Page 53

I really need to get laid. Or a hobby.

My mind wanders, searching for that ball of confidence I'll need. Like a specter in the dark, there's a spicy, citrusy, musky smell behind me. My brain is conjuring figures from shadows deep in my recollections. If I close my eyes, I can picture the boy the scent should belong to. First, I get warm all over, then that familiar twang of lonely that always follows his memory washes over me. I'm left with the feeling that I was foolish to believe he loved me. Or that love could honestly conquer all.

I sigh and stare at the rest of the bar. There's a bunch of girls dancing. Kris used to force me to go out there. She taught me not to care what other people thought so much. I should be a dancer again.

Nah, it's too late to be a dancer. I try to shake off the imagined scent. My sense memory is working overtime tonight. I stir my drink more violently, waiting to escape his grip.

That smell is unhinging me.

I slam my drink. I turn around and a pair of blue-grey eyes are about to bore a hole right through me. They're older, but they're his. The boy that belongs to the citrus smell. His cropped dark hair has grown out. His body filled out, broader and more powerful. He seems taller somehow. He's flicking his thumbs out of his clenched fists. And my heart aches. He's across the room, and I'm afraid my mind is playing tricks on me.

He's so unfamiliar, but his eyes belong to me. My body is a symphony of nerve endings trying to communicate, but it's all a mass of loud noises inside my head and soul. He's staring at me, and I hope I don't have something stuck to my face. Does he recognize me?

Perhaps the one who ghosted me is, indeed, a ghost. He can't be real. I'm overwhelmed with all the emotions in the entire damn world and my knees buckle at the weight of carrying them. I can barely breathe. Like, super shallow, I'm-going-to-hyperventilate breathing. Hopefully, he has a paper bag or something to make sure I don't pass the fuck out from the sight of the man who disappeared and left a hole inside me that's never been filled.

I have to know if he's real. I jerk my body to the side and his eyes follow. Then I jump back to my original place and his eyes move with me. He's real. His lips curl up in the corners, like in the reaches of my memory and I return the smile. I've never loved anything like I loved those eyes and the boy attached to them. I walk towards him as if there's anywhere else in the world I could possibly go.

I touch his shirt to make sure I'm not absolutely lock-me-up insane. And I shudder a bit from the brief contact, but I have my proof of life. When I look up again, there's nothing but his gaze and our history caught between us.

He steps toward me and invades my space. I should scream and run or smash his face in. I should yell all the things and ask all the questions that have no answers.

He picks up my hand and rubs his thumb over my left ring finger as if to ask if I belong to anyone. How could I when I've never stopped being his? I shake my head slightly to indicate there's no one else.

His hands slide around my waist and mine go around his neck—as if we just did this yesterday. He drifts a light knuckle down my cheek and traces my jaw. My breath and nerves steady with his touch. Then he traces my lips. Ten years and an unspoken lifetime sit between us, but in this space and time right now, in this second, we're us again. I've never been more terrified or elated. I exhale slowly but don't break eye contact.

He puts his forehead to mine.

We're touching for the first time since we left Paris. Since he said, I can't wait to see you. Since he told me he loved me. He was hidden from my world for a decade, and it's as if someone just lifted a veil and revealed he'd been here the whole time.

"Lizzie." A name from history. It's barely a whisper, but I can still hear it.

I breathe out, "Danny." And then his cotton-candy-colored lips are lightly pressed against mine. All my scattered pieces are like a series of camera flashes suddenly making sense in a timeline I never thought would be repaired. He kisses me, then buries his face in my neck. I find myself on his shoulder, clutching him closer. Tears fill my eyes as I exhale all the sorrow I carry like a good-looking tote bag. You know, the kind that goes with everything, so you use it constantly. That's my sorrow. It just goes with everything, always has except what is happening right here. Finally, I get to set it down for a moment.

He whispers as he tangles in my hair, "Come with me." I grab my clutch. I back up and look at him.

I whisper back, "Yes. My answer to you has always been yes." And the boy who showed me everything I thought love was supposed to be, leads me out of the bar—neither of us explaining or saying a word to each other. I simply float after him onto the noisy streets of Manhattan.

His large hand is soft and warm like I know his heart to be. Damn. This is the heartbreak of all heartbreaks and the love of all loves. I didn't realize I wasn't fully breathing until he kissed me. And now I'm lightheaded with all the air filling my lungs and body. Just outside, with the humidity reminding me what time of year it is, he pushes me against the wall.

Our voices are low. His fingers caress my jaw and he's staring at me. "You can't be real. This can't be my Lizzie."

"I am. I always have been." I'm completely unguarded. I'm vulnerable and open, and I don't care if he knows I've pined.

He exhales and I continue quietly, "I couldn't find you. You broke me. And all my pain is just gone, disappeared as you touch me."

His lips are on mine before I can finish. There's a need and a hunger that's familiar, but different. It's full of melancholy and lust instead of youthful fervor. That feeling when you're young—that nothing has a deadline or could possibly have an ending—is gone from this kiss. We know things can end.

He's rasping at me, "Lizzie. You disappeared from me. You broke me. And now, I should ignore how good it feels to hold you so you can't break me again."

I'm kissing his neck, then pull back. "What?"

We both look at each other. I don't know how to process this.

I say, "You left me."

"Never."

I'm not comprehending information correctly. I'm scrambled and excited. He's forceful as his lips claim mine. His matured and skilled tongue is different and much sexier than high school Danny's. My tongue battles his for dominance, almost to prove we're both here, and this is happening.