TITLE: The Things We Know
AUTHOR: Sarea Okelani
E-MAIL ADDRESS: sareaokelani @ gmail.com
WEBSITE: http://www.vanishingscroll.com/talon/
RATING: PG-13 (mostly for language)
CATEGORY: SRA
SPOILERS: Not sure about specifics, but you're safe after 
"Nicodemus."  Anything before and including is fair game.
KEYWORDS: Not telling; proceed at your own risk!  (I think it's 
much less ominous than that sounds, but YMMV.  If you really must 
know, I give it away in my author's notes at the end of the 
story.)
DISTRIBUTION: Please do not archive -- the full text of this 
story will be archived solely by the author at her site (mostly 
for version control issues).  If you'd like to link to the story 
from your Web site, I'd be honored -- but drop me a line first, 
please.
DISCLAIMER: Even if I could take them away from The WB, I'd never 
get them away from DC Comics.
FEEDBACK: I would love to hear from you.  LOVE.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Thanks to Jade for the red-ink duties.  More at 
the end.

SUMMARY: "You know, you can know a thing.  You can know it with 
all your intellect and your common sense, but if your heart has 
doubts, you will always, always doubt."


The Things We Know
by Sarea Okelani
*~*~*~*~*~*

Look, there she is again.

She looks good.  I mean, really, really good.  Especially since 
she has kids now.  One or two, I don't remember.  And she's still 
as slim as she was when she was 15.  That's about all that's the 
same.  She carries herself differently.  Now, everything she 
wears looks tailor-made for her.

It's strange to think that I used to know her.  Hell, I more than 
"knew her."  I wasn't just some acquaintance.  I dated her.  She 
was my =girlfriend=.  Of course, that was a lifetime ago.  And 
even then she'd been looking elsewhere.  I only had her out of 
guilt, because of what my father had been going through.  I know 
she felt she had to stick by me.  She only admitted it the one 
time and she apologized later, but she couldn't even remember 
what she had said.  I never forgot, though.

She looks so cool and unapproachable in those sunglasses.  Yeah, 
it must be the sunglasses.  Blocking everyone else out.  She 
doesn't have to pretend she sees you; she doesn't have to pretend 
she recognizes you.  Sunglasses never used to be her style.  
She'd just as soon squint as put on a pair.  But things have 
changed.

This is twice in one week that she's graced us with her presence. 
It must be some kind of record.  The reporters don't seem to be 
around.  I wish they'd vacation somewhere else.  Then I wouldn't 
have to see her, wouldn't be reminded.

I still remember the day we broke up.  I don't mean "remember" as 
in it's some foggy memory laced with Little League games and 
fishing trips with my dad.  I mean that I remember nearly every 
detail with exact clarity, as if someone had taken a Polaroid of 
the occasion and stuck it in my brain.

I'd been anticipating it.  Dreading it, really.  I'd known it was 
coming.  I'd been a senior and she'd just finished her freshman 
year, and I was heading off to college.  I might not have gotten 
scholarships to the schools of my choice, but I was going to play 
somewhere, and that was all that mattered.  I was leaving.  The 
last thing I wanted was to be stuck in this one-horse town 
forever.  Ironic, isn't it?

Anyway, it made sense that we'd break things off.  I was going 
away to =college=, the perpetual party.  I'd probably join a 
fraternity, meet a bunch of college girls, stay out late every 
night, and drink so much beer I could swim in it.  By rights, I 
should have been the one itching to shed my noose.  I should have 
been the one to take her aside and hesitantly start her name 
because I still cared about her and didn't want to hurt her 
feelings.

The crazy thing was, part of me thought that we might be able to 
have a long-distance relationship.  Try it out, at least -- what 
was the harm in that?  If we tried and it didn't work, fine, we 
would break things off.  But it seemed ludicrous to end a 
relationship that was going well just because I was leaving.  
Right?

But maybe it wasn't going well.  I'm ashamed to say that I 
honestly didn't know at that point where we stood.  Maybe I 
hadn't wanted to admit it to myself right then, but I'd sensed 
her interest ebbing.  I knew -- particularly after her slip that 
one time -- that she wasn't with me for the right reasons.  But 
selfishly, I believed I could make her remember how she'd felt 
when we'd first started dating.  Make her feel the things she'd 
felt when she agreed to go out with me in the first place.  
Rekindle her feelings.

