A Lily in the Light(63)

He shook his head.

She hadn’t expected the answer to be yes. “Keep it.” She pushed the little box toward him.

The elevator chimed down the hall. A woman laughed. Jennifer. Keys jangled, and a door opened and closed. It was probably Adam’s door. Behind her, the phone hung in its booth like a sleeping zoo animal. She didn’t want to see anyone tonight or call home. The memory of spilled coffee made that red-hot feeling creep back to her face. Her entire performance was a blur. Her stomach tightened. Her reflection bubbled back at her in the helmet, a stretched-out, lonely girl.

“Where are you going?” She forced a small, shy smile.

He motioned toward the revolving door, and she followed, the box of beach glass forgotten on the front desk.

His motorcycle was parked under a streetlamp; its obsidian head leaned to the left. It looked fast. He unstrapped a helmet from the seat and placed it on her head, adjusting the chin strap until it was snug and made her ears buzz. His fingers felt nice on her face, and she was thankful he’d done it for her because she didn’t know how. She’d never been on a motorcycle, or a “donor cycle,” as her brother called them. He’d flip if he knew she was about to speed off on one with a stranger.

God. She stared into the empty lobby, where someone new was already behind the desk, the little gift box cleared away. The place where Esme had stood was empty beneath the fluorescent light. The front door of her childhood home clicked shut without a sound. It was that easy.

Someone might have reached for Lily’s hand, and she’d closed hers around it as easily as Esme had let Christophe put a helmet on her head and adjust the chin strap.

Imaginary Lily was behind her now, a flash of sequined shoes in the streetlight. The helmet was heavy on Esme’s head. It stopped her neck from turning quickly enough, but Lily’s little voice was there too.

Take me with you, Lily whispered, too shy to ask with Christophe so close.

Of course, Esme thought. You would show up tonight when I’m trying not to think about you.

Lily giggled. It was a distant memory, distorted with time like talking through water, but it was enough to make Esme’s breath catch before Imaginary Lily was gone again, just out of sight but close.

“Ready?” he asked, finding his place behind the handlebars. Its lights clicked on as Esme slid in behind him. Christophe pulled her arms around his waist and told her to hold on tight, to lean when he leaned. She buried her face into the back of his jacket. It smelled of warm leather. Her heart hammered. She couldn’t imagine letting go.

“Where to?” he asked.

“The beach,” she said. It was the first answer she thought of. She didn’t even know if there was a beach in Paris.

“It’s a long ride,” he said.

Good, Esme thought. The farther, the better.

The engine sputtered. Christophe swept the kickstand back. This was a stupid idea. The worst. Sneaking off with someone she didn’t know after midnight on a motorcycle. But then again, people went outside to make phone calls and never came back or disappeared on the way to school or work or from home, like Lily, on a night like any other. Maybe it didn’t matter. The hotel blinked behind them and was gone as the bike rattled over uneven cobblestones. Esme wanted to scream like she would on a roller coaster just as it reached the calm place before dropping, but she didn’t. She held on tighter instead, wishing he’d go faster so fear would make her stop thinking. Under her fingers, Christophe’s stomach shook. He was laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Esme shouted over the wind and the rush of swirling streetlights. Her voice echoed in the helmet.

“You are!” he shouted back. “Just relax.”

Esme loosened her grip. She pulled her hair away from her mouth as the street moved beneath her feet. When it started to feel natural, she looked to the open sky. A woman rocked a sleeping baby in a window above. She buried her face into Christophe’s back and let the obsidian bike carry them toward the shore.

Other dancers would be showering away sore muscles and layers of makeup; stripping damp second-skin costumes for loose, dry clothes; and crawling into bed. That world felt terribly far away. Esme enjoyed the miles that spread between her and the stage, wondering if her parents or sister had ever dared to ride away in the middle of the night with a stranger, giddy and drunk on escaping. She was proud to discover something they could never teach her.

The highway was empty. Streetlights blurred past. The bike revved and settled into its new speed. The ground rushed by in a sea of ink. If the bike slipped, her entire dance career would be over. She closed her eyes and focused on breathing, leaning when Christophe leaned into curves. Her hips did it naturally. She was in tune with the bike.

But if she was four years old and the ground was liquid fast beneath her dangling feet, would she cry inside her helmet, sounds lost in the wind as the gap between home and whatever came next stretched farther and farther, the relief of that first handhold fading? It was a dark thought that slipped between then and now. Imaginary Lily’s hand balled the back of Esme’s shirt into her fist and held on tight. Esme stared into a passing streetlight, so like the stage-light moon she’d reached for earlier. If she reached her arms above her head now, she’d be nothing, no before or after. The thought was oddly comforting.

“We’re almost there,” Christophe shouted. The wind made it hard to speak. Her lips were dry. A sliver of moon rose in the sky. It didn’t matter how long it took. Under the veil of darkened homes and shops, empty streets, and the rush of air around her, there wasn’t much difference between a moment and a lifetime.