by Sarah Ockler
Cole’s nowhere in sight, but across the room, Marceau tips his beer bottle toward me and smiles. I didn’t see him arrive, and I’m surprised at the flutter in my chest. In the wake of my inappropriate Cole-fantasizing, I grab on to the feeling like a lifeboat. Even though we’re landlocked, as Marceau astutely pointed out, but still. Flutter! Not Cole! Progress!
“Hey,” I mouth over the crowd, holding up my frosty glass of yellow-white slush. Marceau winks.
I send Ellie a quick text—frenchie has arrived. let the panting and/or pantsing commence—then flip back to video as John continues.
“Four score and four years together,” John says. “We’ve endured countless tornado warnings. Sex-ed assemblies with Mrs. Frockton.” John puts a hand on his bare chest and shudders.
One of the vampires I saw at the dance makes a gagging sound. “Givin’ me nightmares, bro!”
Everyone laughs, but John holds up his hands to quiet the crowd.
“We’ve survived Kincaid’s British lit class,” he continues. “The questionable safety of Merton’s chem labs. The questionable safety of cafeteria hamburgers.” John clenches his stomach, then rockets his fist into the air. “Despite my best efforts at delinquency, my pretty face has yet to appear on Miss Demeanor’s scandal page. You don’t have to protect me, D! Obama took the pressure off when he became the first black prez. The second one has more room to cultivate a shady past.”
“You’re shady as hell, bro,” one of the vamps says.
John flashes a crooked grin. “I’m saying! Miss D, if you’re here, you lovable scandalmonger, come forth!”
“It’s totally Lucy, right?” Griff giggles from her perch on Paul’s lap, and everyone roars at the ridiculous joke. The chill between us thaws, and across the room she returns my smile, making a heart with her hands.
“Fine,” John says. “If the real Miss D refuses to self-identify, I dedicate this next scandal to Lucy. Hot-ass chick in your hot-ass boots. That thing on video?” He points to my phone, and I give him the thumbs-up.
John goes all Shakespeare in the Park on a rendition of that rage against the dying light poem by Dylan Thomas, which has nothing to do with graduation as far as I can tell, but his performance is partly musical and beyond compelling.
“Do not go gentle into that good night!” John’s voice is thick with emotion. Everyone cheers, and in a moment of passionate abandon, he rips off his cummerbund and flings it into a bowl of Doritos.
“That’s enough,” Clarice says. She tries to wave him down from the coffee table, but he shakes his head. She’s fuming. “You’re such an asshole when you drink!”
The crowd ooohs.
“Don’t you yell at me!” He unbuttons his pants. More cheers.
“You’d better not be taking off those pants,” she warns. “I’m serious. You take off your pants, we’re through.”
“Don’t you yell”—John looks from Clarice to his crotch—“at my pants!”
The room erupts, taking up the chant as he ditches the offending pants.
“Don’t you yell, at his pants! Don’t you yell, at his pants! Don’t you yell—”
“Consider yourself dumped,” Clarice says. “You hear me? It’s over!”
“Okay, then. As I was saying.” Unaffected by his sudden breakup, John stands in his striped boxers and holds up his hands for everyone to settle down. “Do not go gentle into that good night. Go . . . swimming!”
He hops off the table and stumbles out the sliding patio doors behind him. Everyone but Clarice whoops and rushes to follow, Griffin dragging me by the arm, Cole catching up behind us, and by the time we reach the pond in the backyard, John’s naked, save for the fairy wings and black socks.
The last thing I see before closing out my video is a great brown ass cannonballing into the water, camera flashes lighting up the sky like an electrical storm.
“There goes the second black president of our great nation,” Cole says.
“Newly single, too.” I snap a few still shots as he bobs in the water. “Think he’ll really run for office?”
“If he does, those pics will be pretty tweet-worthy.”
“They’re already tweet-worthy,” Griff says. “We’re uploading them for hashtag scandal.” She tries to take a few shots of her own, but quickly gives up and stumbles back toward the cabin. “Paul!” she shouts, loud enough to wake the entire forest. “These lips won’t kiss themselves!”
