A/N: This series now has a title: A Different Point of View. See my profile for more details as well as the newest goings on.

Rated T for language and themes, including but not limited to grief, depression, and character death. Reader discretion is advised.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Series title credit goes to SpongeGuy.

A Different Point of View, Part 4

The Haunted Love Story

This is where we climbed the tower, this is where she fell

Then when her young heart stopped beating, I went to hell

—Alice Cooper

Chapter 1

The Lydia Pages

October, 2007

"Nigel, you know I support you in all your aspirations, but I really think you've taken things too far this year."

A worried Patrick regarded his husband, who had been looking more distressed with each round. It was the day of the annual Elwood City Fall Carnival, and the couple stood mere feet from the cake walk circle, where Nigel had played and lost the last eleven rounds. He had purchased one hundred and fifty dollars in tickets, a fact Patrick had just found out.

"Wouldn't you agree this is a tad extreme? It's just a cake. We can buy one from any bakery on the way home."

Nigel stared back at him wildly.

"Just a cake? Just a cake? I thought you understood, Pat. Mrs. Wood doesn't just throw her Auntie Opal's Never-Tell Bundt Cakes around willy-nilly. She only bakes them for fundraisers and her family's Thanksgiving dinner. She is the only living person who knows the recipe. That's why it's called 'Never-Tell'. The secret is passed down in the family through a Last Will and Testament. It is the most sought-after dessert in Elwood City. He who possesses it possesses the crown jewel of the carnival."

For someone who had only tasted the cake once, his husband knew quite a lot about its lore. That would have been impressive had it not been so sad.

"If it's the crown jewel of the carnival, why hasn't a winner selected it yet?"

Nigel leaned in and lowered his voice conspiratorially.

"I'm playing with a gaggle of newbies."

"Newbies? Did I hear you right?"

"Look at them. Youngsters. Green, every last one. They are taken in by flashy icing, dazzled by cheap, meaningless sprinkles, thus overlooking the unassuming Bundt."

Patrick had to admit he had a point. The little brown glaze-coated cake sitting off to the side of the prize table had nothing on the other, more remarkable-looking desserts. Had Patrick won, it would not have been his first choice. Then again, he was a chocolatier, and he knew most people ate with their eyes first, himself included. No wonder Auntie Opal's cake had gone unnoticed. Since it did not look like much, it must taste incredible. Nigel must have thought so, otherwise he would not have been so consumed.

"That's my advantage this year. All I have to do is stay in the game long enough to win, and it's mine."

"Or you could describe it to me. What does it taste like? I bet we could find something similar. I have a pretty big circle of confectioner friends."

"It would be a pale imitation," Nigel said, shaking his head. "Anyway, I can't describe it. It's simply…indescribable. If ever there existed a testament to its greatness, it would be its ability to stunt my vocabulary. It's a delicious riddle wrapped in a mystery inside a gooey, delectable gla—how can you say it's not the crown jewel of the carnival, Pat?"

"Okay, we're getting a bit overly-dramatic here. I really think it's time we went home and got some rest."

Nigel bristled.

"By 'we' you mean 'me'."

"Well, yes. I'm not the one on the verge of a hissy fit over baked goods. Seriously, Nige, I love you more than anything, but this is the one time of year I wonder why we didn't date longer."

Nigel clasped his hands as if in prayer.

"Please, let me keep going. This is my year. I'm close to winning, I can feel it."

Patrick felt sorry for him. For Nigel's sake, he hoped he was right.

"All right," he said soothingly. "But this is the last year you spend this kind of money on a cake walk. You have to know when to let go, hon."

"Bless you."

Nigel backed toward the circle with springy steps, smiling, ready for round twelve.

The players started walking again, and "Sugar, Sugar" by The Archies blasted from the speaker in front of the scorekeeper's table.

Unbeknownst to the men, they were being watched from the sidelines by a different couple.


