Lost Girls(38)

And then at last, the kiss ended and we stared into each other’s eyes, me remembering, him knowing, both of us breathless.

“I almost lost you,” he said, his words soft as if he couldn’t say them very loud because it would show how strong the emotion was.

“I’m here, I’m safe.”

He shook his head. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” he said. “I haven’t always been”—he hesitated—“a very good person. But I’m going to do everything I can to make sure no one ever hurts you again.”

He had a way of enchanting me with his words, maybe it was the poet in him, maybe this was easy for him, but it didn’t matter. I knew he was telling the truth.

I just didn’t know if I wanted to be safe.

...

We drove around for a few hours, going places we used to hang out together, and at first I was a little disappointed since I’d expected something almost violently exciting. But when we ended up on a turnout in the San Gabriel Mountains, staring down at L.A., all lit up, streams of traffic glittering like strands of rubies, his hand found mine and I finally remembered—how he had first asked me out and we had gone to a skateboarding park, how we had sat for hours in a local Starbucks, drinking lattes and talking, just talking about everything.

Neither one of us were the dark creatures we were now. Back then we were just two awkward sixteen-year-old kids, me a wannabe ballet dancer, him a poet/wrestler that no one seemed to understand. We both had rough edges hidden beneath our sweet and innocent veneers. We had gone Goth together. We’d lost our virginity together.

And there were other things, secret things that I still couldn’t remember, that we had done together, too. They followed us like revenants wearing ghostly shrouds, huddling together amidst the trees and the rocks, just far enough away that I couldn’t see them clearly.

Whatever the secrets were, he didn’t want to talk about them. From time to time, I’d see a flicker of guilt in his eyes, like he thought he was to blame for every bad thing that had ever happened.

And then finally, when it was about nine thirty and I only had two hours left before I turned into a suburban pumpkin, I asked about the party.

“I heard Brett’s parents are out of town,” I said. We sat side by side, feet hanging over the edge of the mountain. Nothing below us but five thousand feet of yawning black canyon.

He didn’t say anything.

“Lauren said he’s having a party tonight.”

“Yeah.”

A long pause followed before I asked, “Did you want to go?”

He picked up a rock, cupped it in his hand, then tossed it out into the unfathomable darkness. There was no sound. It was almost as if the rock had never existed. I imagined it tumbling through space, falling ever downward, never stopping, always sailing through a dark universe.

“If you want,” he said, although it sounded more like a question than a statement.

“Everyone we know is supposed to be there.”

“Sure. Let’s go. Come on.”

He stood and took me by the hand, lifting me up, a move that felt almost like part of a dance. His hands were around my waist and he pulled me close for another long, amazingly beautiful kiss. Then we climbed on his bike, helmets on, my arms around his waist, my head on his shoulder.

And we flew down the mountain, two birds with wings spread wide.





Chapter Twenty-Two


Wind rushed past, a tunnel of cold air that pushed me closer to Dylan, his warmth flowing through me like a sigh. Mountain roads gave way to city streets, which then changed into five-lane freeways, lights flickering around us as we headed back toward Santa Madre. We followed a familiar road that led us through the historic district and then up into the hills. Here, the houses cost ten times as much as the ones in the valley, every curve in the road revealing views that made my part of town look cheap.

I wondered if I had been up here before, if there had been other parties. I still felt like an outsider with this crowd and wished that Molly and all the other kids I hung around with last year would be here.

But I’d given them all up. They didn’t fit in with these people any more than I did.

Brett’s house appeared when we rounded a corner. Not that I recognized it. I knew because the motorcycle slowed down, growling in a deeper pitch as we headed toward the curved driveway. Jammed with cars, it would have been hard to park if we hadn’t been on a bike. As it was, Dylan slipped easily into a spot between a Jaguar and a Kia Soul.

Loud music thumped from the open front door. A balcony stretched out over a ravine and people were out there dancing, talking, drinking, all of them poised over a hungry cliff.

Dylan took my helmet and hung it from the handlebars, next to his.

“You sure you want to go inside?” he asked, maybe responding to the look on my face.

“Yeah,” I said.

He took my hand and together we ambled up the steps that led to a gorgeous, split-level home, part glass, part concrete, part stone. Even from the outside, I could see the floor-to-ceiling canvases that decorated the living room, the brightly colored splashes of color a stark contrast to the gray and taupe furniture. Every inch of this house was exquisite.

And inside, it looked like a frat party.

The dining room table had been turned into a beer pong table, with teams of girls and guys competing, taking turns tossing ping-pong balls, then downing plastic cups filled with beer. Stephanie chugged down a drink when we walked in the door, beer slipping down the sides of her mouth while the rest of the kids chanted something I couldn’t understand. Girls and boys filled the living room, some dancing, some joking around, while others sat in awkward silence on sofas, looking out of place.