Searching for Moore (10 page)

She nodded and said, “Please open it.”

He carefully tore the paper from package and opened the box. Inside was a black photo frame holding an 8 x 10 of Schooner and CJ in their matching red sweaters on the stairs in her parent’s home.

Can this get worse? He thought, but smiled politely and thanked her. He even told her she looked very beautiful in the photo.

“Schooner,” she began, “I’m throwing down the gauntlet here and I hope you’ll pick it up. I want you to know that I forgive you.”

“You forgive me?” He tried to keep his tone even, but was thinking “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Yes Schooner,” she said through very tight teeth, “I forgive you.” She paused, “This is a small school. Not a lot happens that people don’t find out about.”

He just looked at her. He was feeling so dead inside. He thought if he’d had a pair of sunglasses sitting on his desk, he would’ve slipped them on, even though it was nighttime and he was indoors.

When he didn’t answer, she continued. “I want to put Interim behind us. I want you back, Schooner.”

“Why?” He asked, totally stupefied.

“Because I love you.”

He sighed and sat down on his bed. “CJ, you love the idea of me. You do not love me, because frankly, you have no clue who I am.”

“How can you even say that?” She protested, her beautiful alabaster skin starting to turn red as the tension increased.

“Because it’s true. You love that we look great together and I’m not going to lie to you, that was part of the initial attraction for me, too. We look like we belong together. But I’m not me around you, CJ. I’m someone you want me to be. And I don’t want to be that person anymore.”

She sat down on his bed next to him and took his hands in hers. “Please don’t give up on us. I know I can make you happy.”

He was shaking his head no. Only one person in the world could make him happy and he’d never have the chance to show her just how happy she made him. He didn’t deserve her.

“I can. I can,” she insisted, “please let me.” And so he let her. This time he didn’t come so quickly (another tragic joke from the universe, he thought, wryly) and decided that maybe this is what he deserved.

After she left that night, he picked up the picture frame and looked at the toothpaste commercial photograph inside the frame. He turned the frame over and opened it up and slipped out the picture of him and CJ. He opened the desk drawer and pulled out the oversized envelope and extracted the feet picture. He put it into the frame and closed the back. He turned it over and studied the hand painted B&W photo in the black frame.

He set the frame down on the desk next to his bed, facing the feet image toward the bed.

“I am so sorry, Mia. I am so sorry.”

It was a few days later, when he was walking on The Quad that Mia and Rosie were walking toward him. It was the first time he had seen her since he’d left her in her bed that last morning. He felt his heart stop at just the sight of her. As they approached, he said, “Hi,” searching her face for something, anything. She stuck her chin up in the air and did not make eye contact with him. As he passed them, he heard Rosie say, “You should get your fucking hat back from him.” He turned around and Rosie was turned around sneering at him. Mia never turned around.

He closed his eyes and exhaled, the force squeezing his heart not letting up. He consciously breathed in deeply through his nose and blew it out slowly through his mouth until the pain in his chest subsided. He tried telepathically to send her a message, “I’m wearing your hat, Baby Girl — doesn’t that tell you something?”

The next two times he passed them on The Quad, the same exact thing happened. He said, “Hi” to them and Mia’s chin went up in the air. The first time Rosie muttered, “Douche” and the second time he thought he heard her say, “God, he really looks gaunt.” He looked in the mirror that afternoon, doing an examination like he had not done in a long time and realized Rosie was right. The tennis, the running, the appetite loss — he did look gaunt. He thought, “I look like shit.” And for the first time in his life, he felt his inner vision matched his outer visage.

A week later, he saw them again walking toward him on The Quad. Maybe someday I’ll get a hello back, he hoped. As they approached, he said, “Hi.” There was still no verbal response, but Mia looked at him for the first time. Her eyes seemed flat and he hoped his eyes said to her, “I am so, so sorry, Baby Girl.”

It was an evening in early March when he saw Mia, Rosie and Henry in the dining hall for the first time and he ached to go sit with his old friends. He knew that wasn’t possible and went and sat with his dorm mates at the next table. He sat on the bench facing the opposite direction of the bench Mia was on so that he could look at her. All he wanted was to steal a few glances even though every one shot a stabbing pain through his chest.