"Everyone says he's obsessed," said Alan Powers.

He was speaking to Lydia Fox, whom he had accompanied to the carnival.

Originally, Alan had volunteered to help his mother run a booth at the event to promote the three new "cone-crete" flavors she had concocted for fall, to be served at the ice cream shop all season long. It was only after Lydia called him three days ago that his plans changed.

"Do you want to be my date to the carnival Saturday?" she had asked.

Alan had wanted that, and he answered without a moment's hesitation.

"Okay."

"Okay?" she said playfully.

"Yeah. Okay."

"Well, then…okay!"

They had shared a laugh over their inside joke before Lydia signed off with, "See you Saturday!"

When the call ended, Alan had broken from the spell he was under, instantly remembering his prior commitment, and he dashed to the living room to find his mother. She had not been upset when he humbly asked to go with Lydia instead. With the hint of a knowing smile, she had told him to have fun and not to worry about her.

And now here they were, Alan explaining Mr. Ratburn's history with Auntie Opal's Never-Tell Bundt Cake.

"He first tasted it five years ago. Mrs. Turner-Mills won it in a raffle, and she let him have a slice. Every fall he makes the circuit, trying to win. Every raffle, every cake walk, and every bingo, but he's never been successful. So, as the legend goes, it's become his white whale."

"And he used to teach you?" said Lydia with an air of skepticism.

An anguished cry rang out from the circle, and they looked toward the commotion.

"It's my white whale!"

Once again, Mr. Ratburn had failed. A young girl around the age of ten left the prize table, holding the infamous Bundt aloft proudly. She continued to the sidelines, where she handed the cake over to an elderly woman, likely her grandmother, who gave the girl a hug in return. Meanwhile, Mr. Ratburn looked crestfallen.

"On average, he was far more composed in the classroom."

"Hmm…" said Lydia, as she watched Mr. Ratburn leaving the game.

His head hung low as he walked side by side with his husband, who consoled him with gentle pats to his back.

"I guess some people are better at hiding their crazy than others."

"Um, yeah, I guess…" Alan said nervously. "Well, what's next? What would you like to do?"

He did not mind letting Lydia make the decisions. She was more into this kind of thing than he was. As a self-professed "Halloween nerd", Lydia had shown up decked out for the carnival in an orange sweatshirt with a giant black jack-o'-lantern face printed on it. Around her neck was a black cord necklace, the pendant of which was a skull that flashed in alternating colors. Alan was less than festive in his forest green sweater, but at least he was warm and comfortable on this cool and cloudy day.

Lydia glanced around.

"Hey, check it out! Let's do that."

She was pointing in the direction of an elaborate purple tent perched atop a small hill. It was Prunella Deegan's Tent of Portent. Alan could not stop the disgusted noise that escaped his mouth.

"Oh no, Lydia, you can't be serious."

"Of course not, but I want to go in anyway. Help me?" she added sweetly, batting her lashes.

For so long, Alan had felt as if he were fighting a losing battle in trying to express his romantic interest in her. He had not wanted to come across as clumsy or, worse, desperate, so he decided subtlety was the best course of action. She would appreciate the skill and restraint when all was said and done. He had tried to send her signals as artfully as he knew how. He supposed he could have done better, but there was no way he would have sought advice on how to improve. His feelings were private, between Lydia and himself. Everyone else was irrelevant.

It had taken some time. A couple of months ago, after years of failure, Alan had finally thrown caution as well as subtlety to the wind, and he executed the single bravest act of his life. And it had worked in his favor. Lydia had been caught off guard at first, but she was receptive to him. It was as if Alan had flipped a switch that rolled back some unseen barrier between them. Since that day, it had been easier to be more open with her about his feelings. Lydia had become increasingly more brazen and flirtatious around him as well. They had surpassed their greatest hurdle. Now all that was left was to see what the future held for them. Sometimes the anticipation of this future together gave Alan shivers.

