I Still Remember
Her hair is styled differently now, but her eyes are still the same dark-chocolate brown. They stare at me with the same amazement that buzzes through my unsuspecting bones. Amy Waters. Twenty years ago I loved her with an intensity I didn’t understand. I never told her, but looking at her now, at the way the edges of her mouth quirk up, suppressing that distinct pout I dreamed of for months on end, I realise she must have known.
“I have the name Jane Smith here in my appointment book.” Amy’s eyes quiz me. Or maybe they mock me for the dreariness of my chosen alias. I never was really good at reading her. Too much emotion in the way.
“People tend to freak out when I book under my real name.”
“And they don’t when you show up?” She bites her lip. There are many reasons why this situation could unsettle her. None can be as nerve-racking as unexpectedly standing eye-to-eye with the girl—a woman now—I silently adored in high school.
“Sure, but then at least I’m present to manage the fuss.” I look different in real life than I do on TV. Some call it dressing down, but I’m never more comfortable than in jeans and t-shirt. On the air, my face is covered in layers of make-up and the top half of my body—the only part visible—is styled down to a tee by Jake and Andrew, The Morning News with Elise Frost’s wardrobe managers. Sans make-up and in leisure wear, I hardly ever get recognised. This time it’s different though. Amy and I, we have history. And I had no way of knowing she owned The Body Spa.
“How long are you in town for?” Is that a tinge of accusation in her tone? Of course, it’s my fault we lost touch. We had laid out our plans. That’s what best friends do in high school. They think it will be the two of them forever, think that ten years down the line they’ll be bridesmaids at each other’s wedding. Only, I always knew my future didn’t hold the kind of wedding Amy started planning for herself as soon as she turned twelve.
“For the weekend. It’s dad’s sixtieth.” I shuffle my weight around as I try to identify the tumbling feeling in my stomach. So much has changed since we last saw each other a few days after our high school graduation. I barely even thought of Amy the past few years. We’re grown-ups now, and as good as strangers. Still, all that was left unsaid between us seems to rush through my mind now.
“How is Ralph?” Amy’s voice is still a well of calmness. It always was, even when she leafed through bridal magazines at the age of sixteen and dreamed out loud about marrying Brett. I wonder what happened to her dreams. Does she have the two suburb-required children? Good heavens, did she marry Brett?
I shrug off Amy’s question because I don’t want to discuss my father. This small talk seems so inappropriate, so lukewarm, so out of sync with my memories of her. “How are you, Amy?” I ask, painting on a smile.
She wears a black spaghetti strap tank top, showing off spectacular collarbones. Her dark curls are pinned up into a bun, but she always had a mane that couldn’t be tamed and a few stray ones frame her face. She looks tanned and healthy.
“Twice married, twice divorced.” She wiggles her fingers as if she’s proud of the fact they hold no rings. “You?”
I can’t help but think of Celia and how we left things back in New York. She moved out more than three months ago but the bed still feels empty without her. And didn’t I just ask Amy how she was doing? I didn’t even hint at inquiring about her marital status, but here she is, offering up the information freely, as if it sums up her entire life since we lost touch.
“My love life’s a bit of a disaster, but I can’t complain about the rest.” I smile apologetically. I don’t know why I always do that when I refer to my career and how it has skyrocketed over the last few years.
“I watch the news every morning. It was so strange at first, you know. That you were this girl I played hooky with…” She pauses for a moment. “Shared my first cigarette with.” The gentle lines on her face crinkle into a melancholic expression before she sends me a wide smile. The Amy smile. The one that always got me. “And gosh, you come across so well on the screen, Eli—” She hesitates again. “Do you still go by Eli?”
No one has called me Eli since Amy. Eli expired the day I left town—and Amy. I shake my head and grin, because I can’t help myself.
“Ahum.” A girl in white slacks who I hadn’t even noticed before clears her throat. I suspect she’s my designated massage therapist.
“If you don’t mind, Sarita,” Amy addresses her. “I’ll be taking care of Ms Smith myself.”
“Sure.” Sarita turns on her heels and leaves the reception area.
“I hope that’s all right,” Amy is quick to say.
My pulse quickens at the thought of Amy’s hands on my body. “Of course.” I give her my camera smile—the one that hides everything.
“Please, follow me.” She moves from behind the reception counter and leads me to a door on the right. As teenagers, we were always about the same height, but she seems so much taller now. She wears a pair of black linen trousers that flow around her long legs. We walk into a waiting area with low couches and soothing music. “Would you like some tea first?”
“Sure.” I nod eagerly. One part of me can’t wait to get on Amy’s massage table, but at the same time my heart hammers frantically in my chest. I watch her as she pours two cups of tea from a pot next to the kettle. Her movements are graceful and easy, just like I remember.