As it turned out, the breakup was completely anticlimactic.  It 
was the night before I was going to catch a plane that would take 
me to my new career as a college student.  Just a short pit stop 
on my way to becoming a world-famous athlete.  I remember because 
I'd had an argument with my mother -- she thought that my last 
night at home ought to have been spent with my family.  She must 
have forgotten what it was like to be 18 and in love.  I argued 
that I'd see them at the airport the next day.  My last night was 
for her.

I'd chosen a really nice restaurant to take her to.  I wore my 
nicest suit and presented her with one long-stemmed red rose.  
She looked absolutely breathtaking.  I mean that I literally 
stopped breathing for a few moments when I saw her.  She was 
wearing a black dress -- it wasn't tight or anything, but it was 
long and didn't have any sleeves, and she had this ... wispy 
scarf-thing around her neck.  I have no idea what that's called, 
but it was sexy as hell.

She thanked me for the rose and tucked her hand under my arm.  I 
remember thinking at that moment that it would all be okay.  
Things felt too normal not to.  She wouldn't have dressed so 
nicely if we were planning to break up, would she?

I don't remember much about our meal, but I remember everything 
about the atmosphere and how she looked sitting across from me.  
There were two candles on the table, which lit up her smile and 
shadowed her eyes.  She was everything intriguing and wonderful 
in a girl.  She seemed relaxed, and fool that I was, I thought it 
was because she was glad to be with me.  Pleased that I'd found a 
way out of Smallville.  Happy because she knew that I'd come back 
for her as soon as I could.

"I'll call you every weekend.  I plan to visit a lot -- my family 
and you -- so we'll be seeing each other.  It won't be so 
different.  It's not that far, actually, really just a long car 
ri--"

"Whitney," she said.  I'll never forget the way she said my name.  
She sat back in her seat, and for the first time that night her 
entire face was in shadow.  Her smile had disappeared.  Her 
fingers began to fidget with her utensils -- one of her nervous 
habits.

I knew what her nervous habits were.  Didn't that count for 
something?

"Whitney," she said again.

What?  What?  Just say it, I wanted to shout.  But I couldn't.  
Someone had poured Elmer's glue down my throat.  I hoped I was 
overreacting.  Maybe it wasn't what I thought.

"Do you think that's a good idea?  You'll be starting a whole new 
life, and I don't want to hold you back."

She was putting it in terms that would do me the least damage, 
but God, I can't imagine how it could have hurt any more than it 
did.  I wasn't stupid.  I knew what she was saying.  It wasn't 
about me.  It was about her.  Sure, maybe part of her did want me 
to move on, too; I had to believe that part of her wished the 
best for me.  And if things were different I knew she had it in 
her to be selfless like that.  After all, what was the whole 
latter part of our relationship but her being selfless?  But I 
knew this wasn't it.

God help me, I pretended to misunderstand.  On the slim hope that 
I was wrong about her other motivations?  To give her a hard 
time?  It could have been either of those things.  But I think, 
mostly, it was because I couldn't let it end that way.  I needed 
her to tell me, right to my face, the truth.  So I didn't just 
nod and let her go.  Instead I said, "You wouldn't be holding me 
back.  I love you.  I want to make this work."

Already, she was shaking her head, and when she looked at me her 
eyes were wet-looking.  Even in the dimmed lighting I could see 
that.  And even I couldn't fool myself into thinking she was 
teary from happiness at what I was saying or that she was sad I 
was leaving.  They were tears of pity, maybe frustration.  Tears 
from having to hurt me, maybe.

I'd always known she'd break my heart one day.  When we first 
started going out, she was this sweet, beautiful girl who had 
placed herself in my hands.  It was my job to protect her, love 
her, save her.  But if someone placed something priceless in your 
sweaty hands and told you to take care of it, what would you do?  
Trip and break it, of course.

But I knew that despite that, or maybe even because of it, she 
had the power to gut me.  By the very fact that she was pure and 
good, I knew my time with her had an expiration date.  I had 
every reason to want to be with her; I couldn't think of even one 
reason for her to be with me.