He pretended to be listening to the guys and made a few attempts to laugh at some of their jokes. He caught her looking at him and tried to smile at her, but a cold veil dropped back down over her face and she looked away. He knew he had made it worse by never going to talk to her and as hours stretched into days that slowly became weeks and now over a month had gone by, it was too late to try and rectify the damage.

Over a glass of milk, he was willing her, Mia look at me, just look at me and she did. He put the glass of milk down and was just beginning to mouth to her, “I ….” when he saw her eyes first questioning and then widening as CJ and her roommate sat down next to him, momentarily blocking his view before he finished what he was trying to say to Mia. He felt the panic rise. He didn’t finish telling her. She saw CJ sit down next to him. Shit. Shit. Shit.

CJ was talking to him, but he couldn’t hear her, he was trying to look past her to make contact with Mia again, but her seat was empty. He looked toward the exit in time to see her mane of curls pass through the door. His first thought was I need to stop her.

CJ put a hand on his forearm, dragging him back into reality. He looked at her, not focused and she asked sweetly, “Will you please pass the salt?”

He passed it to her and then sat silently while she chatted with her roommate.

I cannot catch a break, he thought.

Schooner was passing by the Coach’s office at the end of practice, when he heard the coach call to him.

“How are you doing, Schooner?” He asked.

“Great, Coach. I think having the indoor tennis center and extra practice time has made a huge difference in my game. I feel good.”

Coach’s glance was intense. “I’m concerned about you, son. Why don’t you have a seat.”

Oh shit, thought Schooner. This is not just a casual conversation.

“Sir?”

“The intensity you have brought to the court these last few months, well — it can be good and bad. The good is, we’ve been clocking your serves at 144 MPH and you’re only a freshman. If I have you on the team for a few more years, we’ll be kicking everyone in the division’s butts and you’ll be at the top of the NCAA rankings. But after watching you these last few weeks, I’m not so sure this intensity is borne out of a good thing. You are angry, Schooner.”

Schooner sat silently for a moment and then took a deep breath. “Yes, Coach. I am angry”.

“Who or what has made you so very angry?” Pressed the coach.

Schooner looked Coach directly in the eyes. “I’m mad at myself, Sir.”

Coach nodded and didn’t say anything for a while. “Son, I see you as leading this team. I think with another year under your belt, you will make a fine team captain.”

Schooner was shocked by the coach’s statement and sure that the surprise was registering all over his face. “Wow. Thank you, Sir. That is a tremendous compliment. I really appreciate your faith in me.”

“I’d like to see you have that same faith in yourself, son. I don’t know what the circumstances are that you are continuing to punish yourself for, but what I see is a young man filled with remorse. Whatever it is, you need to let it go. You can’t keep up this penance, Schooner. It’s not healthy and you need to work on getting healthy.”

It was a few moments before Schooner looked up at the coach. “I didn’t realize it was that obvious.”

“You need to look in a mirror more often, son. Your weight loss has been pretty dramatic and you look haunted.”

“I’ve been running.” Schooner offered.

The coach made a “Hmm” sound. “You certainly have been running. It’s time to stop. You need to figure out a healthier way to work through your issues.”

Schooner sat silently for a few moments, then looked Coach in the eyes. “Thank you. I appreciate this talk.”

Coach nodded. He was done talking.

Schooner left his office. The talk had been like a splash of cold water on Schooner’s face. It was time to take control again. He’d been spiraling downward for so long, it was hard to figure out how to put the brakes on, but the coach was right and he needed to figure out how to pull himself out of this.

Some habits die hard, he mused, for the only thing he really wanted to do that day was to tell Mia that the coach felt he could be the team captain. Team captain of one of the top ranked tennis programs in the country. He still wanted her to be proud of him.

CJ showed up at Schooner’s room with another package in hand.

“What’s this?” He asked.

“It’s part one,” she responded. The box was from Hugo Boss. “I bought this for you in London.” Inside was a blue raw silk bow tie.

“It’s really nice,” he looked up at her, questioningly.

