Down, Then Up: A Novella Read online

  Down, Then Up

  Beth Labonte

  Copyright © 2016 by Beth Labonte

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  First Edition (November 2016)

  http://www.bethlabonte.com

  1

  There are worse things, I suppose, than being on a bachelorette trip to Las Vegas when you’ve given up alcohol. Things like, being on death row for a murder you did not commit. Or, perhaps, winning the Powerball jackpot only to accidentally drop your ticket into a raging fire.

  When you think about it that way, things are not going so terribly for me. We’re all here for my sister, Anna, anyway, so it doesn’t really matter if I’m having any fun—this is her day. She’s getting married next month. I suppose that will be her day too. Come to think of it, how many days does the woman need? Add in the engagement party, the nine-hour event that was picking out her wedding gown, the cake testing, the bridal shower, and the half-day spent wandering around Macy’s zapping things with a little gun—and I think she’s had just about enough special days for one person.

  Jealous? Absolutely not. Having a younger sister who is getting married because she doesn’t struggle from the Tourette-like urge to blurt out quotes from The Lord of the Rings in the presence of handsome young men, does not a jealous sister make. I swear it. If a man doesn’t know who Gandalf is by this point in his life, then a) he’s hopeless, and b) he’s simply not the one for me.

  I just wish we could have done a spa day back home, that’s all. Maybe gone to see Chippendales and called it a night. Not that going to see Chippendales without having a cocktail or two would have been much fun either. But at least after a couple of hours we’d have been done with the whole affair and I could have gone to sleep. But, I know my sister, and I know that she has always wanted a bachelorette party in Las Vegas with the feather boas and the tiaras and the crowd of friends showering her with penis-shaped confetti.

  That’s just her thing.

  It used to be my thing too. Until—

  Well, I don’t like to talk about it. Let’s just say that I found myself in a situation that needed to never, ever happen again, and I haven’t touched the stuff in ten years. Lauren Oswald does not half-ass anything. They can put that on my grave. Possibly next to the words died alone.

  But I digress.

  Just because I have a problem, doesn’t mean that my sister should have to suffer. Especially when her fiancé decided that he too wanted a bachelor party in Vegas, and I knew how badly she wanted to keep tabs on him. So I went ahead and booked us a long weekend at Caesar’s Palace. As I clicked away at the Internet, making reservations at places called Fizz and the Bourbon Room, and ordering enough penis-shaped items to earn myself top billing on the sex offender registry, I convinced myself that everything would turn out just fine. Las Vegas is only a city, after all. We may as well be going to London or Boston or Orlando.

  Only, when we got here, the group of relatively normal women that I had stepped off of the plane with, morphed into the cast of Girls Gone Wild. Suddenly it was margaritas-by-the-yard and tequila shots and wine glasses the size of fish bowls. Don’t get me wrong—Anna’s friends are all lovely, intelligent women with oodles of self-respect and higher education. They’re just doing what people do when they’re in Las Vegas, whereas I am doing the complete opposite.

  “Lauren!” screams Amelia. Back home, Amelia and the rest of the women on this trip are attorneys and paralegals at a law firm in Boston. In Las Vegas, Amelia is standing on the couch, swinging her purse in giant, lasso-like, circles above her head. The clasp gives, and all of its contents rain down around her.

  “Yes?”

  She flops down onto the couch, picks up handfuls of lipsticks, credit cards, and loose change, and throws them at me, laughing hysterically.

  “Yes?” I repeat, annoyed. Granted, it was better than the barrage of tampons she hit me with earlier, but I’m quickly finding myself too tired for this kind of thing.

  “Lauren,” she repeats, more seriously this time, but with less enthusiasm. “This is very important. I need you to find us some donuts.”

  “Donuts?”

  “Yes!” shrieks Julie, looking up from her laptop. Attorney by day, searcher of sexy cowboy photos by night. Or so it would seem. “We need donuts. Right now. Can we call room service?”

