That isn’t exactly true. Giovanni waited for me longer than a couple months…and we never got to be together.
But he’s gone now.
I can’t keep living in the past.
And maybe Shane is right. Maybe this is a game, but not like he thinks. I wasn’t trying to make him jealous. I was living in an imaginary world where Giovanni was somehow alive, where he’d find me and we could be together. I was playing pretend.
“Okay,” I say softly, giving up more than my virginity. I’m giving up the dream of another boy in another time. “Let’s go back to my place.”
“No,” he says.
“Yours then.”
“And give you time to change your mind? No fucking way. Here. We’re doing it right here.”
Shock leaves me cold. This isn’t the charming boy who paid for my latte. This isn’t the hot guy sneaking a feel underneath the table on a date. This isn’t even about sex. I saw what my sister did, both at the strip club and in our previous life—the way sex became about power. That’s how this feels, like Shane is trying to prove a point.
That’s not how I want my first time to be.
Cruel hands on my back, hot breath on my neck.
I swore to myself that my first time would be with someone I loved. I may be able to break that promise for Shane, but at least I want the illusion.
I make my voice soft. “Please, Shane. I’m sorry I made you wait so long. Let’s just find a bed, and I promise—”
“I said no. Did you hear me? We’re going to lift that short skirt of yours right here, right now, and I’m going to get what I’ve been waiting for.”
My shock hardens into anger. I would do a lot to avoid conflict, but I won’t lose my virginity in a back alley. I know I seem soft—it’s why my sister is so protective of me. But underneath I’m forged in steel. Even she doesn’t know how that happened. She doesn’t know what our father did and she never will.
I push against his broad chest, and maybe in surprise, he takes a half step back. “I said no, Shane.”
And then he does something horrible—he laughs. The most disturbing thing about that laugh is that I’ve heard it before. It doesn’t sound particularly sinister. It’s an ordinary, fun-loving laugh from an ordinary, fun-loving guy, except he’s laughing about something dark and twisted.
“No one will care,” he says. “You’ve been dating me for months.”
My chest feels tight. I’ve been in this situation before, with a man who wouldn’t take no for an answer. Last time I had a protector. I had Giovanni, but I’m alone now. “Stop,” I say. “This isn’t you.”
His lips brush over my cheek. “You don’t really know me.”
Then I feel his hands on my legs, pushing up. I shove my skirt down, but I’m no match for him. The cold air rushes between my legs—and then this hand is there, groping, feeling, taking.
No, I won’t let this happen.
I make fists and hit him anywhere I can reach: his shoulders, his neck. Only when I manage to get the bruise on his face does he swear roughly. It seems to enrage him. Hard hands shove me back into the wall. The brick catches me in its cold net. My breath rushes out of me. Spots dance in front of my eyes.
Shane leans back to reach for his zipper.
A blur flashes in the corner of my eye, something dark and fast.
It crashes into Shane, and they slide along the gravel into the shadows. The sound of fists smacking flesh makes me wince. My hands shake as I cover my mouth. Oh God, this is just like before. Except I don’t know who had come after Shane. A stranger? I can’t see into the deep part of the alley, and I’m not getting any closer than I have to.
Without even meaning to, I take a step back toward the street. Then I turn, and I’m running to the entrance. The bouncer’s still there. Amy, too.
“Someone’s fighting,” I manage, breathless. “In the alley. Please help them.”
The bouncer doesn’t seem surprised. He mutters something into a mic attached to his shirt before taking off around the corner. I have to trust that he’ll break up the fight, but I don’t want to be here when he does. I don’t want to give Shane another chance to attack me.
“Oh my God,” Amy says. “He’s fighting again? Are you okay?”
No, I’m not okay. Not like she means. I’m not injured, but I’m cracking open inside, because for the briefest second, it had seemed like Giovanni was saving me. That’s impossible, I knew. He died years ago. It’s just some kind of flashback, a memory from when he saved me before.
More wishful thinking.
“Let’s get out of here, please,” I beg.
Amy doesn’t ask another question. She grabs my hand and steers us toward the side street where cabs line up. We get into the backseat without another word and take the ride home in silence, my shaking hand in hers.
