‘Yes,’ I reply quickly, bumping my knee on the table as I hastily rise from the chair and make my way back to bedroom to get my cigarettes and coat.
I yank my coat off the chair in the bedroom and decide I’d better put a sweater on between my T-shirt and coat. Then I pull on two pairs of socks under my boots and head out to the living room. Crush is standing just inside the enormous glass door leading out to the terrace. He’s wearing a gray beanie and a serious expression that makes me smile inside.
‘Pull up the hood of your coat,’ he says, holding out an open bottle of beer as I approach.
‘So bossy.’ I accept the beer, taking a large swig as he reaches for the door handle.
He twists the handle slowly and carefully pulls the door inward. The snow falls softly over the outdoor table and chairs. But it’s the glow of the city lights, muted by the haze of snowflakes, that’s mesmerizing. Crush pulls his coat tighter as he waits for me to step outside.
‘I should have changed into some jeans,’ I say, my teeth chattering as I trudge through the snow toward the large stone spheres poised atop the iron railing surrounding the terrace.
The terrace is huge. Four wrought-iron tables covered in snow fit comfortably in the space. I find myself imagining rich people in their tuxedos and cocktail dresses hobnobbing on the terrace, sipping thirty-year-old bourbon and discussing the stock market. Crush could be one of those people, though he certainly doesn’t look or act like one.
‘Where are your gloves?’ he asks, shutting the glass door behind him.
‘I forgot them.’
‘I’ll hold your beer.’
He holds his hand out and I shake my head despite the fact that I can already feel the cold penetrating the soft pads of my fingers and into my bones. ‘No, thanks.’
The stone spheres on the railing are covered in cone-shaped piles of snow. I brush the snow off the sphere nearest me and attempt to balance my beer on top.
‘My granddad used to say that he never left New England because magical things happen in the snow.’
My fingers are really starting to ache, so I guzzle down the rest of my beer and toss the empty bottle onto the snow-covered table behind us. I turn back to the railing and Crush is gazing up at the sky with a wistful look on his face as the snowflakes fall on his cheeks.
‘This is the same granddad that gave you the book?’
He looks down at me and my stomach flips. ‘This was the last thing he gave me before he died.’ For a moment, I assume he’s talking about the book, until he reaches into his coat pocket and comes up with a crushed penny. ‘It’s my lucky penny. I use it every time I have an important performance.’
‘You have a lucky penny?’
He gazes into my eyes and nods. ‘Do you believe in fate?’
‘No.’
‘Neither do I. Do you believe in luck?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s the difference?’ His gaze is intense as he awaits my answer.
‘I don’t know. You’re the one with the lucky penny. You tell me. What’s the difference between fate and luck?’
He smiles and turns his attention back to the view of the city. ‘Fate is for fairy tales. It’s a romantic notion. Luck is what happens when you’re in the right place at the right time . . . with the right person.’
A shiver travels through me and I tuck my hands inside my coat pockets. I lean over the railing to get a view of the street below and Crush grabs my arm.
‘Please don’t do that.’
‘Do what? I was just looking at the street.’
Not that it didn’t cross my mind to leap, but we’re only four stories up. Not high enough.
His eyes are fixed on my arm where his immense hand is clasped around my bicep. It takes a moment for me to realize that this is the first time he’s touched me and I didn’t flinch.
He gently releases his hold on me. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to grab you. Just instinct, I guess.’
‘That’s okay.’ I pull my lighter and pack of Lucky Strikes out of my pocket.
He glances at my cigarettes and smiles. ‘You smoke Luckies?’
‘My best friend Rina smokes a Blackjack, but I can’t do that. I don’t smoke just because I’m addicted to the nicotine. I like the flavor.’
‘Where’s your best friend now?’
I pop the cigarette in my mouth, but the snow and the slight breeze keep stamping out the lighter’s flame. Crush cups his hands around my hands and the flame holds as I draw a long pull on the cigarette. His face is less than a foot away from mine as he slowly lowers his hands. I don’t notice I’m holding my breath until I begin to choke on the smoke. I turn my head away so I don’t cough in his face, but when I turn back he’s still there.
‘Are you all right?’
‘I’ll live.’
‘Not if you keep smoking those.’
My face twitches with all the things I wish I could say. Instead, I take one more long pull on the cigarette, watching as the cherry burns its way up the cigarette toward my mouth. Then I flick the cigarette off the balcony and exhale as I make my way back into the hotel room.
