Holy shit.
It's Lauren.
For a second, I genuinely think maybe the mold finally got to me. Maybe I passed out in this disgusting-ass trailer and my brain decided to mercy kill me with hallucinations. Because there is no way she's real. Somehow she looks exactly like I always imagined she would. And absolutely nothing like I imagined at all. Her auburn hair falls past her shoulders in messy waves, somewhere between brown and fire when the light catches it. Autumn hair. Every song I ever wrote about fall suddenly feels embarrassingly obvious. Her eyes are still huge. Still green enough to ruin lives. But she isn't the skinny girl next door anymore. She's grown. Softer in places she used to be sharp. Beautiful in a way that physically knocks the air out of me.
The baseball bat slips in my hand and my thumb catches the cracked black tape wrapped around the handle. Adam's bat. I lower it immediately like I just got caught doing something wrong. Lauren's mouth opens slightly when she sees me. Not dramatic shock. Just… surprise. A soft little oh that hits me harder than it should. She lifts a bucket full of cleaning supplies and a giant roll of contractor trash bags like this is completely normal. "Oh, hey, Ashton."
My real name. Not Ash. Not some drunk asshole screaming lyrics from a stage. Just Ashton. Like no time passed at all. "I heard your mom passed Wednesday. Today was the first day I could get off work to come clean some of this up. I didn't want it sitting here stinking if nobody was checking on it." She glances around the trailer awkwardly. "I didn't even know you were gonna be here. I'm sorry if I'm stepping on your toes."
Nothing. My brain produces absolutely fucking nothing. I just stand there holding Adam's baseball bat like a psychopath while my nervous system completely leaves the chat.
She keeps going after a second, filling the silence because Lauren always hated awkward quiet. "I mostly came to clean out the fridge before something crawled out of it and started paying rent. I don't think there's anything worth saving in there." A nervous little laugh escapes her. Fuck. Even her laugh sounds the same.
Finally, my brain sputters back online enough to form words. "Oh. Yeah. No, that's —that's really nice of you. You didn't have to do that."
She smiles at me. Full beam. My heart stutters. Ridiculous. Somebody should study this in a lab. "Oh, I'm definitely doing it because it needs done. Not because I'm secretly passionate about trailer sanitation."
There she is. I walk toward her before I even fully realize I'm moving and take the cleaning bucket and trash bags from her hands.
"Thanks," I mumble. Or maybe I said something else. Honestly, who knows.
She disappears back outside before I can embarrass myself further and comes back carrying a mop bucket, broom, vacuum, and one of those giant fluffy dusters on a stick old women seem biologically assigned at birth. She came here to clean up my mother's mess so I wouldn't have to do it alone. The burning starts behind my eyes again immediately. Absolutely not. We are not crying in front of Lauren Carter on day fucking one.
"I parked behind the trailer," I explain awkwardly, setting the cleaning bucket down beside the couch. "Ground's drier back there. Figured the car would probably sink less." Why am I explaining parking logistics to Lauren Carter like she's gonna issue me a citation?
Her eyes flick toward me for a second, then toward the kitchen. "That why I didn't see your car?"
"Yeah." I don't mention that the "car" is a rental Lexus worth more than this entire trailer probably ever was. Actually, now that I think about it, if she had seen the car sitting out front, she probably still would've come charging in here anyway thinking somebody was robbing the place. Which honestly raises an important question. What kind of crackhead burglar pulls up to rob a trailer in a luxury sedan? Very classy crime scene.
She sets the rest of her supplies down near the hallway and brushes a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. Same nervous habit she's had since we were kids. Holy Cobain. "So," she says casually, "how long are you in town?"
I shrug like it doesn't matter. "Week or two maybe."
Lie. I want out of here in forty-eight hours. "I mostly just need to clean this place up enough to sell it." My gaze drifts around the trailer. "Or burn it down. Haven't fully decided yet."
That gets a real laugh out of her. God, I forgot how much I liked making her laugh. She nods after a second, leaning against the counter. "Yeah, I get it." Something in my chest tightens instantly. "I don't think I would've looked back either."
There's no accusation in it, no anger, no bitterness. That somehow makes it worse. Because she isn't saying it like someone abandoned by me. She's saying it like she understood why I ran the entire time. Like leaving this place made sense. Like leaving her made sense. The guilt hits so hard it almost feels physical. I look away before she can see it on my face.
Lauren keeps talking about cleaning like she doesn't realize she just walked into the emotional equivalent of a landmine. She explains everything in way too much detail. What she's gonna start with. How long she thinks each room will take. Which cleaners work best on nicotine stains versus grease. Apparently there's an actual difference, which feels mildly horrifying. I mostly just watch her while pretending to listen.
