That Girl's the One I Love (4 page)

****

Leyla sat down at her computer, absently loading up her browser while she sorted through her mail. Most of it still had her married name on it, even though she’d now legally changed it back to Brand after the divorce that had taken four years. She and Tim hadn’t really cared enough about each other to end things with any passion. She’d opened new social media accounts with her maiden name, too, wanting to shuck that whole experience as quickly as she could, once it was finally over. She didn’t mind being on her own. She had her writing; at least her husband hadn’t damaged that gift. She could create in peace.

She tossed three-quarters of the mail in the wastebasket. Stupid junk mail. That along with a bill her ex was supposed to pay. If he didn’t get around to changing that soon, she’d have to call her lawyer. If her ex made her do that, she’d be sure he got nailed to the max, just because she didn’t ever want to speak to her bloodsucking lawyer again. Ever.

Nothing exciting in her email, just a photo from her dad, some picture his neighbor had taken of him and his beagle. She checked her game sites, then the headline news from the Post-Gazette, before moving on to her Facebook account, which she kept very private, information for friends only.

A survey of the posts on her news feed since the night before showed her that her friends had gotten drunk last night, that a
Serenity
charity showing was happening down on the south side later that month, and that one of her friends needed some seed for their Farmville spread. She also had a message in the top left corner. She clicked on it.

Is this Leyla Brand from Asheville, NC, 2005? If so, pls msg me ASAP

The message came from an account titled Bonsai Boy.

Leyla frowned. Who the hell was this? Not someone she’d known through her husband. Most of those connections had been in Pennsylvania. Maybe one of her waiter friends from her Olive Garden days? Maybe that crazy neighbor from her little apartment on Merriman, the one who used to peek in her windows at night to see if she was naked.

Well, that was one contact she didn’t want to renew, thanks.

She refused the friend request, closed her browser and went back to the current story she was working on, a light chick-lit-style tale of a country girl in the big city. Write what you know, isn’t that what everyone said? People in Pittsburgh were so different from her friends in the South. It was like the cold winters froze their hearts, so they couldn’t look you in the eye or care about their neighbors. Especially one divorcee, living alone in an efficiency on the second floor of a slate-toned row house on Mount Washington.

She could have gone home, but she’d never gathered the courage to move. Her lawyer, as much as she hated him, had secured her a nice five-year alimony plan, considering the affair and the fact she’d given Tim all the assets. She didn’t want any
thing
of his. His money, on the other hand, gave her space to write. She’d picked up a freelance gig, stringing for the City Paper, which supplemented what she got from Tim. It gave her a byline at least once a month. She liked the idea she was making a living as a creative person.

Like Arran.

Copper Moon had broken up. She’d read that on the entertainment pages of some online gossip site. Arran had decided to go on as a solo act. His music moved from broad middle-of-the-road rock to the soft rock category, his plaintive guitar accompaniment plucking the strings of her heart along with his instrument. Arran had even played in venues near Pittsburgh; Leyla had only been able to attend once. She sat way in the back, her eyes closed, just listening. Most of the time, she found it easier to sit in her room and listen to his CDs, imagining herself at the concert. Or in his life.

Quit procrastinating. Back to the writing.

****

One evening the next week, another message popped up on Facebook after she’d had her skinny-girl TV dinner, the last thing in her freezer.

Is this Leyla with an E from Bele Chere 2005? If so, please answer me.

The message, like the last, was from Bonsai Boy.
Leyla with an E?
Now that sounded a little more familiar. Who was this Bonsai Boy? She clicked through to his homepage but found he kept most of his information private except for those he’d chosen as friends. All he listed publicly was his hometown—Salinas, California—that his occupation was “farmer,” and that his birthday was March 11. A Pisces…Who did she know with a March birthday?

When was Arran’s birthday? Had she ever known that? She couldn’t recall him telling her. It hadn’t been relevant. Damn.