Peeling off my coat, I toss it onto the round, mahogany coffee table before I plop down onto the sofa in the living room. He comes in a few minutes later and sits next to me. I can feel the cold emanating from his snow-dusted coat and I get an urge to tell him to take his coat off or he’ll catch cold.
He pulls off his beanie and tosses it onto the table, on top of my coat, then he leans back on the sofa and stares up at the ceiling. ‘I think I know why you don’t want to go home.’
My phone vibrates in my back pocket, but I continue to ignore the ringing and the voicemails the way I have been all day. But just a few seconds later, Crush’s phone begins to ring. He slips the phone out of his jeans pocket and answers.
‘Hello?’
I get a weird, painful sensation in my chest as I watch him on the phone, hoping it’s not a girlfriend. I watch his lips as he speaks, unable to hear his words. All I can see is the perfect peaks at the top of his lip; the juicy pink color; and the curve of his mouth – that smile. I tear my gaze away from his mouth. He’s smiling because he’s caught me staring at his lips.
‘It’s the airline,’ he whispers, pointing at his phone and still flashing me that knowing smile.
I nod as I shoot up from the sofa and grab my coat off the table. I make my way back to the bedroom and slam the door shut behind me. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, I hastily begin removing my boots, but I leave on the sweater I’m wearing over my T-shirt. I curl up on the bed and try not to think about his lips.
I haven’t kissed anyone since before the incident at Uncle Cort’s house last summer. The last guy I kissed tasted like tequila. It was a few nights before I graduated from alternative high school. My parents were out for the night, playing poker at Aunt Crystal’s house the way they always do on Saturday nights. Rina brought over a couple of guys she met at Starbucks and we all got drunk in my bedroom. Both guys were pretty cute, but the one with the darker hair and the lip ring that lined up with mine when we kissed was definitely hotter. I don’t even remember his name and it was only seven months ago. But I do remember what he said to me when I refused to do anything more than just kiss.
If we’re not going to fuck, what’s the point?
He was right. If you’re not going to go all the way, what’s the point of doing anything? Why get out of bed if you don’t have the courage to leave the house? Why make the phone call if you’re too afraid to ask someone out? What’s the point of existing if you’re too chickenshit to live?
I consider leaving Mikki alone for the rest of the night, but in the end I decide against it. If I leave her alone, she’ll probably stay awake all night obsessing over the fact that I caught her staring at my mouth. I should at least try to ease her embarrassment before I go to bed.
I knock softly and I’m not at all surprised by her immediate response.
‘G
oodnight!’ she shouts from inside the bedroom.
‘Don’t you want to know what the airline said?’ I shout back.
I imagine she’s probably letting out a deep sigh as she realizes she can’t avoid me. A minute later, the door opens just a crack as she stares at the floor.
‘What did they say?’
I take a step back, hoping this will put her at ease. ‘The flight was rescheduled to Thursday night at six. Does that work for you?’
She shrugs without looking up. ‘I don’t have much of a choice, do I?’
‘They gave me a number you can call if you want to reschedule, but that’s the soonest they could get us on a new flight.’
Her mouth drops open a little. ‘What about your song? Will you still be able to record it?’
‘I’ll call the producer tomorrow and see if we can reschedule.’
‘And if he can’t?’
She finally looks up and I gaze into her eyes for a moment before I answer. ‘Then I’ll have to wait for another stroke of luck.’
Her lip trembles and she quickly shuts the door. ‘Goodnight.’ Her voice is barely audible through the door, and the tears.
‘Goodnight.’
I stand just outside her door for a moment, wondering if I should leave. My mind flashes to the screaming red marks and the scars I saw all over the tops of her thighs. I know I can’t stop her from feeling like she wants to hurt herself, but I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight worrying about what she may or may not be doing in that room.
I raise my hand and pause for a second before I knock again. She doesn’t answer right away like she did last time, so I knock again. She still doesn’t answer. I call her name through the door, but still no reply. I try the handle and it’s not locked. Turning the handle slowly, I expect her to push the door closed on me, but she never does. And, soon, the door is wide open and the sound of running water greets my ears.
A large crack of light shines into the bedroom through the splintered doorframe. Somehow, she’s managed to close the door all the way. Fuck. Why do I have such a bad feeling about this? It’s not as if she hasn’t lived all these years without me around to stop her from hurting herself. But something, some primal instinct, is shouting at me that I need to keep a close eye on her. Something is telling me she wants to die.
