Final Girls(41)

“I think we’ve gone far enough.”

My voice gets lost in the chilly breeze. Not that Sam would have turned back had she heard me. She’s all determination as she crosses the street and makes a right, heading toward the park entrance one block south. I break into a run, following the route of my morning jogs until I’ve caught up to her.

“What are we going to do out here?” I say.

“You’ll see.”

Sam ditches her cigarette and veers into the park. I pause at the threshold, the headlights cruising up Central Park West catching me in their glare and bending my shadow over the sidewalk. I want to turn back. I almost do. My body’s prepared to sprint back to the apartment and dive into bed, clinging to Jeff. But I can no longer see Sam. She’s been swallowed by the park’s dark mouth.

“Sam?” I say. “Come back.”

There’s no response.

I wait, hoping she’ll reappear, grinning, saying this is just another one of her tests. One that I have failed.

But when she doesn’t come back, my nervousness ticks up another notch. Sam’s alone in the park. In the dead of night. And even though I know she can take care of herself, I worry.

So I curl my fingers around the slim canister of pepper spray in my pocket. I curse myself for not taking a Xanax. Then I inhale a deep, jittery breath and step into the park.

Sam is right there. Not lost. Just blending with the shadows as she waits for me to catch up. She looks impatient. Or annoyed. I can’t quite tell.

“Come on,” she says, grabbing my arm and pulling me along.

I know this part of the park well. I’ve been here a thousand times. The Diana Ross Playground is to our left, its gates closed and locked. On our right sits the exit curve of the 79th Street Transverse. Yet night has transformed the park into something forbidden and unfamiliar. I barely recognize it. A mist has rolled in, shivery and thick. It whispers against my skin and haloes the lamps along the path, diffusing their glow. Muted circles of light creep across the grass and get tangled in the trees, making the park’s woods seem thicker, more wild.

I try not to think about the woods surrounding Pine Cottage, even though it’s all I can think about. That thick forest, filled with hidden dangers. It’s like I’m back there again, ready to break out into my life-or-death race through the trees.

Sam heads deeper into the park. I follow, even as a chant of worry forms in my thoughts—This is dangerous. This is mad. This is wrong.

Through the mist, I see the hazy outline of the Delacorte Theatre. Just beyond it is Belvedere Castle, a miniature fortress rising from a rock outcropping. Its fog-shrouded silhouette brings to mind fairy tale forests.

One could get lost in a place like this, I think. One could stray from the path and never be seen again.

Just like Janelle.

Like Craig.

Like all of them.

For now, Sam and I keep on the path as we head south, staying close to the park’s western border. Despite the hour, we are not alone. I glimpse other people—moving shadows in the distance. A couple crossing the park swiftly, heads lowered against the mist. A late-night jogger behind us, breath heavy, tinny music drifting out of earbuds. Their appearances make my heart crash like symbols.

Then there are the solitary men with fog-blurred faces that cruise the park’s paths, looking for the erotic thrill of illicit, anonymous sex. Many of them wear similar clothes, as if there’s a dress code involved. Track pants and expensive running shoes, hooded sweatshirts unzipped to expose tight Tshirts. They emerge from the mist in all directions. Roaming, circling, searching.

Thankfully, they don’t give Sam and me a second glance. We’re not their type.

“We should go back,” I say.

“Chill,” Sam says.

She shares the same restlessness as those discreetly prowling men. There’s something driving her. A hunger. A need. She plops onto a bench, her right leg fidgeting as she searches the horizon. A hardness has replaced the earlier fire in her eyes, her stare cold and coal black.

I sit beside her, my heart beating so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t shake the bench. Sam digs a cigarette out of her jacket pocket and lights up. The flare of her lighter in the fog gets the attention of one of the prowlers—a leather-clad moth drawn to the flame. I tense up as he gets closer. My hands tighten around the pepper spray.

Once he reaches our bench, his features clear. He’s handsome and lithe, with a peppery stubble tracing the line of his jaw. An air of dark sexiness radiates off of him.

“Hey,” he says, voice hushed and apologetic, as if talking isn’t allowed. “Can I bum a smoke?”

Sam obliges, slipping a cigarette from her pocket and into his palm with the ease of a dime bag dealer. She flicks her lighter and the man leans forward, cigarette tip catching, glowing hot a moment before darkening into a smolder. He nods at Sam, blowing out smoke that mingles with the mist.

“Thanks.”

“No prob,” Sam says. “Good luck tonight.”

The man smiles, sly and sexy. He begins to walk away in a leather-clad strut, saying over his shoulder, “Luck has nothing to do with it, sweetie.” Then he’s gone, vanishing back into the fog from which he emerged.

I think about Him. In a different woods. In a different time. If only He had disappeared like that, slipping away, leaving us alone. We should have let Him go. I should have demanded it.