Ten Years Later

The walk was somewhat long. It would be almost three miles. She hoped to arrive at his house in an hour or less. She could have gotten there quicker somehow, but she felt the walk would clear her mind by giving her time to think.

Spring was new. The birds were going wild that morning. Things were turning green. Ten years in the same city and never once had she run into him. She was certain he must have moved away, moved on. Laura never really loved anybody the same way again. What had ten years done? What has changed? Who was he now? Would she get involved again?

She let all the memories roll through her mind. They had met in kindergarten, but never gotten along until junior high. They dated from 10th grade until that night, about six months after graduating.

Her auburn hair was whipping around her head when she started up the final hill that he still lived atop. They’d spoken on the phone two days before, and he’d told her that only a few years after moving into a small apartment of his own, his parents decided to move south and west to the desert to ease his mother’s breathing problems. They sold him the house at a great discount – but he still slept in his old high school bed. It was “too weird” sleeping in his parents' room. He insisted that it was the creepy bluebirds on the yellowed wallpaper. It made her laugh; she remembered that wallpaper.

Her calves were starting to burn a little as she realized that she was rushing, and his house came into view around the corner. He was sitting on the porch. His hairline had slipped, and he was thinning on top, but still, his hair was dark brown. He grew a bit of a belly, and she saw he had two coffees in his hands as she walked up the cobblestones to the front porch.

“Do you remember how I took it, Sam?” asked Lydia.

“Of course, gorgeous,” he said. “Lots of cream, and barely any sugar…? Still the same, I hope.”

She took the cup from his hand and tried a sip. “Perfect,” she reassured him.

He gestured towards the door, and she went inside. She was pleased to see that it was far from a time machine inside. Most of the furniture was changed up, and he had made the dining room a more casual den. In his parents' time, it was beyond formal and for nothing but Christmas Eve dinner.

They sat on his standard-issue classic bachelor’s brown leather couch. He had a few fake plants, some vague but reassuring artwork, and one picture of his parents, from their wedding. He was an only child. She noticed some evidence around the room that he was still an avid Grateful Dead fan.

“I don’t really know what to say. I had so many reasons to call, but my mind went blank at that beautiful smile! I’m afraid my personal questions, I had so many, may be bad topics. I never really ask mutual friends, and it's been an unspoken rule around me for so long that it isn’t any longer true that you are a bad topic. I suppose I will start with a short list of my bad topics: I drink too much, I’m still a raging left-wing liberal – and I will rant and rave about it, and I can’t stand sex offenders. I sell insurance. I dated a few people, lived with none, it just didn’t work out.”

“Okay, interesting way to start things… I work as a nurse on a NICU ward, with newborn babies. I can’t stand when babies are born addicted to drugs because I see it every day. I still can't do politics at all. I’d rather talk about celebrity gossip.” Lydia said and then started laughing. “As far as my love life, nobody got too far but Hank, who lived at my place for a couple of years. He decided to have a nervous breakdown, quit his sales job because money was evil, and “found Jesus” somewhere other than the little church we had been going to for some weeks. It was all in the letter he left where his things used to belong.”

“So here we are. I just hit the big thirty. Your birthday is in a few months… What’s your perspective on life these days? Got any goals going on? Weird new hobbies? I’ve been hesitant to ask till now – any men in your life?” asked Sam.

Lydia answered, “I’m in a rut, really. I work, I watch stand-up and sitcoms on my tv apps. I’m single, but I rarely get farther than thinking someone is attractive, too attractive, and then deciding to move in the opposite direction. My idea of a wild weekend is doing an extra 24-hour shift and blowing the money on a designer bag I do not need.”

“Do you remember what started the argument?”

“The argument?” Sam leaned back on the brown leather couch, resting his coffee cup on his knee. A small, tight smile appeared on his face. “Yeah, I remember. I was ranting about the war, or some tax bill, and you just kept quiet. You didn’t say a word, just stared at me. Finally, I snapped and told you to stop being so damn passive, to pick a side, any side. And you said…”

Lydia cut him off, her voice low. “I said, ‘I don’t want to pick a side, Sam. I want to save babies.’ And then I told you I was tired of being your political project. That night, I was exhausted. I’d just finished a 16-hour shift, and the last thing I needed was a debate club in my own apartment. I just wanted quiet, and you couldn’t give it to me.”

She sighed, looking down at her own coffee. “And you threw your beer bottle against the wall. That’s what started it.”

Sam rubbed the back of his neck. “Right. I forgot about the beer bottle. My bad topics have always been a problem, huh? Well, I don’t throw things anymore. I just talk about them too loudly.”

Lydia looked up, her gaze softer now. “I know you, Sam. You always fought for what was right, and that’s what I always loved about you. But I’m still the person who has to watch babies suffer. It changes your priority list. It makes you a little… numb to everything else.”

“I see that,” he said, nodding slowly. “So, the girl who never wanted to pick a side ended up on a side where the stakes are life and death every single day.” He paused, leaning forward. “And what about us? Are we still going to be a bad topic for another ten years?”"And what about us? Are we still going to be a bad topic for another ten years?” Sam asked.

Lydia’s sigh was less a sound of sadness and more one of resignation. “I hope not, Sam. We were too good to be a bad topic.” She reached out, her fingers just brushing the back of his hand on the armrest. “The truth is, I miss talking to you. I miss… this. Even your loud opinions.”

A genuine smile, free of any tightness, finally spread across his face. He turned his hand over, catching hers. “I miss you, too, Lyd. Ten years is a long time to have a gaping, Grateful Dead-shaped hole in your life.”

“You’re still a dork,” she teased, squeezing his hand lightly.

“Only for you. So, let’s not wait another decade to figure this out. I know you’re booked solid, but I am an insurance salesman, so my schedule is… flexible.” He paused, his eyes serious. “Would you be interested in, you know, a real date? Not just a pop-in on the porch.”

Lydia pulled her hand back to take another sip of her coffee, her eyes sparkling over the rim. “A real date, huh? Do I need to be concerned about a debate being mandatory?”

“I promise. No war talk. No tax bills. We can talk celebrity gossip all night, or… the relative merits of different types of designer handbags. I’ve been researching for just such an emergency.” He gave her a playful wink. “Next week. What night are you free? I’ll make a reservation at that new Italian place downtown—the one with the ridiculous prices and the amazing reviews.”

Lydia chewed on her lip for a moment, her mind racing through her shift schedule. "Wednesday. I'm off a 12-hour shift on Tuesday, so I'll be functional. Dinner at seven?"

“Wednesday at seven. It’s a date.” Sam leaned back again, this time with a deep sense of relief. He lifted his coffee cup in a silent toast. “No more bad topics.”

Lydia smiled, returning the gesture with her own cup. “To good topics.”