And it’s not just the cuts on her legs. It’s everything I’ve learned about her since we ran into each other at the airport. The fact that she doesn’t want to go home. That she won’t answer a single phone call or text, though I’ve seen her phone buzzing for hours. That she’s moving to L.A. to go to community college. Who moves clear across the country to go to community college?
But I think the biggest tell has to be the fact that she brought Black Box with her. This shows me that she hasn’t let go of what happened that night – how could she? – and that she’s still searching for answers.
I should tell her everything. I should tell her why I was there and why I wanted to kill myself. I should tell her exactly what I saw, what I did, and how I covered it all up. But I don’t want her to judge me the way I’ve judged myself. I got away with murder; possibly twice. What does that say about me? How can you not judge someone when you find out something like that about them?
Moving slowly toward the bathroom door, I listen for the slightest sound that would indicate she’s okay in there, but I hear nothing. I draw in a deep breath and knock.
She lets out a sharp yelp. ‘What the fuck?’
‘Sorry! I was just checking to make sure you’re okay.’
‘I’m taking a fucking bath!’
‘I’ll get out of here now.’
‘Wait!’ she calls out as I begin to walk away. ‘Wait. I forgot my toiletries. Can you push my suitcase in here?’
‘Why don’t you use the hotel toiletries?’
‘I have sensitive skin!’
I smile as I grab the handle on her suitcase, which sits just outside the bathroom, and wheel it toward the door.
‘Close your eyes!’ she shouts as I use the suitcase to slowly push the door open.
I close my eyes, but the wheels of the suitcase get caught on something and, instinctively, I open my eyes to see what it is. Catching a glimpse of Mikki’s reflection in the mirror instantly gets my heart racing. She’s lying in the bathtub and she doesn’t know I can see her, but I can still see the anxiety on her face as her eyes are glued to the door.
‘What are you waiting for? Just push it in here.’ She looks up at that moment and the reflections of our eyes lock.
I let the suitcase handle go and quickly pull the door shut. ‘The suitcase was stuck,’ I explain to the door, but she doesn’t reply.
I incur my walk of shame out of her bedroom and hope I haven’t made her too uncomfortable or broken her trust. I can’t imagine she gives that away easily. And it must have taken a healthy amount of trust or desperation for her to get a hotel room with me today . . . before she even knew who I was.
She didn’t even know who I was.
Shaking my head as I enter my bedroom, I allow my body to fall backward onto the bed. I have to ignore this crazy voice in my head telling me that this whole thing – the storm, the canceled flight, the chance meeting – was fate’s way of bringing Mikki and me back together. That kind of stuff only happens in cheesy romantic movies. And, let’s face it, if they ever made a movie for Mikki and me, it would probably be categorized under horror flicks. Everything from the moment we met on Twitter to this very moment has been a series of unhappy endings.
I heave a deep sigh before I sit up in bed and begin peeling off all my various layers of clothing. I start with my boots, then I toss my coat, sweater, and T-shirt onto the armchair in the corner before I rise from the bed to remove my pants. Once I’m down to nothing but my boxer briefs, I contemplate taking a shower, but I’m afraid something will happen to Mikki while I’m in there.
Heading for the bathroom, the sound of knocking at the door stops me. ‘Yeah?’
‘Can I come in?’
Fuck. ‘Uh, yeah. Give me a minute.’
Thinking quickly, I scurry into the bathroom and grab the bathrobe off the hook and slip it on, hastily tying it closed. I open the bedroom door and she looks me up and down for a second before she speaks.
‘What are you doing in here? Getting a mani-pedi?’ she asks with a grin.
She looks beautiful with no makeup and damp hair.
‘Very funny. I was just going to take a shower. What’s up?’
Her hands are clasped behind her back as she looks off to the side. ‘I came to apologize. I didn’t mean to yell at you. You just kind of startled me. And . . . thanks for the flight info . . . and for letting me stay here with you until the flight.’
‘How about the muffins?’ She looks up so she can glare at me, but her eyes glance over my chest. I smile at her as I attempt to pull the robe tightly closed, but this thing must be made for women or scrawny, old dudes. ‘Well, since you’re in a grateful mood, do you think you can thank me by giving me your phone number?’
She scrunches up her eyebrows. ‘Why do you need my number? We’re staying in the same room.’
‘Yeah, but I was thinking it might be easier to avoid running into each other naked if we can send a text before barging into each other’s rooms.’
‘You think of everything, don’t you?’