Alan helped Lydia up the hill, hoping all the while they would not have an accident like they had the last time he had helped her. Fortunately, they made it unscathed. They entered the Tent of Portent, stopping just inside to get a good look. The inside was just as purple as the outside. Everything was bathed in a smoky haze smelling strongly of patchouli as incense burned on one of the small pedestal tables that stood in each corner. On the tables were clusters of white and purple candles in varying heights. Warm glowing fairy lights and swags of gauzy fabric adorned the ceiling.

The only way this could get any cheesier would be if she served a wheel of brie.

Alan had not verbalized this thought, but he mentally congratulated himself on its cleverness.

At the center of this mess, sitting at a table covered with a purple and silver star-patterned tablecloth, was Prunella. She had draped herself in shawls that, in reality, looked as if she had raided her mother's sideboard for more linens. She was also sleeping. She slouched in her chair, head drooping to one side. She donned a pair of earbuds attached to an iPod laying atop the table, along with another white candle and her crystal ball. She dozed on, unaware of their presence.

Lydia coughed loudly. Alan could not discern whether she had done it to get Prunella's attention or because of the smoke. The wannabe mystic startled awake, steadying herself before she slipped out of her chair.

"Ah! Jeez!" she said, yanking out the earbuds.

She looked to Lydia and stood quickly, adopting a placid expression.

"Ah, what have we here?" she said in a dramatic, ethereal voice. "A young woman, wishing to know what the future holds for her, and—oh… Hello, Brain."

Her expression had fallen once she had seen him, and her voice flattened at the end of her greeting.

"Your Omnipotence."

Alan greeted her with a nod, his voice laden with dry sarcasm.

"Good evening, you two," she said, going for the dramatics again.

Alan pushed up the cuff of his sweater and checked his watch.

"It's three-fifteen," he said. "Hardly evening."

Prunella turned up her nose slightly. She pressed on, and it was obvious that she was trying her best to ignore Alan. She turned to Lydia.

"I sense it is you who made the decision to come here. Come closer, dear."

Prunella had sensed no such thing. Everyone knew Alan was an infamous skeptic, especially Prunella. Over the years, Alan had occasionally gone out of his way to expose her quackery, much to Prunella's dismay. Given their history, it would not have been difficult for her to deduce that he would not be interested in this sort of activity.

Lydia was trying to suppress a smile. How could someone as smart as she be such a mark for something so hokey and devoid of intelligence? He could feel his IQ lowering just watching the scene play out.

"Actually," Lydia said as she rolled closer to the table, "I was wondering if you could do us both. Have you ever done that, a joint reading?"

Alan tried to shoot Lydia a why-are-you-doing-this-to-me look, but she was not paying attention to him. Instead, it was Prunella who gave a quick, nervous side-eye in Alan's direction.

"I—I—of course I could. But you'll both have to pay individual tickets. The spirits are working for a worthy cause today."

"Oh, none for me, thanks," Alan spoke up, waving a hand as if he were refusing dessert after a giant meal. "I'm fine with not knowing."

Lydia snorted.

"Now there's a lie if I ever heard one," she said to him over her shoulder.

She turned back to Prunella and said in a loud, exaggerated whisper, "He secretly wishes he knew everything."

There was a playful smile behind her voice.

"I think he would very much like for you—er, the spirits—to give him some insight," she said, handing her tickets to Prunella. "Right, Alan?"

Giving in this easily surprised him. Then again, had it not been for Lydia, he never would have stepped foot inside this tent. Alan rolled his eyes.

"Fine. Whatever," he said, digging into his front pocket.

He withdrew a handful of tickets, counted the proper amount, and gave them to Prunella. He took his place next to Lydia and stood there.

"Sit down, please," she mumbled, and Alan begrudgingly complied, taking the chair usually reserved for clients and crossing his arms.

Prunella took a seat directly across from them, giving her trailing shawls a flick as she did.