Not that she thought in those terms, of course.  But I knew that 
one day she'd find someone better, worthier, more like her.  I 
didn't know how right I was.

When I dropped her off at home, I walked her to her door, for the 
last time.  I was numb with grief.  Everything I was doing 
tonight with her would be the last time.  I kissed her goodbye -- 
out of habit.  I debated the entire drive whether I should, and 
decided that maybe she didn't want me to, so I wouldn't.  But 
standing there on her porch, I automatically leaned down and 
kissed her.

To her credit, she didn't pull away or flinch even the slightest.  
Maybe also out of habit.  She didn't entirely return the kiss, 
either.  Her lipstick had rubbed off by then, and her lips were 
smooth and soft under mine.  I hoped, fleetingly, that mine 
weren't too chapped.  She tasted faintly of regret and chocolate 
mousse.

I don't care what you do, but please don't go out with Clark 
Kent.  The words were on the tip of my tongue, but I held them 
in.  My pride had been dented enough for one evening.

"Goodbye," I said, embarrassed that I had kissed her; upset that 
she could let me go.  She didn't say anything, but stood there as 
I made my way back to my car and drove away.

I wouldn't see her for months.  I returned to Smallville during 
Christmastime, feeling pretty good about myself.  I'd thrown 
myself into football and school, and I was getting a lot of buzz 
about my playing.  I thought about her now and again, but never 
let myself call her, and when I finally returned part of me 
thought that my new confidence and maturity might make her see me 
in a new light.  And if she did, well, maybe I would consider 
giving her a call.  If I even felt the same about her.

I'd gone out a few times, with women who weren't at all like the 
high school girls I'd known.  She would probably seem like a baby 
to me now.  I spent a lot of time fantasizing about the moment we 
would see each other again.  I would be indifferent and aloof; a 
man.  She would be one of those vapid high school girls like 
those portrayed on TV.  She would be awed by the confident man 
standing before her.  I would be polite and gracious.  She would 
wonder if I really remembered her at all, and she would regret 
that she had let me slip out of her grasp.

Do I even need to say that that wasn't the way it happened?  I'd 
been home for a week.  So far, things had been great.  Small 
towns have long memories, and I was still hailed as a hero.  I 
hadn't seen her, hadn't even heard a thing about her.  Pride 
wouldn't let me ask.

Two days before Christmas, Lex Luthor had a party at his mansion 
and of course, anyone who was anyone was going, even me.  A few 
buddies (guys I hadn't seen since graduation) and I would put in 
an appearance, we said, as if we had anything better to do.

The party was in full swing by the time we got there, and we 
quickly found ourselves a couple of beers and a central place to 
situate ourselves.  We never lacked for company, and everyone was 
in good spirits.  I looked around every once in a while, trying 
to spot her, and it must have been a good hour before I finally 
did.  She was just suddenly there, in my line of vision, without 
me having to turn or crane my neck.  She was laughing with a 
couple of other girls.

It turned out that all my assumptions were erroneous.  She did 
not look like a baby.  She looked ... stunning, like a gazelle in 
a herd of rhinos.  She didn't look like a sophomore in high 
school; she looked more mature than the women I was used to 
seeing, older women who should have outshone her.  She had her 
hair piled high on her head, a few curls escaping to frame her 
face.  She was wearing a long, sequined red dress that molded her 
curves in the most enticing way possible.  The little straps on 
that thing were probably just for show.  Did she have breasts 
like that when we were going out?

Seems I wasn't the only one who could grow up.

As I watched, Clark Kent materialized beside her, two glasses of 
red wine -- no, punch -- in his hand.  He handed one to her, and 
she took it with her right hand, so that her left could grasp his 
now-empty hand.  Their fingers twined together, and they looked 
absolutely comfortable that way.  The people they were with did 
not do a double-take; they did not look at each other and nudge.  
So.  It had happened, then.

You know, you can know a thing.  You can know it with all your 
intellect and your common sense, but if your heart has doubts, 
you will always, always doubt.  And right up until that moment, I 
hadn't truly believed that she would get together with Kent.  
Because that would mean that most likely, when she was with me, 
she had at some point probably wanted to be with him instead.  
And what guy wants to know that?