Cole nods toward my glass, mouth curved in a smile. “I lose track of you for one hour, and look what happens. How many is that?”
“Three. I’m fine. Don’t worry.”
“I am worried, Lucy dear.” His sleeves are rolled up now, no more jacket and tie. His bare forearm is warm around my neck. “As your date, I’m obligated to hold your hair back if you yack. That’s one aspect of our relationship I’m not interested in exploring.”
“Feeling is mutual, dude.”
Cole rubs his shaggy head. “I don’t have quite enough hair.”
“It’s the principle.” I slip out from under his arm and chug the rest of my drink, trying not to shiver at the double-whammy alcohol burn and brain freeze. When I look up again, Cole’s face is serious, eyes flashing with sudden intensity.
In all the commotion, I forgot I’m supposed to be dodging him, and now that we’re alone, nowhere to run, fear shoots through my limbs.
“I have to talk to you.” His words spill out in a rush.
I’m going to kill you, Griffin Colanzi.
“Luce, I’m not—”
“Duuuude.” Out of the darkness, 420 lumbers forth, clutching the bowl of cummerbund-spiked Doritos. The effort of trying not to laugh turns his face red. “I might be hallucinating.”
Beneath Ellie’s dress my legs tremble.
Cole says, “Good for you, man.”
“Yeah.” 420 rocks back on his heels. His eyes go big. “I mean, no! There’s something on the deck. It’s eating the bird feeders.” He grins like a jack-o’-lantern and wanders off toward the pond, still babbling. “Unicorn or some shit.”
THERE’S A UNICORN ON THE DECK (AND OTHER STATISTICAL ANOMALIES THAT SHOULDN’T BE PHOTOGRAPHED)
420 was not, in fact, hallucinating.
“There’s a unicorn on the deck,” I say. “Is this happening?”
“Spence must’ve kidnapped him.” Cole guides Prince Freckles down the steps, cursing Vanitas’s bassist. “His truck’s the only one with a horse trailer. Fuckin’ cowboy.”
“Couldn’t stay away, huh, buddy?” I rub Prince Freckles’s snout and scrutinize his face for signs of distress, but he seems fine. His glittery horn is bent, and when I unhook the chin strap, I swear he moans in relief.
Cole ties the leads to the railing. “I’ll get him something to eat. Want anything from inside?”
“I’m good.” I climb back on the deck and pet the horse over the railing. He nuzzles my hand, content.
“Be right back. Don’t go anywhere, Luce. I really need to talk to you.”
The mountain air cools fast, but between the drinks and my nerves, I don’t feel the chill.
I really need to talk to you. . . .
Even the gentle presence of the horse can’t slow my thoughts, my mind spinning webs of awkward possibilities. I don’t like you that way, Lucy. I’m flattered, but I have a girlfriend. How could you do that to Ellie? Maybe you should just go home. . . .
Then, from possible to impossible. I’ve always sensed something between us, Lucy. . . .
My phone buzzes with another text. I know it’s Ellie. It’s like she can read my mind, hear the twin echoes of guilt and longing in my heart.
having fun w/o me? :-( what happened w/ frenchie?
so so, I text back. lost frenchie in the mix—stay tuned. u’d be bored here, girlie! lots of debauchery, not much convo. I send her the John video as proof.
Ellie’s always up for a party, but she prefers them low-key and intimate, the kind of drinking that evolves into intelle
ctual arguments about oppression or sexism or unfair labor practices. John’s often her most engaging opponent, but our illustrious debate team captain is currently shivering on the couch in nothing but a wool blanket, a stitched-on herd of buffalo grazing across his shoulders.
The backyard has cleared out. If anyone noticed our four-legged party crasher on the march back inside from the pond, no one thought it odd, and by the time Cole returns with carrots for the horse and a beer for himself, we’re alone.
The bottle hisses as Cole twists off the cap. He leans on the railing kitty-corner from me, casual and cool. Crickets count the seconds I wait for him to speak, to give me a chance to deny Griff’s allegations, but he just sips the beer.