"Now, let's see…"

Prunella slowly waved her hands over the sphere, back and forth in a fluid, semi-circular fashion. She gazed into it, pretending to see something beyond its surface.

"Let's see…" she said again. "Who is M?"

"I'm sorry," said Lydia. "M?"

"I see the letter M. The first initial of someone very important to you."

Lydia thought for a moment then shrugged. Ten seconds in and Prunella was already striking out. Alan could not hide his satisfied smirk.

"Wait—it's becoming clearer. The M is turning into a…a J. Someone by the name of…James, possibly."

"Oh, that would be my grandpa," Lydia said enthusiastically. "James Keegan, but I call him Grandpa Jim."

"Yes, James Keegan, that's exactly what I was about to say. Your Grandpa Jim. I sense this is a living person…"

Prunella had not exactly phrased it as a question, but she had not stated it with much confidence, either. She let her words hang in the air as she pretended to concentrate on the crystal. After a moment, she cut a glance up to Lydia as if she expected her to say something.

"…or possibly one who has passed on."

"Yes. Grandpa Jim died when I was eight, one year before my Grandma Olivia."

"That must be why I'm also seeing an O," said Prunella wisely. "Grandpa Jim's spouse?"

"Yes, she was."

"Of course. That's how I was reading it. These images can be murky at times, but they are coming into focus…I see them standing next to each other."

"Are they doing anything?"

"They are…beckoning."

"Beckoning?"

Lydia sounded confused.

"Uh, or waving. Yes, waving. That's what I see. They are waving to you from the beyond. They are happy and send their love. I see something else…a jack-o'-lantern…a bowl full of candy…they remember how much you loved Halloween."

That was not much of a leap for Prunella. Alan would wager that a stranger could tell Lydia was a Halloween fanatic based on her outfit alone.

"That's true," Lydia said. "I trick-or-treated at their house every year."

Alan sighed, a bit louder than intended. How could she buy into this?

"You spent a lot of time together…"

She left it hanging again.

"Uh, yeah. We had lots of fun."

"I see fun and games…board games. Checkers…"

"Chess, actually. Grandma Olivia taught me the game when I was very young. She was a two-time state chess champion. She even left me an—"

"Yes! That's it, exactly!"

Prunella looked as if she had stumbled upon a goldmine.

"I see a chessboard between the two of you, hours spent learning strategies…"

"Oh, brother," said Alan, well above a whisper. It had just slipped out.

From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Lydia turning to stare at him. Ahead of him, Prunella looked up, a murderous gleam in her eye. She took one deep, dragging sigh, as if she were mustering the strength to remain calm.

"And you…" she said to him.

There was a dangerous edge to her voice. She peered into the sphere again.

"I almost forgot this was a joint reading. Let's see… Oh, this doesn't look good…"

No way would he give her the satisfaction of inquiring.

"It appears as if fate does not favor you. I see…tears. Many, many tears accompanying your past…"

Alan felt a fleeting moment of horror. That part had some truth to it; Prunella knew that well. They had been in kindergarten together. Had he not been too emotionally stunted to complete the grade the first time, Alan would be in the seventh grade along with her. Instead, he was still a sixth grader at the age of thirteen. This was a sore spot for him and he did not like talking about it, about being held back or all the crying he had done. There was no way he would have told Lydia. He doubted she would find his weakness appealing. Was Prunella about to tell her? Alan held his breath.

"…and accompanying your future. I see a great and terrible sadness in store for you, Alan Powers."

Alan exhaled slowly. It was just more of her hokum.

"A future filled with untold darkness and fear and—"

"Consider my spine effectively tingled," Alan said dryly. "You wouldn't happen to know where I could purchase a magical talisman to ward off all this untold darkness?"

"The spirits have closed themselves off to our realm," she snapped. "They are offended by all the negative energy in this space."

"Are you sure it isn't the cheap incense?"