Think, Leyla
. Someone should know. She typed an Internet search for Arran Lake, seeking one of those intrusive fan pages that collected information like a crazed stalker. She found several and clicked through, to be confronted with a host of photographs of Arran: in concert, on the red carpet, with his arm around a succession of young actresses or musicians his name had been linked with over the years. He was still jaw-dropping gorgeous, even six years later. The site featured articles about his concert schedule, his charity to raise money for the homeless, and… There it was. His birthday. March 11.

Could it be?

She went back to Bonsai Boy’s page, then his message. Why would he list his occupation as farmer, when he was a famous performer? She thought back to the two of them strolling through the greenhouse at the Biltmore, when he’d known so much about the plants, his education in that field.

Could it be?

Only one way to find out.

She took a deep breath, trying to sublimate her suspicions, and typed in her response:
Bele Chere 2005 was a long time ago. Why are you interested?

She waited for several minutes, wondering even as she was doing it why she thought Bonsai Boy would be hovering, vulture-like, over his message board. No response came. She silently ribbed herself for being a sap. She grabbed her purse and ran out to the grocery to replenish her bare cupboards.

When she came back, she forced herself to put away everything from her three sensible, reusable cloth bags before she looked at her computer. No reason to get her hopes up. After six years, why would Arran bother to look her up now? Maybe it was just some crazy person with a sick sense of humor. No reason at all to be excited.

Then why did her heart speed up every time she glanced over at her laptop, waiting for her on her plastic-and-steel computer desk?

After she dragged it out as long as she could stand it, she took a cup of coffee to her desk and pulled her cheap chair close. Her Facebook page showed two messages waiting for her. She opened the first.

If you’re the right Leyla, you’ll know the answer to that.

The words hit her like a splash of icy water.

She opened the second message.

Have you lost something you can’t find?

She read that three times before she grasped the words. What did the writer mean? Had she lost what? She had a bunch of single socks—the dryer had eaten the other half of each pair. She’d lost her marriage—but that was more good riddance than anything else. She’d have to think about that before she responded.

Back to the writing.

She turned on the radio for some background music. It was almost time for the Top 40 roundup. Might as well see what Arran was up to, right?

Neil Patrick Harris was sitting in for Ryan this weekend, and that tickled her. She’d always liked his humor. She turned up the music and settled in to write, the evening plan to create a scene where the heroine, Dayla, dumped her cheating man. She would embellish it, of course, but she could certainly draw on real life. She knew the pain of betrayal.

The countdown moved up the chart, and she let her attention wander from the music as she got into her narrative, fingers tapping furiously on her keyboard. She—well, Dayla—had just slapped her soon-to-be ex when NPH announced that Arran Lake’s latest song had moved up six slots to number four. “And now, Arran Lake, with ‘Have You Lost Something You Can’t Find?’ ”

If she’d had a mouthful of coffee, she would have spit it out onto the screen of her laptop. She went still, silent, listening to the words.

Have you lost something you can’t find?

When you moved on, you left it behind

A gentle touch you just can’t forget

You wake up, alone, in a cold sweat.

.

Too many miles away for her to see

Too many years have passed for me,

But I can’t give up, the dream’s still real

Life hasn’t changed the way that I feel.

.

Why can’t I admit I was wrong, that it’s done?

My heart won’t let me let go, till I’ve won.

.

Her eyes filled with tears before he even got to the second stanza. The chorus felt like a punch to the gut. She lost the rest of the words, her mind spinning down into her heart like a tornado’s vortex, throwing her whole world out of balance. She always imagined he was singing just to her, when she heard his songs. This time she knew it for sure.

She clicked back to the Facebook message, mesmerized by the blinking cursor. She’d been convinced he had put her aside, dazzled by his new world of fame and success. All this time, had he really been regretting that he’d left her, back in Asheville?

Overwhelmed by a rush of emotion, she typed in one word. “Yes.”

This time, she did get an immediate response. Her message window popped up, Bonsai Boy at the top of it.

