I put a hand up to his cheek, like a security checkpoint at a high tech fortress. I’m at the mercy of my fingerprint whorls, my map of palm lines. He doesn’t move, but closes his eyes.
Let.
Me.
In.
And then a small clearance: the faint pressure of his face against my palm.
I step forward, through.
God, we’re both drenched.
“Let me get you a towel,” I say.
He shakes his head. I move aside some loose pieces of wet hair that have fallen into his eyes. He lets me. I take this as a good sign.
Either the temperature in here has dropped or my body has finally registered it as shiver-inducing. My teeth give a little chatter, tap dance against each other.
He looks at my mouth and says, “Your lips are blue.”
“I should find the thermostat.”
“Don’t.” He picks up the end of my braid and squeezes it until water drips between his knuckles. His jaw relaxes and his eyes take on a dreamy cast.
I grab fistfuls of his black T-shirt and wring water from it. He chuckles.
“You must be freezing,” he murmurs.
I nod. He slips the jacket from my shoulders.
“That doesn’t help,” I say.
“Shh.”
He unbuttons my shirt enough to slip it halfway down my arms and gets in close, breathes along my neck. I close my eyes and offer it to him in classic vampire victim pose, but he’s already moving further down, to my shoulder, then my collarbone. He slowly licks along the edge of my clavicle, down to the hollow, where he fills it with warm air before licking across the other side, at the same deliberate pace. Holy hell, how is he finding all these nerve endings?
“I have really been wanting to do that,” he whispers, then darts his tongue into my ear, a sexy punctuation.
I move to unbutton the rest of my shirt, and he guides my hands back at my sides.
“Open your eyes,” he tells me.
I do.
He looks at me through rain-mottled glasses, takes them off, and those scary blue irises are full of lust and questions and an overall warning of I’ll-give-you-the-benefit-of-the-doubt-this-time-but-don’t-fuck-with-me.
I won’t.
He removes his jacket, but before he can get to the shirt, I ask, “Can I?”
A half-smile, enough of an affirmation for me to proceed.
I want to tear it off of him, but I also want to linger on this threshold. Give him the same knee-weakening shivers he gave me. I put my hands under the wet fabric, where my thumbs find the dimples in his lower back and run small circles. I bring the hem of his shirt high enough for me to lick beneath his lower ribs, the taste of his skin salty and metallic. His stomach is damp with rain, covered in goose bumps, and I run my tongue along those, too.
This shirt has to go. He raises his arms, helps me shrug him out of it.
It’s my turn to be freed of some clothing, if we’re going to be fair about it, but I wait.
There’s a pause where we stand there staring at each other, like opponents in a ring about to go at it, breathing hard, mentally preparing for the physical bout.
Oliver bites his lower lip and then it’s goodbye to restraint as we are all over each other, racing to unbutton, unbuckle, pull or tear any fabric that obstructs bare skin. But we don’t tussle like boxers, more like kittens. We scratch and nip at each other as we roll around.
“We’ll do this slow and sweet later, but not right now,” he says while I’m on my stomach, and he’s stretched out on top of me.
He has to have me and I have to have him, so I let him in. Halfway through, he flips me over, my heels on his shoulders. Our bodies are still wet with rain and now wetter still, but I am not cold at all; I am embers brought to fiery life. I am burning from the inside out.
Afterwards, we’re perpendicular on the bed, and I could sleep like this, feet dangling off the edge, bare limbs overlapping. Oliver disentangles himself and I grunt in protest.
“I’m going to turn the lights off. Get under the covers.”
“I like you bossy.” I comply.
“Yeah, if I tell you to do something you already want to do.”
The only remaining light is coming from a digital clock, which he covers with a pillow.
“Marco,” he whispers as he slips in beside me.
“Polo,” I whisper back.
“Get a little bit of sleep, but not too much, because I’m going to wake you up. A lot.”
He’s right. I don’t mind him bossy when he’s telling me to do something I want to do.
Neither of us gets much sleep.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
..................
I’M SITTING IN A WOODEN booth, in some Irish pub. I look out the window; across the street is the Central Square Blockbuster Video. Which means this can only be one place: the Phoenix Landing.
A pint of Guinness is placed before me.
“I didn’t order this,” I say.
“It’s what you were drinking last time.”
“Last . . .?” I freeze as Theo slides into the bench across from me.
“Are you who I think you are?” I’m cautious. I don’t want to play this game again.
A sly smirk. “Tom Collins. But I go by my middle name: Theo. I hear you’ve been looking for me. I wanted to clear up a few things.”
The stout is cold and sour. I can barely swallow it over the lump in my throat. “Okay.”
“Which version do you want? The one where you imagined me? The one where you’re dead and this is your afterlife?” A soft laugh full of mockery. “Or maybe the one where Oliver and I are the same person? That would make things so easy, wouldn’t it?” His eyes flicker from cloudy blue to Oliver’s indigo and back again, his hair darkens and returns to sandy blond.
“Tell me the truth. That’s all I ever wanted.”
“No, you wanted more than that. A lot more. You wanted a perfect day. One that never existed.”
