One Life

by A. J. Pine

  “Jesus, Zoe,” he says and walks away toward the bar.

  Looks like I was successful. So why do I feel like shit?

  “First fight?” Patrick asks.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I mean, it’s complicated. And I think we need some space right now, but the thing is, I think I’m mostly mad because even though what he said hurt me, it might be true. And . . . fuck. Aren’t you glad you asked?”

  I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Patrick holds up a pint glass filled with whatever is on tap.

  “Something to take the edge off?” he asks, and I shake my head.

  “I don’t drink,” I tell him.

  He pulls me to the bar, the end opposite where Spock sits with his head in his hand as he stirs a mixing straw in a rocks glass filled with clear liquid. Spock’s never had a drink with me around, and I don’t realize until now how much that’s meant to me. Now I’m going to have to deal with whatever’s going on between us while he’s drunk, and something about that hurts even more.

  “Then what do you drink?” Patrick asks.

  I smile for this little victory, for Patrick not asking why I don’t drink but just accepting it as the case.

  “I’ll have a Shirley Temple,” I say.

  He flags down a bartender. “Shirley Temple for Supergirl here.” Then Patrick turns to me. “First one’s on me. I’m glad you came.”

  I finally take in his costume and try to reconcile it with the theme of the evening.

  “Peter Pan as superhero?” I ask, and he nods.

  “Why not? He was the hero to the Lost Boys. He may not fight crime in contemporary society, but he fights Captain Hook. He fights against the loss of imagination and for the ability to stay young at heart.”

  That’s Wyatt, I think. Okay, maybe not the Captain Hook part, but he fought what Captain Hook represents—growing up and forgetting the magic of being young. Wyatt never lost his imagination, and I know if he would have grown old, he’d have been forever young inside. Now he’s just forever young. To die would be an awfully big adventure. The J. M. Barrie quote plays over and over again in my head. Would Spock call Peter Pan an addict?

  I look to the other end of the bar. He’s still there, slowly sipping his drink. His eyes meet mine, and I fight the pull. Even if what he said was true, it doesn’t mean it was his right to say it, to pass judgment on me or my family.

  “Where did you find him?” Patrick asks, his voice dripping with admiration. The question brings me out of my head and back to the bar, where Patrick hands me my pink, bubbly drink.

  “Actually . . . ,” I drawl, “we met at a con in Madison last fall. He was wearing Vulcan ears, so I called him Spock. I’ve never called him Zach until tonight.”

  Something in my gut sinks as I say this.

  “That explains his reaction, then.”

  I nod. “I did it to hurt him, and Patrick, I swear. That is not me. I don’t do spite, but . . . let’s just say I’ve not been one hundred percent myself for a while.”

  He leans in close so he can speak in a hushed tone.

  “Is it the brother thing?” he asks. “Bree might have mentioned something about your final transcript being late because of . . . I’m really sorry Smur—Supergirl. But that guy over there?” He nods his head toward Spock, who has disappeared over to where a group of people are congregating in front of the DJ booth. “Whatever he said or did, it’s absolutely torturing him, and I can see that after knowing you guys only a few days.”

  He’s right. I see it too.

  “Blue!” It’s Dee, her Catwoman mask still on, but the top half of her costume is unzipped and hanging at her waist. Underneath she has on a tiny white cami over a black lace bra, something even she probably didn’t intend to wear as a top, but I take it the girl just couldn’t handle the pleather anymore.

  “Blue!” she yells again, though she’s standing directly in front of us now. “There’s karaoke. We’re going to do superhero karaoke!” When I don’t react quickly enough, she adds, “KAR-A-O-KE.” And the word smells like Jose Cuervo.

  “I don’t sing,” I say, but Patrick’s eyes light up.

  “I do, kitty cat. Do a duet with me?”

  Dee claps with delight, and Patrick beams.

  “She believes in fairies!” he says. “Get it?”

  I roll my eyes but laugh at his joke. Then the two hook arms and head toward the growing number of people at the DJ booth. That must be where they’re picking songs.