  “Room service doesn’t have donuts!” says Anna. My sister is upside down on the bed, with her head dangling over the edge. She is definitely going to throw up. Actually, I’m pretty sure they all are.

  “Of course they have donuts,” says Julie, pausing for a moment as she hovers her mouse around the nether regions of a well-endowed ranch hand. “They just have stale, hotel donuts. We want good ones. Like from Dunks.”

  “You want me to find you a Dunkin Donuts?” I ask. “Right now? It’s pretty late.”

  “We’re in Vegas, Lauren,” says Anna. “Everything is open twenty-four hours.”

  “Then why don’t you go and get them.”

  “Because you’re the only of us that’s sober,” says Amelia. “You’re so good, Lauren. Isn’t she good?” Now everybody is nodding along in agreement of what a good, sober person I am. Apparently my prize is going on a wild goose chase.

  I’m about to respond bitterly, when I notice that Melanie—the unconscious paralegal over there on the loveseat—is now awake and looking rather ill. Maybe I should shut up and seize the opportunity to get out of here before I’m forced to clean up worse things than the contents of Amelia’s purse. I could use the break.

  “You know what?” I say, jumping to my feet. “I am going to go out and find you guys some donuts. Dozens of them. Chocolate frosted, jelly, maybe a few French crullers. Who knows what kind of crazy stuff they come up with in Sin City. Maybe they go-nuts on their donuts. Am I right?”

  Crickets.

  “Okay. Good. I’m going to go now. You guys enjoy your naked cowboys and the mini bar, and if you’re going to throw up please try to do it in the bathroom. And by in the bathroom, I mean the sink or the toilet, not the tub or the trash can. Julie, I’m looking at you. Although, the trash can is preferable to anything outside of the bathroom. We learned that yesterday. Right, Anna? Also, don’t go anywhere near my bed or my clothes or my laptop, and if anybody orders another twenty dollar dirty movie I will drag you down to the front desk and make you beg for a refund. I’ll see you guys later. Don’t wait up.”

  I kick off my heels and slip into a pair of pink running sneakers. They look nice with my black, strapless mini-dress. I glance in the mirror. Total fashionista. At least my mascara isn’t smeared all around my eyes, like some who shall remain nameless. I snap a quick photo of Anna, upside down on the bed, before grabbing my purse and heading out of the suite. As I make my way down the hall toward the elevators, I post the photo to Instagram.

  Being sober does have its perks.

  The elevator dings and the doors slide open. And then—

  Oh.

  Right, then.

  I suppose I should mention that there is one thing worse than being on a bachelorette trip to Vegas when you’ve given up alcohol, and that is when the love of your life—the one that got away because you used to be a big, fat, drunken idiot—shows up to the party as a cousin of the groom. When I saw him in the hotel lobby two days ago, I damn near hyperventilated.

  So, there he is. Jamie Mullins. Leaning against the back wall of the elevator, looking characteristically rumpled and uncharacteristically buzzed. As his eyes lock
onto mine, I realize that I haven’t seen him in the same amount of years as I haven’t had a drink.

  I could run. I could turn and run back to my suite—I’m certainly wearing the shoes for it—and continue avoiding him in the same manner that I’ve been doing all weekend. That plan of attack had been working fine up until now.

  Only, he’s already seen me. And he’s giving me that crooked smile of his that hasn’t changed a smidge in ten years, so it’s probably too late to jet.

  I hesitate for a moment. Then I step into the elevator.

  Thirteen Years Earlier

  The elevator was about to close, when a sneakered foot shot through the doors, forcing them open. Toby, from across the hall, poked his head in.

  “Do you mind holding the door?” he asked. “We’re moving a few things in.”

  “Sure.”

  As I stood there, holding the door open, Toby’s foot and head were followed by another boy, whom I didn’t recognize, plus several cardboard boxes, a computer, a television, a guitar, several garbage bags full of clothes, a pillow, a Star Wars bedspread, a bean bag chair, and two cases of Mountain Dew.

  I waited patiently for them to finish, then stepped over a box in order to hide in the back corner.