It annoyed, but not surprised, me that I could still feel 
jealousy about her.  I hadn't seen her in months and I had a new 
life, a life I was pretty happy with.  And yet to see her with 
Kent, I wanted to punch walls.  Or preferably, him.

Someone jostled me from behind, probably from being jostled by 
someone else.  There were that many people in the room.  I turned 
out of reflex anyway, and was confronted by the lord of the manor 
(literally) himself.

"Sorry about that," he said, then seemed to recognize me.  "Oh, 
hey--" he stopped.

"Whitney," I supplied.

"Whitney, right," he said quickly.  "Good to see you.  It's been 
awhile.  Enjoying the party?"

"It's great."  I knew he could barely recall who I was, but I 
returned the pleasantries.  I was, after all, in his house, 
eating his food, enjoying his party.  "How are things?" I asked, 
having no idea what to talk to him about, and being more than a 
little uncomfortable.  Lex Luthor had a way of dissecting you 
with his shrewd gray eyes, as if he could strip away all the 
layers and see you for the vermin he knew you were.

He shrugged.  "Can't complain.  You must be used to wild parties 
by now."  He grinned.

I grinned back, feeling a little more at ease.  He'd always been 
a friend of Kent's, all because the lucky bastard happened to be 
there when Luthor drove off a bridge.  Anyone who could swim 
could have dived in to save him from drowning, but Kent was the 
one who was there.  Anyway, Kent had always been after my girl 
and Luthor had always supported his friend.  But now that there 
was no longer any reason for us to be at odds, Lex Luthor almost 
seemed like a regular guy.  A regular guy who owned the 
Metropolis Sharks.  Or at least, his father did.  "Yeah, I've 
been to one or two," I replied casually.

"Ah, that's what I miss most about college," he said, raising his 
glass of wine in a toast.  "The spree killing of brain cells and 
being too stupid the next day to remember having done it."

He was still smiling so I kept smiling as well.  "Right."

"Well, enjoy the rest of the party."  He downed his drink and 
from nowhere a server appeared with a tray to take the empty 
glass from him.

I wasn't sure what had just happened there.  My mind was kind of 
muddled.  He'd sounded nice enough and his manner had certainly 
been friendly enough.  So why did I feel like I'd just gotten the 
raw end of some deal?

Suspicious, I watched him make his way around the room, finally 
getting  to her and Kent.  He joined in the conversation easily, 
and when he spoke everyone paid attention.  After a while Kent 
excused himself, and he and Luthor exchanged meaningful glances.  
Once Kent was gone, I saw Luthor turn to her and gesture politely 
toward the dance floor.  Ahh, I got it now.  Kent had to go off 
to do whatever he had to do, and Luthor, as his best friend, was 
to entertain Kent's girl and keep all would-be suitors away.  She 
nodded shyly, and he took her hand and led her to the dance 
floor, which parted as if by magic to make way for them.

I wondered what Luthor would do if I tried to cut in.  Probably 
just snap his fingers and four guards would appear to haul my ass 
out of there.  Kent had certainly lucked out that day, to have 
made a powerful ally in Lex Luthor -- a man who wasn't afraid of 
anyone.

I never spoke to her again.  Does that surprise you?  I have to 
admit, it surprises me a little.  We're from the same town -- 
you'd think we'd run into each other here and there every once in 
a while, but no -- not one single time.  Of course, we move in 
vastly different circles now.  Now I can hardly believe I ever 
knew her at all.

I moved on with my life.  I thought about her, sure, but who 
doesn't think about a girl they were once in love with, every now 
and then?  By the time I graduated from college, I'd had my share 
of girlfriends, and I had been seeing one girl, Lauren, pretty 
seriously for about a year.  I didn't get recruited to play on 
any pro teams -- an elbow injury my junior year had taken care of 
that -- so we contemplated our future.  My degree was in history, 
but I couldn't see myself as a teacher, and coaching football was 
too painful a concept at the time.  When my father died 
unexpectedly (a death after such a long illness is should be 
expected, but it never is), it seemed that the choice had been 
made for us.  I moved back to Smallville, married Lauren, and now 
I own and run Fordham's.  It seems this was my destiny, and I'd 
been a fool to try to postpone -- or put off -- what was meant to 
be.  I could only run for so long.

