Ashley had dreamt of the day she would see her first piece of writing published; throughout her teenage years, it consumed her. The reality, however, was far from what she imagined.
“Yeah, I am.”
Nancy cocked her head to the left. “You could’ve fooled me. You have just been published inThe New York Times, now, I don’t know much about the writing profession, but I would imagine that’s a pretty big deal.”
The facade drained, followed by a pronounced sigh. “You’re right.”
“Is it about your dad?”
“I guess, deep down. I think I imagined today differently. I created this picture that down the line became unattainable and I never accepted that until today. It was never going to meet my expectations. It’s my own fault.” Ashley lowered her head, disappointed. “Anyway, let’s not talk about that. Today is just as much your day asit is mine.”
“I didn’t write the article.”
“No, but you inspired it, and that is critical. Without you, there would beno article.”
“Our story was merely the spark. You turned it into a fire, my dear, and now you have to keep it burning. Don’t you ever let the flames burn out, that is too much talent to waste.”
Ashley placed her head on Nancy’s shoulder. She watched as the delicate, wrinkled hand reached to brush the side of her cheek.
“I like that metaphor.”
“Good, you can keep it.”
Ashley took a sip of champagne, conscious that Christopher had opened a bottle just for them. The woman taking a seat two tables away glanced in their direction. She would, without doubt, pass judgment on their early morning drinking habit—Ashley couldn’t help but giggle atthe notion.
“Have you told Megan yet?” Nancy enquired.
“No. I thought you would liketo do that.”
The truth, Ashley hadn’t heard from Megan in almost two weeks, but Nancy didn’t need to know that. The assumption that the two of them were the best of friends remained firm in Nancy’s mind since Megan’s departure two months prior. There was absolutely no reason for the lack of contact. There was no bad blood from either side, the relationship had just become what was expected—a long-distance friendship. At first, they spoke every day, all day, much to Ashley’s delight. The delay in conversation was one minute or six hours—time difference depending. It took a week or so to get used to. They called each other every day, a nicety that transported her to a place where time and distance didn’t exist.
They spoke freely about work, basketball, friends, family—the details Ashley knew about Megan’s life became more than she knew about her best friends’ lives. The faded scar under her chin came from falling down on the ice when she was a kid. Her mother, Amanda, was the youngest of six siblings, the oldest being an alcoholic and a racist that the rest of the family tried to avoid. The first car she ever drove was her dad’s vintage Camaro. At Stanford, she got so drunk in her freshman year that she woke up in the middle of the basketball gym the next morning dressed as a Disney princess with the men’s team staring at her. The details Ashley had absorbed in such a short period of time deepened the bond between them, but it didn’t change the reality. They were on different paths—completely separate, painfully contrasted paths.
Unsurprisingly, their contact had diminished; it was easier that way, Ashley told herself. Megan crossed her mind from time to time, but the urge to speak to her lessened soon enough. Ashley recalled the last goodbye before Megan left for the airport. They had kissed again, despite the joint agreement that they would remain friends. The kiss, however, lacked passion. It wasn’t the type of kiss that would bring someone to their knees, but rightly so, Ashley had already detached herself from the situation knowing the outcome all along. The kiss however felt comfortable and instinctive, which actually made it harder to say goodbye—that’s what initially gave Ashley a few sleepless nights. She could only assume that Megan was living the life she had dreamed of—the pictures on social media highlighted just that. The more she settled back into her life in England, the less time she spent talking to Ashley. The realisation that friends don’t talk all day every day allowed Ashley to take a step back and lessen the confusion clouding her mind. The yearning to be her friend had not weakened, but she did wonder whether you could truly be friends with someone you once had a romantic connection with. Maybe she would write about that—her next article needed a subject.
Ashley overheard two young girls on the table adjacent to her whisper,“This is the place. I wonder if that’s Christopher?”.
They looked towards him as he greeted an older couple at the door and then a well-dressed gentlemanafter that.
“Shall we ask him?”the young black girl said.
“There is even a drink on the menu called ‘Nancy’s favourite’, honestly this is the cutestthing ever.”
They continued like that, much to Ashley’s amusement, for five minutes before they eventually caught Christopher’s attention and plucked up the courage to ask him if he was the man referred to inThe New York Timesarticle.
He smiled politely and nodded, to which the young red-head squealed,“OMG they should so do a movieabout you.”
Christopher indulged them before taking their order and returning to the bar. On his return, he placed another soda on the table and removed theempty glass.
“It’s getting busy in here this morning,” Ashley nodded to the full tables surrounding the bar.
“Thanks to you.”
“What do you mean?”
“The guy over there, the young couple, the two girls—they’re all here because of your article.”
“You’re kidding?”