I shake my head and stare into my glass. “But it did. We had the kind of day I thought only happened to other people. In movies.” My hands tremble. Theo puts a broad palm over them to steady the shaking.
“It didn’t happen like that,” he says.
It takes tremendous courage to look at him because I know I’ll see things I don’t want to, and I do: hesitation, sadness, and—god, it’s so plain in his face, so awful—pity.
“What . . .” I struggle to quell the tremor in my voice, “What do you mean? Didn’t I meet you that day?”
He licks his lips and threads his fingers through that soft, soft hair.
“We did meet, but at night. Here.”
I glance at our surroundings. It could be any bar in the world; it’s so ordinary.
“We met in the Harvard Bookstore . . .” I begin. I know this now.
“No, Astrid.”
“ . . . and then we crossed the Mass Ave Bridge and—”
“We didn’t.”
“Then we went to Deli Haus—”
“That’s not—”
“And then the movies,” I interrupt his interrupting. “Then the Copley fountain, which was filled with bubbles, then the teddy bear statue outside FAO Schwarz, where we kissed.”
“Astrid, I—”
“Then we had dinner in Chinatown, then we did karaoke somewhere in Downtown Crossing. And then you came back to my place.” So ugly, this desperation in my voice.
Theo holds his fingertips together and presses them against his chin like he’s praying. “We did end up going to your place. But that’s it. I wasn’t at any of those other places. You were alone all day.”
“No.”
“Yes. I met you at this bar, while you were waiting for the bathroom. I bought you a drink, and we talked for a while. You said you took the afternoon off and spent the day walking all over the city. We had a few more drinks and . . . Well, you know how those things go.”
The skin on my face
feels like it’s melting off. “No. I don’t know how those things go because that’s not how this thing happened. I finally remember everything. You can’t change the story on me now,” I choke out the words.
“I’m just presenting the facts. I’m sorry they don’t fit into the little fairy tale you created.” His voice pretends it’s soft, but there’s a hidden sharpness to it, a bed of nails under a flimsy layer of cotton.
“You’re only saying that because I chose to stop looking for you. Because I’m with Oliver now.”
“Is that what you think?” He grins with his mouth, but the cloudy eyes are mirthless. I didn’t know a smile could be so cruel. “You think you’ll ever really stop looking for me?”
“I already did.”
“And yet here I am.”
It’s time to go. I slide out of the booth.
He grips my wrist. “Hey. We had fun. Even if you remember it a little differently.”
I grit my teeth. “Let go of me.”
Theo shrugs with one shoulder. “Okay, but take this.” He hands me an umbrella.
“Big storm on the way. You’re gonna need it.” He winks.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
..................
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 16, 1999
A FAINT METAL CLANK MAKES me sit up with a gasp, as if waking to a gunshot.
I open my eyes and there’s a sliver of sunlight cutting a yellow line across the bed. Oliver is putting on his pants, buckling his belt.
“Nightmare?” he asks.
I shrug. “I guess the sudden noise . . . I don’t know.”
“Because I was going to tell you, you really did do all those things with me last night.” A tentative smile, laced with a question mark.
“Oh, I remember all that. I know it really happened.”
“You damn well better.” He bends to kiss the top of my head. “I wish I could take you out for a big breakfast, but I have some apartments to show today. And I’m going to Waltham for an all-day training seminar tomorrow, so how about dinner Monday?”
“Sounds good.”
“For the record, if it was up to me, I’d spend all day in this bed with you.”
“That would be amazing. But I also have to work today. Those skulls aren’t going to sell themselves.”
“Well, when I get back,” he brings his face in close, “we might have to pick a day where we both call in sick.”
One final kiss, and he leaves.
I blink a few times, get out of bed, and put on a bathrobe.
I sit at the desk and find the hotel stationary and a pen.
Write it down before you forget again.
My scribbles are hesitant at first, but become more assertive. I almost wish I didn’t remember all of it, but I do. Theo in my apartment, the rain, the sex.
I think back to my conversation with the pretentious Warhol who took my picture, about wearing masks and telling the truth. Then I recall my favorite Oscar Wilde quote: “There are only two tragedies in life: one is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it.”
Yes.
Fuck.
Yes.
I check out of the hotel and return to The Lab, where I change out of my Amelia Earhart clothes and into jeans and a light sweater. On my desk is the piece of paper with the Theo list and the map I drew on the back. I crumple it up and throw it in the empty wastebasket by my dresser. There’s just enough time for a quick breakfast before work.
Sally’s waiting in the kitchen like a spider in the center of her web.
“Finally! Where have you been?” She hands me a plate of cold toast.
I take a slice. “Thanks. I was at Minerva’s. I left a message.”
“We were worried when you disappeared.”
“Naw, you probably wondered where I was for a minute or two, then flirted with some vampire-y guy and ended up sucking face with him.”
She gives me a look that tells me I am exactly correct. One thing I love about Sally: I can always see through her masks.
“Did you ever find Theo?” she asks.
I spread peanut butter on my toast, take a gooey bite, and talk through it. “At last night’s Andy Warhol convention? No, I’ve had enough. I’ve quit the Theo business. The search is off.”