“Well, when I was in Hugo Boss, I bought something for myself, too,” she smiled and shrugged.

“I’m thinking there’s a dress in this color, somewhere in this story.”

CJ laughed, “You know me well,” she then took a deep breath, “Will you take me to the Spring Fling?”

The Spring Fling was the annual spring formal dance and the tradition was that the girls invited the guys and then took them to dinner before the dance. The dance was usually held in the ballroom of a hotel facility and this years was at The Huntington Sheraton in Pasadena.

CJ immediately picked up on Schooner’s hesitation and forged right on. “I have not asked much of you and this really means a lot to me, Schooner.” CJ had made a ritual of showing up at Schooner’s room several times a week. Sexual activity was limited to CJ blowing Schooner. He knew that her hope was if she waited it out, all would go back to “normal.”

“Ok, sure.”

“Really!” She squealed and threw her arms around his neck, planting kisses all over his face. “We are going to have the best time.”

“Sounds great,” he offered, trying to sound a little more enthusiastic. He had taken the coach’s talk to heart and knew it was time to start living again. His misery had been spiraling down for so long that he knew taking little steps, like saying yes to CJ for this dance she wanted to go to, would help stop the descending momentum.

Baby steps, he thought, but at the same time wondered if Mia was going to be there. Maybe she’d take Henry or maybe there was someone special in one of her classes this semester. He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything about her world anymore.

He came up with a fantasy about the Spring Fling. He would see Mia there, come up behind her and her date as they danced and cut in. Mia would be in his arms before she had the time to protest and somehow he would find the words to make it all right. She’d see how much he loved her. And this time, he would not let her go.

He knew chances were, Miss I’m Not Into the Group Kumbayah Thing, would probably not be there… but if she was. There would be at least one dance in his arms. He would not take no for an answer.

The Huntington Sheraton had been built just after the turn of the century and was one of the architectural gems of Pasadena. The hotel harkened back to a time past of refinement and luxury. CJ, her roommate and another friend had rented a limo to take them all to the hotel, where they had arranged dinner for the guys before the dance.

CJ looked breathtaking that evening in her Hugo Boss dress of sky blue raw silk that matched Schooner’s eyes. Her long blonde hair was styled in an elaborate updo with soft tendrils falling around her face. In his black suit with the matching bow tie that CJ had given him, Schooner and CJ were red carpet worthy. A photographer could have come along and shot a Vogue spread of them that evening.

CJ tucked her hand inside of Schooner’s in the limo and smiled at him. He gave her hand a squeeze and did not pull away. He had vowed he would make the best of the evening and be on his best behavior, which meant no sulking.

There were photographers set up at the entrance to the hotel, capturing photos for the arriving couples that would later be available for purchase. Schooner and CJ posed in the grand entranceway and Schooner, no stranger to the camera, was able to give CJ the photo he knew she so very much wanted.

Heads turned as Schooner and CJ walked through the lobby of the hotel. And it wasn’t just a few people — every head turned. People staying at the hotel assumed they were some young Hollywood stars. A leading man and his beautiful starlet lady. They had people that they did not know literally walk up to them to tell them how beautiful they looked. CJ was in her glory. Schooner was mildly distracted, but mostly embarrassed. And it dawned on him, he had really changed. Somewhere along the way, the superficial California boy had been left behind.

He was thrilled that the girls had dinner set up in a small wine cellar so that there were not a million sets of eyes on him watching as they ate. Dining with them was one of his dorm mates, Dane. Schooner knew Dane only casually, and was pleasantly surprised when Dane turned out to be an amusing conversationalist, keeping the dinner talk going and regaling them all stories of growing up abroad. As a State Department brat, he’d lived throughout Southeast Asia from the time he was six, until he came back to the states for college. Fluent in multiple languages, his plans were to join the Foreign Service upon graduation.

From dinner they headed upstairs to the Georgian Ballroom, one of two ballrooms retained throughout many remodelings of the grand hotel. An arched ceiling, dotted with crystal chandeliers and intricate gilt work, canopied the ballroom and transported its occupants more to a Baroque era than a Georgian one, Schooner thought.