Page 67… in a fiction series
Drew Becker took a deep breath, tried Miranda’s cell phone again, trading his appetite for pizza with fear. Judging by the number of empty bottles around the house, she would not be picking up her phone, and had no intention of being found that night. Since the day they first met over a beer at Jack’s Steakhouse, they had become good friends. And as far as that big dramatic kiss on the dock, Drew wasn’t faking. He had been wanting to do that for a long time.
When Miranda bought her house in Petoskey, Drew came to see her often. They ate their way through mountains of Oreo’s and watched Alfred Hitchcock’s North by Northwest till they knew every line. In the scene where the train enters the tunnel, Drew laughs hysterically, Miranda blushes. For a guy on a motorcycle, he had a strange affect on her.
Even though Drew was nothing like Harry, with his British charm and bank accounts, she just enjoyed being with him. Like a frisky Saint Bernard puppy, he chased her ’round and ’round, nipping at her ears till she was ready to play. He was too big to tame and too cute to scold. But when he visited Miranda in her dreams at night, she was always glad to see him.
Drew Becker lived alone above an old boathouse on Lake Charleviox where he repaired boats by day, and wrote poetry by night. In spite of the leather jacket, rough hands, and chrome pipes, he was sensative and strong– a great catch for a girl who didn’t need lots of shiny things and diamonds to hold her interest. Miranda hoped he would meet a nice girl someday, somebody special.
Since he didn’t have a yacht or a summer home in Maine, Drew relied on substance and grit. He made her laugh, made her think, made her cry. Not on purpose, of course. But sometimes their long talks carried her back to places she’s rather not go. All the years of drinking had stolen away her emotions– she didn’t even know it. Till now, her past played out in her mind like a fiction novel, not a story of her own. Drew asked the tough questions. By telling him the truth she was forced to be honest with herself.
One night, curled up like a kitten against his broad chest, those emotions found safe harbor and began to overflow. It had been a long time since Miranda let anyone truly see her. Though their relationship was strictly platonic, Miranda secretly wondered if she was falling in love with him, a silly notion considering where their lives had been, and where the future would likely take them.
But now, with Miranda alone in Detroit, probably manic, possibly in danger, time was of the essence. Drew was 300 miles away, north by northwest of the city, and had no idea where to find her. He wrote down the number on the answering machine and dialed. When Miranda’s mother picked up, he had no idea what he should say.
To be continued…
*This story is based on some true events, however, has been fictionalized and all persons appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
© 2012, Shoes for an Imaginary Life. All rights reserved.