by Ari Rhoge
So, here she was, at some gas station in New Jersey, sitting on the hood of the car, and watching through lowered shades as the sun dipped low and the colors bled out of the horizon. Lydia beamed at her brightly — and Lizzy grinned back, and wasn't annoyed that Lydia hadn't bothered to ask her a single question about her life in the past 10 months. It wasn't that Lydia didn't care — she just never thought to ask, which was perfectly fine by her.
Lydia eventually did break that silence. Somewhere off the turnpike, too, when the sky was beginning to turn into a dusky, gray–purple shade. “You're not seeing anybody, are you?”
Elizabeth didn't take her eyes off the road. “No,” she said, airily. “Are you?”
“Nope. Free as a bird.”
“If you're a bird, I'm a bird,” Lizzy said, wistfully, smiling crookedly at her sister.
Lydia smirked. “All right, Ryan Gosling. We need to get you some ass tonight. It's been too long. You haven't been with anybody since Steven, right?”
Lizzy shook her head, and pressed her lips together resolutely. “Just a few dates here and there, but nothing really stuck. Lyddie, I'm not really looking right now.”
“You should be. You're pretty and young, and I'm making you wear heels tonight. Nab you a man at a… grungy, underground rock gig in the middle of Manhattan.”
“Doesn't sound shady at all,” Elizabeth deadpanned, hugging her jacket around her shoulders.
Lydia snorted softly, crawling to a stop in front of the red light of the intersection. She fished in her pocket for a pack of Marlboro, pulled out a cigarette, and fit this smoothly between her lips. Lizzy watched her snap her lighter to life, watched the end of the cigarette glow orange.
She arched a brow. “I thought you quit.”
“I did. I've just relapsed since I dropped college — all that stress, you know.” Lydia drew in a mouthful of smoke, and smiled. Her green eyes found Lizzy's. “I eagerly await your lecture, maestro.”
“Oh, that's not my style,” drawled Lizzy. “Your life, your choices.”
Lydia put one hand on the wheel, and used the other to tilt the carton toward Elizabeth. “Want a smoke?” When Lizzy shook her head, Lydia smirked. “I'll ask you again after tonight. You may feel differently.”
“Please, I have a little self-control.”
Her face reddened. She could have said the same thing a few months ago and gotten away with it — but, from where she stood now, Lizzy felt like some foolish, reckless teenager. Not for taking off with Lydia — no questions asked and no whereabouts mentioned — but for what had happened back in California. For what she thought about late at night, with her hands folded behind her head, staring up at the ceiling. For what made her stomach churn like a washing machine, and made her replay scenes, from old arguments, behind her eyelids.
When have I lied to you?
Will fuckin' Darcy.
As if he hadn't done enough.
On particularly quiet nights, drifting somewhere between sleep and consciousness, Lizzy faintly recalled lips lingering at the sensitive groove between her ear and neck — remembered hands interweaving, fingertips mapping out skin — at which point she would sit upright in bed, the back of her neck damp with sweat, and try to ignore the dull ache in her chest that was partly guilt and very much of something else.
“You know what? —— I will take that cigarette.”
• • •
The club was loud — really, really loud. It smelled like sweat, and too much alcohol — and there were girls in glittery tank tops shouting and giggling, and bouncers trying to contain the crowd. The back of Lizzy's hand had been stamped with a neon green, fluorescent logo — and she stared at it in fascination, trying to remember the last time she had been anywhere you had to get a stamp for readmission.
All she knew was that the opening gig was by some band called Turbo Fruits, the beat was decent, and her second Corona was starting to kick in and blur the edges of her focus. Lydia was dancing beside her, swinging her hips low as some boy on stage in tight leather pants put his mouth against the microphone and crooned about jilted lovers and some other vaguely familiar bullshit. He sang “baby” a lot — and she didn't particularly give a damn what the rest of his garbled words were. Lizzy's eyes fell shut, and she raised her arms above her head, moving her hips in rhythm to the bass line.
It felt nice to let go.