"I grow weary," she said through gritted teeth.

She stood and pointed toward the tent's entrance.

"You should leave now. Perhaps you'll find satisfaction at this carnival in a more material form, like a candied apple."

As Alan helped Lydia get back through the tent's entrance, Prunella spoke up one last time.

"Just one more thing, Brain."

Alan turned to her, nonplussed.

"Beware Halloween."

"I'll keep that in mind, Prunella."

They exited the Tent of Portent. As soon as they were back at the bottom of the incline, Lydia took control of her wheelchair.

"Well, that was intense," she said tersely.

They were back on the main path. Alan followed her, unsure of where they were going.

"Idiotic," said Alan. "That's what that was. I can't believe you actually wanted to go in there. Surely you know that there are no such things as psychics."

"Oh, thanks, Alan."

Her voice was higher than normal, vibrating with tension.

"Next you'll tell me ghosts aren't real. Maybe I'm not a moron. Maybe I'm just a geek who wanted to do something a little spooky and atmospheric during my favorite season. Maybe I thought you could humor me, turn off your brain for five minutes, and have some fun."

"I was mocking pseudoscience," he said defensively, "so it wasn't a complete loss for me."

Lydia stared at him for a long moment before turning and rolling herself in the direction opposite the one in which they had been heading.

"Where are you going?" he said, and a wave of regret rose in his chest, telling him he had messed up, instantly making him wish he could rewind the last fifteen minutes.

"Lydia?"

"I'm going to find Mom and Dad and Brandon," she called over her shoulder, speaking of her parents and one-year-old brother. "Obviously, I made a mistake when I invited you."

They had not been together long, and now he had blown it. He had lost her, possibly forever. He started after her, unable to temper his panic.

"Lydia, no! Wait! I'm sorry! Okay? Please?"

Lydia stopped, and so did Alan. He was afraid to approach her, not without some sign that he was welcomed near.

"I'm sorry I ruined your fun. I really am. Please, come back. I'll buy us funnel cakes and we can start the day over again. I'll do whatever you want, and I'll keep my words to a minimum."

Slowly, she turned. Her expression was still dour.

"That was inconsiderate of me. I guess actively trying to have fun was never an objective of mine from the start."

Alan was tempted to hold back, but this was his last-ditch effort. He did not want the regret that would stay with him if he did not say it, so he pressed on.

"As long as I'm with you, that's really all I need."

They were in a standoff. He stood, anxiously awaiting Lydia's reply as her severe eyes bore into his. The side of her mouth twitched. She broke into a fit of snorts and giggles, slapping her knee in her mirth.

"Oh, wow! Was that—hee-hee—was that ever lame. But—heh-heh—also kind of romantic, you know? In your own special way…"

Alan's knees could have buckled from the shocking sense of relief.

Her fingers crept underneath the rim of her glasses and wiped her eyes, now brimming with tears of laughter. She headed back toward him.

"I had to get you back for that, at least a little," she said lovingly. "You had me at funnel cakes."

Minutes later, Alan and Lydia sat at one of the sticky red portable picnic tables, each enjoying a funnel cake from the nearby food truck. Lydia's was topped with a mound of strawberries and whipped cream, while Alan had opted for cinnamon-sugar. The air was filled with the inviting aroma of fried dough, powdered sugar, and fall. The patchouli incense was all but forgotten.

"Yum," Lydia mused after downing a huge bite. "This is the tastiest apology anyone has ever given me."

"Yeah…"

Alan cut his funnel cake into several bite-sized pieces with his fork while he thought carefully about what he should say next. Lydia placed her hand on top of his, briefly squeezing it before pulling away.

"What you said about minimizing your words… I don't want that, you know? I just want you to chill out a little."

"Sorry," he mumbled. "Challenging inane practices has always been one of my biggest compulsions. I should have been more respectful."

"No biggie. I forgive you. Check it out—we survived our first fight. Pretty exciting, huh?"