W
hen I reach
my building, I bypass the front door with its key-card entry. Instead I head into the alley beside my loft apartment and climb the fire escape. These are the kind that slant at a steep angle, more like skinny stairs than a ladder.
Sure enough, a matted bundle of blonde-brown fur wriggles on the second-floor landing.
“Hey, Lupo,” I murmur, keeping my voice soft and my movements slow.
He backs up until he’s at the corner of the bars, his small body trembling with anxiety. We’ve done this dance for weeks now, but he still doesn’t trust me to get close.
I think he belonged to whoever used to live here. Either that or he just likes to climb. The first time I caught a glimpse of shaggy fur, I opened the window and he raced down the stairs. After that I started leaving scraps in a bowl outside the window. Only when I come up through the stairs do we even get this close.
Sometimes I imagine snatching him up into my arm and bundling him inside. I could brush the knots out of his fur and feed him from my hand.
Then I worry that startling him will set us back. Will he still trust me if I keep him trapped inside? So for the time being I’m content to coax him gently, to show him I won’t hurt him, night after night.
Whispering sweet nothings, I push the window up from the outside and pull out the food I left there this morning. Slowly, slowly I scoot the bowl to his side of the landing.
“Aren’t you a pretty one,” I croon as he sniffs at the food, then begins to eat. “Aren’t you sweet.”
I remain like that, crouched on the metal grate, watching as he downs the whole meal. Only then do I step in through the window. As soon as I’m inside, no longer blocking the stairway, Lupo rattles the steps on his way down.
“Good night,” I whisper into the damp night air.
The only response is the tinny sound of a trash can knocked aside. With a sigh, I pull the bowl in and shut the window. On impulse I turn back and push the window open again. My sister would freak if she knew I was doing this, but Lupo might come back while I’m sleeping. He might be curious enough to peek his nose inside if he knows it’s safe.
I drop the empty bowl in the sink and grab an orange from the counter for a late-night snack. Settling into the drawing table that I use for both my art and my schoolwork, I toss the peel into the trash can and set the split pieces on the pencil ledge.
The loft is really a single room with thin hardwood slats set diagonally on the floor and a high, peaked ceiling. A small kitchen frames one corner, the door to a small bathroom in the other. The open window splits the space between a twin bed and nightstand and a lounge my sister found at an estate sale. The drawing table and small wardrobe for my clothes round out the rest of the space.
It’s an ordinary apartment in this part of Tanglewood, except for the paint. I’ve covered almost every surface I can find. My landlord agreed that I could paint the walls as long as I paint them back before I move out. He probably thought I meant a soft beige or maybe a trendy sky blue. Instead there’s a patchwork quilt on one side and a mountain vista on the other. The starry night surrounding the window and a gothic Rapunzel on the other side. Not even the furniture escapes my brush. The squat wooden legs of the chaise are fashioned into chess pieces. Thorny vines wrap around the tall spindly legs of the drawing table.
Heavy sketch paper sits on top of the table, waiting for me to draw. Except I don’t want to see Giovanni’s face again, not like earlier. I’m haunted by his ghost, but he isn’t around me. He’s inside me.
I could do some studying instead. Or maybe browse Buzzfeed until I’m tired enough to sleep.
They would both be safe enough.
But there’s some kind of demon inside me that flips open my laptop. Some horrible impulse that clicks the bookmarked link. Why do I keep doing this? I can’t seem to stop myself.
The obituary is short and unbearably impersonal. There’s no picture.
GIOVANNI COSTAS
, 18, of Henderson, Nevada, passed away of unknown causes.
Unknown causes.
My mind had filled in a thousand horrifying possibilities in the years since I found this record online. What happened to him after I left? I remember his slight smile in the dim moonlight, the warmth of his body as he lay beside me. Those memories are bad, but even worse is my imagination—his body beaten, bruised. A bullet in his heart. Someone had hurt him,
killed
him, most likely because he had helped me. Whatever he did to distract them so that my sister and I could escape, cost him his life.
The temperature in the large room seems to drop a few degrees, and I shiver. On my darker nights I imagine that he haunts me. Selfishly I sometimes wish that he would, if only so I can see him again. The loft remains empty, light wavy on the knotted hardwood floors as clouds cross the moon.
