Even the Moon Has Scars

by Steph Campbell

  “Well, then you did the right thing by going.”

  “I saw some guy grab her—I reacted.” Gabe clenches and the relaxes his fist. “I punched him. Turns out he was a cop.”

  “Oh my God. You assaulted a police officer?”

  “To be fair, I’m pretty sure he assaulted me right back. He just did a better job of it, because I was out cold.”

  He laughs, but it’s not funny.

  “And that’s why your mom sent you away? To get you away from Jemma and her family?”

  I know how his mom treats him, I’ve seen it first-hand. And I have no doubt that her sending Gabe away had just as much to do with political gain as it did to protect him—but I also believe that she was trying to protect him. This family—this girl—they were all toxic for Gabe.

  He deserves better. He deserves to care about people who know how amazing he is. He deserves to be loved.

  “Some people can fuck up your life so royally it’s really hard to pick up the pieces when you’re done, you know?”

  “She’s your scar.”

  “Something like that,” he says. He pauses and then smiles a little and says, “Or, I guess she’s more of my hairline fracture. You know, something that barely shows up, even on an x-ray, but still hurts like a bitch? It’s not permanent, but there’s not much you can do for a hairline fracture other than just let it heal on its own.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He looks up at the sky and I follow his gaze. That’s when he pulls me in close to him and rests his chin on top of my head.

  I breath in the now familiar smell of Gabe. I can feel the warmth of his chest through his shirt. The long, lean muscles of his arms wrapped tightly around me.

  How can someone feel so strong and yet so broken all at the same time?

  “Don’t be. These lights,” he says. “The stars. They all burn out eventually. But that big guy up there,” he pulls back and points up to the silver moon. “Even he’s got scars, and he’s still keeping on, right? I’ll be okay, Lena. We’re both going to be okay.”

  I stare up at the moon, full of canyons and gashes and scars, still shining night after night, and think that that may be the truest thing anyone has ever said to me.

  Gabe slides his arm off of me and then lets his hand slip down the length of my arm, leaving a tingly trail of goose bumps even through my coat, until he finally reaches my hand.

  I link my fingers through hers and with her soft touch, there is a lightness in my chest. A wall has come down. Lena and I aren’t the same people we were a couple of hours ago, sitting across from each other at the diner.

  Right now, with her hand in mine, I’d give her whatever she wanted. I’d answer whatever she asks. It’s different being here in this place with Lena. Everything looks exactly the same, but it feels different.

  I don’t know if it’s the place or if it’s me.

  “You okay?” Lena asks.

  “Definitely,” I say. “Let’s go this way.”

  “But the party is over there,” Lena says.

  I tip my shoulder down. “That’s alright, they won’t mind.”

  “Gabe!” she yelps, tightening her grip on mine. That only adds to the adrenaline coursing through me. “Come on, so we go have one dance. What does that hurt?”

  Lena pulls back on my arm. “I don’t dance.”

  I look back and her expression is even more terrified than when the drunk dude grabbed her back at the train station.

  “Lena,” I say, stepping close to her. The blush that creeps across her face almost covers the line of freckles sprinkled over her cheekbones. “All girls say that. Come on, it’ll be fun. We’ll even wait for a slow song, that’s easy. There’s practically no skill needed to slow dance.”

  “I’ll embarrass myself,” she says. She pulls her bottom lip in and bites down softly.

  Don’t do that, I think. I’m only holding her hand now. A simple thing that feels more intimate than it ever has with anyone. I can feel her pulse against mine where our wrists touch and it feels like a rhythmic throbbing of electricity, pinging back and forth between us so hard that it almost aches. If just holding her hand feels like that, I can only imagine what it would be like to taste those sweet lips. I watch her biting down on one, and I can’t think about anything else.

  “I thought you said you wanted to live a little tonight?” I challenge, but she doesn’t budge.

  “Come on, don’t they say that embarrassment builds character?” But it comes out a little hoarse. I clear my throat. “Let’s go.”

