Even on the Darkest Night

by Allie Martin

  A hand slides into mine. The steady calm that always follows her touch mixes with the music, and my shoulders relax. I didn’t even realize I was tense. I squeeze Evan’s fingers as she uses her free hand to tug the pen from the cap around my neck. She writes on her palm before smiling and holding up her arm. There’s a little heart drawn in the center and one word above and one word below.

  Nothing’s changed

  She clicks the pen in the cap and slips her hand back inside mine. I mean to focus on the stage, but I can’t. I take in the slant of her nose and how it wrinkles as she lifts her chin to see the band better. I can’t stop staring the way her lips move to words of the song. She’s not singing out loud—she’s speaking them to herself—as she raises on her toes to get a better angle. She’s keeping them to herself. She’s owning them. She’s owning me, thoughts of Annie completely out of my head. I take a good, long, deep breath. Having Evan dominate my thoughts is different, clearer, a light soothing mist that hovers in my mind. I can see through it. I’m able to see myself in there somewhere.

  “Hey, you want up?” I point to my shoulders, and the confusion on Evan’s features smooth out into realization. She shakes her head. “Why not? You can’t see. We can get to the front or you can hop on.”

  “You couldn’t lift me,” she says, leaning close to yell over the music. I lean back and play it off like I’m offended. “No, I mean—”

  I stop her by squeezing her hand again. “Don’t. Don’t be a ridiculous girl right now. Trust me, I can lift you.” I crouch down, and she takes a moment before she steps over me and sits on my shoulders. I lace my fingers through hers so we’re palm to palm and stand up. She tenses as she rises up, and Nat watches intently, like a mother concerned her kid’s gone too high on the playground. I remove my hands from Evan’s and grip her thighs to steady her weight. To balance her. To support her.

  She takes my hat from my head and puts it on. She gazes down, smiling. I feel like I could actually fall in love with that smile. For real.

  10:45 PM

  The last song of the show, Hector steps up to the mic, steadying his cello in his hand. “Thanks for coming out to our show, Philly. You know we love you. We have one more tune left and want to dedicate it to Evan. For your safe trip home, Sweetheart.” Hector winks, and my heart implodes inside my chest, and then sucked into its own tiny black hole.

  Evan taps my head and points down, so I squat until she can hop off. I roll my stiff shoulders and stretch out my back, mostly to avoid having to look at her as the first sounds of the song solidifies that sinking inside my chest. The band starts to play the only song I’ve ever written for them in full. Evan stares with sad eyes. Her breathing is labored, and her hand is over her chest.

  “Did you ask them to do this?” Her voice is tight, and I’m unsure why. Why would she be upset that her favorite song is being dedicated to her personally? Although, I know why I’m upset about it.

  “I didn’t.”

  Leaning against my chest, Evan tilts her head to as if double-checking that I am not behind the song dedication. I wrap my arms around her shoulders, but she moves them to her waist. The way she absorbs the song, and I can almost feel her feeling it. I’m uncomfortable so I focus on the floor while my own words are sung back at me.

  Cracked broken heartache

  A crevasse in my soul

  Caramel apple syrup

  used to fill out all the holes

  Glue my feet to the pavement

  I watch you slip away

  sticky sweet promises

  Along a sugar-coated highway

  “I can’t believe you wrote this song,” She says, and I shrug.

  “I was fifteen when I wrote this.” I brush it off because it’s the last thing I want to talk about.

  “I was fifteen when I heard it,” Evan states, and her expression goes to that sad place again. “It saved my life, Jordan.”

  Friday, April 19 • 10:48 PM

  Evan

  I regret my words instantly, but I couldn’t help the frustration that bubbled under my skin. How could he shrug off something so powerful? His features are painted with genuine shock at what I said, which eases my emotions from frustration to fear.

  I’m sure he’s going to ask me about it. He will ask why or how. But nothing inside me wants to tell him the truth about finding that song the day my mother walked out on our family months after my first surgery, about listening to it over and over with my knees tucked tight as possible trying to wrap up my heart.

