-vacation? Are you going to Disneyland?" I turn my voice up higher, trading in husky tones for perky ones, playing every single interviewer I've ever talked to… and I smile to myself, because I never did go to 'The Magic Kingdom' and I always wanted to, but that was a kid thing and my mother didn't do that kind of stuff.
We did parties, dressed up like fancy clowns or show horses, for entertainment and to show off.
I didn't get to go to see Mickey Mouse; I was Mickey Mouse, smiling like I was happy.

'Hello folks!'

The smile slips off my face and I can't smoke a single fucking thing and I have a whole week off…

Ashley calls her sister and says she'll drive herself up there, to just leave a voicemail with directions.
And she hangs up before Kyla can say anything else.

It's your voice.
It's your voice I can't comprehend and I can't get enough of, replaying the short message as if I am rereading a favorite story.

And, for a second, I wonder if my dreams reached out to you.
If, from my tent in the hot night in a whole other world, images in my brain took flight and found you and compelled you to call me like this.
Or are you having the dreams? Is it you, once again, controlling this thing between us and taking me with you – whether I want to go or not?

"Spence…"

"You've not called me that in a long time…" I mumble into my quiet loft apartment, wondering if the mail on my desk or the clock on the wall or the sheets on my bed hear a thing I say at all.

'Spence' and 'Ash', that's who they used to be… attached at the hip, deep brown and blue mixing together, because they were in love. It was love, sweet and tender love. It was love, painful and terrible love.
Spencer Carlin didn't think too hard about what might happen or who might get hurt, falling for Ashley Davies so quickly it could have made your head spin.
One look, perturbed and sarcastic, and Spencer fell.
One touch, sure and soft, and Spencer fell even more.
One kiss, hesitant and pure, and Spencer couldn't ever get back up again.
Ashley owned the girl from Ohio, lock and key, even when Ashley pushed her away and even when Ashley broke everything they had.
Spencer knows what it is like to be willingly enslaved by your own desires.

"…seven years is a long time, isn't it?"

"God, Ash… seven years is a long time…" I say out loud still, almost believing you will respond back to me, with your voice – raspy and broken – or with your body… a nod of your head, hair falling into your eyes like a wave…

I brace myself and walk away from the answering machine, dragging my bags to the bedroom.
I methodically put clothes away and take a shower and brush my teeth and turn off the lights, all the while thinking of you.
I think about you until I can no longer see well, my vision suddenly covered up by a flood of tears, running down my face and chilling the skin on my neck.

You didn't leave a number and I don't check the caller id.
Maybe this is it – maybe this is the time where neither of us tries hard enough, after years of not trying at all, and we finally break free from one another.
Or maybe… just maybe…

'Spence' and 'Ash', that's who they used to be, girls in transition from childhood to adulthood, one of them not knowing how to give all to love and one of them not knowing how to hold back.
Spencer never knew when to stop, not with Ashley and not with anything else.
She pushed and pushed, good or bad, until the end result came into sight.
Not because she had to have the answers. She just wanted to see things clearly.
She wanted to see Ashley Davies clearly, past the bravado and the wounds and the money… she just wanted to see Ashley, all of Ashley, crystal clear and by her side.

I get up, a quarter past three in the morning, and I keep the lights off as I listen to the message again.
I check the id and I call the number and no one picks up.
There is no way to leave a message and I let it ring for minutes on end and I will you to fucking pick up… because we have to do something about all of this, all this history and all this torture and all this… all of this…

'Spence' and 'Ash'… they used to be in love so deeply, it scared parents and it caused envy in other students and it should have saved the world, a love that like that… it should have been everything.

No one answers and I slam the phone down, angry at trying and angry at crying and angry at you.
Because you can't call me, out of the blue, and then ignore me.
You did that so long ago… you can't do it again…

"Dammit, Ashley, you can't do this to me again." I say, jaw tight and fingers gripping the edges of my tank-top, stalking back to my bed and the hours left to stare at nothing at all, just picturing a lost romance in my head – film loop on repeat, just like the message I didn't erase from the answering machine.

'Spence' and 'Ash'… oh, they used to be and they still try to be, even now, even seven years and so much heartache later… they still try to be…

TBC