I know this now.

By the time all this came about, she was gone.  Hell, so were 
most of the people I'd known.  Off to college or somewhere else, 
to find their places in the real world.  I don't mind saying it 
was a bit lonely for a time, but then they started trickling 
back.  I was glad to see them.  Even people I hadn't known all 
that well suddenly seemed like old friends.  It's amazing what a 
few years and some perspective will do.

One day, my kids will go to the high school I attended, and 
perhaps I'll even coach my son at that same school.  Lately I've 
been feeling the urge to get back to the sport I used to love, 
and I know the school's interested.  I can leave the store in 
good hands with Frank, who's a hell of a manager.  Lauren's fine 
with it, and I think maybe it's time to start a new chapter in my 
life.

Maybe then, I'll stop thinking about the past.  Or at least, 
maybe I'll remember it more like an old friend and less like 
something that went wrong somewhere.

Not all of us are meant for the big city or the big, bright 
lights.  The only big, bright lights I know are the ones that 
accent a football field.  It's a hard, cold world out there.  
It's difficult to imagine her making her place in it, when all I 
can remember is the sweet, doe-eyed girl I used to know.  I guess 
I never saw the diamonds beyond the glitter.

When their marriage was announced it made all the papers.  The 
wedding was proclaimed as "the event of the century" -- I think I 
read that there were over 2,000 guests.  When Lauren and I got 
married, it was her, me, the minister, and two witnesses.  And I 
wouldn't change one single thing.  If there's one thing in my 
life I've never regretted, it's Lauren.  Does that seem contrary 
to everything I've been saying?  Probably.  It's human nature.  I 
can't undo what I've done or what I know, and in my head it all 
fits somewhere.  What I do know: A wedding with 2,000 guests?  
That's not me.

I wouldn't have thought it was her, either.  I hear she's some 
big-name fashion designer now.  Partly why the wedding was such a 
big deal, I guess.  I couldn't read anymore; it was just too 
strange.  Does any of that sound like her?  Doesn't to me.  But 
maybe that's not such a surprise.  

You see, I knew what I knew, but I don't think I knew her at all.  
Kent tried to tell me a few times, but I never listened.  She was 
stronger than I thought, he said.  I didn't give her enough 
credit.  She wasn't a fragile girl who couldn't stand up for 
herself.  On the contrary, she was passionate, fiery, locked up 
like Pandora's box, and she wanted to be set free.  That's what 
she'd been looking for.  As it turns out, Kent may have scratched 
under the surface, but he didn't have the key, either.

I wonder how long it took her to find that out.  I wonder how 
long it took her to realize what she wanted, then to go out and 
get it.  Because I know she must have made a calculated effort.  
She could not be in love with him.  No, I have to believe that if 
there's one thing Lana Luthor knows, it's how to get what she 
wants.  Her husband just got played, that's all.  It's the only 
explanation.

I'll prove it.  I'll walk out of this store right now and take in 
some sun.  She'll see me when she comes out, and I'll look 
straight at her.  Then we'll see.

Here she is, still with her sunglasses on, holding a small brown 
bag.  She's moving fast; she's not going to look around.  She'll 
never see me.  The urge to call her name is strong, but I can't, 
no more than I could call out the mayor's name just because I 
know what it is.  She unlocks her car door -- a shiny, new-
looking silver BMW -- and turns her head.  And pauses.

I'm holding my breath.  Does she see me?  Does she recognize me?  
I can't tell anything with those glasses hiding her face.  She 
steps away from the car and starts walking toward me.  Even now, 
I'm unsure.  Is she going to walk right by and look at whatever 
caught her eye in the store window behind me?  Is there someone 
she knows ...?

"Whitney?"

I'm 18 years old again.  I can hear that same voice saying my 
name.  Same inflection, same everything.

"Is that you?"

She stops a couple of feet from me and pulls up her sunglasses, 
letting them rest on her head.  She squints; the sun is high 
above us.

I find my voice.  "Yeah.  Lana, God.  How are you?"  It's the 
stupidest thing imaginable to say, and the only thing I can say 
to her.  This woman standing in front of me is an unknown entity, 
a strange amalgam of someone I know and someone I've never seen 
before.