  Jordan doesn’t ask me about it, though. He puts his thumb under my chin and tilts my head until he can lean down easily and kiss me. My senses are overcome with the sound of the words, the feel of music, the soft clean smell of spice and cologne, the taste of his lips and softness of his tongue. He pulls back too soon, and my brain fuzzes like static. He kisses the tip of my nose, saying, “I’m glad.” But I’ve forgotten what we were talking about, even though I can still feel the seriousness weighing me down. I feel like I’m falling, so I wrap my arms around his waist and he holds me to him, chin resting on my head, until the song is over.

  For one brief moment in time, I let myself believe in fate. I let myself believe he was given to me for a reason, and this is all meant to be.

  11:10 PM

  I hunch my shoulders as the night air swirls around us and stings my skin like whips. It’s not colder here than back home, but it’s the moisture in the air and I wish I’d brought a coat.

  Jordan’s friend Rick is sucking face with some girl next to me, so I move to the curb and sit on the cold concrete. After two days in a hospital bed, all this standing around is starting to wear me down. Nat follows, and we huddle together while Jordan talks to someone on his phone.

  “This is not what I expected when I scalped those tickets, EJ.” She bumps my shoulder with hers. I don’t say anything, but I make an agreeing “huh” sound while adjusting the beanie I took from Jordan on my head so it covers my ears. He runs his hand through his thick hair as if he isn’t used to being hat-less.

  “When does your mom get back?” Nat scrolls through the texts on her phone. “It’s ten after eleven.”

  “I’m guessing eleven thirty. She said the ballet was done at eleven so with traffic and stuff, I dunno.” I shrug as a chill runs through my shoulders, and I press my hand against my chest.

  “So what do we do?” Nat asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  “But I told Aaron I’d call after the concert.” Her eyebrows pull low (which is an odd reaction) and she dials a number, holding up a finger. “Sorry, just a sec.”

  She jumps up, leaving me alone on the curb. I hear her say hello then tune out to watch an ant crawl across the top of my shoe in a zigzag pattern. His movements are frantic, and I nudge him back to the ground where he is obviously more comfortable. It reminds me of the few months after Mom left, where I would wander the huge house alone, feeling disoriented. The paths I had walked all cut off by the memories of her. I would go to the bathroom to put on her bathrobe, but it was gone. I’d open the top left pantry cupboard to get the chocolate cookies that she hid from Dad, but there was nothing there. I’d sit on the concrete floor of the garage in the center of the stall where her car should have been in.

  It took me a long time to make new paths. It took a lot of slammed doors and stomped steps. A lot of tears. A lot of nights gazing through the telescope and cursing the sky. A lot of blame. A lot of hatred. There still is. I still hate her more often than not, but hate mixed with loneliness really is an awful combination. I would give anything to get rid of one of them. I can handle hating her. I can handle missing her. Not both.

  My shoulders tighten up, and I press against my knees to get rid of the tense memories, but my mother doesn’t go away.

  Nat sits back down next to me with a thud, but there’s something different about her. The excitement from five minutes ago is all but gone.

  “How’s Aaron?” I ask, and she shru
gs.

  “Fine. So, what’s the plan? How do we get past your mom?” She asks and my gut rolls. She’s definitely off.

  “We should probably be at the hotel when she gets there. She’ll check on us...” I say slowly. Nat follows my gaze to Jordan who nods at us, still talking on the phone, leaning casually against the wall, and coloring a brick black with his pen. “But what do we do with these guys?”

  “I am not missing the chance to hang out with Lemming Garden,” Nat states. “We’ll sneak him into the hotel room, then sneak out when your mom leaves. Rick looks like he’s doing fine distracting himself. I don’t think we need to worry about him.”

  I rub my eyes with my fingers and catch the writing on my palm.

  Nothing’s changed. That’s a lie. Everything's changed. Even Nat seems weird.

  “I really shouldn’t be sneaking out. You know how much I sleep.”

  “We’re sneaking out, Evan.” Nat’s eyes burn into me, and I don’t argue.

  “Are you okay?” I ask slowly. I’ve been friends with her long enough to read her moods like the scrolling text at the bottom of the news channel Dad watches every morning.