Lydia's friend Lucy's boyfriend Nathan's band took the stage after the first set. Nathan played an acoustic, his eyes completely concealed by the brim of his Yankees cap. Another boy, Gabe, plucked on the strings of his bass guitar with long fingers. He was a lean, dark-ginger boy who smiled a lot. At front, in center stage, stood a staggeringly pretty girl with long, jet black hair, a shy smile, and pale blue eyes. She wore a red beanie and torn jeans, and steadied an acoustic guitar slung loosely over her chest as she leaned forward and spoke against the microphone. “Thank you all for coming out tonight. —— I can't tell you how much we appreciate it. Special thanks to Nikki, our publicity whore. All those fliers and radio slots, man.”
Across the room, someone let out a lewd, drunken scream, and the room acknowledged her with laughter and applause.
The girl grinned, and wiped her brow with the back of her hand — it was getting too hot. “Okay, well, the first song is a cover. It's an oldie. Please appreciate your roots.”
“Introduce us, G,” encouraged the other guitarist, bumping her shoulder with a laugh.
“Oh!” A blush spread across her cheeks, and she pressed her hand against her jaw, chuckling low through her embarrassment. “Wow, my bad. I'm Georgie. This is Shoshanna, Gabe and Nathan. We are, tentatively, Peaches and the Chemist — and, no, we're not sure if the name will stick. But, please, enjoy.”
Applause filled the room once again, then simmered and replaced itself with the languid, heady twang of her guitar. And, as the girl sang in her smooth, smoky lilt about summertime and easy living and rich daddies and cotton, Lizzy suddenly felt happier and more relaxed than she had been in months. Her hand found Lydia's by her side — and she held it tightly. Her youngest sister's mouth spread into a wide, eager smile — and she squeezed back.
17
—
Collision: Part I
Somewhere between her second beer and that sickening, unexpected whirl of emotion in the pit of her stomach, Elizabeth felt the overwhelming need to burst out of the club. Peaches and the Chemist had finished their set neatly, and some white, clean-cut suburban rapper had clambered on stage, filling the venue with his crappy electro-beats. Lydia probably hadn't even heard her when she leaned in and shouted in her ear that she needed air, that she would be back in five minutes.
She'd figure it out — she was a bright girl.
Lizzy sat on the street curb now, hugging her knees to her chest. It had been stiflingly hot in there, and tendrils of her hair still clung to the back of her neck. But here the air was cool and crisp — she watched the goosebumps rise on her forearms. Jacket. I should have brought along a jacket.
Tears stung the corners of her eyes. Elizabeth squeezed them shut and tried to take in a slow, controlled breath. She gathered her long dark hair, and tossed it over one shoulder so the breeze could cool her neck and shoulders. Her breath came in soft shudders.
She felt sick and hot and weepy — and the worst part was that she couldn't pinpoint the catalyst for this sudden freak-out. One minute Lizzy had been dancing, utterly carefree — and the next moment…
The bouncers behind her were talking, laughing at some joke and bumming cigarettes from each other. She could still hear the beat and the bass line from the next song, and wondered if Lydia was still where she left her, or if she had migrated toward the bar, or, worse, a boy at the bar.
Responsible. She had to be responsible, and head back inside.
Sniffling, Lizzy dabbed at her eyes with the back of her hand, and fished in her purse for a compact, to make sure her eye makeup was still in place. For a split secon
d, she didn't recognize her own reflection in the little round mirror. Lots of mascara, and red lipstick (mostly smudged off by now) and long, windswept dark hair — obviously Lyddie's influence. The term hot mess sprung to mind — 10% hot, 90% mess. Her bangs stuck to her forehead.
Elizabeth snapped the compact closed with a click, and got to her feet, teetering in heels but grateful for wearing jeans. She brushed dirt from the back of her thighs, and hugged her arms to her chest. A taxi whistled by, then another. If she registered her surroundings, a cacophony of blaring car horns could be heard, and shouting — lots and lots of shouting. She wondered if she could ever live in the city. It was so loud and abrasive, so in-your-face.
Then she heard pieces of a conversation behind her.