Alan nodded.

"Speaking of fun and my ability to have it…"

"Terrible segue," she said, "but go on."

"I'm going birding next Saturday morning."

Lydia's expression brightened.

"Oh? The place where we…"

"Um, no."

Heat crept into his cheeks, and he felt warm under the collar. The memory could still do that to him when it caught him off guard. It had been an important day.

"I'm going to the marsh instead… Would you like to go?"

Lydia concentrated on spearing a strawberry.

"Maybe. Will you let me rag on it the entire time we're there?"

She barely got it out before grinning widely.

Alan had a feeling she would not let him forget what happened in the Tent of Portent. As long as she was happy while she did it, that was fine by him.

"I'm just kidding," she said. "I'd love to go."

She put her fork down and snatched a piece of his funnel cake. She popped it into her mouth and winked at him.

The heat was gone. A shiver ran up his spine instead, and it felt wonderful. As far as Alan was concerned, she could never provide him with enough shivers.


October, present day

Alan sat at his desk. It was a mild and sunny Saturday afternoon, and he was spending it indoors, staring at his pocket journal, trying to determine if the thinning of its bulk was noticeable. He had removed several pages from it lately, and he would prefer his therapist not inquire about it. He regretted purchasing a journal with a spine. Had he instead selected a spiral-bound one, the pages would have been a cinch to remove, not to mention easier to clean up. With this journal, every time he tore a page out, little ragged paper tufts remained, protruding from its creases, tasking him with digging out the evidence. He always did this with his lab tweezers, careful not to mar the pages. Was covering his tracks necessary? Perhaps not, not unless Dr. Paula wanted to see his journal up close for some reason. She never had. He usually read aloud from his journal. There was always a chance it could end up in her hands, however. That was a risk he did not want to take.

Alan was thankful, for a change, that his mother had told him to stay home today. The Elwood City Fall Carnival had come around once again. As a small business owner and purveyor of a popular dessert, she would be there all day, promoting her newest cone-crete flavors, as she did every year. Alan had spent several of those years helping her. The last time he had been to the carnival was two years ago, when he had gone with Lydia. The time they had spent together that day had been one of their last before her passing, and he had no desire to relive the memories. Why bother? It only made him long for something he could not have. He had written this sentiment down in the pocket journal a few days ago, and then he had promptly ripped it out.

He had done this several times since, begun a page with a thought about her, only to remove it.

Would our future have felt longer if I had told her sooner?

Rip!

Does everyone feel like this when they grieve, or is it just me?

Rip!

Should I apologize for the way I behaved?

Should I have gone to the funeral?

I didn't go, and her parents still gave me her chess set. Why would they be so kind when I did nothing for them?

Rip!

Rip!

Rip!

Alan thought of these as the Lydia pages. He had not thrown them away. Instead, he had kept them in the middle of his copy of Brief Answers to the Big Questions. That had to mean something. Surely he would show them to Dr. Paula eventually, when he had the strength, the courage. When he thought about the pain it would stir up, Alan felt almost feverish with dread. Knowing that confrontation was necessary to the healing process did not make things easier. Maybe when this horrible season was over…

Once the anniversary passes, I'll show them to Dr. Paula. I just need time to mentally prepare.

He could do that. He had plenty of time on his hands these days. Since his breakdown, the day he had caused a scene at the library and rushed home to break into his shop, Alan's parents had been stricter about how he spent his time. They had demanded that he go on hiatus from work and all extracurricular activities.

"Just for a few weeks," his mother had said as the three of them sat together on the sofa, "until you've taken some time to rest."

If they had thought this would ease Alan's mind, they had been mistaken. He had panicked, pleading his case to them.

"No! I can't! I made a promise to Muffy. If I don't help her, she could get into serious trouble. Please, it's imperative that I tutor her."

His parents had shared a nervous, skeptical look.

"I'm begging you. This is for my wellbeing, too."

