Sweet Nothing(39)
Love you for infinity,
A
Diluted pink light washes over the horizon as the girls as I exit our last stop of the night: a 24-hour diner not far from the South Beach strip. Giant coffees in hand, we stumble onto the sidewalk. Correction: Gwen and I stumble onto the sidewalk. Waverly sashays. Somehow, her hair and red lips are still perfect.
“Need. Bed. Now,” Gwen bleats. “Seriously. I’m sleeping until my first class tomorrow.”
“Shower,” I yawn. My head and feet are pulsing at alternate rhythms, and my legs are starting to feel the effects of the snorkeling excursion. Even though my body is worn out, my mind is whirring at full speed. I don’t want to sleep. I want to see Luke again. And I don’t want to wait until this afternoon.
“Lightweights,” Waverly says accusingly. Latweights. Her Southern accent intensifies when she’s drunk.
Gwen ignores her and steps into the street, hailing a cab in less than five seconds. “I’m going home. You’re both welcome to join me.”
“Come on, girl.” Waverly grabs my wrist and pulls me toward the cab. At the last second, I pull away.
“You guys go ahead. I’m good.”
Gwen’s face crinkles in confusion. “Are you still drunk? Get in the cab, woman!”
I shake my head. “No, seriously. Luke’s place isn’t far from here. I want to say hi.”
“You naughty little minx,” Waverly winks. Her ridiculous expressions also intensify when she’s drunk. “You sure you don’t want us to drop you?”
“I’m good. I could use the walk,” I assure them. “Go on.”
“Ohhhkay,” Waverly says. “See you at home. Have fun.” She hops in the cab behind Gwen, who’s already curled up against the far door. Waverly straps Gwen in, gives her hair a condescending pat, and pulls the cab door closed behind her.
I stand for a second on the curb, wondering if I’m suffering from a bout of cocktail-induced temporary insanity. Luke’s probably still asleep. The last thing he wants is an unsolicited early morning visit. I check my cell; it’s just past 7.
I can’t remember the last time I stayed out this late. The girls and I had club-hopped South Beach’s busiest blocks, slipping into some clubs and getting shooed away from others by burly dudes in headsets. Then we’d wandered to the beach, where we’d stretched out in the sand and talked about everything from Gwen’s summer program to Waverly’s ex, a college linebacker named Chip who had proposed after graduation, then announced four days before the wedding that he was in love with a girl from home named Candy. CANDY. And Gwen had talked cryptically about her time in New York, in a way that convinced me that I wasn’t the only one with secrets. We’d ended the night at the diner, munching on omelets and slurping bottomless coffees.
A blaring cab horn brings me back, and I hop away from the curb. Ducking back into the diner, I order a fresh latté and a bagel sandwich to go. While I wait, I find the bathroom, pop a piece of gum, and peer into the cracked mirror. My hair is flat and my black kohl eyeliner has migrated so far south, I look like a football player. I yank the last of the paper towels from the dispenser on the wall, hold it under the dripping faucet, and dab at the liner until it has almost disappeared. Then I pop two more pieces of gum, give my hair a shake, and re-gloss. It’s not perfect, but it will have to be good enough.
By the time I emerge from the bathroom, my order is sitting on the counter. I hand the cashier a wad of small bills and start making my way toward the chapel. Toward Luke. Or at least I think I’m making my way toward him. I recognize a few landmarks as I limp west: colorful storefronts, hotels. A fine layer of sand dusts my skin and collects in my shoes. I stop outside a day spa to slurp my latté. It burns my tongue.
I don’t know why I’m doing this, exactly. I know only that I’m hungry for the feeling he gave me last night. I want to feel safe again. I want to feel seen. Just being close to him makes me feel hope. Like this could be My Life: Part II. The beginning of something real and good.
Immediately, the nagging voice in the back of my psyche pipes up. He’ll reject you if he ever finds out what you’ve done.
He doesn’t have to know, I decide. He knows Elle Sloane, Economics Instructor at Allford Academy. He likes her. And doesn’t that mean he likes me? He doesn’t have to know everything I’ve been through to understand me. I am not my past. I am not the sins I have committed. I want desperately to believe that this is true.
The chapel is only a few blocks away, but it takes me at least ten minutes to get there. By the time I reach the front door, blisters throb at my heels and I can no longer feel my toes. As I rap on the front door, my heart speeds up and my nerves launch into overdrive. What if Luke thinks this is weird? One date and a rooftop make-out session and I’m showing up at his house unannounced on a Sunday morning? Oh, God. I’ve made a terrible mistake. This looks psycho. You are a total psycho, and Luke’s going to figure it out in approximately three seconds.