“—so happy you could make it—”
“You're so silly—”
Lizzy turned. Two people were speaking in the alley behind her, hovering by the open door that led backstage. It was an emergency exit, but the alarm wasn't going off.
She only saw two silhouettes — a woman and a man, the latter considerably taller than the former. Then the girl shifted, her face suddenly illuminated by the scarlet light of the EXIT sign — Elizabeth recognized her immediately as the pretty, black-haired lead singer of the last act. Only she couldn't remember her name.
“Thank you for the flowers,” the girl said, grinning. “And here I was thinking that you had forgotten me again.”
“I don't break my promises, Georgie. Ever.”
“Yes, yes. You're a man of your word — we know. How was the flight over?”
“It was hell. I hate flying — and you know that.”
She burst into giggles, swatting his arm. “You're such a baby. NyQuil — one dose before takeoff.”
“I'll remember that next time,” he said, sighing heavily, and shoving his hands into his pockets.
Elizabeth felt the color drain out of her face. She wasn't dense enough to overlook it, despite the slight buzz of alcohol. His voice — if she didn't know any better, that man sounded almost exactly like…
A man bumped into her, then, collided even, so that Elizabeth gasped and nearly flew into the brick wall before he, laughing, caught her. She looked up at him, furious, before she recognized him as Ginger Guitarist Boy, his crop of red hair familiar. He had lost his bass guitar, but had put on a fresh leather jacket over his white tee, looking every bit the swanky rock star, despite being little-known. “Sorry love,” he trilled. “Didn't see you there. —— Oi, Darcys!”
That was it, then. They both looked up, at the same time. Both faces awash in the red glow — jet black hair and startlingly blue eyes. One face was much (much) more familiar than the other — and Lizzy suddenly felt a whole new wave of nausea overcome her.
Her eyes widened, and Will Darcy's mouth fell open, stunned. “Elizabeth?”
“'Scuse me,” she said, pushing past the guitarist, accidentally ramming his shoulder and bruising herself in the process. Wincing, she waved her wrist at the bouncer, and he checked her fluorescent stamp, letting her back inside. Lizzy's shoulder throbbed, and her mouth felt dry, and she wanted, no, needed to find Lydia as soon as humanly possible.
It was loud and hot and dark, and a migraine had begun to pulse at her temples. Lydia was at the bar, of course, giggling and already clinging on to the arm of some guy who looked old enough to be her father. Elizabeth wrenched her away, and pulled her toward the restroom corridor. “What the fuck is your problem?” Lydia all but screeched. “That was rude!”
“We have to get out of here.”
“I don't think so. —— Lucy promised me a backstage pass. I want to meet Peaches and Herb, or whoever the fuck they were. Their bass player is hot.”
“Some other time. —— C'mon, let's go.”
“No! No — I refuse. What the hell is going on? You were having such a great time!”
Elizabeth groaned, and rubbed her shoulder. “I just… I—”
“You're so pale — Jesus Christ, where have you been?” Lydia asked, eyes suddenly wide with concern.
Chancing it, Lizzy peeked out from the corridor, searching through the sea of faces for that of Will Darcy. With relief, she couldn't find him — but that meant he was still outside. Or maybe he was at the bar now. “Oh, I hate this,” she whined. “I feel like I'm playing some idiotic game. Lydia, do me a favor and meet me outside in two minutes. —— Humor me, all right?”
“All right, fine — but you better explain yourself—!”
“I will!”
She was already moving toward the other exit, the one that let out onto the opposite street corner. Lizzy threaded through couples and tables, at first excusing herself, then unapologetically storming through, bumping hips, rude and unaffected. She had just rounded the corner, the farthest you could possibly get from the stage, when she ran into something hard, and nearly tripped. Will Darcy steadied her, his hands on her shoulders.
Lizzy looked up at him, breathless.
“Hi.”
“… Hi.”
“Did you just run away from me? Literally?”
“No! No. No. … No. I just — I was looking for my sister, Lydia. What are you—” Lizzy winced, hating herself. “—What are you doing here?”
“I can barely hear you. Let's go outside.”
“Okay,” said Lizzy, meekly.
