Seeking Her

by Cora Carmack

  She was spoiled and reckless and shallow, and yet . . . there was something else to her. Something that I saw but couldn’t put a name to. I thought back to the moments that I’d watched her that had felt the most honest. I thought of her dancing on that bar, carefree and unaware of her surroundings. She’d been almost childlike. Then there was that day in the park, her solitary hour in that tree, thinking about God knows what. I wanted to know where she went during those moments, because she wasn’t in the present. She was like an old movie, where the film would catch or skip, ruining the illusion. I wanted to grab hold of that inconsistency, unravel it, and see the real story underneath.

  More than that, I wanted to capture it. My fingers were itching to draw her.

  So, I did.

  I started with her neck, the way it had been tilted backward when she sat on the bar. I did a rough outline of her body—­the bend of her knees, the point of her toes, the flare of her hips. I scratched out the swoop of her shirt as it hung off her shoulder.

  It was a fairly accurate depiction, I thought, considering I was drawing from memory. But an hour in, I’d worn out my eraser trying to get her face right.

  I knew what it looked like. Full lips, oval face, thin nose, expressive eyes. I had the pieces right. I was sure of it. But somehow they never quite added up to the right whole.

  Frustrated, I smudged the latest attempt with my thumb, and left it that way, like her face was cast in shadow.

  I sighed. I didn’t feel much better, but at least I wasn’t a shaky mess anymore. I threw my sketchbook back into my bag and dragged myself to my feet. I powered up the GPS app on my phone to check that Kelsey had made it home okay, determined to focus back on the task at hand.

  When I saw her location, I groaned.

  I wasn’t sure if she’d ever made it back to her hostel, but she definitely wasn’t there now.

  5

  DRESSED IN SWEATS and tennis shoes, I jogged the paths of the botanical gardens until I found her. Up on a hill overlooking the rest of the gardens, with purple flowers blooming on my left and the monastery spires rising up in the sky on my right, I almost missed her. She was sprawled out in the grass, facing the monastery. I ran past her, down the hill, and then stopped when I got near the bottom. I turned and walked back up, my hands on my head, pretending to cool down.

  Kelsey was laid out on her side, and I might have thought she was sleeping if I didn’t see her fingers picking at the grass. The rising sun glinted off the domes of the monastery, and when I reached the top of the hill, I walked another hundred feet or so past her before settling down on the trail. I leaned my back against a stone ledge just below the purple flowers, the blossoms nearly brushing the top of my head. I laid my elbows on my knees and sucked in a breath of crisp morning air.

  Kelsey wore the same outfit as the night before. Her creamy lace skirt was short, showing off those familiar long legs. It was probably now covered in grass stains, but Kelsey didn’t seem concerned. Probably the alcohol. She’d be pissed later. That peek of shoulder was catching the early morning sunlight, and I found myself dying to know what had happened between now and when I left her.

  I grabbed my sketchbook again, and started with the monastery. With just a pencil, I had no way to capture the vivid colors, but I did my best to show the way the sunlight glinted off the gold spires and accents on the building. I worked on the sky and the flowers in the foreground before moving on to Kelsey.

  At least this time, I didn’t have to attempt to draw her face, only her silhouette. I couldn’t have orchestrated a better pose for her if I’d tried. Lying on her side, she lined up with the horizon. Past the monastery, I could see the river, bridges, and the center of Kiev. It was almost as if those things bled out of the curves of her body.

  I couldn’t make up my mind who Kelsey Summers was. With how much she’d had to drink last night, I would have thought she’d be crashed out for half the day. But instead, we were here watching the sunrise.

  As my pencil dipped to draw the curve of her waist, flaring out into her hips, I was reminded of an hourglass. Not just because of her perfect body. On its side, like Kelsey lay, an hourglass was stuck, moving neither forward nor backward, frozen in time. I’d been in that place before. Stagnant and lost, and I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn Kelsey felt the same.

  Maybe she’d found the magical balance that I’d never been able to obtain. Maybe she could drink and party all night without getting sucked into the darkness that came with that lifestyle.

  I wanted to believe that. But that could have been the addict in me, eager to insist that I could find that balance, too.

  But I couldn’t. And I didn’t think Kelsey could either.

  No one retreats to the bottle every single night unless they’re running from something. And when you’re running, you don’t realize that to drown your troubles, you have to drown yourself, too.

  AFTER KIEV CAME Bucharest, which passed in a blur of nightclubs.

  She’s stuck, I found myself thinking again as we repeated the same patterns.

  More ­people spoke English, which made keeping up with Kelsey a little easier. But there were more pickpockets and con artists, which left me in a constant state of agitation, imagining all the ways Kelsey could get into trouble.

  Tonight, at least, we ended up at a place with live music. That gave me something to focus on besides alcohol. Granted the music wasn’t in English, but the beat was good. The guy on drums definitely had skill.

  I turned my back on Kelsey, who was getting cozy in a corner booth with some guy she’d met at the hostel.

  I rolled my eyes and settled in for a long night. Since arriving in Bucharest, we’d seen very little of the city. I’d bought another guidebook, hoping Kelsey might do some real traveling this time around. So far, though, I’d had nothing but a few glimpses of landmarks as I followed Kelsey around. Needless to say, it was beginning to get old.