She smiles, and it's the same Lana smile -- where's the guile?  I 
look for hardness in her eyes, for some piece of evidence that 
would prove her disingenuous nature, but I only see her tawny 
brown orbs looking back, and they're clear -- nothing sharp to 
cut me, nothing that says she's judging me in her mind.

She has crinkles in the corners of her eyes and laugh lines 
around her mouth; Lana has aged, just as I have.  She's still 
beautiful.  And what I see in her eyes hasn't aged at all.  If 
the eyes really are the windows to the soul, then Lana has 
nothing to fear when her time on Earth is over.

I just can't understand it.  Is this, too, a deception?  Am I 
just a really poor judge of character?

"I'm fine, Whitney," say says, and sounds sincere.  "How about 
yourself?  You look wonderful.  I don't think you've changed a 
bit."  She seems slightly amazed that I'm standing in front of 
her; we'll both just stand here, gawking.

"Yeah, well, thanks.  You too.  It's -- it's good to see you, 
Lana."

"How long have you been back?"

"Oh--" I shrug.  "Since I graduated, actually.  Dad died and I 
came back to take over the store."

"I'm so sorry."  Her eyes are tender.  "It was good of you to 
come back; your mother must have really appreciated the help."

I shrug.  "Didn't have much choice.  I injured my elbow junior 
year, and any hope I had of playing pro ball ended then."  I 
expected to feel the familiar stab of regret that always 
accompanied the telling of this story, but it never came.  Odd.

"I'm sorry to hear that; you always were extremely talented."  
She seems embarrassed.  "That doesn't help, does it?"

Her discomfort actually makes me feel better about it all.  I 
don't want her to feel uncomfortable; I don't feel bad about it, 
so she should be at ease.  "I'm over it.  It was a long time 
ago."  I'm finally starting to feel the truth of those words.  
Seeing Lana here, like this -- it's as if I'm finally getting to 
lay some things to rest.

"Well -- I can't believe I haven't bumped into you before now," 
she exclaims.  "We live in the same darn town."

"Well, not really.  You're from the big city now," I tease.

She wrinkles her nose, and sighs.  "I guess.  I think I'll always 
be a small-town girl at heart.  And we like it here.  It's quiet.  
Being here ... it even calms the kids down, gives them some 
perspective."

"Perspective," I echo.  "How many kids do you have?"

"Two," she replies.  "A girl and a boy."

"Hey, me too!" I exclaim, as if this were some amazing feat that 
we had accomplished together.  I feel ridiculous, but her big 
grin actually makes me feel better.

"Is the older one your daughter?" she enthuses.

"No -- my son," I say, and her face actually falls.  I think 
about the kids we might have had together, if things had been 
different.  Our daughter would look like her; our son would look 
like me.  Clearly this is purely rooted in fantasy, because 
that's never the way it works.  "What's in the bag?" I ask, 
gesturing to the brown sack.

"This?"  She holds it up, and for the first time, I notice the 
diamond ring that glitters on her finger.  It's smaller than you 
would think; not ostentatious but simple.  The way it shines in 
the sunlight, though -- it's obviously of unimaginable quality.  
Lauren would probably be able to tell you karat size, price, and 
purity after the glimpse I just had.  "It's ice cream."

Lana had just been to Cissy's Homemade Ice Cream -- I should have 
known, the direction she came from.  But I suppose that was the 
last place I would have pictured her.  "For the kids?" I ask.

She laughs and shakes her head.  "For Lex.  He loves Cissy's 
mocha almond."

I stiffen a bit.  I'd forgotten.  It hits me just then; I am 
standing here talking to Lex Luthor's wife.  This pretty, 
composed girl-woman with the shiny rock on her finger, this angel 
I've never forgotten, belongs to someone else.  She married 
someone else.  She shared a life with someone else.  She had 
borne that someone else's children.  Lana Lang.  What a surreal 
thought.  "That's nice of you, to come into town to get it for 
him."

She laughs again.  "Are you kidding?  I wanted to.  Now he's 
stuck with the monsters and they're running HIM ragged instead of 
me."

I have to smile at that.