  Somehow, despite the patrons that beat them to the booth, Patrick and Dee are the first couple onstage. There are two mic stands, and in front of them a small monitor, which is where the lyrics will play.

  They are a comical pair, emo Peter Pan and half-dressed Catwoman, but when they take the stage and launch into Pink and Nate Ruess’s “Just Give Me a Reason,” the whole bar loses its shit because they are amazing together. I know I’ve only lived with the girl for a week, but I’ve never heard her even hum, let alone belt out a tune like that. They finish to catcalls from the waiting patrons, and I happily include myself in the bunch.

  When they get off the stage, Dee runs toward me, grinning and pulling Patrick with her.

  “Oh my god, Blue. I am marrying this guy!”

  She pulls Patrick’s head toward hers and kisses him full on, mouth open. His eyes go wide, but he doesn’t pull away from her. When she’s done, she flicks back her hair.

  “Don’t fucking worry, you two. I know Peter Pan isn’t into the kitty. Still, I’d marry him.”

  Patrick shrugs.

  “You guys were unbelievable, by the way. Holy shit you two can sing!”

  I finish my drink and run to the bar to return the glass. When I get back to my friends, Patrick braces my shoulders and spins me toward the stage.

  “I think you’re going to want to see this next one.”

  It’s Spock. But he’s not standing at a microphone. He’s sitting at a small piano that someone must have just pushed out from backstage.

  Someone, probably one of the lounge employees, moves one of the mics to where he sits at the piano bench, lowering it to head height. He taps it a few times, the sound audible to the waiting audience, and then he clears his throat.

  “So . . . uh . . . I’m Zach,” he says. A few onlookers clap, but I just stand there, frozen. “I’ve been onstage before but never solo, so bear with me. They said I could accompany myself as long as I stuck to one of the karaoke songs, so thanks, Katacomb. This is for Zoe, my beautiful, blue-haired Supergirl. I hope this lets you know how I feel.” He plays a chord on the piano, and I think he’s going to start, but he turns back to the crowd, most of whom have now turned to find me.

  “Also, this is the only song they had with even a semblance of what I’m trying to say, so please, Zo . . .”

  I take in a sharp breath, ready to run up there and tell him that he’s already done enough, that just seeing him up there willing to do this for me—it’s enough. But he starts playing again, and I realize I didn’t even know he could play the piano too, so I stay rooted in place and listen.

  I listen to my boyfriend apologize by singing Frank Sinatra’s version of “What Can I Say After I Say I’m Sorry.” And although tears prick at my eyes, I’m laughing. And striding toward the stage before he finishes his last phrase. Because the guy who stood in the shadows of his band, who preferred his quiet anonymity while penning songs for an alternative rock band—he’s singing Sinatra like he was meant for it, his voice rich and smooth, his presence commanding.

  Before I realize what I’ve done, I’m on the stage with him when he sings that final word, sorry, and his cheeks are in my hands as I stand over him. Then we’re kissing, and he’s repeating the word again and again. Sorry.

  I think the word too, say it in my head to my mom, dad, and my brother Zach. I think it to Wyatt, and one of the tears finally falls. Then I say it aloud, to Spock.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He kisses me once more, and the sounds
offstage register. Whistles, catcalls, and thunderous applause.

  “Can I take you home now?” he asks, and I nod as he stands from the bench.

  I let him whisk me off the stage, across the crowded dance floor, and out of the bar completely.

  “Take me home. Now.” I echo his words, and he wastes no time at all.

  Chapter Eighteen

  We take a taxi home, both of us too impatient to wait for the L. I caught Dee’s eye on the way out of the club, and she nodded, letting me know she was fine for me to go. In only five days of knowing Patrick, I have no doubt he’ll get her home safely, which means right now, the apartment belongs to me and Spock.