  Breaking news: Natalie Russo is pissed, but it’s not at you, Evan. We’ll update you on her condition as details become available.

  “I’m fine. I just can’t miss this and neither can you. We will never get this chance again. We’ll leave, and Jordan will be a distant memory. We have to.”

  My chest constricts when she mentions Jordan, and I’m driven by a desire to touch him. The idea of him only being a memory makes my stomach flip, even though that’s the deal. One night.

  “Okay,” I say. “We’ll sneak out.”

  I walk over to Jordan, and without thinking, I put my arms around his waist under his shirt. My fingers slide over his skin, and he jumps, tensing, he narrows in on me with a quizzical expression while he’s still on the phone. The level of embarrassment that courses through me should be enough to drop my hands, but he’s warm, solid, and I like it. He’s comfortable. So I don’t move. I feel his muscles relax, and the one corner of his mouth twitches before he gets it under control. He throws his free arm around me and tucks me in tighter. I could totally get used to this. To him.

  “Hey, man. I gotta go. Just meet us there, okay? Midnight.” Jordan hits end and puts his other arm around me. “You cold?”

  I nod against his chest and slide my palms up his back until he breathes out heavily. “Was second base included in our love deal? I’m not sure I remember that part?”

  I pull away quickly, but he keeps me hugged to his chest.

  “I’m kidding, Evan. Really, I don’t mind. I really, really don’t mind at all.”

  I rest my forehead on his chest. It’s weird to feel this way. It’s strange for me to not feel awkward and uncomfortable, even though I’m sort of embarrassed (and a little scared).

  When I kissed Jeff last summer I couldn’t make myself move my hands; they stuck flat against his chest with my tense elbows tucked into my sides. His lips were dry, and he did this weird thing with his tongue. I couldn’t keep up at all. I had no idea what to do and spent more time wondering what he expected of me than enjoying my first real make-out session. Before I knew it, he had his hand under my shirt and cupped over my bra. His thumb was so close to my surgery scar that my fight or flight instinct kicked in. The tension in my elbows sprung free, and I shoved him as hard as I could. (I obviously chose fight). All I could do was stand there. I didn’t say sorry. I didn’t help him up. I didn’t get upset when he called me a bitch. I did nothing.

  Jordan is different. I can’t stop my fingers from moving along his skin. From his shoulder blades to the waistband of his boxers I touch him, knowing this time tomorrow I’ll be fast asleep in my own bed. Back home. I’ll probably never see him again. Everything in me twists up at the thought.

  He clears his throat and removes my hands from his body. “That feels way too good. My mind is wandering into un-gentleman-like territory,” he says, and I step back.

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” He goes back to coloring the brick, but the grin never leaves his face.

  The silence that hangs between us isn’t weird at all, but it’s long and I want it to end.

  “Who were you talking to?” I ask as Jordan finishes coloring the brick in. It’s completely black except for the word everything showing through in the raw brick color. I lean next to it. Everything made of nothing—a hollow word. I wonder how his mind works like this, and I make a point to remember to ask him.

  “My brother. He’s going to meet us at the diner.”

  “Oh, cool. What diner?”

  “It’s called Angela’s All Night Diner. Not a very original name but seriously amazing stacks. It’s not too far from here. I thought we’d walk?”

  “Sure, but we have to go back to my hotel for a bit. My mom will be checking on us...” I fade out because it sounds so childish. I’ve never snuck out before.

  Mostly because my dad developed eagle-like senses when I got sick. He can hear me roll over in bed from three rooms away or sense my movements before I even make them. But Mom’s preoccupied, only concerned with her own happenings. That doesn’t mean she won’t at least call the room when she gets back.

  “That’s fine. We’ll meet you there, then?” Jordan stuffs his hands in his pockets, and it officially gets awkward. Nat is fiercely stabbing at her cell phone from her spot on the curb, indicating she’s past irritated and we have a new headline...

  This just in: Nat is now past pissed and into hurricane-rage mode. Use caution as her condition may worsen without warning. Stay safe out there, Evan.