Where are you? Are you well?

I’m fine.
She felt so awkward, like a kid on a first date.
How are you?

Well, that was brilliant. She groaned and wished she could take the letters back.

Better now.

Have you heard the song?

I did. I really liked it.

Oh, gods. Really? She sounded like a babbling idiot.

A message popped up with a friend request from Bonsai Boy.

She hesitated only a moment before she accepted the request, then she clicked back to his page, now that it was revealed to her. No photos of him, but several of what looked like farm fields and maybe an orange grove. And what were those green fruits? Avocados? Those tiny expensive California avocados?

He answered first.
Pittsburgh! I never would have thought there. What took you to Pittsburgh?

She realized he could now see her page, too.
Long story. Long, stupid story, actually. But it’s over.
The last thing she wanted to talk about with him was Tim. Better change the subject.
You’re a farmer?

LOL. Yes. Told you that was always my first calling. Even finished the degree, finally. Got one heck of a spread. You’ll have to visit.

That surprised her. Even with the song, she hadn’t anticipated an actual reunion. She might think of him often, moon a little when she heard him on the radio, but the chances of seeing him again, in person? Surely, that was impossible. He was a superstar now, and what was she? A budding writer who didn’t even have a real job or a car. Back in Asheville, they’d both been working stiffs, driving crappy cars, living check to check. Now what would he ever see in her? She didn’t know what to say.

As she struggled for a response, the seconds ticked by, blossomed into minutes. Finally words came up in his message box.

Leyla, I’ve got an emergency here. I’m so sorry. Leave me your address and phone number. I promise I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.

Then the little green dot in his message box disappeared, indicating he’d gone offline.

She stared at the box for awhile, reading his request. Did she dare send her address? She thought not. Why open that can of worms again? She’d broken her heart on that particular set of jagged rocks before; she didn’t intend to do it again.

She read everything on his page, noted his list of fifty-two friends, none of them she knew, none of them famous. She read that his constant companion was a spirited golden cocker spaniel, but that he was otherwise single. She devoured it all, then turned off her browser without leaving him any information and went back to her manuscript. But as much as she wanted her fictional story to distract her, she couldn’t make it work. She turned off the laptop and went to bed.

****

Over the next several weeks, they had several disjointed conversations, left in messages on each other’s pages. The time difference and what was clearly his busy schedule still ate away at their ability to connect in real time. Leyla found herself disappointed, which indicated to her that her refusal to provide him with her personal information might be a mistake. She still cared about him. He was still wrapped inside her heartstrings.

But I can’t build up what might be going on between us. We’re both older, we’ve moved on. Yes, we had a golden glowing moment, but that’s past. I have to be realistic. Anything else makes me a fool of the first degree.

She tried to separate reality from dream, carrying on with her life one day at a time. She made her rounds, including dropping in at the paper every so often, since her editor insisted she liked to see Leyla’s face. But the next time she showed up, Milla called her in.

When she sat down across from Milla, she studied the expression on the editor’s face, wondering if she was about to be fired. She didn’t get paid much, but everyone knew that papers were folding right and left across the country. Dressed in her usual casual sweater and worn jeans, with earrings that had to be cubic zirconia instead of real diamonds, Milla didn’t look angry or sad, though. Maybe things were going to be all right. “What’s up, Mill?”

The editor handed an envelope across her cluttered desk. “This came for you.”

Leyla frowned as she looked at the envelope. “No return address.”

Milla nodded. “That’s why we opened it. We were a little concerned. But it seems legit.”

Leyla took out the letter, a missive from Mike Chandler, a local radio station DJ she knew by reputation, a guy who liked to cultivate relationships with big stars, then name-drop everywhere he could. The release was for a concert coming one night only to Pittsburgh, ten days hence. But there was a contest, too, the prize being a chance to spend an evening with Arran Lake. A ticket for the venue and the night in question was enclosed, and a handwritten scrawl across the bottom of the page said, “Please come.”