Chapter 2
"Wanting a Reason"
I believe that everything happens for a reason. People change so that you can learn to let go, things go wrong so that you appreciate them when they're right, you believe lies so you eventually learn to trust no one but yourself, and sometimes good things fall apart so better things can fall together.
- Marilyn Monroe
The girls had left; Spencer almost teary with a sad smile waving docilely, as if she was the queen of somewhere; Hanna blowing kisses and waving violently, then miming a cell phone and mouthing call him as their bus pulled out. I stood at the bus depot, aimlessly staring after them, watching the bus disappear. They were gone.
I sighed, the weekend had been enjoyable. A complete surprise but just like old times, I would really miss them. We watched movies in our pajamas; made a fort to sleep in out of blankets in the living room and had pancakes at the 50's style diner that was a few blocks east of our apartment. Spencer made us and paid for us to take a hot yoga class since Rosewood didn't have that. It was embarrassing, hilarious but fully embarrassing. We laughed, cried and ate a lot of junk food, to Hanna's dismay. Then on Sunday we did a walk around Central Park, then grabbed hotdogs from a street vender and did some window shopping. In the evening, we all ducked into a coffee shop, I even convinced my mom to join us, and had lattes and listen to the acoustic guitar music that a girl was playing on the back stage. It was relaxing and I felt as if I had been filled up with new energy.
By Monday they were on the bus and back to Rosewood.
I'd miss them properly this time because I felt they understood me now. They weren't angry that I had split from our little herd and taken on this part of life that we had sworn we'd go through together as kids. When I told them that I had been worried that they thought I was a trader, selling out on our dreams, both girls silenced my fears. Spencer had said teasingly that with the intense double major she was planning to take she would probably be dead before she finished her degrees and in the end it wouldn't matter that I had a head start. Hanna laughed as she told me,
"I'm not going to university Aria; I might take some design classes at Rosewood College, but no degree for me. So I'm not angry." Then Hanna changed the topic "Do you think I should open a boutique after school is out?"
The time together had been wonderful but it also had churned everything back up again. It made me think about him. It made me think about all the things I still didn't know. What was he doing in New York? When did he come here, was I here first or had I inadvertently followed him? Why was he here? This was my city. Did he know I was here? Did this mean anything? Why did he leave? It always came back to that. What made him give up on me?
I wanted a reason. The logical side of me pleaded for an explanation, the whimsical told me that an explanation, whatever it was, would not give any sort of real freedom or true clarity. As twisted as it might sound I believed both were correct, I believed both were wrong, in fact I didn't really know what to believe anymore.
One thing was for certain I really needed to stop thinking about him. When I got home to mom's apartment I changed my clothing. I had thought I would go to the gallery mom co-managed, and start on the project that my Art History professor had assigned. It wasn't due for another month but I hated to be idle, idleness was a major factor in thinking too much, thinking in that way always dredged everything up.
I had just finished selecting the five pieces I was going to write on. The assignment was to draw similarities between historically iconic pieces and some of the works on display in the galleries around New York.
There was movement at the entrance of the exhibit. I hesitated mid-way through collecting my things from the place I had been sitting on the ground and simply stared at the couple. My heart did a sharp slam against my rib cage. Through the semi frosted glass that divided the different sections of the gallery, it was him. I froze unable to move as the two figures moved past the glass divider and enter the room. My vantage point wasn't ideal, but it was good enough for me to realize there were other tall men in New York that had his dark brown hair, styled in the way I remembered. I hated myself for being so stupid and letting myself jump to conclusions.
New York was huge, just because they lived in the same metropolis didn't mean I would ever see him. That was best, he didn't want me and seeing him wasn't going to help that.
I swore to myself I wouldn't think of him. I told myself emphatically that I wouldn't but trudged six blocks in the rain back to the apartment, doing just that. Think of Ezra Fitz and his stupid brown hair and how great it felt to run my hands through it. Wondered what he was doing, what he was reading, what he was writing. I wished I knew even something as trivial as what he thought of the subway system, if he found it strangely serene like I did. And unfortunately wondering if he was thinking of me, if he ever did. Then I wondered if I would have walked away in that bar so long ago, if I knew this was how things would play out? Or maybe the real questions was could I have been able to? Would I have physically been able to tear myself away from that kind of magnetic attraction? Something whispered that I couldn't have changed things if I tried…not that I was convinced I wanted to.
Drenched and feeling sad, something had to give.
I hung up my stuff and then entered the kitchen, I was about to head to to fridge to make something to eat but the mail on the island counter caught my attention. A bigger envelope was set apart from the stack. My mother usually sorted the mail, normally she'd set our mail apart. I didn't get letters very often. This one was a big eight by eleven manila envelope. My dad's writing on the front. The way the letter was positioned on the counter, almost looked as if my mother had picked it up, read the return address and dropped it as if burnt. Generally my mother was a little bit OCD, so the piles were always positioned in a neat and orderly fashion. The mail told me my mother was still upset, still hurting. It bothered me slightly that this information was never said directly, she acted as if the world was right and that nothing was wrong. The mail said differently.
I picked it up, the only other mail for me was my cell bill.
I stared at the envelope. My dad was an e-mailer, not a snail mail guy. Why was it a huge envelope? Curiosity prevailed and I opened the envelope excitedly.
It was an issue of 'Write Words" magazine. I looked at it puzzled, but then noticed a small plain white envelope was also inside the larger manila one. I opened that as well.
Congratulations Aria Montgomery,
The poem you submitted has been accepted and had been included in the October issue of Write Words,Thank you for participating and as thanks for your contribution please accepts this $50 dollar gift card to Barnes and Noble. We hope you will continue to support our magazine by making it your first choice literature directed magazine and with your creativity, with the hope that we will see more submissions from you in the future,
Sincerely,
Write Words President,
Farrah Wallace
I was stunned. I hardly remember entering the contest. Ezra had encouraged it. The work I submitted had been about him, it hadn't even told him I'd taken his advice. I wanted to see what would happen first. I thought for sure it would get rejected and then I was going to tell him, that I wasn't as talented as he thought. My stomach tied itself into knots, would he see it? Would he know it was about him?
Suddenly I felt sick, felt like retching. Then I just felt mad. How dare he encourage me? He never should have told me to take on my dreams or to take a chance and try things. He promised you couldn't make mistakes submitting writing to a magazine. They either accepted it or they didn't; regardless of their choice there were no mistakes.
He was wrong. This had been a mistake, my thoughts and feelings from a time when everything was prefect were preserved in a published magazine. It would haunt me; torture me with its black and white lucidity. A lie, a big fat lie. That's all it was. That's all we were.
I looked at the issue sitting in my hands, flipping through it against my better judgment to see the page my work was on.
'The Best Things' – By A. Montgomery
It's standing in the rain and not noticing the sting
It's eyes bright green shining, laughing with me…
I quickly closed the magazine, not wanting to see it, not wanting to see anymore and mostly not wanting to feel anything anymore. I chocked back a sob as a fresh stream of tears flooded out and down my face without my consent. I hated this; why on earth did I ever listen to my heart in the first place?
Then I when to my room and started digging through my closet for my umbrella. I hated the stupid rain and I needed to get rid of this stupid gift card.
A/N: LONG time. I know, I would like to know if anyone is interested in seeing this continue. IF yes, you need to review or this story is done. Thanks!