Lost in Love

  Jude leans back in his wire-framed chair. He runs a hand through his blond hair, a shade lighter from the sun than when I met him.

  “Sadie and Rosanna came to see me in the park,” Jude says.

  “When?”

  “This afternoon. Right before I called you.”

  “How did they know where to find you?”

  “They saw me in the park before. The night they moved in? Sadie was showing Rosanna around and they watched my show. They figured out it was me from stuff you’ve said. And that I’m the only nineteen-year-old magician working Washington Square Park.”

  Way to knock me off my game, ladies.

  “What did they want?” I ask.

  “They said I should fight for you.” Jude smiles into his mug.

  Now if you looked up flabbergasted in the dictionary, you’d see a picture of me sitting right here across from Jude. Wondering why in the world my girls would tell a boy who told me it’s over to fight for me. And why they didn’t give me a heads-up.

  “What else did they say?” I ask.

  “That information is classified.”

  “I didn’t tell them to find you.”

  “I know. They had their reasons.”

  “Which were?”

  Jude tips his chair back, balancing it on two legs. He studies me in silence like he’s trying to gauge how much to reveal. The suspense is killing me.

  He tilts forward to bring his chair back to normal. “They think we belong together.”

  “But they know Logan’s here.”

  “So your ex showed up. What we become isn’t his decision.”

  “He didn’t just show up. He came here to get me back.”

  “How’s that working out for you?”

  Did Sadie and Rosanna tell Jude about my epic dinner fail? They were asleep when I got home last night and they were gone when I got up. I haven’t even seen them. The dinner leftovers were stored in the refrigerator by the time I got home last night, stacked neatly in Tupperware containers. The table was cleared and the dishes were washed. Zero evidence of my cooking disaster could be detected in the immaculate kitchen. It wouldn’t take a mastermind to deduce that no one ate the dinner I cooked. Obviously, the girls felt bad for me.

  I stubbornly jut my chin out. “Fine.”

  The light that used to be in Jude’s eyes when he looked at me is back. Like a lost star I found again. His eyes feed on mine intently. Passionately. He sees exactly who I am. He sees everything we could be together. The potential of us. His starlight is flaming.

  I look away before I get burned.

  Jude leans toward me. His tan arms rest against the round marble table.

  “Want to know what I think?” he says. Challenge sparkles in his eyes.

  Between the light and the sparkle, it’s getting harder to breathe. “You’ll tell me anyway.”

  “I think you want me to fight for you. I think you know how good we are together. You’re conflicted. Your ex showed up for the summer and you have to deal with him. I get that. But I can’t give up on what we have.”

  The scary thing about being completely honest with yourself is that it can be super inconvenient. Jude would never walk out on a dinner I made for him. Jude is sweet and caring and compassionate. The connection we have is the strongest connection I’ve ever felt with anyone. But if I admit that I feel the same way about Jude, that being with him makes me feel alive in a way I’ve never felt before, then I would have to admit that Jude is better for me than Logan.

  Maybe now is the time to admit it.

  “You don’t have to tell me you agree,” Jude says. “But I do need you to be honest about one thing.”

  “Okay.”

  “Were you seeing anyone else while we were together? We weren’t together that long, so I’m guessing you weren’t. But I need to know for sure.”

  “Why does it matter?”

  “It just does.”

  That night when Logan appeared out of nowhere, I was bursting to tell Jude that I wanted to be exclusive casual. That I only wanted to be with him. The wanting I felt that night builds up inside of me again.

  I begin to explain. “You know how I ran down to see you that night Logan showed up? When I thought it was you?”

  “Yeah?”

  “There’s something I wanted to tell you.”

  “What?”

  “I was going to ask if you wanted to try being . . . exclusive.”

  “But I thought you were all about having fun with no strings attached.”

  “I was. I just . . . I wanted to be with you. Only you.”

  Jude rubs his hand against his scruffy cheek. I love when he doesn’t shave for a few days. “So if Logan hadn’t shown up at your door ten seconds before I did, you and I would be together?”

  “Yes. And no.”

  The light in Jude’s eyes dims.

  “I was going to ask if you wanted to be exclusive in a casual way. Where we only see each other, but without the demands and expectations of a serious relationship. We would have fun being together, but we’d also have the freedom to do our own thing.”

  “So . . . you wouldn’t have started seeing Logan again? Even though he came all the way here to be with you?”

  “That part is unclear.”

  “But you weren’t with anyone else while we were together, right?”

  If a genie in a bottle showed up this instant and granted me one wish, forget wishing for more wishes. I would wish that I could tell Jude he’s right. Or that Jude would never ask me this again. But I want to be completely honest with him. I don’t want to hold anything back. When you care about someone, you put yourself out there. All of you. The true you. And you hope that person still likes what they see.

  “Not exactly,” I admit. “But it was nothing.”

