by Nic Stone
We hate nights like these. Cold nights. Dry nights. Nights when our only physical contact is with one another.
Yes, when we do have Alexander between us, we often wind up sweat-soaked and twisted beyond recognition—he tosses about more than a skiff caught in a hurricane on the open ocean—but that is better than this…destitution. At least when he’s here, he lives in this loneliness with us.
His mother hasn’t come in to check on our well-being since she handed us off to the maid to be ironed and snapped, pulled too tight over the mattress corners, and tucked painfully down into the frame of Alexander’s mahogany monstrosity of a sleigh bed.
We do wish she’d check on him more often.
While being transported to the laundry once, we overheard her tell the maid that Alexander reminds her “a bit too much” of the son she lost before he was born—but that’s no fault of our boy’s, now is it? And if Alexander’s fevered dreams of his father pushing him off cliffs or locking him into cages or chasing him down with chains are any indication, things aren’t exactly hunky-dory in that parent-child relationship either.
You didn’t hear it from us, but he often dreams of freedom: convertible drives through the mountains wearing shirts with strange words—Stanford, Notre Dame, etc.—runs along open woodland trails at sunrise….
As of late, there’s a brown girl with large hair who makes a fairly frequent appearance at his side.
Anyway. It’s nights like these—the empty ones—when we want him to come home so we can wrap him up tight and never let him go. If nothing else, it would keep us from feeling this alone.
He certainly doesn’t like it. Why on earth would we?
I wake with the scent of Macklin Magic still in my nostrils. It makes me smile, so I keep my eyes closed.
No clue how I got home, but I think this might’ve been the best I’ve slept in a really long time. Bed feels softer than it’s ever felt, and I swear this pillow has arms…
And legs?
Oh God!
I squeeze my eyes tighter because…Yep. That is definitely an arm between my shoulder blades, a leg between my legs, and a chest beneath my cheek. Force one eye open and there’s a chin.
Can’t breathe now.
I shift to sit up.
His eyes open, and he smiles. “Mornin’, sunshine.”
Morning?
I look around. There’s a pink halo around the edge of a window on the far side of the room.
“Shit!” I jump up from Finesse’s couch. Still in my clothes from yesterday. “What time is it?” I say, rushing over to get my shoes on. “Where’s Jessica?”
I look back at Zan who—whoa—looks downright delectable rubbing his sleepy eyes with his hair sticking up every which wa—
Focus, Rico!
He stretches, and the hem of his shirt lifts. “Jess left last night,” he says in the midst of a yawn.
I stop dead. “She what?”
“She’s got a midnight curfew, so she left at like quarter till.” He yawns again.
I’m just like…standing here. Stunned. “She left me?”
Zan looks at me like I’ve lost it. “You said you wanted to stay.”
“Huh?”
“We were watching a movie, and when she got up to leave, you said you wanted to stay. Bragged about not having a curfew and everything.”
Okay, now he’s just talking nonsense.
“You don’t remember?” he says.
“No!”
Thinking back, thinking back…there was Ness and Jess’s disappearance when we first got here, then Zan-the-Man all flirty with me on the couch. They came out, we played Scattergories (I won), then pizza and music and laughter and something fizzy that had kind of a bitter aftertaste—
“You spiked my drink?!”
Welp, he’s wide-awake now! “What? No!”
“Well, how did—?”
“You asked for it.” He shakes his head and puts his face in his hands. “Ness told you what he was drinking, and you asked for a cup of your own.”
“Oh.”
“You don’t remember anything?”
I don’t respond. Can’t.
“Nothing at all?” he says, and as he does, his face morphs into that of a very sad baby elephant. Like if he had a trunk, it would be dragging on the floor right now.
My eyes narrow…and then go as wide as the tires on his Jeep.
Oh no.
“Did we…?” My hand flies to my mouth. “Oh my God.”
Confusion in the caterpillar brows now. “Huh?”
I scramble to get my Docs on. “I have to get out of here. What time is it? Crap, I’m so screwed!” Ugh! No pun intended!
“Rico, relax—”
“I was supposed to be at work at six a.m., Zan!” Where the heck is my jacket? Bet that emergency phone of mine is on fire with missed calls. “I’m sure my mom and brother are freaking out….” Oh right. It’s upstairs in the Montgomery coat closet. Fantastic. “I can’t even remember most of the night, and now you’re telling me we hooked up—”
“Whoa.” He lifts his hands. “I did not say that.”
How the heck do I even get out of here? What if Ness’s parents are sipping coffee over newspapers in the kitchen? I don’t want them to see me leaving their house at this hour! I feel like such a stereotype…poor girl gets hammered and gives her cookies to some rich boy after crashing a party she shouldn’t have even been at. Might as well have a red letter T for tramp tattooed on my cheek. “Well, that’s what you implied with your sad face—”
“What?” Now he’s pulling his shoes on.
“You think I was born yesterday? Why would you be upset about my memory lapse if we didn’t hook up?”