I shrug as I open the bedroom door wider and head for the nightstand where I set down my phone earlier. ‘What’s your number? I’ll text you right now so you can save my mine in your phone.’ She shoots off the ten digits quickly, probably trying to see if my fingers can keep up. I fire away a text message then smile at her as I look up from the screen. ‘You might want to go check your phone. I think you just got a text message from a really hot guy.’
She rolls her eyes as she turns to leave. ‘Goodnight, Crush.’
‘Goodnight, Mikki.’
She closes the door and I take my phone with me into the bath
room. The hot water is running and I’m about to step into the shower when I hear the buzzing noise of my phone vibrating on the counter. I scoop it up and smile at her reply.
Me: Want to stay in tomorrow and watch movies and order room service all day?
Mikki: Only if we watch Pretty in Pink and you change the ending so Andie ends up with Fuckie.
I laugh out loud at the typo and she instantly sends another text through.
Mikki: Duckie! Duckie! Not Fuckie!
Me: Are you sure you’re not talking about Pretty in Kink? I think that’s the one with Fuckie.
Mikki: Stupid phone.
Me: Of course we can watch that and if Duckie doesn’t get the girl this time, I’ll hunt down John Hughes and demand a re-make.
Mikki: John Hughes is dear.
Mikki: Dead! John Hughes is DEAD! Ugh.
Me: Killed by all those Fuckie fans, I’m sure.
Mikki: SMH
Me: Getting in the shower now. Feel free to wake me up later if you need anything.
Mikki: Goodnight.
Me: Sweet dreams.
The moment I close my messaging app, I see the little red icon telling me I have fourteen voicemail messages. I turn the screen off and the darkness swallows me. I want to slide out of bed, slip into the bathroom, and end it all right now: all the voicemails, the obsessive thoughts, the awkward moments, the memories. But I swore I wouldn’t do it in a place where I could be found. And I don’t think I can do that to Crush after what he saw in that parking lot.
I have to let my cell phone battery die. Pretty soon it will be twenty-four hours since I went missing. The police will be able to track my phone if it’s powered on. Letting the battery die means I won’t have to listen to those voicemails, but it also means no more cute text messages from Crush.
Laying the phone on the nightstand, I lie back and gaze into the darkness. Then I force myself to remember everything. I’ve stayed pretty high and drunk for the past three years, but sometimes when I’m sober I force myself to remember. I never want to forget that the world can go black in a split second.
The first time I did this was the night before my appointment with the detective who handled my case: Detective Mills. I didn’t sleep the night before that appointment. I was up the whole night, forcing myself to remember every detail as I scrawled it down on a million pieces of paper. And somewhere around four in the morning, while crouched on my bedroom floor, sobbing over a pile of messy notes, I realized that I needed to change the facts to make sure the investigation never went to trial. I finally understood why so many rapes go unreported. I didn’t want to face my attackers in a courtroom. I didn’t want to know what they thought of me. I didn’t want to see even a trace of satisfaction in their eyes. I didn’t want to deal with questions about what I was wearing or whether I was a virgin or what it felt like to have my soul ripped to shreds.
These are the facts: On the night of April fourteenth, an unknown number of young men brutally raped me over the course of approximately three hours. Then they dumped me in a parking lot, beat me within an inch of my life, and left me for dead. I wasn’t going to let the justice system rape me again.
*****
I step out of the bedroom the next morning, freshly showered with my makeup and hair in place. When I enter the dining area, I can see him in the kitchen, standing next to the sink with his shirt off, guzzling a glass of water. As soon as he sets the glass in the sink, he spots me and the smile he casts in my direction is just too fucking cute.
‘Good morning. You look like you’re ready for a day at the library.’
I look down at my clothes, confused by his remark. I’m wearing a pair of skinny jeans Rina and I drew on with clothing markers, a baby-blue Cubs T-shirt – because the sight of it drives my dad crazy – and a black hoodie.
‘Do I look like a book nerd or something?’
He rounds the breakfast bar and my breath catches in my throat when I see his gray boxer briefs. I quickly reach for one of the dining chairs and pull it out to take a seat, so I can stare at the table instead.
‘I thought of something last night and I—’ His voice cuts off and I look up to see what’s wrong. ‘Never mind. You said you wanted to stay in. I’ll go get dressed. Go ahead and order us some breakfast.’ He takes off toward his bedroom and I seize the opportunity to watch him as he leaves. ‘Order me a steak.’
‘With or without blood?’