Apparently she cleans houses on the side now for extra cash. Lauren always worked. Babysitting. Cleaning houses. Doubles at that little diner off Main. Anything that paid cash and got her out of her dad's trailer for a few hours. Her life wasn't mine and Adam's kind of bad, but it wasn't easy either. Her mom got sick when we were kids. Died when Lauren was eleven. The year before was hell. The year after was worse. That's when she started spending more time with us. That's when she became Lou.
I tune back in just in time to hear her passionately explaining the correct way to clean baseboards. Holy Cobain, she's serious about this. "This thing's amazing," she says, holding up some fluffy mop contraption. "I had to make the handle longer myself though because apparently the cleaning industry assumes every woman is five foot two."
I snort before I can stop myself. Lauren shoots me a look. "What?"
"Nothing." I grin a little. "It's just funny hearing you call people tiny."
She rolls her eyes immediately. "I'm not that tall."
"You're like six foot."
"I am absolutely not six foot."
"Five ten then."
"Five eight."
"Lies." She bends down to point at the baseboards near the hallway and my entire brain immediately short-circuits like I'm sixteen again. Fuck.
I stare at her ass for way too long before forcing myself to look away. Baseboards. Right. "Yeah," I say quickly, nodding like I understand literally anything she's talking about. "Baseboards. Tough little bastards."
Her mouth twitches like she knows I haven't absorbed a single word she's said in the last thirty seconds. "You probably have cleaning people in LA anyway," she says casually while organizing bottles in her tote. "I doubt you've cleaned a bathroom in years."
I shrug awkwardly. "I honestly don't know."
That gets her attention. "What do you mean you don't know?"
"I mean…" I rub the back of my neck. "I live in this giant house with most of the guys coming and going all the time. Somebody definitely cleans it. Food shows up too. The fridge is always stocked." I pause. "I don't actually know who does any of it."
The second the words leave my mouth I feel like the world's biggest asshole. Because she's standing in a rotting trailer with a homemade mop handle cleaning my dead mother's house for side money while I casually explain that I apparently live like a confused raccoon with a management team. But Lauren just laughs softly. "That's actually kind of horrifying."
"Oh, it gets worse," I admit. "One time I thought we had a ghost because my laundry kept disappearing and coming back folded."
That gets a real laugh out of her. God. There it is again. That stupid feeling in my chest like somebody hooked jumper cables directly to my nervous system. She walks toward the kitchen sink, talking as she goes. "I wonder if there's even water in this place."
She stops in front of the sink and immediately frowns at the science experiment growing inside it. "Actually, maybe I'll try the bathroom."
Before I can answer, she's already heading down the narrow hallway. I follow behind her. The bathroom is exactly as awful as I remember. Lauren doesn't even hesitate. She flushes the toilet first. Then immediately makes a face. A horrible, amused face. She doesn't elaborate. Just reaches over and turns on the shower. The pipes groan. Water sputters from the showerhead. She glances back at me and gives me a small, closed-mouth smile. "Just be glad you didn't see what was in the toilet."
I wrinkle my nose. Lauren laughs. "It was worse than the kitchen sink."
"Holy Cobain."
She's still laughing as she sticks a hand under the running water. A few seconds later she frowns. "I don't think the hot water's working." She looks over at me. "Do you know anything about water heaters?"
I give her what is probably the dumbest look ever recorded by mankind. Lauren bursts out laughing. "That's what I thought." She points at me. "Toss me your lighter, Ashton."
"Why?"
"I'll go make sure the pilot light's still lit."
Of course she knows how to do that. Why wouldn't she? I dig the lighter out of my pocket and toss it to her. She catches it easily. Then pauses. "Oh." A grin spreads across her face. "Well, look at this."
She turns the lighter over in her hand. One of the limited-edition Bic designs from our latest album release. The cover artwork wraps around the entire thing. "Fancy."
"Very."
"I could probably steal this and sell it."
I bark out a laugh before I can stop myself. I'd forgotten how funny she is. "You'd get more money if I signed it."
"Tempting."
"Bic made a whole collection from our album covers."
She examines it seriously. "Very classy smokers."
"Extremely." She's already walking toward the utility closet in the hallway. The water heater sits inside, squeezed into a space barely bigger than a coffin. Lauren crouches down and starts messing with it. I lean against the wall. "Funny thing is, before you got here, I found my old weed stash."
She glances up. "No."
"Yep."
"Where?"
"Dresser."
"Shut up."
