Lost In Us

by Layla Hagen

  I take a step back. How could I have thought that him being here is a coincidence?

  "You had me followed?" I ask aghast.

  "Don't be ridiculous."

  "Then how did you know where I was?"

  He hesitates, then flutters his hand as if saying it doesn't matter. But his eyes betray him. They slip sideways. Just for a fraction of a second, but it's enough for me to identify the person the conspiratorial look was meant for. Jess. She doesn't try to hide her part in this conspiracy as she raises her glass in our direction, entangled in her latest victim's arms. My drink is probably long forgotten, as everything usually is when there's a guy involved.

  So that's why she was so calm this morning when I told her James had stopped calling, the traitor. I realize on the spot what her siding with him means. I will never see the end of this unless I do talk to him. Or at least pretend to.

  "Let's go outside," I say, making sure Jess sees us heading to the staircase.

  The line in front of the club is twice as long as when Jess and I were waiting. A bunch of giggling girls stare at James, taking him in from head to toe when we pass them, my existence not deterring them in the slightest.

  I walk around the corner, and except for a few garbage cans, it's just us.

  "Your minutes are ticking so start talking," I say, folding my arms over my chest, determinedly watching my feet.

  "I'm sorry for what happened back at the apartment."

  "Not more than I am," I say. Coming out here was a bad idea.

  "I didn't know you were… I would've never—"

  "Look," I cut him short because every word he utters stings my already shattering heart, "I really don't want to hear any explanations, okay? So if we're done, I'm just going to head back inside."

  I step forward and run right into his arm, as he raises it to stop me. The current fizzing through me takes my breath away. I leap back. I can't bear it. His touch. It's electrifying and torturous.

  Dangerous.

  "We're not done."

  I raise my eyes and stare directly into his for the first time tonight. His gaze is no less dangerous than his touch. "Let me go.”

  "I want you," he says in a broken voice, and it takes all I have not to melt. Not to forget the tears and pain and let him have what he wishes. What I wish.

  "Why, you already got tired of Sophie?" I ask bitterly. "I'm sure Natalie will be happy to take her place."

  "Don't do this," he pleads.

  "I'm not doing anything. This is how your life is." My voice is getting stronger. "And I don't want to be part of it. It would drive me crazy to wonder who you are with every second we're not together. What am I supposed to do? Go out and try to forget my misery by letting some random guy run his hands all over me?” I recoil at the memory. ”That's not me. I don't want that for me."

  He frowns. "I don't want that, either." I can't escape him this time. In a blink of an eye, his arms are around my waist; his body presses me against the cold wall. My arms lay motionless at my side. If I raise them, it'll only be to bring him even closer to me. "I don't want anyone to touch you or dance with you like that," he says in a low voice, his lips inches away from mine. He raises one of his hands and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His hand has a slight tremor to it. His whole body has. "I want you to be mine. Only mine."

  It's here again. The illusion. It takes over my mind, my heart, my everything. But there’s something else that keeps me from asking the question. Something that's almost as powerful as the illusion. Fear. When the words finally come out of my mouth, I can barely hear myself.

  "Does that mean you also want to be . . . only mine?"

  He smiles and leans in, muttering against my cheek. "I do."

  Life burns through my veins again as his lips touch mine in a kiss so fierce my whole body responds to it with a frantic desire to touch and kiss every inch of him. So does his. His lips prove it in their furious descent on my neck and my chest. He reaches the neckline of my dress and pulls it down in one swift move, revealing one of my breasts. His tongue around my nipple sends me over the edge with a loud moan.

  "No, James, please," I beg, pulling him up and rearranging my dress. Then I launch into another kiss, fiercer than the first one. My hands find their way under his shirt and he's the one moaning when my fingers almost scratch his skin in desperation for more.

  We break off gasping, our foreheads together. He pushes away my hands from under his shirt, saying, "Stop, or I'll have you right here."

