Page 2 of We Were Something
Maybe I was just born that way, or maybe it comes from having a father with Peter Pan Syndrome who owns several of the most successful hotspots in town. My prepubescent years were spent in loud venues, surrounded by bands and crowds and alcohol. It wasn’t uncommon for me to fudge my way through homework at a bar top or spend an evening tucked in the corner of the VIP lounge while my father schmoozed with other important people. Congressmen. Local politicians. Entrepreneurs with clout and capital rivaling his own.
I was raised amidst the deafening sounds of music and parties and flowing liquor. So for me, the bitter part of the summer’s bittersweet end is the sudden and nearly overwhelming quiet that seems to hush a 30-mile radius around my family’s oceanfront home. The bitter is the emptiness I feel at the absence of the masses crowding the sand and the bars and the restaurants.
There’s a loneliness that comes along with the end of the summer, and I haven’t ever been a fan of sitting around long enough to let it seep into my bones.
Instead, I focus on the silver lining. The little bit of sweet mixed in with all that bitter. The days get shorter, the world gets darker, and the temperature begins to shift ever so slightly.
I’m sure it isn’t noticeable to residents of states withactualseasons, but to me—a born-and-raised SoCal girl—it’s as visible as the bubble of smog that hovers over downtown LA.
Around mid-September, as we creep toward a time change and it begins to get darker earlier, the temperature starts to dip into the 50s at night and in the early hours of the morning. The constant heat of Southern California continues during the day, and I will nevernottake advantage of being able to wear a bikini in December.
But the nights?
I love the nights.
Illicit fun happens in the cool autumn nights, and that’s thesweetpart for me.
Taking another long pull from my second gin and tonic of the evening, I refocus my waning attention on my best friend as she gives another brief speech up on the stage. Lennon has been working her ass off on this event for months—a fundraiser for the 50th anniversary of the Bernard J. Roth Preparatory Academy, where we went to school together growing up. Her welcome address when we first sat down to dinner an hour ago was beautiful, with just the right hint of nostalgia and touch of humor to have everyone smiling wistfully and chuckling at their tables.
She was so nervous when she practiced her speech for me earlier this week, but as she stood up there and shared little bits of history, school tradition, and local folklore, the crowd hung on her every word. Her delivery, tone, timing…it was all exceptional, and I don’t doubt she could feel it.
Now, as she informs everyone that the evening will move from the promenade, where we’ve all been enjoying a formal, sit-down dinner, to the atrium at the center of the campus for more drinks and festivities, I can tell she’s finally slipped into a groove, a place of quiet self-confidence.
It makes me happy for her, happy she’s thriving in her new job at the Roth Foundation. It’s her family’s legacy in action, after all.
“I’ll catch up with you,” Lucas says, giving me a peck on the temple. “I wanna go check in with Len first. Grab a drink for me?”
I nod, giving him a smile. “Sure. But don’t hold it against me if I drink it myself when you take too long.”
He laughs and squeezes my hand then slips through the crowd, heading away from our table and moving in the direction of the stage, toward where Lennon is talking with some of the other foundation staff. I watch as Lucas steps off to the side to wait for Lennon to finish her conversation then slips up behind her and whispers into her ear once the others have walked off. The smile that stretches across her face is magical, and I turn away, not wanting to intrude on their moment.
I’m happy for them. After facing so much hardship and drama, they’ve finally managed to find each other. A perfect match, and god knows they’ve faced an avalanche trying to get to this point together.
During this particular summer, though—when I’m feeling like a lonely single personandfacing my mother’s constant nagging that I have no real direction in life—I can’t help feeling a smidgeon of jealousy. There’s a constant voice, an irritable little she-devil with attitude and sass that tells me I’ll never find the kind of happiness Lucas and Lennon found. It tells me a lasting relationship isn’t in the cards for my future.
I’m too complicated.Not worth the trouble.
And worse, broken beyond repair. Damaged goods.
Thankfully, I’m really good at keeping that bitchy she-devil tucked away and drowning in gin.
Or tequila. Vodka.
As long as it’s clear and keeps the calorie count low, another requirement from my mother. “Drink if you must, but don’t add to your waistline. No need to fall even further off the deep end.”
I roll my eyes and shake my head, trying to push her ever-present voice out of my mind as I follow in the wake of my fellow alumni, across the promenade that overlooks the sports fields then down the steps that lead to the center of campus.
Roth Prep really was a breathtaking place to attend school, even if I never cared enough to notice during those formative years.
Tucked along the south edge of Hermosa Beach, it rests at the top of one of the rolling hills that unfurl toward the water. From the promenade where we were having dinner, there are views of Hermosa Avenue, the pier, and the ocean in the distance. Add to that the pale pink, cloudless sky and the setting sun on the horizon? Like I said…breathtaking.
Its beauty didn’t stop me from loathing this school’s very existence when I was a student, though, and I’ve had to keep myself from laughing a few times this evening as I’ve overheard conversations between my schoolmates about how much they miss their days as a Roth Prep Royal.
Seriously…who picksRoyalsas a mascot? Talk about pretentious.
There are hundreds of former students in attendance tonight from every graduating class over the past 50 years. Some are here with spouses and partners and friends, while others have come solo, like myself. It’s the ‘see and be seen’ event of the season in the South Bay, and I had to work hardnotto roll my eyes at all the glad-handing that was occurring when I arrived earlier.
It should be fun. A chance to reconnect with some of my former school friends who have moved away or that I haven’t seen since graduation six years ago. But as I grip the handrail and take the steps carefully so my clumsy ass doesn’t tumble all the way to the bottom, I’m not thinking about the familiar faces I’ve been seeing all over this evening.