Beyond the sliding doors at the other end of the deck, the living room is a tangle of dancing bodies. I can’t see Griffin, but Paul’s lounging on a recliner, and John’s gone horizontal on the couch, still wrapped up like a burrito. A new playlist starts, mixing with the whir of the blender, and the dancing bodies slow to a rhythmic sway, everyone snapping pictures and videos, still howling about John’s swim.
“Most of them will have to check their Facebook status tomorrow to see if they had fun,” I say.
Cole laughs, but he doesn’t look at me, just sets the bottle on the rail with a thunk. “Remember the time we got busted stealing mugs from Pete’s Kitchen?”
Sophomore year. The three of us dared one another and thought we’d gotten away with it, but the manager had seen Ellie and Cole stuffing mugs under their coats. He nabbed them at the door. We spent the next two hours at the diner, me sipping coffee at the counter in a fresh mug, the stolen one undetected in my bag, while Ellie and Cole bussed tables to avoid calls to parents.
I still have my Pete’s souvenir. Beige with dark blue letters and a thick handle you can barely get your fingers around. It’s on a shelf in the studio Dad set up for me in the basement, holding my small paintbrushes. Every time I look at it, I picture Cole, the stained apron around his waist, hands caked with coffee grounds and old mashed potatoes.
“You guys got busted,” I remind him now.
“No shit, troublemaker. No one ever suspects you.”
“I have a nose ring,” I say. “People always suspect me. I’m just better at hiding the truth. It’s called stealth, bro. Get some.”
“Nah, there’s something else. Like, this quiet confidence thing. You’re all, Don’t mess with me, candy-asses.” Cole makes a tough-guy face that quickly dissolves into a smile. “God, I love that about you.”
Sparks ignite in my stomach. I wish I’d asked him for another drink, something to cool the heat swirling inside me.
Cole takes a swig of beer and looks up at the crescent-moon, hazy and cloaked in soft gray clouds. Beyond it, a tiny white point glows brighter than the rest.
“Is that a planet or a star?” I ask.
The invisible pull of his stare evaporates as he turns to look.
“Planet,” he says. “Venus. And those stars just above the tallest ponderosa? Cassiopeia.” Cole moves closer and takes my hand, his palm cool from the beer. He stands behind me and lifts my arm, traces an outline in the sky above the tree line. My bare shoulders graze his chest, and I have to fight the urge to turn around, to seek out his heartbeat again.
“Makes a W,” he says.
Prince Freckles snorts. Dinner and a show? You guys are the best!
“I have a star map,” Cole explains. The beer bottle dangles from his fingers, cool against my leg, too close. “Dad’s teaching me astronavigation on our treks this summer. Corny?”
“Not corny.” I lower my head slowly, eyes drifting from Cassiopeia back to earth, and I finally turn to face him.
His eyes fill with sadness as he studies my hair, my skin, my mouth like this is the last time we’ll ever see each other, five seconds left before the earth explodes. His lips are full and pink and I’m wondering what they might taste like and then, with the horse looking on and Cassiopeia watching from the night sky, Cole presses his mouth to mine.
Every cell in my body collides, a million tiny explosions across my skin.
The swirl behind my belly button deepens, and when I close my eyes, the sky shatters and the stars fall, pinpricks of white-hot light landing on my shoulders like glitter.
Cole’s mouth is cool and sweet, apples and beer. I lean closer and wrap my arms around his neck. His hands are on me, one tangled in my hair, one pressing the bottle to my back, and I’m lost.
Spinning, falling.
Four years.
Hungry. Desperate. Amazing.
Four years.
Unforgettable.
Four years.
Completely, entirely, line-crossingly wrong.
In an instant the haze clears.
I push him away and meet his eyes.
“Luce—”
I shake my head, fingers grazing my lips. “This isn’t—we can’t.”
“I’m sorry.” Cole drags the back of his hand across his mouth as if to erase me. “I didn’t mean . . . Sorry.”
I nod slowly as he backs toward the sliding doors, bathed momentarily in soft yellow light from the living room. He nearly plows into Olivia, just standing there with her perfect pink wings and chestnut-colored pixie cut, all adorable and annoying.
“We’re playing cards and . . .” She hesitates, watching with wide eyes as Cole slips past her and disappears inside. “I need a teammate.”
“I suck at cards,” I say. With a shrug, she’s gone.