  He takes a step back, putting one finger against his lips, now curled into an uneven smile. Not conceited, the way it usually is. There's something different about it, although I can't say what. This reminds me of the other thing that’s supposed to be different—our newly defined relationship—and my craving for him transforms to excruciating agony again.

  "You said you couldn't do commitment," I say.

  His smile melts into an aggravated frown. "You think I lied to you just now? Why?"

  "To get me in your bed," I whisper, hating myself for how weak I sound. Never show vulnerability. That's one of the few rules on Jess's dating list that I agree with. I cried and sobbed in his arms but that was different. This… this shouldn't be.

  He lifts my chin with his fingers. "I never lied to you, Serena."

  "I know," I say in a small voice.

  "I hurt you and I despise myself for that, but I never lied to you."

  His eyes bore deep into mine when he says, "I will never hurt you again."

  "You just stood there, saying nothing," I whisper.

  "I'm slow, okay?" he raises his hands in desperation. "I… you just… everything was happening so fast, I didn't have time to think or react."

  He pulls me in a tight embrace. "I knew it was a mistake to let you go the minute you left. I will not let you go a second time," he whispers and kisses me on the forehead. "Do you believe me?"

  I nod, afraid my voice will betray just how doubtful I am.

  "Good. Let's go."

  "I actually promised Jess I would celebrate with her something," I say in a surprisingly even tone.

  "I know," he says with a smirk. "She said she'd be happy to celebrate another time when I told her about the surprise I prepared for you."

  "You prepared a… surprise?" I ask blankly.

  "I thought our reunion night should be memorable. Seeing that the actual reunion was among the dumpsters of a second rate club, I think that was a wise decision."

  I chuckled. He's too polite. I believe I used the word decrepit when Jess informed me where we were going.

  "Let's go," I say.

  The Porsche is parked opposite the club and when I slip inside, the butterflies, dormant for so many days, start to lazily flutter their wings. James slips inside and starts the engine, then starts rummaging in the pocket of the door. Just when I'm about to ask him what he's looking for, he pulls out a thin strip of black silk.

  "You have to put this on."

  "A blindfold? Are you serious?"

  "Very."

  "James, I'm not putting this on."

  "Then we are not going anywhere," he says and actually turns off the engine.

  "I don't know where we're going anyway."

  "Why do you protest so much, then?" he asks, his lip curling into a smile. He forms a semicircle in the air with his forefinger and I turn around, sighing.

  The flutter of butterflies isn't lazy anymore when the fine silk touches my skin and his fingers become entangled in my hair as he ties the piece of fabric.

  "This is ridiculous," I say.

  "The blindfold matches your dress," he says amused. "By the way, what were you thinking wearing something this provocative?"

  "You don't like it?" I tease.

  "You look great in it. A little too great." He glides one finger playfully up my thigh, sending delicious little tingles in my entire body. "You're tan."

  "I played volleyball in the sun almost the entire day."

  "I'd l
ove to see you after one week in the sun. We could go on a holiday, just you and me after you graduate."

  "I… sure. That's a wonderful idea," I jabber, finding it very hard to wrap my mind around the fact that Mr. Spontaneity is making plans for something that will be happening three months from now.

  Plans with me.

  "How long will this ride last?"

  "About an hour," he says.

  "Wow. Celebrating our reunion on the highway. How original."

  "How do you know we're on the highway?" he asks sharply. "Are you peeking?"

  "It was just a guess, James. Chill out—"

  A buzzing noise interrupts me and I clumsily try to open my tiny bag to reach my phone.

  "Leave it, it's my phone."

  He snorts after a few seconds. "Dani's checking whether I'm off with you. Well, she only misspelled two words, so I guess she's still sober." The concern behind his mocking tone is not lost on me.

  "Don't worry. Parker will take good care of her."

