Going Back

Eventually, somehow, I ended up sitting on a couch next to Kris, a very cute sophomore, and we were hitting it off, or so it seemed. We were talking, touching, flirting, I guess, and I thought that maybe my recent drought had a chance to end. I finished my beer, and asked Kris if she wanted another. She downed the rest of what was in her cup, and handed me the empty.

I walked to the keg, and waited my turn to fill the cups. My head was buzzing from the substances and the hope that something would materialize with Kris. While I was waiting, the door opened, and a couple of girls entered. I realized one was Vanessa, dressed like a cowgirl in tight jeans, a flannel shirt and fringed vest with the appropriate hat and boots, with her long blonde hair in braids, and I followed her with my eyes as she headed into the other room.

"Dude—your turn," the guy next to me, wearing a baseball uniform with a wet spot over the chest, said, handing me the hose.

"Thanks, man," I said lazily, beginning to pour the foamy golden liquid into the plastic cups. I weaved my way back into the living room, looked at the couch, and it was empty. No Kris.

My head spun around, and I didn't see her. Walt was nowhere to be found. And I could see Vanessa, in the blonde group, laughing about something. I walked around, not seeing Kris anywhere, or Walt. I made it back to the couch, still pathetically holding two beers. I asked Jim, who had been sitting on the floor near us, if he had seen Kris.

"Oh yeah. She left with her ex-boyfriend."

"Fuck," I thought to myself, but said, "Thanks. I guess she won't need the beer."

I started walking away, and as I passed the blond group, some guy taller than me reached out and said, "Hey, thanks for bringing me a brewski." He grabbed the extra beer from my hand, smiled and passed it to Vanessa, who took a slug.

I stood there, like an idiot, for a few seconds, before muttering, "Um, sure," taking a swig from my beer and heading out the door and back to my room.

A couple of weeks later, I walked by Kris as I headed to class, but she ostentatiously looked away and kept walking.

Saturday Afternoon Lunch

We walked back to the tent in silence. It didn't seem like Vanessa was going to give more of an explanation, and I wasn't sure that I was entitled to anything more. She needed a shoulder to cry on, and I fit the bill. Maybe we would be friendly going forward, but more likely, we would nod at each other when we passed on campus, say hello every few years at Reunions, and that would be that.

I saw my friends already gathered around a table and I walked over to stake a claim on the last seat available. I didn't want to miss spending time with my old friends to be Vanessa's whatever it was I was being. And as that thought crossed my mind, I realized that, maybe, I had actually grown up a little in the last three decades. Yet I can't deny that I did feel some sort of twinge in my gut when I saw Vanessa look back, see me sitting at the now full table, and look surprised, and maybe sad.

Sweat was pouring down my head under the hat, and down my back, but it didn't seem appropriate to take any of our costume off yet. We chatted, ate and reminisced, and I did try to steal the occasional look at where Vanessa ended up—at a table of much thinner and blonder people—but it did seem like she wasn't happy.

Eventually, it was time for the main event—the P-Rade. Everyone gathered up their family and friends and headed up toward Cannon Green. Back in the day, there were lots of little kids in our group, but now there were a few teenagers, in various stages of sullenness, and even a few college-aged children enjoying the spectacle.

We waited, wandering around to see classmates and friends from other classes, until the sounds of the band were heard. Soon, they were marching by us in their straw hats and orange and black plaid jackets, better for the cool afternoons of football season than the New Jersey heat of June, followed by the 25th Reunion class, in the place of honor, augmented by their families, more bands and floats. I found myself tearing up as I remembered our 25th, five years before, when I stood with my love, holding hands and watching the festivities, little expecting how everything would be changing.

The highlight of the P-Rade is probably the Old Guard—centenarians, nonagenarians and octogenarians and their wives, mostly in golf carts, but some slowly walking, often with a grandchild or great-grandchild, to the loud applause and occasional "locomotive" cheer. I remember once saying to Maggie that she'd be the one coming to Reunions after I was long dead. I was wrong, and not in the way that I wanted. But I held it together pretty well. Classes continued to walk by. Even the 50th had a nice turnout. Finally, it was time to join the parade, and start strolling through the younger alumni. The P-Rade gives you a chance to watch your future go past, and then march through your past, until you pass the graduating seniors, partying on a hill covered in beer cans, poised in that moment between potential and reality.