  He holds me to him for the whole ride home. Somehow I expected we’d be doing a little more than holding after our display onstage, but he’s quiet now, his hand firm on my shoulder.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, burrowing into the nook that makes me feel so safe. “If you’re worried about it, I’m okay if you’re drunk. We had our first fight, and I know it was a big deal for you to get onstage by yourself. It’s not like I ever asked you to stay sober for me . . .”

  At this he pushes me from him, not with force, but he sits me up so he’s looking at me, his eyes dark and intent.

  “You think I’m drunk?”

  His voice is pained, like nothing I’ve heard from him before.

  “What?” I ask. “It’s not like I’m accusing you of something no one else our age does. I’m the oddball here, remember? I’m the one who walks the straight and narrow so she doesn’t fall into the deep end. All I’m saying is it’s okay. I don’t need you to be sober for me to be sober.”

  He closes his eyes for several seconds, and I imagine him doing some sort of countdown in his head even though I don’t see his lips moving or anything like that. When he opens them again, his eyes shine, glassy and tired. Then he lets out a long breath.

  “Do I taste like I’m drunk?” he asks. “Am I doing anything to make you think I’m not one hundred percent in control? I told you, Zoe. I got that all out of my system a long time ago. That kind of life isn’t for me. It’s one of the reasons I came home.

  He kisses me, quick and deliberate, with one short sweep of his tongue against mine. Although it’s been several minutes since he had a sip of anything in the bar, I smell no trace of alcohol. And Spock’s right. He’s nothing if not in control. But why the need to prove this to me?

  “Okay,” I concede. “You’re not drunk. I’m just saying it would be okay if you were.”

  He rakes his fingers through his hair, and something inside me twists. We are so good when we’re good, but there are things left unsaid. I know what I’m holding back, and that must be part of it. But Spock holds something back too. I can feel it in his tone, in the defensiveness of his response. I can’t help thinking that whatever hangs between us is more than miscommunication or misunderstanding.

  “We work for other reasons, don’t we?” I ask. “It’s not just that I don’t party and you don’t like to. Because if that’s all this is, I don’t think that’s a lot to go on.”

  The knot forming in my stomach tightens, and I can’t mask the tremble in my voice. He was right. We aren’t the people we were when we met last fall, and fuck if we aren’t a bit untraditional in how we’re going about things now.

  The taxi stops at my place, and I don’t let Spock pay when he tries to. I give the driver the rest of my cash and exit the vehicle, me on one side and Spock on the other. The car pulls away with me standing on the curb, the guy I’m falling for in the middle of the street.

  “I love your blue hair,” he says, and my hand instinctively goes to my head as my forehead crinkles.

  He takes a step closer.

  “I love your love of all things superhero. It’s sexy as hell.”

  Another step.

  “And I love that with everything going on in your life right now, there’s still room for me in it.”

  He stands in front of me now, and I’m still silent, not sure if I should respond or hope that he’ll keep going.

  “I’m wading through the swamp now too,” he says. “And I’m trying to make sense of the direction I’m going. You,” he says, and then he kisses me.

  And this kiss has no ulterior motive. It has nothing to prove. This is real. He and I are real.

  “You guide me,” he continues. “I have direction now, and it’s because of you. I guess I just want to help you find direction too—if you want that from me. But hell no, Supergirl. That’s not all there is between us. There’s so much more.”

  His lips find mine again. His hand cradles the back of my head, and I open my mouth, letting him inside. He flicks his tongue over the barbell in mine, a soft groan rumbling from his throat.

  My hands splay against his chest, then slide around his back where they rest at the top of his pants. This is what I need. Maybe we haven’t aligned correctly tonight, but now—everything is in order. Because when we touch, when his skin meets mine, everything else does fall away.

  “Let’s go in,” I say, my voice husky with need, and he nods, letting me lead him to the building and then to my door.

  As soon as the door closes behind him, he’s pulling my arms out of the sleeves of my costume, and I’m more than happy to help. When the costume falls to the floor and he sees me standing in a red lace bra and Superman panties, he stops and just stares.

  “What?” I ask, afraid my carefully selected undergarments are having the wrong effect.