  “Sorry,” said Toby. “We didn’t want to make a second trip.”

  “No problem.” I glanced at the other boy. He didn’t seem at all embarrassed to have his Star Wars bedding on display. “New roommate?”

  “Yeah, this is Jamie Mullins. He’s in some of my classes. Jamie, Lauren. My old roommate moved across campus, didn’t you know?”

  “Nope.”

  This was actually the most interaction I’d ever had with Toby. He was a computer science major with his own unique set of friends and activities—one of which involved dressing as a medieval knight and walking, in broad daylight, toward the Campus Center. I didn’t ask questions that day.

  I, on the other hand, was an English major, and had more important ways to spend my weekends. For instance, I had recently discovered that alcohol could wipe away my social anxiety, as well as my inability to make small talk with not only boys, but with all members of the human species. I made it a point to test that theory on a weekly basis.

  Which would explain why, on that Sunday morning, I was dressed in a white sequined halter-top, skintight jeans, and heels. I hadn’t exactly made it home the night before. Don’t get me wrong, I spent the night on the floor of my friend Kelly’s dorm room across campus. But, as far as these boys in the elevator were concerned, I’d just completed a big, fat walk of shame.

  “Nice to meet you,” said Jamie, holding out his hand. I shook it, forgetting for a moment the embarrassing outfit I was wearing, and focusing only on his eyes. They immediately struck me as the kindest I had ever seen. They were dark and crinkled at the sides when he smiled—which he seemed to do a lot. Unlike Toby, who liked to scowl and tell me to turn down my TV. I can’t say that I was surprised his roommate had moved out.

  “You too. So, um, nice blanket,” I said, gesturing toward R2D2. Or was it C3PO?

  “Thanks,” said Jamie. “I’ve had it since I was eight. That reminds me. Toby, we didn’t finish our conversation. Vader versus Gandalf. I say Vader. One swipe of his lightsaber and he’d slice Gandalf’s staff in two. Then what’s he gonna do? Send a butterfly to Radagast? Please. Vader would take him out in a second.”

  Impressive, I thought. This boy speaks an entirely different language. Who was this Gandalf, anyway? And why did he want to fight the guy from Star Trek? Or was it Star Wars? I glanced down at Jamie’s blanket for confirmation. Oh yes, there he was—Darth Vader. With his black costume and his glow stick, ready to slice this poor Gandalf’s inferior wooden one to bits. By this point, Toby had chimed in and was staunchly defending the opposing view. I held back a laugh as he started to get red in the face.

  When the elevator reached our floor, I grabbed a few of Jamie’s belongings and helped to carry them down the hall. Toby continued his argument the entire time. When I glanced back at Jamie, he smiled and rolled his eyes. I smiled back and shook my head. Then I said goodbye and went into my room for a nap.

  I was blasted out of bed a few hours later by the sound of a horn coming from across the hall. The horn was followed by galloping, yelling, and a disturbing amount of clanging. If it wasn’t Toby and Jamie’s television, then the dorms were under attack by Vikings. Either way, I supposed I ought to get up. Besides, it was a rare treat to be able to tell Toby to turn his TV down.

  “Come on in,” said Jamie. He was sitting in a beanbag chair with a box of Cheez-Its on his lap and a can of Mountain Dew in his hand. Unpacked boxes were scattered around the room. Toby sat at his desk in front of the computer. “We’re watching The Lord of the Rings. Seen it?”

  “Um, no,” I said.

  “Gandalf’s in it.”

  Again with the Gandalf.

  “Tempting, but no. It’d be great if you could turn it down though.” Toby flipped me a middle finger over his head, without turning around.

  “Ignore him,” said Jamie, waving the box of Cheez-Its around. “We’ve also got Cherry Coke, if that sweetens the deal.”

  Oddly enough, it did.

  “Okay, fine. I’ll stay. But just for a little while.” I settled into the unoccupied beanbag chair. “So, who is this Gandalf?”

  “He’s a wizard,” answered Jamie, handing me a can of soda.