He sighs and looks at the ceiling. Stands. “It makes me sad that you assume the worst of me, Danger—”
“Can we not do this right now?” Gotta be a clock around here somewhere…
6:47?!
I’m so dead.
Zan grabs his jacket from a chair in the corner I failed to notice. Mine is beneath it. He tosses it to me. I pull the phone out and check it—
Thirty-eight missed calls and twelve voice mails.
I try to listen to the first one, and the phone dies. I shove it into my back pocket.
I’m so so so so dead.
“Do you need to go to the bathroom or anything?” he says.
I jab my arms into my sleeves. “I’ll go at the store.”
“Fine.” He walks over and buttons my coat for me. (Is he serious? WE GOTTA GOOOO!) Then he’s taking my hand, interlacing our fingers, and pulling me down a short hallway to a back door.
* * *
—
The Montgomerys have a downward-sloping driveway that leads to a four-car garage at the rear of the house. That’s why I didn’t see Zan’s Jeep yesterday: it was parked in the back.
As he zooms us through the neighborhood and out to the main road, a million and one questions are tumbling around in my head.
“Zan, did we hook up last night?”
“No, Rico.”
“Tell me the truth.”
“I am! Though why you don’t believe me—”
“I just…need to hear you say it for real.”
His jaw clenches. “We. Did. Not. Hook. Up.”
“So what happened?”
He stops at the YMCA traffic light. “We talked. Laughed. Played frickin’ Twister.”
“Okay…”
“Then Jess wanted to watch Final Destination, which I’m pretty sure was a trick to get you and me closer together. But anyway…the movie started, and you got scared, so you curled up beside me on the couch.”
The light goes green.
“Yes, you’d had a little to drink, but you seemed p
retty lucid. If I’d known you wouldn’t remember anything, I would’ve sent you home with Jess.” He sighs. “I just thought…” Shakes his head. “Never mind.”
“You thought what, Zan?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Maybe not to you, but it does to me.”
He keeps his eyes on the road. “I thought you wanted to stay with me, Rico.”
And now I have no words.
No matter what he says, there’s no way I buy that Zan Macklin just wanted to hang out with me. What do I even have to offer a guy like him? (Other than access to my secret places…which why would he even want that, considering all the gorgeous-rich-girl secret places he has access to?)
None of last night could’ve possibly been real.
We turn into the Gas ’n’ Go, and he pulls right up to the door. “You want me to come in and explain to Mr. Zoughbi? I’m sure he and I can reach an agreement.”
“No, it’s fine,” I say.
“You sure?”
Super not the time for this. “I said no, Zan. You can’t sweet-talk my boss every time I have a problem.”
“I was just trying to help—”
“I didn’t ask for your help.”
“Fine.” He reaches across me and pushes the door open. “Have a nice day.”
Okay. Deep breath.
“Look, I’m sorry, I just—” can’t figure out what else to say. Too many thoughts/emotions/wishes/fears/questions swooping around and colliding in my head.
The connecting thread, though, is a sense of unworthiness. Being here, being with him with his nice clothes and rich scent in this nice car I could never afford because I work here at this fucking gas station for money that’s gone before I ever get paid because we live way above our means in an overpriced, trash apartment in this stupid upper-middle-class area…
I hate all of it.
“Can I use your phone, please?” I cross my arms and sneer at the cracked pavement of the store parking lot. “I really need to call my mom, but mine is dead and I’d rather not use the one in the store.”
He hands it over and shifts his attention out the window as I dial.
Part of me knows I should get out so he doesn’t overhear the call, but I can’t. He was there last night, so having my alibi beside me is kind of comforting (my life has become a mess of contradictions). If only I had the courage to slip my hand into his so he could hold it while I face the coming motherly rage inferno.
She answers on the first ring. Frantic. “Hello?”
Breeeeeathe. “Hey, Mama.”
“Oh thank God! It’s her, Jaxy!” she says, her voice muffling as she presumably covers the receiver. Then she’s back. And loud. “Rico Reneé, where the hell have you been? We’ve been worried SICK!”
“I know. I’m sorry. Fell asleep at a friend’s house.”
“I called everyone I know, Jaxy spent the whole night crying….And what about your job?”
“I’m at work now,” I say. “I just wanted to call and let you know I’m okay.”
“You bring your ass straight home when you get off. You owe your brother an apology and a goddamn afternoon.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She hangs up.
“Guess we’re not going to the church today?” Zan says.
I shake my head. Feel the urge to cry at the base of my throat. “I’m an hour late. I’ll have to make it up, and I need to spend some time with my brother. He was upset last night.”
“Next Sunday then?”
Part of me wants to explode. Really go off on him for thinking about the stupid quest or whatever he called it when my life is clearly in shambles.
But the other part? The other part knows I can’t give up on that ticket. Especially not after basking in the glow of Jess’s dreams coming true and being in Finesse’s house, wrapped in the comfort of financial stability. Really seeing what money can buy.
There’s a lot of it on that little slip of paper.
So.
