We Need to Talk
We Need to Talk
A.K. Rose
© 2015, A.K. Rose. All Rights Reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
https://akrosewrites.wordpress.com/
PROLOGUE Love must be as much a light, as it is a flame. –Henry David Thoreau
“We need to talk. Um, please, call me back?” That was all the message said. The voice on the line was familiar, but distant. It took Laura Brighton a few moments to place the raspy, gravelly timbre that she was hearing again after . . . what had it been? Fifteen years. Fifteen fucking years. She didn’t know what to think. What to feel. A wave of anger flooded her body, but a small amount of relief trickled in, too. She never had much of a poker face, her emotions were generally on display, like it or not, and all at once her face felt flushed and her pulse quickened. Yeah right. Now we need to talk. They were together a year. And then they weren’t, not that Laura had a say in it. They say time marches on. Old wounds heal, but the scars remain. And she definitely had scars from this relationship that ended a decade-and-a-half ago. Not physical scars, of course. Mel was not violent towards her, ever. No, these scars were emotional. They cut deep and they spanned wide. These scars prevented her from ever truly trusting a lover, from ever finding the one person she wanted to share her life with, because the one person she found broke her heart. The irony of this phone message, at this time, with those words was absolutely ridiculous. Laura’s life, at least on paper, was just about perfect. After years of toiling on partially finished manuscripts and a dump truck’s worth of rejection, her first novel was a critical success. Whenever she fell into the depths of those dark crevices in her mind—with the voices telling her she was a failure, a
farce—she had to remind herself that she was successful. She was happy. She was living her dream life, as well as she could, anyway, without a love interest in her storyline. But now, this ten second phone message brought the skeletons out of her closet and drew out the doubt she had worked so hard to file away. Why now? Oh, that’s right. All of a sudden I’m “somebody.” That has to be why. She had always been a writer, but it took years of persistence, of rejection, of trying to actually be known as a writer. It took working her way up the ranks of the publishing world, of mentoring other writers, of learning her art to make her who she finally was: a published author. Do not call her back. Laura sat cross-legged on the floor of her kitchen, the cramped apartment surrounding her with its small but tidy familiarity, fighting the urge to give Mel what she wanted. She couldn’t possibly call back. That would be too easy and dredge up too much pain. After all, it was she that left a message—a very similar message—that went unanswered all those years ago. The last interaction they’d had wasn’t an interaction at all. It was a voicemail that simply said, “We need to talk. Please call me. I love you.” Laura never heard back. Never got the talk she so desperately needed from the person that mattered most in her life. Never got closure or even a reason for the sudden and surprising end to what was then—and still is—the most torrid romance of her life.
A.K. Rose
© 2015, A.K. Rose. All Rights Reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
https://akrosewrites.wordpress.com/
PROLOGUE Love must be as much a light, as it is a flame. –Henry David Thoreau
“We need to talk. Um, please, call me back?” That was all the message said. The voice on the line was familiar, but distant. It took Laura Brighton a few moments to place the raspy, gravelly timbre that she was hearing again after . . . what had it been? Fifteen years. Fifteen fucking years. She didn’t know what to think. What to feel. A wave of anger flooded her body, but a small amount of relief trickled in, too. She never had much of a poker face, her emotions were generally on display, like it or not, and all at once her face felt flushed and her pulse quickened. Yeah right. Now we need to talk. They were together a year. And then they weren’t, not that Laura had a say in it. They say time marches on. Old wounds heal, but the scars remain. And she definitely had scars from this relationship that ended a decade-and-a-half ago. Not physical scars, of course. Mel was not violent towards her, ever. No, these scars were emotional. They cut deep and they spanned wide. These scars prevented her from ever truly trusting a lover, from ever finding the one person she wanted to share her life with, because the one person she found broke her heart. The irony of this phone message, at this time, with those words was absolutely ridiculous. Laura’s life, at least on paper, was just about perfect. After years of toiling on partially finished manuscripts and a dump truck’s worth of rejection, her first novel was a critical success. Whenever she fell into the depths of those dark crevices in her mind—with the voices telling her she was a failure, a
farce—she had to remind herself that she was successful. She was happy. She was living her dream life, as well as she could, anyway, without a love interest in her storyline. But now, this ten second phone message brought the skeletons out of her closet and drew out the doubt she had worked so hard to file away. Why now? Oh, that’s right. All of a sudden I’m “somebody.” That has to be why. She had always been a writer, but it took years of persistence, of rejection, of trying to actually be known as a writer. It took working her way up the ranks of the publishing world, of mentoring other writers, of learning her art to make her who she finally was: a published author. Do not call her back. Laura sat cross-legged on the floor of her kitchen, the cramped apartment surrounding her with its small but tidy familiarity, fighting the urge to give Mel what she wanted. She couldn’t possibly call back. That would be too easy and dredge up too much pain. After all, it was she that left a message—a very similar message—that went unanswered all those years ago. The last interaction they’d had wasn’t an interaction at all. It was a voicemail that simply said, “We need to talk. Please call me. I love you.” Laura never heard back. Never got the talk she so desperately needed from the person that mattered most in her life. Never got closure or even a reason for the sudden and surprising end to what was then—and still is—the most torrid romance of her life.