As we headed down Elm Drive and passed my old dorm, I realized that I was crying. And then I felt someone take my arm. Embarrassed, I turned to see who it was, and was surprised to see Vanessa's pretty face.

"Are you O.K.?"

I flashed back to my attempt to help her when she had been throwing up decades before, and to her tart response to my similar question the night before, and briefly thought about responding in kind. But that was never me, and I wasn't going to let it become me, no matter how much pain I felt. Instead, I wiped my eyes with my gaudy sleeve, turned and yelled, because you have to yell with all the noise, "No, not really. Thinking about Maggie, and how much she enjoyed this, even though she didn't go here. Thanks."

She smiled to show her support and held my arm as we walked through the increasingly younger and drunker alumni. A big, athletic looking guy dressed like a chef reached into my path and handed me a Bud Light, which under normal circumstances I would have rejected, but at Reunions, and now, it seemed like exactly what I needed. I popped it open with my free hand and drank deeply. It was cold, wet and slightly musty, and it was perfect.

I looked around, and it didn't seem like anyone else noticed, so I took a deep breath and tried to gather myself. Holding the cold beer can to my forehead, the sharp, damp coolness was refreshing. Vanessa held on to my arm, and while I probably didn't need it any more, I didn't want her to let go, either. Finally, we passed through the graduating seniors, who were chanting our class numbers, their faces red with exertion, heat and beer, and were at the last archway. Still with Vanessa on my arm, I walked through with my classmates, past the reviewing stand and to the open field where we were supposed to hand back any banners and signs. Members of my class, and stragglers from other classes, were milling around, chatting, drinking bottles of water and looking around for friends and family.

"Dave—are you O.K.?" Vanessa asked again, letting go of her grip on my upper arm.

"Um, yeah. I'm fine now. I'm not sure what got into me."

She started to say something, then stopped. Taking a breath, she said, "What do you usually do now?"

I thought for a second. "Usually, we would visit a few places, then end up back at my club for food before heading back to the class headquarters."

"Do you want to do that?"

"I guess so. Do you have another idea?"

Vanessa smiled, and I felt that same pit in my gut that I did when I saw her on campus. She really was a beautiful woman. "How about we go to my hotel, sit in the air conditioning, have a glass of wine, and talk. Seems like we both have a lot on our minds."

I wanted to say something, but my tongue was stuck to the bottom of my mouth. Vanessa Carson just invited me to her hotel room. I mean, it was just to cool off and talk, but still. "Yeah, sure, actually that sounds nice." I tried not to sound too anxious. Here I was, a 50 plus years old widower, father of two grown up kids, and feeling as tongue-tied as a teenager.

"Why don't you grab a change of clothing, so that you can shower in a nice bathroom before dinner?"

That seemed like an excellent idea. We agreed to meet at her hotel, she would get some wine, and I'd go back to my room for some clothing. On the way back, I ran into Benji and Al. If I looked as sweaty as they did, I really needed that shower, and it certainly would be more comfortable at the Marriott than in an un-air conditioned dorm bathroom.

"Dave—where were you during the P-Rade? I looked up and you were gone," Al asked.

"I kind of got separated and just sort of wandered."

I could see the two of them share a look of concern. "No problem, Dave," Al replied, with that sympathetic tone that, frankly, I was getting tired of. "Are you heading to the club?"

"Actually, no. I'm, uh, going back with Vanessa to her hotel." They stopped walking and looked at me. "Seriously? Just to cool down and talk. We both have stuff to talk about, and for some reason we have connected this weekend."

"O.K., buddy," Benji responded, skeptically. "See you at dinner?"

"Of course."

They peeled off toward Prospect Street, and I headed to my room, which was, as expected, hot and stuffy. I threw a change of underwear and shirt into a bag, grabbed my toiletries, turned and headed towards my car. It felt good to crank up the AC and feel the sweat dry as I drove, trying desperately to lower my expectations. She was Vanessa Carson, for god's sake. She was way out of my league, and last night, if anything, proved that nothing would ever happen between us. We were in bed together, and she was vulnerable, and still nothing happened, and nothing would today. We would shower, talk, have some wine and maybe become friends, after all these years.