I pull the bag from my pocket and toss it to her. She catches it. Stares. Then starts laughing so hard she nearly drops it. "Ashton."
"What?"
"This is the worst weed I've ever seen."
"Rude."
"It looks like lawn clippings."
"It was premium lawn clippings."
"This is mostly stems."
"Organic stems."
She holds the bag up to the light. "I genuinely think smoking this would give you tetanus."
I snort. "No way. I've got an iron immune system."
"Uh-huh." She rolls her eyes and hands it back.
I shove it into my pocket. "You could smoke it with me." The grin slips out before I can stop it. I even wiggle my eyebrows at her the way I used to when we were teenagers.
For a second she just stares. Then she starts laughing again. "No."
"Come on."
"Nope."
"One hit."
"Absolutely not."
"Coward."
"I haven't smoked anything in years." The smile is still on her face when she says it. For some reason that tiny sentence hits me harder than it should. Because it reminds me that seven years actually happened. We aren't kids anymore. No matter how easy this suddenly feels.
She stands and dusts off her hands. That's when it really hits me. Not because she's beautiful. I already knew she'd be beautiful. Because she's familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. I know Lauren or I knew Lauren. I knew the girl who rode around in Adam's car with her bare feet on the dashboard. The girl who stole my hoodies and never gave them back. The girl who spent half her life in our trailer and the other half trying to escape it. But seven years happened. Life happened.
She's still Lauren. Just... older. My brain keeps trying to overlay old memories onto the woman standing in front of me and failing spectacularly. It's disorienting. Like finding a song you haven't heard in years and realizing somebody changed half the lyrics.
I have got to stop staring at her. I force myself to turn around before I accidentally spend another ten minutes staring at her like an idiot. Ceiling fan. Right. That's my job. I start dusting. I'm completely focused on the fan. One hundred percent. Absolutely focused.
Then a giant clump of nicotine-coated dust drops directly into my face. Unfortunately my mouth is open. I immediately start choking. "Oh, come on!"
I gag, stumble backward, and wipe furiously at my face with my shirt. Behind me, Lauren bursts out laughing. "You're not supposed to look at it while you're dusting!"
"I know that now!"
"Apparently not!"
"Wow," I cough, still wiping dust off my face. "You are heartless. I could've died." Lauren laughs even harder. "I make all my money with this mouth."
That somehow makes her lose it completely. I finally crack. A real laugh punches out of me before I can stop it. The hardest I've laughed in years. For a second she looks exactly like she used to. Same laugh. Same crinkling around her eyes. Same inability to stop once she gets going. "God, you're a pain in the ass." I say it while I'm still chuckling.
She grins and starts gathering piles of junk, tossing them into the contractor bag. I go back to dusting. The corners. The ceiling. The walls. Apparently everything in this trailer is covered in thirty years of nicotine and regret. She hands me another fluffy stick thing. I think it's a dust mop. I don't ask.
As I'm dragging it across the walls, I finally decide I should probably ask something about her. How do you casually cover seven years? How do you ask somebody about the life you missed? I settle for awkward. "So... what's new with you?"
She pauses. One hand hovering over a stack of newspapers. "Oh, very smooth."
I groan. She smirks. "But I'll answer out of the kindness of my heart."
"Appreciated."
"Where would you like me to start?"
I immediately regret asking. "Recent?"
She nods slowly. "My dad moved out of the trailer." I glance up. "It's gone."
"Yeah, I noticed."
"I moved a while ago."
That's it. The answer feels suspiciously incomplete. Like she deliberately skipped six chapters. I lower the dust mop. "Where'd he move to?"
The smile disappears. Not completely. Just enough.
"Oh." A beat passes. "He died last year." The room suddenly feels very quiet.
"Oh." Holy Cobain. "Oh, Lou."
Her eyes drop. "Heart attack."
I don't think. I just move. My hand finds her shoulder automatically. The same way it would've when we were seventeen. The same way it would've a thousand times before. For a second she goes still. Then she nods once.
"Yeah." Her voice is small. "But he had a good life."
I know that tone. I know it because I use it. The one people use when they're trying very hard not to feel something. "I'm sorry."
She finally looks up at me. The grief is there for a second. Raw and unguarded. Then it's gone again. Hidden away. But not before I see it.
"I'm really sorry, Lou."
She pulls away first, slowly. Like she remembered we aren't seventeen anymore. Her fingers find the stack of newspapers beside her and she starts shoving them into the contractor bag. One after another. Not looking at me. "So, yeah."
The papers crinkle. She shoves another handful into the bag. "I should probably say this now." Something in her voice makes my stomach drop. She finally glances up. "I'm married."