  "That's what I'm worried about. He won't. Dani is determined not to be a bookworm anymore when she arrives at Oxford, and apparently she needs six months of clubbing to achieve that. Parker refuses to interfere with her goal."

  "Why should he?"

  "I don't want her to waste her time at Oxford crawling from party to party," he exclaims.

  "That's a bit hypocritical coming from someone who ravaged his entire trust fund in college."

  "It actually only took me three years. I was already broke by the fourth year. But she's got no reason to be as reckless as I was. "

  The words are past my lips before I fully realize what I'm saying. "Was Lara your reason?"

  I whisk the blindfold off, but he doesn't notice. My eyes instantly seek his hands and I breathe. They are not clasping the wheel that weird way they were after the lark brought up boarding school. The speed indicator is far more to the right than it should be, but I know that's just his way of driving.

  When he talks, he doesn't sound half as mad as I feared. "How do you know about her?"

  "Umm… Parker sort of—"

  He grunts.

  "Don't get mad at him. It sort of slipped."

  "What exactly slipped?" I catch the faintest hint of anger.

  "That she… died at your high school graduation," I say in a small voice.

  Neither of us speaks for a few seconds. I try to gauge something, anything from his expression, but it's completely unreadable as he looks forward.

  "You'd think that would have been the worst day of my life." All signs of anger are gone from his voice. "But the days after it were much worse. The years, really."

  I know what he means. At first there's the shock. The beautiful, marvelous, numbing shock that wipes away every thought.

  And then the pain comes.

  "I went into sort of a nightmare afterward and only woke up from it when the balance on my account hit zero."

  "James you don't have to tell me these things. I just—I'm sorry I brought this up."

  "No, it's fine.” He looks at me with a kind, warm smile. "My dad, understandably, cut off any financial aid, so I started working the summer before senior year. Found out it drained me more than partying, so I took on as much as possible."

  Ah, addiction to work and exhaustion. One more thing we have in common besides the obsession with movies.

  "Much more constructive," I say in an attempt to cheer us up.

  "You've dealt with things in a constructive way right from the beginning," he says and there's something in his voice that makes the hair at the nape of my neck stand up. I think it's the admiration Parker was talking about.

  "Everyone copes in their own way," I say quietly. I sink in my seat as I realize the speed indicator is so far to the right I can't see it at all anymore. "When you said one hour did you mean three hours for normal drivers?"

  He smirks. "One of the reasons I thought a blindfold might be useful. By the way, put that back on."

  "But I already know you're driving like a maniac," I protest.

  "I said that was just one of the reasons." His smirk accelerates along with the car. "We're almost there so I really want you to put that on."

  "Fine," I say and I start tying the silk, twitching as I accidentally pull a few strands of hair.

  A sharp curve to the right tells me that we are leaving the highway.

  "And we're here," James announces a few minutes later. I sit up straight in my seat, pointing my ears as the car slows down and then comes to a halt. A muffled sound comes from outside, like metal scratching. A gate opening, maybe? My guess is confirmed when we start moving again, at a slow pace. We stop again almost immediately and this time I hear James turn off the engine. He gets out of the car without a word. A few seconds later, he (or at least I hope it's James) opens my door. I expect him to take my hand and guide me out, but he lifts me in his arms.

  "This is bordering on creepy," I giggle.

  "Your faith in me is astounding," James says.

  I barely manage to take in a few deep breaths of the warm, evening air when we step into a closed space. A weirdly smelling one too. Good weird. There's a slightly sweet aroma lingering in the air. An aroma I know. An aroma I love.

  Chocolate.

  It's a few more steps before James finally puts me down and takes my blindfold off. I stare at the long corridor in front of us confused. There’s no chocolate in sight. Only plastic containers, like oversized liquid soap dispensers lined up on each side, and giant glass windows through which huge metal cans and pipes are visible.

  "It's not Willy Wonka's factory, but you can try every single recipe they have," James says from behind me.

