12

I pull into the parking lot at Eastside Elementary, a contemporary poured concrete building that resembles a state penitentiary. Laura is already there in the silver Oldsmobile Calais her parents bought from my dad. The “Fitzpatrick Olds” nameplate on the back of the car taunts me.

I get out of the Subie. Its still-slightly-dented rear hatch does its best to remind me I’m still-slightly-dented as well. I step over to the passenger-side door of the Calais. I open the door. I sit down without waiting to be invited.

“Hi, Hank,” Laura says.

I swear she’s leaning in to hug me. I shrink back towards the door. The car feels small, even for a Calais. Laura is wearing that white jeans mini-skirt that hugs her ass. The remnants of her Florida tan have faded into a soft glow. I’ve missed her smell. I’ve missed hearing her voice.

Holy fucking Christ, this was a bad idea.

“Laura,” I say, nodding tersely. That’s more like it. My tone is short, assured. Not even a “hi” or “hello.”

Laura backs away. She squeezes her steering wheel as if to steady herself. “You hungry?”

“Excuse me?”

“You want to go somewhere for dinner?”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Just asking.”

“Look, Laura,” I say. “I didn’t come here for dinner, or a date, or whatever it is you have rolling around in that fucked-up head of yours.”

“Fair enough. I guess I had that coming.”

“You guess?”

“Okay, I deserve every mean and cruel thing you plan on saying to me. Is that better?”

“No, but you’re getting there. And please save the martyr bit for somebody who gives two shits about you.”

I set the over/under for when she’ll start crying at two minutes. I nail the under without even trying. I don’t feel as good as I thought I’d feel when I see her cry. In fact, I don’t feel good at all.

Laura pulls a tissue out of her pocket, blows her nose. “I might deserve every awful thing you plan on saying to me, Hank. But that doesn’t mean it feels good to hear you say it.”

The temptation to pile on is just too great. “You want a fucking medal?”

 “You son of a bitch,” she screams, “I still love you!”

“SHUT THE HELL UP!”

It’s the loudest I’d ever raised my voice to a woman. My finger is on her chest. I poke her every second or third word: “You’ve lost the right to cuss me out. And you’ve especially lost the right to love me.”

“Do you love me?” Laura says, fast on the trigger.

“Do I what?”

“Do you still love me?”

“Did I ever?” Answering questions with questions. Smart strategy. Keep her on the defensive.

“You said I was your first true love,” Laura says.

“And you were.” Well played again. Throwing a confident, positive answer her way. Conveying the sincerity of your feelings without betraying the weakness of your convictions.

“Then I think you’re the cruel one here, Hank”

“How do you figure?”

“Because if I was good enough to be the first girl you ever loved…” Laura grabs my hand before I can pull it away. “Why can’t I be good enough to be the first girl you ever gave a second chance?”

Fucking shit. Where’d that come from? Here I am just trolling the waters, and she goes and harpoons my ass. Why can’t I be good enough to be the first girl you ever gave a second chance? Either that’s the most brilliant line I’ve ever heard, or Laura is for real.

“Laura, I-I can’t…I can’t do, whatever this is we’re doing.”

“Here, take this.” She hands me a mix tape, tells me what’s on it. She reiterates some of her letter—how she was watching the video to Gloria Estefan’s “Anything for You” and broke down in tears at the But don’t you ever think that I don’t love you, that for one minute I forgot you part. How she was working out the day after we broke up and after hearing Boston’s “We’re Ready” knew she’d made a mistake.

I laugh. My laughter is loud—almost too loud, like I’m trying too hard.

“What’s so funny?” Laura asks.

I keep laughing. I lean back into my seat, reach back and squeeze the headrest. “So essentially, what you’re saying is me telling you I loved you was never enough. You needed to hear it from Gloria Estefan and Tom Scholz before you were convinced.”

“That’s not what I’m saying at all, Hank.”

“The hell it isn’t.”

“The hell it is,” Laura says. “Don’t you see that all I want is for us to be—”

I cut her last sentence off. When all else fails, kissing a girl shuts her up faster than anything else.