She's the only friend with whom I can converse freely.

Perhaps he should have said this, but he already felt too exposed. It was far easier to waffle and tell half-truths.

"I can't be idle. I need something. I—I need a purpose. Just let me do one useful thing?"

They had conceded on the condition that, if at any point Alan felt overwhelmed, he would relinquish his tutoring duties.

The sessions with Muffy had become his new sanctuary. He felt occupied, and he felt less alone. Not that they spent a lot of time discussing his trials and tribulations, but knowing that she knew about them and still accepted him made a difference. Muffy had even been exceptionally nice to him since that afternoon in the cabin of her limo, where they had both come clean about their struggles. Each trusted the other with their biggest secrets. They had a different kind of friendship now, positive and supportive, and he could hardly believe it was real.

Aside from Muffy, schoolwork, and therapy, Alan had nothing going on, and he was bored. Perhaps he could complain about that in his journal. Perhaps Dr. Paula could help him work through the aggravation it caused him. He put his pen to the paper, wondering if he could get enough material down to take up an entire hour of therapy, when his phone rang, playing his favorite Buddy Guy song.

"Hi, Binky."

"Hey, Al," Binky said in a raised voice. "Me and the guys are at the carnival."

Alan could have gathered that from the background noise.

"Give us your twenty so we can meet up."

"Um, I'm not actually at the carnival, Binky," he said. "I was too busy this morning."

"Not here. He says he's busy," came Binky's distant voice, apparently holding the phone away so he could relay the message.

The unintelligible voices of Arthur and Buster could be heard as well as a couple of groans before Binky was back.

"That's too bad. You missed it! Ratburn finally had a meltdown. Well, if you're not still busy at five-thirty, we're gonna go to Loring Cinema and see Slice to Meet You."

"So be there if you wanna have a life!" Buster yelled in the background.

"Later, Al."

Alan checked the clock: a quarter after three. He did some mental math. He had approximately five minutes to decide if he wanted to go. After that, he needed another five to text his parents for permission.

They would likely consent. It was just a movie, and friends were not exactly off limits, just anything that would cause undue stress.

Then he needed another twenty to shower, change, and brush his teeth. He would need to arrive early because, even though Binky had said five-thirty, that was likely the movie's start time and not the meetup time. Binky often missed this detail, and Alan had learned to factor in extra time. If he arrived by five-fifteen, he would have an hour and a half to spare, plenty of time for a leisurely stroll to the cinema.

Now, to decide how badly he wanted to go. He did not, not really, but he weighed the pros and cons. The only con he could see was that he would be forcing himself to do something. There were, however, a couple of pros. The fresh air would be good for his brain, and so would the change of scenery. He remembered something Muffy had said:

"Then promise me as a friend that you'll hang out with the boys the next time they want to include you."

Could he try it, just this once?

"…it'll be good for you."

Alan groaned wearily.

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I suppose," he muttered.

Alan pulled up his contacts and shot a text to his father.

Binky invited me to the movies this evening. May I go?

While waiting for the reply, he rose from his chair and went to his closet, preparing for his shower. As he made his selection, he paused.

The chess set was buried in here somewhere.

No. He was not going to think about that anymore today. He was going to hang with his friends and chill out, or at least attempt to. The Lydia pages could wait. Alan had just withdrawn a pair of jeans and a sweater from the closet when his phone chimed.

Yes. Have fun and be safe. Please check in.

Please check in. That was a new request. It made Alan feel like a child, though he understood why they asked it of him.

Thanks. I will.

At the very least, this evening could give him something new to write about in his pocket journal, something that stayed within the confines of its cover.

He draped his outfit over the back of his computer chair so he could take care of the page he had ripped out today.

Why can't I look at the chess set?

Alan picked up the page without reviewing it, placed it inside Brief Answers to the Big Questions, and closed the book. He grabbed his bathrobe and left his room.

To be continued…