  "Oh wow," I exclaim, realizing that those containers don't have soap in them but chocolate.

  We're in a chocolate factory.

  I swirl around and throw my arms around his neck, pulling him in a tight embrace. "How is this possible?" I ask, unable to stop my legs from jiggling with nervous excitement.

  "A friend of mine owns the factory," he says when I finally step back, allowing him to breathe. "He wants to add a museum to it, to show the process, offer tastings and everything. It won't open for another month or so, so you're their unofficial test customer."

  "Fantastic," I say, turning toward the corridor.

  "The machines," he points to the huge metal cans behind the windows, "are actually closed at night but I told him you'd care only about the tasting part any way."

  "You know me well."

  "What are you waiting for? Dig in. And feel free to ignore me, I won't mind."

  There is a bowl with mini waffles next to each chocolate dispenser. I grab one and hold it under the first dispenser, pushing the big round button on it. A dark reddish-brown cream decorates my waffle.

  "Oh my God. Hot cherry chocolate," I say, shoving the entire waffle in my mouth. "This is a dream come true."

  I fill another waffle and wave in front of James's lips, "Come on, just one bite."

  "I'm really okay," he says and actually takes a step back.

  "How can you be in chocolate paradise and not taste anything?"

  "One of the perks of not being a big chocolate fan," he smirks. I shrug and eat the tiny piece of heaven myself. I make a grab for a third waffle but James says, "I'd suggest you don't empty the cherry supply. You've got plenty of others to taste."

  "Thanks for saving me from myself," I joke while proceeding to the next dispenser.

  Fifteen mini waffles later, and strawberry, raspberry, banana, pineapple, currant, caramel, cinnamon, mocchacino, cappuccino, chili, and so many kinds of pepper chocolate I keep mixing up their names, there's not one type of chocolate in the room I haven't tasted.

  I take a deep breath and make a mental note to only use half a waffle for each container as we step into the next room. It's twice as long as the one we left behind. There are no waffles next to the dispensers. The dispensers aren't like the other ones either. Through the glass tops I can clearly
see that the chocolate inside each is solid. I press the lever under the dispenser and a long slim piece of chocolate falls in the tray next to it.

  By the time we reach the last room, which is part of the museum-to-be, I can hardly breathe. We've been in one room where chocolates were arranged according to how much milk they have inside, one according to how many different flavors there are, and one where I got to mix my own personal chocolate drink.

  "I am officially stoned on chocolate," I say, as James opens the door. My jaw drops. I step inside, glancing incredulously to my left and then to my right. A melted chocolate river flows on each side. Of course they kept what is best for last. There is a basket full of regular-sized waffles on the table between the two rivulets.

  "Are you saying what I'm thinking?" James asks.

  "Depends what you're thinking."

  "That you can't eat anymore."

  “That’s really the only thing you are thinking about?” I ask playfully.

  “That and everything else I still have planned for tonight.” He bites his lip.

  “Tell me.”

  “I’ll do something better. I’ll show you if you’re done here.”

  "You think I'd leave this place without tasting the chocolate rivers?" I ask with fake horror. I grab a waffle and a paper plate then dip half in one river, and the other half in the second one, resulting in my fingers getting as dirty as a three-year-old’s when left alone with a chocolate cake.

  "I just don't think I'll be able to eat more than a waffle." I do my best to eat up all the chocolate on my fingers.

  He laughs softly, wrapping his arms around me from behind and placing small, delicious kisses on the side of my neck.

  "James," I murmur, as soft bites replace the kisses, and delicious tingles take over my entire body. I put down the plate and turn around and kiss him.

  Or attempt to, because this thing we are doing doesn't really do justice to the concept of kissing. It's clumsy and weird and I have the strange feeling he's trying to hold back.

  "What's wrong?" I ask.

  "Nothing."

  "The first kiss I had in sixth grade was less awkward than this, and there was a lot of teeth clashing involved. Tell me what's wrong."