Outside it was too quiet — too muted and mellow — and Elizabeth suddenly felt very self-conscious, out on the asphalt with the man who had unknowingly been clouding her conscience (and guilty dreams) a little too frequently as of late. Darcy hadn't changed at all. In fact, he was better looking than she remembered. She contemplated hating him all over again, just for that.
His blue eyes searched her face, still surprised. There was an awkward, considerable distance between them.
Lizzy cleared her throat, loud and unladylike. “So.”
“So,” Darcy echoed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You're… here.”
“I'm here.”
“It's good to see you. —— You look nice.”
“Thanks — so do you,” said Lizzy, automatically. I want to die.
There was a 15-second lapse where neither did anything but stare at the other, and Lizzy felt all the blood in her body pool around her cheeks. A car alarm went off in the distance, startling and inconsolable. Will looked away, clenched his jaw, and then tentatively looked back. “I… um… my sister, Georgie —— she was playing tonight.”
“I saw. —— I mean, I figured it out. She was lovely.” Elizabeth smiled a little too eagerly, then toned it down. “I mean, she's beautiful —— and talented. Their band is really, really good.”
“Thanks. I'll tell her you thought so.”
“Great.”
“Would you like to meet her?” Will suddenly asked, hopeful.
“No,” said Lizzy, instantly regretting her answer when a look of disappointment crossed his face. Her hands twisted anxiously. “No… I'd love to, don't get me wrong. Just maybe not right now. I have to find my sister, you see, and it's getting late, and we still have to drive all the way back to Philadelphia—”
“Lizzy!”
Elizabeth spun around.
Lydia's timing was so perfect that she could have kissed her. The blond was shrugging on her jacket, huffing while straightening out the collar. “Okay, Crazy — what is the goddamn emergency—?” She looked up at Darcy, and the last of her inquiry died on her lips. Curious, she glanced at her older sister to Will Darcy and back. “Oh. Hello.”
“Hi, I'm Will,” he said, extending his hand with a smile.
Lydia beamed, and stepped forward to shake his hand. “Lydia.”
They fell into a comfortable silence again, in which Lydia tried very obviously to dissect the nature of the relationship between her silent older sister and the handsome stranger before them.
“We should get going,” said Elizabeth, quickly.
“You're both welcome to stay,” replied Will. “Georgie's ba
nd is having some after-party thing. —— Not really a party, just a really late dinner. It was their first successfully booked gig in a couple months, since they've had a bit of a dry spell. I'm sure they'd love to have you there. It's at the Ritz—”
“The Ritz?” squeaked Lydia. “The Ritz–Carlton. Oh, Lizzy.”
“We couldn't possibly impose.” Lizzy was shaking her head.
“We could very possibly impose,” Lydia interrupted. Elizabeth turned her head to deliver a tight-lipped glare.
Darcy was smiling, easygoing and amused. “Hey, I insist. And it's late enough as it is —— you wouldn't even have to drive back. We could put you up for the night.”
“I can't afford a room at the Ritz—”
“I'll cover it,” Will said, shrugging.
Lizzy looked at him seriously. “You don't need to do that. Honestly. I have gas in my car, and an EZ Pass, and every intention of getting home tonight.”
“Lizzy, can I talk to you for a moment?” Lydia interrupted. “——Excuse us.” She didn't wait for Elizabeth to respond — simply took her hand, and led her patiently to the entrance of the club again. Her voice was hushed and urgent — “there is a super-hot guy offering you a room at a luxury hotel and a chance for us to have a late–late dinner with Peaches and Cream—”
“Peaches and the Chemist,” Lizzy interjected.
“—and their very attractive redhead guitarist whose number I need by the end of tonight,” Lydia finished. “How is the word no even forming in the back of your head right now?”
“Easily!” Lizzy defended herself. “You don't know them.”
“Um, you do. You obviously know Will.”
“I don't. Will's just… he's… a friend of a friend. Sort of.” Lizzy scratched her head. A blush was working its way across her cheeks again, and it didn't go unnoticed.
Lydia smirked. “You're into him.”
“What?”
“Well, he's into you. And, so help me, if you say no, I will kick your ass.”