I wasn’t the one she’d come looking for.
The music keeps going. Laughter on the other side of the doors. Blender. Bottles clinking. Crickets and breezes and the soft nickers of the horse, all of it marching on.
But for me, everything stops. An instant, heart-stilling pause on the playlist of my life. My pulse thuds in my ears as I hit rewind and relive that moment again and again, the forbidden want squeezing me with an ache both deep and endless.
You look really nice. . . . A slow dance . . . What’s the worst that could happen? . . . I love that about you. . . . I didn’t mean . . .
“There you are, Lucy last name Vacarro.”
I look toward the doors, but it’s only Marceau. He joins me on the deck, stands at the railing where Cole stood just minutes ago.
“I was looking for you,” he says. “I missed on you.”
“I missed you.”
His amber eyes shine in the dark. “We are the same.”
I open my mouth to correct him, but swallow it. I can’t trust my words, and I grab my phone off the railing and absently scroll through the pictures, my mind still tripping all over Cole. Behind my ribs, in the hollow place where my heart used to be, a smooth black stone rattles against the bones.
Four years.
From the first time I saw Cole in the woods behind our neighborhood, the week after the Fosters moved into the house around the corner from ours, I’ve been thinking about him. Dreaming. He was there with Spike, his Dachshund, and he crouched in the dirt to let Night of the Living Dog sniff them out, and when he said my name and smiled I saw the whole future of us. Homecoming games. Movie nights. Study sessions. Prom, tonight, all that dancing. Kissing.
I never said anything—not to anyone—and now he’s with my best friend, and in a few months he’ll be in Boston, and she and I will be roomies at UCLA, and my chance will be gone forever.
Is gone.
Was gone, end of freshman year when Ellie asked him out and he answered.
Yes.
It’s nobody’s fault but mine. I stood by and let my dreams fade into missed opportunities, and I have no right to hunt them down. No matter how good that kiss felt, no matter how long it lingers.
“Lucy?” Marceau smiles again, crooked and sexy, full of flirt.
I have to get over Cole. No more obsessing about a guy who belongs to my best friend. I have to let him go.
I step toward Marceau and give him a damsel sort of look, and he slips his hands beh
ind my neck, guides me the rest of the way. His kiss is gentle and tentative, the opposite of Cole’s, and even though nothing changes inside, I close my eyes and try to make it so. Marceau. Marceau. Marceau. No attachments. No betrayals. No regrets. No—
“Are you kidding me?” Cole’s voice shatters everything.
Marceau and I unlock. Cole is wide-eyed and blurry, his hair untamed.
“Did I do the wrong thing?” Marceau whispers. His arms stiffen around my shoulders.
Before I can answer, Cole turns on us and dodges back into the house.
“I do not understand,” Marceau says. “He said he is not your boyfriend.”
I force a smile. “It’s just a misunderstanding. Be right back.”
• • •
“Lucy! Darling!” Griffin rises from Paul’s lap and captures me in a tipsy embrace.
“Have you seen Cole?” I ask.
Her eyebrows shoot up. “What’s going on?”
“We just . . . I need to talk to him.”
“Baby, come back!” Paul paws at her dress. “My lap is cold.”
“So much for the grace of the elves, you rotten scoundrel.” Griff smacks his hand and rocks forward on her toes. Behind her overkissed lips, her breath is warm and sharp. “If something happened with Cole, you better tell me—”
“Or what, Griffin?” I snap.
She pulls back, unsteady on her feet. “I just think—”
“Don’t think. Go back to your make-out marathon with Legolas and stop worrying about me and Cole.” I grab her shoulders and steer her into Paul’s lap, ignoring the hurt on her face. The time for apologizing is tomorrow, when we’re both sober. Right now I have to find Cole.
I march through the kitchen and almost crash into Olivia, who seems to be making a career of being where she shouldn’t. Her arms are loaded with Mike’s Hard Lemonades, and she giggles at our near collision.
“Sorry!” she says. The tips of her ears are pink beneath her pixie cut, and her blue eyes look frightened. Something tells me this is her first unsupervised party. “Ohmygod, Lucy! Are you okay?”