  I know by the murderous texting that it’s definitely Aaron she’s mad at and I feel better (but also a little guilty that I like it when she’s mad at him). I then look over to Rick, who is seconds away from taking down that girl right here on the sidewalk. I wrinkle my nose, and Jordan touches the end of it. He seems to like my nose for some reason, but now is not the time to analyze my facial features for why he would, or would not, find them attractive.

  “Well...you can come with us? Hide on the balcony if my mom comes in the room, which she probably won’t.” I point over shoulder to Rick. “Unless you want to continue to be subjected to that.”

  “Yeah, sure. I’ll come with you. I probably shouldn’t leave your side. In case you get the urge to give another massage, I want to make sure I’m around.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me, and I’m glad we're back to being light.

  “Maybe that’s why I’ve never been in love.” I spin Jordan around by his hips and push him, sliding my hands up his shirt again. As we move forward I dig my thumbs into his lower back, slowly making little circles outward.

  “Huh?” He tries to look over his shoulder, but I keep him moving forward.

  “If being in love means having someone follow you around everywhere and do everything with you all the time, that’s probably why I’ve never been,” I say and then call after Nat that we’re leaving. She gets up and follows us but doesn’t lift her head from her phone.

  Jordan flips around and walks backward, lacing his fingers with mine. “I think you’re missing the point.”

  “Which would be what?” I ask, letting him pull me right up to him and wrap my arms around his waist, careful not to tangle our moving legs.

  “Being in love with someone means you want them to be around. If you don’t want them around and they won’t leave? I believe that’s called stalking...”

  “Get a room,” Nat grumbles, now caught up to us, and I let go of Jordan. He turns to face forward, giving me a questioning eyebrow raise.

  “You sure you’re okay?” I ask again. “You pissed at Aaron?”

  Nat moves her thick waves from her face, ripping her fingers through it. “We’re fine. Really. There’s nothing wrong.”

  Her smile is so fake I think even Jordan can tell, but I’m also starting to hope that it’s not because of me. The firs
t few months she dated Aaron she completely fell off the face of the earth. Even when she was right in front of me, she was either talking about Aaron or thinking about him.

  I step over to her and loop my arm through hers, ignoring how she tenses at my closeness. I gently tug on her to slow her down. She knows I don’t move fast and she’ll never storm around like this. Must be serious.

  “I need you to corroborate my story,” I say to my friend, and Jordan chuckles on my other side.

  “Such a great word.”

  Nat leans forward. “You really are obsessed with words.”

  “Only the good ones.” His phone rings, and he fishes it out of his pocket. “It’s Rick.”

  He slows down a pace or two, and I turn back to Nat. “Are you sure you're sure you’re okay?”

  She shrugs as a cold breeze blows my hair across my face, making it hard to see.

  “I can ditch Jordan, Nat. I don’t mind. It’s stupid... what we’re doing...” I let my voice falter because even as I say it I feel his skin on my fingertips, his lips on my lips, and I’m not ready for that to be over. But for Nat, I’d walk away.

  “It’s not stupid,” she says a little more forcefully than I think she means to. She sucks her lip into her mouth. “It’s romantic. I’m jealous, is all.”

  My eyebrows shadow my vision they get so low. “You don’t get jealous.”

  “I miss Aaron. It’s been three and a half months since I saw him last. I sometimes can’t handle the distance.” Her voice wobbles, which completely throws me off. Nat doesn’t wobble either. Not any part of her has ever wobbled. “We fight more when he’s gone.”

  “It’s a few more weeks, Nattie.” I rub her back. “He’ll be home for summer.”

  She puts her head on my shoulder, and I feel bad for her. The defeated slump of her posture and emotional exhaustion creasing her face is so foreign. It’s the same look Dad had for months after Mom left, barely dragging himself to work each day. The only thing he did with any sort of determination was take care of me—dutifully getting up at seven thirty in the morning to force his angry adolescent daughter to take medication, plan my meals, ground me if I didn’t do my yoga every day until he found it easier to do it with me, and call my cell or wake me up at nine-thirty to remind me to take my meds again. Day in, day out, that’s what a broken heart does. It trudges along.