"Well, I better go," she says, and despite myself, I'm 
disappointed.  I'm sad our time together has been so short.  "Ice 
cream," she explains, and I nod.  "Don't be a stranger.  Come by 
anytime.  Bring your wife and kids; we'd love to see you."

I believe her.  Lex Luthor may not be thrilled to see me -- if he 
even remembers who I am -- but Lana's invite is genuine, and so 
is my reply.  "I will."

Lana waves, slipping her sunglasses back on.  I suddenly realize 
that it really is bright outside.

As she drives away, I raise a hand in farewell.  I notice that a 
man is next to me, watching her drive off as well.  He doesn't 
look familiar, and he's dressed far too nice for a regular 
resident of Smallville.  No one dresses like that unless they're 
... well, a Luthor.  Sometimes we get tourists from the city who 
want to see "the countryside."

"That was Lana Luthor, wasn't it?"  He sounds slightly awestruck.  
I can't hold back the grin.  Here the guy leaves Metropolis, 
where the Luthors usually live, and ends up seeing one of them in 
the quiet little town he decided to go to for kicks.  "You know 
her?"

Yes, I do.  And no.  I don't.  "She's ... an old friend," I 
answer finally, and the words sound right.

The man peers at me, as if trying to determine whether I'm 
telling the truth.  Then he holds up a hand, trying to block out 
the sun to get a better look at my face.

"You should get some sunglasses," I advise.  "The sun can get 
pretty bright around these parts, without all the smog acting as 
a filter."

I smile and duck back inside.

A few days later, Lauren hands me a newspaper along with a raised 
eyebrow.  "Something you want to tell me?" she asks.

I have no idea what she's talking about, and take the paper from 
her.  It's a supermarket tabloid.  My mouth drops -- there, right 
on the front page, is a large color photo of me and Lana from the 
day I spoke to her on the sidewalk sporting the headline: "LANA 
LUTHOR FANS OLD FLAME."  I scan the article, which is a lot of 
fluff, just background on Lana and speculation about me.  "He 
would only identify himself as an old friend," wrote John Boylan, 
who is apparently the author of this piece of crap.

Of course, John Boylan was the tourist, who wasn't really a 
tourist at all.  Somehow, this fails to surprise me.  I doubt Lex 
or Lana will be surprised, either.  This kind of thing probably 
happens to them all the time.

Lauren's been waiting for my reaction, and when she doesn't get 
one right away, she puts her hands on her hips.  "Well?"  I can 
tell I've made her suspicious by not immediately laughing or 
offering an explanation.

"Me and Lana Luthor?  Come on, Laure.  You know I haven't seen 
her since we were kids."

"Hmmph," she says, but allows me to pull her into my arms.

"Things aren't always what they seem," I say, and kiss the top of 
her head.

In five minutes, Lana melted away years of disillusionment and 
bitterness.  I should be resentful that she was able to do that, 
maybe, but I'm not.  As much as I hate to admit it, Kent was 
right; I hadn't credited her strength.  I'd assumed the worst had 
gotten the better of her; I'd never considered that maybe it was 
the other way around -- maybe she had gotten the better of it.

Or maybe it's even simpler than that.  Maybe it's just that Lana 
is human, like the rest of us.  She cries when she's hurt; she 
laughs when she's happy; she tries to be a good person; she makes 
mistakes; she ages; she falls in love; she remembers old friends; 
she takes care of her family.

And really, it never gets much more complicated than that.

=End=


4/12/02

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Wow.  This story represents many firsts: My first 
story =completed= outside of the X-Files genre/fandom/whatever; 
my first Smallville fic; my first Lex/Lana foray; my first ... 
well, you get the picture.  Who knew that all this would come at 
the hands of Whitney Fordham, arguably the least sympathetic 
character on the show?  (At least Lionel Luthor is so ruthless 
that you can't help but love to hate him.)  This is my attempt to 
give him some screen time.

I couldn't figure this story out.  I knew what I wanted, but 
couldn't seem to get it there.  I kept fumbling my way around in 
the dark.  Thanks to Jade for holding the flashlight.  It's due 
to her that I stopped tearing my hair out by the roots.

**Feedback welcomed and cherished at sareaokelani @ gmail.com**

Thank you for reading!!