The trill of my cell phone makes me jump.
I slam the laptop lid shut, feeling guilty and somehow afraid. I never told anyone about seeing Gio’s obituary, even my sister. Especially not my sister. She worries about me enough without knowing that I’m grieving.
Sure enough, the phone screen flashes her smile. I snapped that picture while Kip was behind her, pressing his face into her hair. The bliss on their faces burrows under my skin, uncomfortable and hot. Like anyone who’s been burned by love, it hurts to see two people so happy together. I can’t stop looking, though. Can’t stop pressing on that bruise.
“Hey, Sis,” I say into the phone, my voice a little husky with lingering emotion.
“Are you okay?”
“Of course I am.” Only barely, I refrain from saying that I’m always okay, that she has me wrapped up so tight that it sometimes feels stifling. I know it only comes from a place of love, but sometimes I long to break away from her caring arms as much as from my father’s harsh grip.
“I haven’t seen you lately,” she says, her tone contrite. She knows she can be overprotective, and she tries to curb it. Well, Kip helps her with that.
I may have missed a couple of Sunday dinners.
“I’m sorry. I’ve been busy with school.” And with not telling her about my boyfriend. At least I won’t have to keep that secret anymore. After tonight I’m officially done with Shane. “How have you been?”
“Good.” The smile comes through the line loud and clear. “It’s our third anniversary.”
I flop onto my bed, her happiness stealing away my earlier gloom. At least one of us can be lucky in love. “So what did he get you?”
“Too much. This gorgeous ruby necklace, an all-day spa gift certificate—for two, by the way, so I expect you to come with me. We’ll make it a girls’ day.”
“I don’t want to think too much about this, but are you sure he didn’t mean for you two to go together? Isn’t that a thing people do? Couple’s massage or something.”
She gives a snort-laugh that still manages to sound delicate. “There’s enough money on this thing for two full days of body wraps, facials, massages, and who knows what else. Either you’re doing this with me or they offer an entirely different kind of couple’s massage at this place.”
A flush crosses my cheeks like it always does when someone mentions sex. You’d think being friends with Amy would have inoculated me to this kind of embarrassment. “Okay then, count me in.”
“I can schedule us for the day after tomorrow? After the big reveal, we’ll have something to celebrate.”
I blow out a breath. “Sounds great.”
“Hmm,” she says. “Nervous?”
This is one of the upsides of having an overprotective big sister. She knows when I need to talk. “Only a lot. People are going to take one look at it and think I’m a hack.”
“You mean the amazing, creative, breathtaking piece of art my talented sister made? Yeah, I don’t think so. They’re actually going to think it’s too good for the Grand, considering it used to be a strip club.”
“Umm, they’ll be attending a re-opening gala at said strip club.”
“Hypocrites come in all income brackets.”
“I feel like that should be on a fortune cookie.”
“And don’t worry. Actually, forget I said that. I know you’re worried. That’s part of the artistic process. But while you’re worrying, know that people who love you are going to be standing by your side tomorrow night. And we all see what a shining bright star you are.”
“That should
definitely
be on a fortune cookie.”
“Trust me, grasshopper. Everything will work out.”
Her words are the warmth and reassurance I need. “Thank you.”
“Anytime. Kip and I will pick you up tomorrow night at six.”
“I can drive.”
“Ha! In that neighborhood? Kip would have a heart attack.”
I’m not sure it’s Kip who would have the heart attack, but I can go along with this. “Okay, pick me up at six. Then the next morning, all-day spas. I want something completely wild and luxurious, like a gold-leaf body wrap.”
“Done.” I hear the smile in her voice. “Now get some sleep.”
“Good night.”
I click off the phone. The orange pieces linger on the pencil ledge, uneaten. I’m not hungry anymore, but I gather them into my hand and carry them across the room. They roll and rest around the glass of water that sits there, half-empty. I take a sip, and the coolness soothes my throat.
Stop thinking about ghosts.
The whole apartment is humid from the open window, the evening’s rain steeped in moonlight. I stretch beneath the sheets and curl my body around a pillow. The streetlamp winks at my window, and my eyes fall shut, again and again, snapshots in the dark.