  I pull on Lena’s arm and lead her toward the party with her protests getting quieter and quieter the closer that we get.

  “Look,” I say. “There’re even outdoor heaters. You may never want to leave.”

  Lena smiles that sweet smile, and I love that it’s there because of me.

  All of the guests are in the middle of a proper vodka-toast. I smile as the glasses are clinked together, and then immediately refilled. “Polish wedding!” I say to Lena over the noise.

  “How do you know?”

  “They’re my people,” I say.

  “You’re a Martinez,” she says, raising an eyebrow.

  I shake my head. “My mom is a Martinez. My dad’s side, they’re Polish. Polish weddings are the best. They’re very all or nothing.” I look at her and she raises a brow. “A couple years ago, one of my uncles got married in Poland, and Dad and I went. The thing went on for two days.”

  “Well, I don’t think being half-Polish auto-scores you an invite to this one, Gabe. Let’s go.” Lena tugs on my arm.

  “One dance,” I say, holding up one finger then lightly touching it to her lips.

  She closes her eyes, then shakes her head, conceding. “Fine, but I’m telling you, I really don’t know how to dance.”

  The music changes from the traditional Sto lat and fades into an Artie Shaw song that I recognize from one of my grandfather’s old Swing records. I remember him letting me choose which one to put on next, and we’d sit in the matching recliners in the den and listen to jazz. The sound of his records felt more complete than the stuff I listen to. With its crackles and pops in the background and the rich vocals that you could practically feel in your bones. The music had meaning. It felt real.

  I point upward, “Ah, see, we’re in luck. Slow song. All you have to do is basically stand, right?”

  Lena grins, her cheeks the perfect shade of pink that lets me know she’s game. She takes my outstretched hand and lets me pull her to my chest. I lock her hips close to mine and suck in a quick breath at the way our bodies fit together.

  She clings to me, rigid at first, but, as the song goes on, she loosens up. Her movements become more fluid, her steps a little softer. She was lying about not being able to dance. I love the way she moves.

  I manage to twirl her, to dip her, even make her laugh. There’s light in her eyes. There’s life in her eyes. She’s letting go.

  “Are you having fun?” I ask against her ear.

  She lays her head on my chest, and it’s all the answer I need.

  On the train here, I pictured how this night could go—a thousand different variations—ranging from the non-eventful grabbing of the part and getting out of town quickly; to being caught in the city by my mom and thrown in jail; to somehow showing this girl an incredible time and maybe even enjoying myself for the first time in weeks.

  In all the ways I pictured it, I never dared to think it could end up that I’d have this beautiful girl in my arms like this.

  The sweater she borrowed is too big for her, and it’s managed to slip off of her shoulder a little.

  I press the back of my hand to her chest, on the tiny space of bare skin where I see the beginnings of the scar that she keeps so fiercely hidden.

  I can feel her heart racing under my hand, even with the subdued song and our slow movements.

  “Your heart is—”

  “Steady,” she cuts me off with a lie and pushes
my hand away.

  She tugs the sweater—my sweater closer to her neck, trying to cover any part of the scar that might be showing. Why, I don’t know.

  Her eyes meet mine and a I can’t help the smile pulls in the corner of my mouth.

  “I was going to say, beating like crazy.”

  “Scarred,” she mumbles.

  “Not even close.” I shake my head and tip her chin up so that she’s looking right at me when I say, “Perfect.”

  I stare at her mouth.

  I wonder if she wants to kiss me as badly as I want to kiss her.

  I watch the way she swallows, the way she touches her tongue to her bottom lip. I’m not a moron, I know she’s giving me the sign that it’s okay. That I can make a move.

  But I don’t.

  But I can’t.

  Because I can’t kiss her the way I want to right now.

  I want to kiss her like she’s mine and she’s not.

  I want to kiss her so she’ll never forget it. So she won’t forget me, even if she probably should.

  The song ends and everyone moves from the dance floor in one mass exodus. Lena smiles up at me, trying to hide the bit of disappointment I think we both feel.