I parked my car and braved the humidity and heat for a few seconds until I wooshed through the automatic doors and into the cool lobby. Without stopping, I went to the elevator and pressed 7. I shifted my weight from foot to foot, nervous, despite the fact that I had convinced myself that this was just a friendly visit. There is something about visiting a woman in a hotel room that just seemed illicit, especially a technically married woman. And there was the nagging feeling that I was cheating on Maggie, but of course I wasn't, and couldn't.

Out the elevator and into the hall. A quick check of the direction sign, and a right turn down the hallway. The numbers went up, and the even numbers were on the right. 702, 704, 706, 708, 710. I stopped. Stared at the door. Started to knock. Put my hand down. Took a breath. Knocked.

"Coming," said the muffled voice from beyond the door. "Dave?"

"It's me."

The door opened, and my chin nearly hit the floor. She had clearly showered in the time since we parted. A white towel was wrapped around her head like a turban. She was wearing a white, fluffy hotel robe that stopped halfway down her thighs, displaying a significant amount of tanned leg that did not appear to belong to a woman over 50. No makeup, which showed that her face did have some lines, mostly around the eyes and mouth, but she still looked at least a decade younger than her true age.

She smiled at my stupefaction, and I felt warm and uncomfortable, despite the cool air pumping from the AC. "I hope this doesn't make you uneasy, but I just got out of the shower and hadn't had a chance to dress."

"No problem. I was just surprised. I noticed that the robe had come slightly apart, showing off a small expanse of cleavage and the fact that she was likely braless. I started to feel myself stiffen, and was happy that I was still wearing my jacket.

"Want to shower?"

"That would be great. It's so sticky out there. I appreciate it."

She gestured toward the bathroom and I went in, still carrying my bag. It was still a little steamy, and the mirror still had some condensation. I looked around and saw the typical woman things. Bottles and containers and things. Maggie never had so much stuff when we travelled. I turned the water on, and felt it get hot before turning the lever to start the shower. I quickly undressed, hanging up my jacket and pants, and rolling my sweaty underwear and socks into my equally sweaty shirt.

Stepping in, I allowed the water to wash over me. It felt incredible, and it amazed me that hot water could feel so good, when hot and humid air was so uncomfortable. I soaped up, and appraised my body. Not terrible, but not great. And certainly not in Vanessa's class. I shampooed what was left of my hair, and let the water flow over my face. I allowed myself to imagine Vanessa coming into the bathroom, into the shower, her naked body pressed against me, and I got hard again.

And then, I heard the shower door open and felt cool air invade my cocoon of warmth. Startled, I pulled my face from the water and felt myself go limp. Oh my god, she's coming in, I thought, panicking.

"David—I'm leaving a robe on the counter for you." The door closed.

What an idiot I was, even thinking that she would come in to the shower. Turning the water off, I opened the curtain and grabbed a towel, drying off. I decided to pass on the robe. Reaching into my bag, I got dressed, except for my socks and shoes, wiped a bit of steam from the mirror and brushed my remaining hair, stuffed my dirty clothing into the bag, zipped it up, grabbed my jacket and left the bathroom. The air in the room was bracing, and it felt great. I looked over to Vanessa, and she was wearing what I guessed was an expensive "little black dress" that hugged her still-trim figure. It was maybe an inch longer than the robe, showing off her legs, and was cut low enough to display serious cleavage. It would be a shame when she put on her blazer and covered herself up.

Like me, she was shoeless, and was sitting in a chair next to a small table that had two glasses of red wine.

"I hope you like red." She picked up her glass.

I walked over and picked up the other glass. "I prefer it, actually. Thanks." There was only one chair, and I looked for a place to sit.

"Go ahead and sit on the bed," she said, using her glass to point. She turned the chair to face the bed, and I followed her direction.

"Are you feeling better now, Dave?"

"I am, Vanessa. Thanks." I took a sip of the wine. It was good. "Can I ask you a question?" I could see her defenses go up.

"Sure," she replied warily.

"Why are you here? You haven't been to Reunions since graduation, right?"

She paused and took a sip of wine. "Did you know Elise Reeder?"