  “You understand this?”

  A little brunette in an even littler black dress sidled up next to me.

  “Not a word,” I replied.

  “Didn’t think so.”

  I smiled. “What gave me away?”

  “I might have seen you earlier. I think we’re staying in the same hostel.”

  “Oh?”

  Damn. I’d taken a chance and gotten a bed in the same hostel as Kelsey. The place was huge, and I figured I could stay under the radar. But if this girl recognized me, then I wasn’t doing a very good job.

  “Is that creepy?” she asked. I wasn’t exactly qualified to talk about what was and wasn’t creepy in that moment. “Sorry. It’s just . . . my friends and I were looking for a place to sit. I thought maybe we could join you.”

  I looked back in the direction she had, toward the bar, and saw two other girls. That was certainly one way of occupying myself. It would keep me from contemplating the dangerous mystery that was Kelsey Summers. And the known danger of the bar.

  “Sure. That’d be fine.”

  She waved at her friends, and then I was surrounded by significantly more estrogen. She slid onto the seat closest to me, and I caught a whiff of sweet perfume.

  “I’m Sarah. This is Johana and that’s Christine.”

  Sarah reminded me a bit a doll—­small, almost porcelain-­like.

  “I’m Hunt. It’s nice to meet you all.”

  Sarah raised an eyebrow at my name, but didn’t comment. I was used to that. And yeah, it would probably be less hassle to go by my first name, but Jackson felt like a different version of me, a version that I needed to maintain distance from if I were going to survive this job. Hunt was the version of me that had gotten his life together, and that’s who I needed to be.

  “Where are you from, Hunt?”

  “Texas. Mostly. What about you?”

  “New York.”

  “
All of you?”

  It was Johana who answered this time, the slight curl of an accent at the ends of her words. “Well, we all go to NYU. I’m originally from Paraguay.”

  The third girl, Christine, shrugged. “Kansas.”

  Sarah chimed in. “We’re all studying abroad in the Netherlands. We’re just visiting for the weekend. What about you? Studying abroad?”

  I laughed and scratched the back of my neck. “No. I’m, uh, just traveling.”

  I’d never gone to college at all, let alone in another country, a fact that my father was quite fond of bringing up.

  “That’s cool,” Sarah said. “So what have you done in Bucharest so far? Anything you recommend?”

  I racked my brain for locations from the guidebook. “Uh, you know. The usual. A few museums, a church or two, Victory Avenue. There’s the Dracula castle, too. But that’s outside the city.”

  That wasn’t too bad. Better than telling her what I was actually doing here in Bucharest. She directed her eyes toward the table, tapping glossy fingernails against the surface.

  “And what are you doing tomorrow?”

  I glanced back toward Kelsey’s booth out of habit, only to find it empty.

  I stood, pushing my chair back from the table. A quick scan of the area didn’t give me any glimpse of Kelsey, and she was kind of hard to miss.

  “Excuse me, I have to—­”

  I didn’t bother finishing my sentence before I walked off in the direction of the bar. I circled it once, catching Sarah’s eye by accident. I’m sure I looked psychotic, but there wasn’t time to think about that. When I didn’t see Kelsey after another lap, I pulled the phone out of my pocket.

  She was on the move.

  I shot one more glance at Sarah. The band was playing a softer tune behind her. She was pretty. I could have used a night to let go of all of this mess and just talk to someone normal. To be someone normal.

  Tonight was apparently not that night. I waved in an apology, and then made for the exit.

  I followed the GPS back to our hostel, glad that I wasn’t having to chase her to another bar. If she was calling it an early night, fine by me. I’d been averaging about three hours of sleep a night between her partying and my nightmares. I could use the extra rest.

  The hostel was split up dorm-­style. I’d chosen one of the male-­only rooms, which had about ten beds packed into too-­close quarters. One guy was already out for the night, but the rest of the room was empty. I grabbed my shower stuff, eager to follow his lead.

  I slipped on a pair of rubber flip-­flops, and hoped that by retiring early, I’d get a decent amount of hot water. This hostel had several floors, with a shower on each. Kelsey was in a room on the first floor, and I was on the second, so I let my guard down.

  Yet another mistake.

  I hung my clothes on the hook outside the shower stall, then pulled the curtain closed. I turned on the faucet, cramming myself into the far corner of the stall to avoid the flash of cold water that came out first.

  When it got to be lukewarm, I decided that was probably as best as I was going to get for the night. I stood beneath the spray, letting it dribble down over my face, and congratulated myself on making it through another day.

  That’s what I was back to. Counting the hours of sobriety just like I had those first few months. It helped me focus, but seemed to make time move slower. Three more days.

  I’d built up the one-­year mark in my head as if things would magically get easier once I passed that point. I knew they wouldn’t. But I let myself pretend for now.

  Quickly, I finished washing up. Then I grabbed the towel I’d slung over the wall of the stall, pulled it tight around my hips before sliding open the curtain.