  We’re the only ones left standing in the middle of the wooden dance floor.

  “Oh, crap, we’d better go,” Lena says, glancing around the deserted floor.

  “Must be midnight” I say.

  “What?”

  “Polish weddings, they cut the cake at midnight,” I say.

  The guests all gather around a side table with a massive, tiered wedding cake atop it.

  “I bet you only one of them must be Polish, though. They aren’t going all out, there’s no roasted cow,” I say.

  “Like, a cow-cow? An entire cow?”

  “Yeah. A cow. They wheel out a roasted cow in case anyone is feeling peckish,” I say with a wink.

  I can’t tell if Lena is intrigued or horrified.

  “Should we go extend our best wishes to the bride and groom?” I ask, mostly joking, knowing Lena is cringing inside and out. “Or can I get you a slice?”

  “No!” she yells. Horrified. Definitely horrified. “We should go, seriously.”

  “Alright, alright. I’ve got at least a couple more places to show you.”

  And as we walk away from the wedding, I wonder if we’re both mourning the loss of a moment we may never get back.

  Or if we’re hoping we’ll have many more chances.

  “We must’ve just missed it,” Gabe says.

  Gabe stares up at the tall, white brick building as a steady flow of well-dressed people pour into the street. People in long coats and top hats and gorgeous gowns.

  “You’ve managed to find every place in town that still has a crowd this late.” I press my hands to my hips and playfully ask, “Are you afraid to be alone with me or something?”

  “I—” Gabe grins with gritted teeth.

  “I knew it. Is it my dancing skills?”

  “Yes,” he agrees, throwing his head back in laughter.

  “But seriously, what’s up with this place? You wanted to see—” I back up a couple of steps and glance up at the marquee to check the title of the show. “Swan Lake? We sure weren’t dressed for it.”

  Gabe shakes his head.

  “Nah, I’ve seen it a half-dozen times at least, you?”

  “No, never,” I say.

  “You should, it’s decent,” he says.

  “You’re full of surprises, you know that, Gabe,” I say. “I never would’ve guessed you had a thing for ballet.”

  “I don’t necessarily, it’s the building I dig more than anything. The history and the architecture is incredible. Have you been inside?”

  “No, never,” I say.

  I sort of expect him to mock me like he did earlier today, but instead he just says, “I’ll have to take you sometime.”

  My heart speeds up a little.

  “Okay,” he says, reaching for my hand and leading me up the wide steps.

  “Gabe, they’re closing, all of these people are leaving—”

  “It’s fine, trust me. It takes them hours to clean up after a show. They won’t lock us in.”

  “But what are we doing if the show is over?”

  “You’ll see.”

  I want to protest. To tell him that this is a terrible idea, but I’m also more curious than I’ve ever been. I want to see the things that Gabe wants to show me.

  “So we aren’t here to see the actual Opera House?” I ask. as we walk into the massive building that the show just let out of.

  “No,” Gabe says, shaking his head. “I mean, if we would have made it, that would’ve been cool, but this…this is even better.” We slip past the last of the crowd and the man at the door wearing a red uniform with a matching hat.

  “Just forgot something inside,” Gabe tells him.

  The man smiles and nods, then turns his back. Gabe pulls me behind a curtain. There’s a heavy wooden door with a broken lock.

  “What are we doing?” I hiss.

  “Shhh…” he says, pressing his index finger to my lips. “You’re going to dig this. I promise.”

  Gabe gives the door a good shove and it opens noisily. Inside is nothing but total blackness. He slides his phone out of his pocket and taps the screen until the light on it brightens the dark room like a flashlight.

  “Come on,” he says, gripping my palm with his free hand.

  I follow him. Maybe I’m an idiot. Maybe the new Lena is a complete and total moron. But I follow him. With a smile on my face.

  He closes the door behind us and the noise from the lobby is now silenced. We’re completely and totally alone. In this dark, hidden room.