I thought for a second. She was a classmate, I believed. "The name is familiar, but I don't think I knew her."

"Elise was my freshman year roommate. She was one of the few real friends that I made here." Vanessa's face darkened. "She died in January. Breast cancer. It sort of threw me for a loop, and when added to the problems in my marriage, I started to see a therapist. She thought it would be a good idea for me to come here, go to the memorial service, maybe reconnect with people from my past, including people who knew Elise. So, here I am."

There wasn't much to say. "How was the service?"

"It was beautiful, actually. Touching."

"I'm glad."

"Another thing that my therapist suggested is for me to confront things about myself that I don't like."

"That's a hard thing to do."

Vanessa looked into her glass and swirled the red liquid around before speaking. "I'm sorry David, and I owe you."

"For last night? No, you don't." I took another sip of the wine.

Vanessa stared into her glass. "For that. But not only that."

"What are you talking about?"

"That was you, sophomore year. I was drunk and throwing up, and you tried to help me. And I cursed you out and threatened to yell 'rape'."

"That was me. But you were drunk. I didn't hold it against you."

"David, I was a bitch back then. Entitled, arrogant, obnoxious. I know it now."

"No, you were just young."

Her eyes flashed with anger. "Stop defending me, David. I've always gotten away with things because I was pretty and smart. I was a bad person then, and I probably pushed Justin—my husband—away."

"How could you say that?"

"You don't know me. I've been the same as I was back then. I was nasty to you, because you weren't anything to me." I sort of flinched at the insult, but she continued. "I was the one in med school who knew more than everyone, worked harder than everyone and made sure everyone knew it." She paused to take a drink, swirling the wine around her mouth, thinking. "Of course, I got my first choice match, and was determined to prove myself. I met Justin there. He was a year ahead of me, and clearly on the rise. He was brilliant, good looking, charming, rich, and the first man I had ever met who was, in my immature, conceited mind, good enough for me. Unfortunately, we competed for our whole relationship. Every honor he got, I needed to get, or exceed. But when we went into our separate private practices, I realized that he was actually better at being a doctor than me, and I resented it."

I realized that Vanessa had never said these words to anyone other than maybe her therapist, and I realized that I needed to sit quietly and listen, or the spell would be broken and she would stop, when she clearly needed to keep going. I sipped my wine and watched her face, which was slowly breaking down.

"I worked longer hours. After we had Lilly and Thomas, I rarely was interested in sex. And after a while, he stopped trying. Our marriage has been freezing cold for years. I felt hideous. I stopped wanting to go out, do anything fun, always thinking that I needed to read another article, practice another procedure, write another paper. Meanwhile, Justin seemed to be able to do all of that without trying."

I could see tears rolling down her face as she talked. She took a sip of wine, put the glass down on the table and stood up and walked towards me. I stared briefly at her legs before starting to stand up. "No, Dave, please stay there." She sat down next to me and rested her head on my arm. In nearly a whisper, she said, "I've been a bad person, a bad wife and a bad mother. I get a sense that you are a good person. I can tell that you loved your wife so much, that you shared things, and I can see that your friends actually like you—I can't even find anyone who really wants to talk to me, other than you."

What could I say? I put my arm around her and we sat on the edge of the bed. I could feel her body shake from her sobs.

I decided it was time to say something. "Vanessa, you're right, I don't really know you. And maybe you made some mistakes, but if what you just said is true, then you know yourself better than anyone I've ever met. If you know your problems, then maybe you can fix them. You're a smart, successful, beautiful woman, and there doesn't seem to be anything you can't do."

She turned her head to face me, and like in the movies, our lips moved together as if on their own accord. We kissed. Softly at first, then harder. I pressed her against my body, and for the first time in years, I felt true desire for a woman.

Then, my phone alarm sounded. She pulled back from me and looked at me, a little confused and, I think, a little happy. I smiled sheepishly and looked at my watch. "The class dinner starts in 15 minutes. We should go."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I promised my friends." Whatever was about to happen with Vanessa wasn't. And that was another way I had grown since college. Then, if Al was hanging from a cliff, with Benji holding on to his leg, dangling over a pit of acid, I would have ignored their terrified screams if it had meant spending time with Vanessa Carson.