  A soft, lilting laugh traveled down the hallway, announcing company. I picked up my things to exit at the same time that a girl stumbled through the door, laughing. She gripped the doorframe with one hand, but her upper body tipped toward the floor.

  “Hey, easy there.”

  I reached out to steady her, and realized who she was before my hand even touched the familiar curve of her shoulder.

  “I’m okay. I’m good.” She was still laughing, but even holding on to the doorframe, she couldn’t seem to stand up straight. She tossed her hair back, and I directed my gaze away, like that would keep her from seeing me. That’s when I caught sight of the guy behind her, the same one she’d been hanging around with at the club.

  “I’ve got her, mate.”

  Australian. He was a traveler, too.

  He gripped her waist, and she fell back into his body, her eyes closed. God, how drunk was she? I was torn between being worried for her and relieved for me. I don’t think she’d even noticed me, which meant she was unlikely to remember me in the morning.

  But . . . I couldn’t not say something.

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “She’s pretty wasted.”

  “Pretty and wasted. Can’t beat that combo.”

  My stomach turned, and my fists clenched.

  Kelsey wobbled past me, and I almost reached out and grabbed her. I almost told the douchebag to back the fuck off.

  God, I wanted to.

  She was drunk. Too drunk. But she was also holding on to the guy’s neck and leaning her face against his chest like she wanted to be there. I didn’t have any right to tell her what to do. She had to make her own fucked-­up decisions, just like I had.

  So I let him pull her into one of the shower stalls, her delirious giggle echoing out at me even once I could no longer see her. Squeezing my eyes shut, I dragged a hand across my face, suddenly battling the urge to punch something.

  A piece of clothing, her dress most likely, was tossed over and out of the shower. The water turned on a few seconds later, and I heard her squeal rupture into peals of laughter.

  I forced myself to leave then, my gait wooden and stiff. I didn’t know what the right thing was to do in this situation. I shouldn’t give a fuck. But I did.

  My fascination with figuring her out had began to mesh with my attraction to her, and now I couldn’t tell the difference between the two anymore.

  I had to think this through. If I went back in there and interrupted, I was definitely outing myself. It was one thing not to pay attention to a random guy you walk past. If I tore open the shower curtain and beat the shit out the guy she was probably having sex with . . . I had a feeling she’d remember that, no matter how much she’d had to drink.

  How would I follow her after that, when she could recognize me from even the slightest glance? And as far as I knew, she might be sober enough to know exactly what she was doing. She could tell me to fuck off, and then I would have burned myself for no reason whatsoever.

  No, it was better if I minded my own business. And yet, when I lay down to sleep a few minutes later, I couldn’t stop thinking about the possibilities. What if that guy had gotten her drunk on purpose? What if he hurt her? That would be my fault.

  How would I explain that to her father? How could I live with myself knowing I could have stopped that? I rolled out of bed and stood to go find her, and got halfway across the room before I ground to a halt.

  Goddamn it.

  So she was wasted. She’d been wasted a lot on this trip so far. And she’d hooked up with random guys regardless of her sobriety level. I was overreacting. Clearly, she knew what she wanted out of this trip, and I just needed to let her do her thing.

  I took a deep breath.

  I needed to relax. Normally, I would have reached for my sketchbook, but the last four drawings I’d made had been Kelsey, and I had no doubt what number five would be, too, unless I wanted to draw the pimply guy snoring in the bunk next to me.

  No, that wasn’t going to do the trick this time.

  I stripped off my shirt, and ignoring the fact that I’d just taken a shower,
I got down on the floor and started doing push-­ups.

  There was a sharp twinge of pain in the shoulder that I’d separated in Afghanistan, but it eased into a dull, familiar ache after a few reps.

  I needed to tire out my brain, and the fastest way to do that was to tire out my body. So I bent my arms, my breath huffing out across the dusty floor, and then pushed myself upward. I did it again and again. I reminded myself of all the ­people who’d tried to help me when I’d been off the rails. They’d only pissed me off and pushed me farther away.

  I did push-­ups until my arms ached, and then I switched to sit-­ups.

  By the time I crawled back into bed for the night, I wasn’t thinking about Kelsey or alcohol or the past. I was only thinking about sleep.

  6

  THE NEXT EVENING I followed Kelsey to the train station. As we approached, I immediately raised my guard.

  It was just after midnight. Gara de Nord loomed ahead of us, but as we got closer, I couldn’t help but pick out the dilapidated buildings that dotted the street. I was used to seeing a lot of ­people out and about, considering Kelsey frequented late-­night businesses, but these streets showed a different side of city life. A man lay curled up on his side next to a metal trash can. I saw Kelsey pause, and mentally urged her to keep going. He was likely harmless, but these streets were dotted with beggars, and I’d read enough of my guidebook to know they were likely to try and take advantage of Kelsey if she acknowledged them.

  After a few seconds, she kept walking, her eyes fixed on the train station up ahead. A few ­people called out at her as she walked past, but she kept her eyes forward. I breathed a sigh of relief, glad at least that I didn’t have to worry about her behaving recklessly when she was sober.

  Inside the station, the atmosphere was much less tense. It was still fairly busy, with a few shops and fast-­food restaurants still open for business.