Page 18 of Good Days Bad Days
She’s out of breath, carrying a drink in one hand and a long winter coat in her arm like an unruly toddler.
Her off-the-shoulder sheer blouse reveals her spray-tan and black bra strap.
Her hair is dyed and highlighted, but other than that it looks very similar to her permed and hair-sprayed look of the early nineties.
Next to Lacey stands Connie Perry, face filled out around the jawline, hair updated in a short bob, wearing her thick puffer jacket over an oversized sweatshirt and jeans.
And taking up the rear is Michael Willards, Connie’s high school boyfriend who, according to Lacey, came out in college and now lives with his partner and two kids in a northern Illinois suburb.
“I’m sorry, I should’ve texted, but look who I ran into!” I give a round of hugs to each of my now-old old friends, and they gather around the table.
“Cam! I thought you moved to Janesville. You visiting John and Sue?” Cameron’s parents, John and Sue—so Midwestern, so welcoming—the kind of parents any kid wants or needs, the kind who make sure you take your shoes off at the front door and get home before curfew but also find you a tutor for calculus when your grade drops and hug you after a big loss instead of telling you all the ways you could’ve done better.
God, I worshipped John and Sue. I think sometimes I still model them when parenting my own children.
“Yeah. They’re moving down to the Villages in Florida and turning the house into a rental property, so I’m out here whenever I have some free time.
Came out with Bongo and Luke, you know, the Wagner brothers.
” He points to two older men sitting at the bar, clearly annoyed at the bustling twentysomethings in their ridiculous outfits dancing around them.
We’re all almost shouting over the thumping music, the voices of the crowd joining in the chorus, jumping in unison.
I know the song and the words, and part of me wishes I could join in.
“We did not expect to walk into Bunny night or whatever.”
“Yeah, sorry. Thumbs was my call. Haven’t been here in forever. I didn’t know they were doing this Playboy thing tonight,” Michael apologizes, his long-sleeve button-up clearly not meant for a night of wild partying.
“We could go to Champs,” Connie shouts, referencing the sports bar less than a block away on Main Street. “See if the vibe is a little less—”
“Corset-centric?” Cameron suggests, and we all agree, even though a tiny part of me wishes we could stay, that I could get lost in the mob, drink a little too much, and let the music move my body without my mind shouting reasons I should act proper, why I should act my age, why I should worry someone will recognize me.
We finish our drinks, take a selfie to memorialize the meeting, and bundle up for the walk.
Lacey invites Cameron to join us, but when he checks on the already half-wasted Wagner brothers, he declines, explaining he’s their designated driver.
That same conflicting emotion hits me again, disappointment and relief.
At the door, I give Cameron a side hug and tell him to keep in touch even though I know he won’t be able to find “Lottie Laramie” anywhere on the internet.
“See you in another thirty years?” he says as I pull up my hood.
“I’ll try to make it closer to twenty this time,” I say, waving. It takes two of us to open the door, pushing on the glass with the wind driving biting snow crystals against it, stinging any exposed skin once we stumble out into the street.
Michael and Connie huddle together, skipping through the snow, laughing like two kids on the playground.
I watch them like I watch the twins when they chase each other around our backyard.
It’s good to do this every so often, act like children, access that dormant part of our spirits that climbed trees, made gourmet meals out of mud, and believed in forevers and happily ever afters.
“This feels right,” Lacey says, slipping her arm through mine, our synchronized breaths tossing great clouds of vapor in front of us.
“It really does.”
“I’ve missed you, girl.” She squeezes my arm against her side in a friendly embrace.
“You too.”
“Was it weird seeing Cameron again? I know you, like, ghosted him before that was even a thing.”
“It was fine—nice, even. I think bygones are officially bygones. We were kids back then,” I say, as though I’ve convinced myself that everything that happens before you turn eighteen can be blamed on immaturity.
Ahead of us, Michael stumbles and nearly falls. Connie holds him up, her feet slipping around on the icy cement. Their laughter bounces off the brick and asphalt and up into the clear, black, star-cast sky.
“Yeah, were kids.” We both giggle at their struggle, then she returns to our conversation about Cam. “I’m glad you feel that way.”
“Wait,” I say, sensing her comment means more than she’s letting on, “what does that mean? Why are you glad?”
“’Cause I gave him your number,” she says, her eyebrows wiggling.
She’s the only one I’ve told about my issues with Ian.
She can’t possibly be playing matchmaker so soon after finding out my world might be falling apart.
Before I can say any curse words, she lets go of my arm and rushes to meet Michael and Connie standing at the entry to Champs.
“Lacey!!!” I call after her, swearing under my breath and then rushing to catch up.
We don’t talk of Cameron again the rest of the night because any discussion of Cameron would inevitably lead to Ian.
So I let it go, reminding myself to tell Lacey fewer secrets, and we end up closing Champs.
When Lacey drops me off at my rental at 2:30 a.m., I’m drunk on shots and nostalgia.
I lock up, yank off my snow gear, peel off my tight jeans and Ross shirt, and slip into my robe.
Crawling into bed, shivering, I finally look at my phone, something I’ve avoided all night.
There I see three texts from Ian and one call past midnight, and two below it from a new number, one a text and the other the picture of our whole group, staring up at the camera, smiling.
Cam’s directly behind me wearing a big, cheesy smile, and I’m surprised to see my expression matches his.
The message reads:
Great seeing you tonight. Let’s make a habit of it. Drinks before you leave town?
And then one more.
Oh, this is Cameron.
“Shit,” I say, dropping the device on the empty pillow next to me, burrowing into the flannel sheets and pillow-top mattress. “Oh, shit.”