  “Look at you,” he says, and I glance down the length of my body.

  A giggle bursts from my lips as I realize I’m still wearing my Chucks, but he doesn’t laugh.

  “Do you see what I see when you look at yourself?”

  Heat creeps up my neck and into my cheeks. A second ago I thought I was just taking off my clothes. But his question makes me feel bare. I want to know if he can really see all of me, yet at the same time fear what would happen if he did.

  He hooks a finger under one strap of my bra, tugs it over my shoulder so it hangs to my elbow. He mirrors the movement with the other, then kisses each shoulder, slow brushstrokes from his lips.

  “So strong,” he says, and his lips move to my collarbone. “And sure of yourself.” He kisses skin peeking out from the cup of my bra.

  My breath hitches, but I can’t speak.

  His head tilts toward the other breast. His lips on my skin, I breathe in again. His hands rest light on my shoulders, then skim the length of my arms, taking the straps of my bra with them.

  I shake my head, my feeble attempt to tell him that he’s wrong. I don’t feel strong, not yet. I used to be that girl, but now it’s just an act. The words scream in my head, but it’s too late. He’s already unclasped my bra, and the material falls away. I cannot speak, only do what my body tells me needs to be done. So my hands reach for his shirt, tugging it free of the cargo pants. He is no longer Captain Hammer, and I am certainly no Supergirl. I never was. But his chest presses firmly against mine, and he backs me into my room.

  When he’s here, when we’re like this together, he chases the fear.

  He lays me out on the bed, pulls my shoes from my feet, and skims his hands up my legs.

  “And you’re beautiful,” he says, leaning with his arms braced on either side of me. “When you let me see you, all of you . . . you’re absolutely stunning.”

  And there it is, that knot in my gut pulling tighter, because I know what he means, and any girl would swoon at a guy—one just as beautiful inside as out—saying this to her. Because it means he wants all of me—everything he sees.

  The costume may be off, but I let him cover me, let his body obliterate the part of me I keep hidden—the part that threatens to destroy me, making him part of the fallout.

  I may let him inside me, but I don’t let him in, instead stealing selfish kisses so I can satiate the need to stay hidden with his taste.

  “I love you, Zoe,” he says, my full name solidifying the gravi
ty of his words.

  I know it’s only been a matter of days that we’ve made this official, but it’s over a month since I lost Wyatt—since Spock was right where I needed him without me ever having to ask. Up until then, we both admit to pretending we never needed more than this. I’ve been falling for almost a year now. He will be the one to catch me before I hit the ground.

  “Call me Supergirl,” I plead as he rocks inside me. Because that’s the girl he loves, the one who can’t be knocked down.

  “I love you, Supergirl.”

  “I love you, Spock.”

  Because if it isn’t really us, then it isn’t real, and I can stay hidden a little while longer.

  Never mind that I do love him. It’s why I keep him safe from the parts of me that aren’t worthy of his love.

  No. I don’t see what you see when you look at me. I see the parts that would make you run, yet I still hope you never will.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I wake early and restless, the six o’clock on my phone mocking me.

  Remember the days you could sleep until noon? it asks. I narrow my eyes and flip it off for good measure, but it’s still six, and I’m still wide-awake. Overactive psyche: one, Zoe: zero.

  Fine. Now’s as good a time as any to get something done. Buoyed by a successful first week in the art classroom, and what happened between me and Spock last night, I spend the early morning trying to think up possible ideas for a showcase piece, but every time I bring pencil to paper, nothing original comes. It’s not that I can’t draw. I drew hearts with shading—and shadows—for my students. I re-created my phoenix feather tattoo for my students to see the finer details of charcoal drawing. I drew and watched them draw all week. I just can’t create anything unique or new.

  After what feels like an eternity, I’ve come up with nothing but a drawing of Peter Pan’s silhouette with the famous phrase “To die would be an awfully big adventure.” It’s something I’ve been thinking about since seeing Patrick in his own version of a superhero costume.