“Yeah,” I say. “Sounds good.”
His shoulders relax. “Everything will be fine, okay, Rico?” I hand him his phone, and he catches my hand and tugs my middle finger.
I nod. “Okay.”
But of course I don’t believe him.
I’m mostly right. About things being distinctly not fine.
Jax has a fever on and off the whole week, which is extremely stressful. When he hits 102° the night before my and Zander’s rescheduled church visit, I bring up the public assistance thing again (solely for his sake), but Mama takes it personal and gets so upset, her stomach starts acting up.
I hate being at the apartment when they’re sick because it becomes this black hole of despair. I’m also exhausted from working so much and trying to keep up with school/homework (failed that “We Didn’t Start the Fire” test), so the store and school are suck cities too.
Which has caused my perception of Alexander Gustavo (Tuh.) Macklin to…morph.
It’s strange and uncomfortable if I think about it too much (so I don’t), but despite the mind-set I was in when he dropped me off at work, now anytime I think about waking up with our appendages entwined, I feel lighter. It’s like for a moment I got to exist in another life. One where everything was taken care of and I could just be.
It’s the same fairy-tale land I slip into anytime he’s around now. Which is more often than I would’ve expected. He sits next to me in history every day, and on Tuesday, he found my lunchtime getaway spot in the media center and decided to camp out there too. We don’t talk any more than we did before (especially not in the media center; pretty sure the media specialist is a dragon in disguise). But the fact that he continues to show up and smile and occupy the same space and seem happy about it has given me this place I can escape to where nothing else exists.
It’s disorienting, but what isn’t these days?
As a matter of fact, when Zan pulls up in front of my apartment Sunday morning, I’m so relieved, I kinda wanna leap into his arms. He comes around to the passenger side of the Jeep, and it takes every bit of willpower I’ve got to resist wrapping myself around him and just…holding on.
It’s terrifying.
He looks me over, top to toe. Since we’re headed to church, beneath my borrowed-from-Mama’s-closet wool coat, I’m wearing a plum pencil skirt and white button-down shirt, with actual high heels (also snatched from Mama’s closet, lord help me).
It’s like the sun is rising on his face as he takes me in. “Well, hot damn, Danger.”
My cheeks combust, so I drop my chin. “Stop it.”
He chuckles.
When I raise my head, he’s still checking me out. Grinning.
“Geez, Macklin, have you no shame?” I pull my coat closed.
“Sorry.” He shoves his hands in the pockets of what is surely a Burberry trench. Rocks back on the heels of his mahogany leather wing tips. “It’s just, uhh”—another sweep of the eyes from my head to my feet and back again—“hard to look away.”
Tongue. Tied. And hot. Like really hot all of a sudden. I’d take off the coat, but I don’t want him to see the sheer mass of junk in my trunk. It’s occurring to me that he’s probably noticed before, and now eye contact is impossible.
How do people deal with all these feelings?
“Come on.” He pulls the door wide and helps me up.
I’m a little nervous he’ll be able to tell how flustered I am once both doors are closed, but thankfully, he starts talking as soon as we’re both buckled in. “So I looked up this church we’re going to,” he says. “Beau wasn’t lying. It’s big.”
“Okay…”
“Just a heads-up. Picture’s not great and we don’t have a name,” he says. “Not trying to be a Peter Pessimist, but we may have trouble finding someone w
ho knows who she is.”
“Oh.” The fact that that fact didn’t hit me as hard as it should’ve is telling. I peek at Zan. “How big is it?” I ask.
“Fourteen thousand members.”
“Jesus.”
“Precisely.”
I smile. “Miracles happen in churches, right?” I reach out to pat his knee before I can think better of it.
The air in the car thickens, so I clear my throat and turn to look out the window. “Where is this place exactly?”
“It’s got a Norcross address, believe it or not. Exactly seven-point-three miles from my house, so three-point-four from yours.”
Not sure what’s more shocking: that the church is so close, or that he knows the exact distance between our respective homes. “Didn’t realize that many people in this town go to church.”
“I’ll take that to mean you don’t?”
I shrug. “My mom does sometimes, but she doesn’t make us come. I’m usually working.”
“Gotcha.”
“How ’bout you?”
“My family’s Catholic. I go to Mass when my grandma makes me. Speaking of which, she’s really looking forward to meeting you.”
Huh? “Who?”
“My grandma.”
“Your grandma…?”
“Wants to meet you.”
Now I’m staring at him.
“I might’ve mentioned you to her.”
“Mmm…Okay…” Why? is what I don’t say.
“She’s super nosy, so she wanted to know all about you.” He rubs the back of his neck. “So I told her. And now she wants to meet you.”
I swallow and drop my eyes to my hands in my lap. What could he have said? I’ve been hanging with this poor, sad brown girl who works in a gas station, smells like fake nacho cheese, and is obsessed with finding a missing lotto ticket? “What’d you tell her?”
He snorts. “That’s classified, Danger.”
Punk.
I cross my arms. “You’re annoying.”