She jolts her head back as if I punched her in the nose. “What do you mean, you quit? You were so close to finding him.”
“Yeah, but . . . If things happened the way I think I remember them, if it mattered to him, he would’ve found me by now. I’ve been so wrapped up in this Theo thing, it started taking over my life, taking me away from my life. Away from what’s in front of me. I don’t know, maybe it was my way of dealing with the accident.” I eat the toast in five big bites. God, I am so hungry.
Sally’s hands flutter the way they do when she’s disconcerted, nervous jazz hands. “No, I think it’s more than that. It meant something to you. Means something to you. You can’t give up just like that.”
This is where I could tell her about Oliver, where I should tell her. But there isn’t enough time before I need to leave for work, and besides, it’s still too soon. I want to savor my recent memories of him, have them belong only to me for a few hours, to turn them over like precious stones and admire every facet. I also don’t want Oliver to get the brunt of her dismay; I can already hear her asking why we spent all this time looking for Theo when I had someone else waiting in the wings. No. Better to save that conversation for later.
“I’m not giving up, Sal, I’m moving on. Looking for Theo has been overwhelming and embarrassing. It’s put my job at risk, my relationships—it’s made me question my fucking sanity.” Sally’s eyebrows steeple in alarm. “I’m fine now, really. I just don’t want to spend any more time on a dead end, which is what this is.” Her mouth opens to protest, but I won’t let her dissuade me. “Let’s not argue. I can’t be late for work.” I scoop stray crumbs from the counter into my hand, dust them off in the sink.
“I want to hear all about your night when I get back,” I add over my shoulder as I head out. “We have a lot to catch up on. Later.”
Except that later doesn’t happen, because when I get home from work that night, Sally is gone. There’s a bouquet of sunflowers on the kitchen table with a thank you card addressed to the three of us. The note inside is brief, generic: Thank you for letting me stay. I’m ready to move on now. You have all been wonderful.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
Why would she leave like this? I was this close to telling her everything, all the secrets, all the fragments of truth I’d concealed. Coming clean to Oliver last night wasn’t enough—I have to confess more. This burden of withholding has grown so heavy, and who better to open up to than my oldest friend? Sally wouldn’t have judged me. She’s tolerated my default tendency to hide, but she’s always coaxed me to fight it, to show myself. And now that I’m ready to reveal more—now that the candor is frothing inside of me, ready to erupt—she isn’t here.
The phone rings. It’s my father.
“You haven’t returned my messages. Is everything okay?” The way he asks, he expects a dismissal of his concerns.
“Everything’s fine,” I begin, but stop short. Is this how I want to continue with him? To reassure, obfuscate, and maintain a polite façade? To remain near-strangers? Robin believes courage lies in stoicism and silence, but maybe he has it all wrong. Maybe he has me all wrong.
“Actually, things have been really fucked up,” I say. “They’re okay now, but they haven’t been. I won’t get into all of it right now—not because you don’t want to hear it, but because we should talk about some things face to face. Maybe you could come visit.”
His voice creaks with reluctance. “I’d like to, really. But the Rent rehearsal schedule is ramping up and—”
“I’d like you to make time for me. It’s important.” Wow. I’ve never said such a thing to him before.
“Should I be worried?”
“I’m your daughter, shou
ldn’t you always be worried about me?” The last words crack as they come out. “It’s exhausting keeping so much hidden. Don’t you get tired of it?” I slump into a chair, anchor my elbows to the table. “I want you to tell me about Mom. I know what really happened to her. But you’ve never shared your memories of her. It’s painful for you, I get that, but it hurts not to know who she was. Or who you are, beyond all the theater stuff. And . . .” Fuck it. I let the tears go. “It hurts that you don’t know me.”
“Come on, Astrid, of course I know you.”
“You really don’t. And that’s partially my fault. But I’d like that to change. I don’t need us to be super-close, or to even call you ‘Dad’ but . . . I don’t want to tiptoe around you anymore and make it easy for you to ignore me.”
There’s jagged breathing on the other line. I grab a napkin off the table and blow my nose. An ache within me predicts more tears on the horizon, but I’ll cry them and then I’ll move on. No matter what.
“What if . . .” He clears his throat. “I could come up to Boston next weekend.”
The sunflower’s petals are silky beneath my fingertips. Fragile, like most beautiful things.
“That would be nice,” I say.
SUNDAY, OCTOBER 17, 1999
It’s my day off and there’s a low humming in my brain that’ll turn into a full blown headache if I’m not careful, so I head to 1369, a nearby coffee shop. I order something with many shots of espresso from a surly barista with a row of small silver hoops covering her ear cartilage like a mini-barbed wire fence. As I wait for my drink, I turn to a bulletin board for local services and announcements. Bands looking for drummers (always drummers, sometimes bassists; I guess everyone thinks they can sing and play guitar), tenants looking for roommates, babysitting services, poetry slams and open mic nights, clothing swaps, a pet ferret up for adoption, various items for sale (vintage suitcases, a collection of Beanie babies, Danzig concert tickets), a flier looking for—
STOP.
I take down the neon yellow paper and read:
LOOKING FOR THEO COLLINS
Asleep From Day Page 28