  “I’m right here,” he says. “There’re stairs, so watch your step.” I try to steady my breathing, to enjoy this adventure, and ignore the way the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  I trust Gabe.

  Probably more than I should based on the amount of time we’ve spent together, but this dark staircase lit only by the flashlight on his iPhone doesn’t make me feel warm and fuzzy, even if his strong hand is laced through mine, leading the way.

  “Not big on surprises, Lena?” he asks.

  He turns to me and even in the darkness, I can see his pearly grin.

  “Never really had the chance to be, I guess,” I say.

  The stone stairway curves a little, so I slow down. “Are you sure we aren’t going to get in trouble?” I hiss into the darkness.

  “Lena, we’re in a private building, after hours, on a floor that, as far as the general public knows, doesn’t even exist. Of course we’d get in trouble.”

  He laughs.

  Unbelievable.

  I was worried about getting in trouble for locking myself out and taking off, when what I should’ve been worried about was getting arrested.

  What I’m actually worried about is that maybe that moment at the park, when I was so sure he was going to kiss me, is gone. That we won’t recapture that feeling again. That tomorrow, he’s going to say goodbye and never try to kiss me.

  Most of all, I’m worried about how I’m going to say goodbye to Gabe when the sun comes up.

  One light on the wall flickers a pale yellow and shows off the cobweb-covered walls and the peeling paint on the stairs and walls around us.

  “How far down are we going?”

  “It’s really only like forty feet,” Gabe says. “Almost there.”

  We descend another small flight of stairs and then the steps end unexpectedly. I stumble into Gabe. “I got you,” he says, steadying me..

  I look up and meet his eyes. They feel secure. They feel safe.

  “This way,” Gabe says.

  We make our way down a small tunnel and then to another door, this one leather padded with decorative brass studs in it. Gabe tugs it open, flips a switch, and steps out of the way so I can go first.
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br />   Inside is massive, two-story circular room illuminated by yellow bulbs that flicker in their old brass fixtures. Some of the walls are painted a deep blood orange color that’s peeling, but still so rich it makes me want to pull out my paints as soon as I get home. Some walls are paintings themselves and remind me of the intricate frescoes I saw in a book about Camposanto Monumentale, that were painted in the 1300’s.

  “This…” I say, spinning in a circle to take it all in: the detailed white plaster arches, the second floor with its intricate railing, the books and boxes piled up everywhere, covered in dust and cobwebs. Who knows how old some of those things are. What treasures are hidden in the boxes. “This is magnificent.”

  Gabe stands back and watches me appreciatively. He’s casually leaning against an old piano, just watching me with a grin stretched across his gorgeous face.

  “It’s very Phantom of the Opera, right?” he asks.

  “It’s amazing. How did you know about this place?”

  He pushes himself off of the piano and takes a few steps toward me.

  “My dad showed it to me when I was a kid. We used to come to the opera a few times a year—”

  “You and your dad came to the opera?”

  “Don’t act so surprised.”

  “I’m not,” I say.

  Nothing would surprise me about Gabriel Martinez at this point. There’s a mix of so many things going on with him. So many layers I don’t think anyone has ever taken the time to see.

  “You know how I told you my mom was always a little more…upper crust than Dad?”

  I nod. His mother is terrible. Plain and simple. I think the best thing that ever could have happened to him was being sent to stay with his grandmother.

  “Well, he sort of had this idea when she started pulling away, that it was all him. That it was because of who he was.”

  “And who was that?”

  “Just a simple guy.”

  “Simple is good,” I say.

  “Listen to you. Aren’t you the one who’s trying to outrun simple?” Gabe asks. He means it as a joke, but he’s pretty spot on.

  “Anyway, when Ma was working—which was all the time—we did things to stay busy. We went to games, we went to the park—”

  “You went to the opera.”

  “Well, yeah. Dad sort of thought that if he bettered himself—if he were more cultured or whatever, Mom would want to spend more time with him. And you know what? We started off going to make her happy, but it turned out that Dad and I dug it.”