  “Of course.” I nodded. “Who’s that kid?”

  Toby let out an exaggerated sigh.

  “That’s not a kid,” said Jamie, smiling. “That’s Frodo. He’s a hobbit. He and Sam have to walk the ring to Mordor.”

  “What ring?”

  “The One Ring.”

  “Not helpful. Who’s Mordor?”

  “It’s not a who it’s a what. It’s a really bad place, full of orcs.”

  “What are orcs?”

  “Those are orcs.” He pointed at the screen to the most hideous creature I’d ever seen. It looked like a deformed troll in a loincloth and body armor.

  “So, wait. Those little bobbits—”

  “Hobbits!” shouted Toby.

  I rolled my eyes. “Those little hobbits are going to sneak a ring past all those horrible orcs? Then what?”

  “Then they have to throw it into the fires of Mount Doom, before Sauron sees them.”

  I sighed. “And who’s Sauron?”

  Jamie picked the DVD case up off the floor and pointed to what looked like a big eyeball made out of flames.

  “That means nothing to me,” I said. “But fine. Why do they have to walk to Mordor? Can’t they fly in on a large bird or something? They could just drop the ring straight down into the fire. Done. Movie over.”

  Toby swiveled around and gave me a dirty look. “It doesn’t work that way, Lauren. You can’t just fly into Mordor on a bird, you would be seen in a second. Everybody knows that.”

  He swiveled around again and I made a face behind his back. Jamie laughed.

  “She makes a good point,” he said. “One that’s often been debated. You sure you’ve never seen this movie?”

  “Never seen it,” I said, a bit of pride in my voice. I grabbed a handful of Cheez-Its.

  “Oh, please,” said Toby. “She doesn’t even—”

  “Shh!” I said. “We’re trying to watch the movie.”

  Jamie looked over at me and smiled. Then he held out a fist and I bumped it.

  As it turned out, I didn’t leave that room for two and a half hours. I was hooked. Those two little hobbits were going to attempt to save the world—and to the English major and the storyteller in me, that was amazing. Here was an entire genre that I never knew existed. Okay, fine. I knew it existed. I’d just never given it a chance because I’d always brushed it off as geeky and lame. But on that day, not even Toby’s continuous stream of sighs and dirty looks was enough to turn me off.

  Jamie Mullins—the new guy from across the hall—had worked his wizardly ma
gic, and irrevocably opened the floodgates.

  2

  He’s pushed all of the elevator buttons.

  No joke.

  The second I stepped inside, he made a big show of running his hands over every single button until they were all lit up.

  Now, every time the elevator stops and the doors open and shut, he looks at me out of the corner of his eye. People keep getting on, noticing the lit buttons, and then getting right back off. Not only is this the longest elevator ride of my life—but I’ve been guaranteed a solo trip with the one person I’ve been actively trying to avoid.

  “So, are you going to ignore me all the way down or what?” asks Jamie, after the fifth person tells us to piss off before stepping back off the elevator.

  “I’m not trying to ignore you,” I lie.

  “That’s true,” says Jamie. “You’ve been avoiding me, not ignoring me. I’ve barely seen you since check-in. You’re pretty impressive at it, actually. Our two groups haven’t even had a dinner together.”

  I take a deep breath and turn to face him, looking at him up close for the first time all weekend. For the first time in ten years. My heart rate picks up. He doesn’t look much different. Slightly older. Different haircut. No wedding ring. Same eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I know that I’ve been rude. It’s just...I wasn’t expecting to ever see you again, Jamie. And then, bam. There you were in the lobby, standing next to the potted plants. I haven’t known what to say. I wasn’t ready to explain why—”

  “I wasn’t expecting to ever see you again either,” he interrupts. “Not until I found out that my cousin was marrying an Anna Oswald. After that, I wasn’t able to think about much else.”

  “At least you had some warning,” I say, my cheeks warming. “It’s not fair that your cousin’s last name isn’t Mullins.”

  “If you’d had some warning,” says Jamie, “I have a feeling you wouldn’t have come on this trip.”