  Jude leans forward on the table again, staring at me. “What was nothing?”

  “It didn’t mean anything.”

  “What didn’t mean anything?”

  “There was . . . I hooked up with someone. While you and I were together.”

  “Who?”

  “Some boy I met at the Strand.”

  “You didn’t even know this person?”

  No one has ever made me feel ashamed about having fun with boys before. Not because they haven’t tried. People have judged me. People have made snide remarks. People have called me everything from a slut to a sinner. But no one has managed to pull off making me feel ashamed of my choices.

  Until now.

  At the time I told myself that Jude and I weren’t really together. We’d just met. We weren’t a thing. But if I were being honest with myself, painfully, completely, inconveniently honest, I would have to admit that we were a thing. We were a thing from the first second I saw him. We were a thing before he even knew my name.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I know that’s not what you wanted to hear.”

  “When you say ‘hooked up’ . . . what do you mean?”

  “We . . . made out.”

  “Where? At a club?”

  This is the part I don’t want to talk about the most.

  “In a dressing room. At the Gap.”

  Jude pushes his chair away from me a little. He crosses his arms over his chest.

  “To clarify,” he says, “you made out with a stranger in a Gap dressing room. While we were together.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s all you did?”

  “We didn’t have sex. But we did . . . other things.”

  “Other things you didn’t do with me.” Jude picks up his mug. He puts it back down again without drinking. “See, that’s what I don’t understand. You’re saying that you only wanted to be with me. But then you go and hook up with some random in a dressing room?”

  I try to lighten the mood. “Did you want to hook up in a dressing room? Because I’m free right now.”

  “Are you? Because I thought you were tied up with your ex-boyfriend.” Jude pushes his chair back
even more. Then he stands up. “This was a bad idea.”

  “No it wasn’t!”

  “I want to fight for you, Darcy. I just don’t know what I’m fighting for.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying . . . good luck with Logan. I hope everything works out the way you want.”

  He leaves while I stare at his empty chair. I don’t turn around to watch him go. I cannot watch another boy walk out on me.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  ROSANNA

  WHEN WE TALKED THIS MORNING, D explained why he wasn’t at Bryant Park last night. He got stuck at his internship. He said he was really sorry for not being there and that he would make it up to me tonight.

  Taking the subway to D’s place, all I can think about is how I am going to afford August. Covering my expenses for the second half of July will be challenging enough. I’m barely scraping by. But camp ends the third week of August. How am I going to pay for everything that last week?

  I’m so out of it I almost miss my stop. The train jerking to a halt shakes me into action when I realize we’re at Franklin Street. I leap out of the subway after the doors have already opened, expecting them to close on me with a death grip so tight I will be dragged to the next stop with assorted body parts dangling above the subway tracks. Then I look like a fool who leaps out of subways that aren’t going anywhere. An announcement comes on saying the train is being held at the station due to traffic ahead.

  A mom pushing a stroller gets on the subway. As I’m walking toward the turnstiles, I see a tattered pink stuffed bunny on the platform. It must have fallen out of the stroller. Her baby starts crying in the subway car. The mom spots the bunny by the turnstiles, her face twisted with indecision. She can’t risk running for the bunny. How awful would it be if the subway doors closed right then and the train took off with her baby? She could wheel the stroller back out to pick up the bunny, but then she might miss the train if the doors closed before she got back on. She stares at the bunny as her baby wails louder.

  In one swift motion, I dash over to that tattered pink bunny, pick it up, and toss it through the subway doors just as the bing-bong tone sounds and the doors slide closed. The mom mouths thank you at me. I wave to her as the train leaves the station.

  That’s two for two.

  When Sadie and I were walking to the park to find Jude this afternoon, a middle-aged guy on the sidewalk in front of us dropped a twenty-dollar bill. I ran ahead, picked up the twenty, and said, “Excuse me.”

  The guy turned around.

  “I think you dropped this.” I held the bill out to him.

  “Thank you,” he said, taking it. “Most people would have kept it for themselves.”

  “That pretty much sums up what’s wrong with the world.”

  He laughed. “Well put.”

  Sadie said she was impressed with how I ran after that guy. She didn’t even have time to react.

  So it seems like I’m getting better about reacting quickly when people need help. I just wish I didn’t get so nervous. My heart was pounding when I ran after that guy with the twenty. Adrenaline tore me apart as I whipped the tattered pink bunny through those subway doors. But I didn’t let being afraid prevent me from taking action.

  When I get to D’s building, I tell myself to remain calm. It hurt a lot that D didn’t show up last night. But he had a valid reason. I do not want to be the crazy girlfriend anymore.

  D’s doorman recognizes me. All of the doormen for his building wear the same uniform: black suit, white shirt, black tie, and shiny black cap. He smiles as he opens the door.

  “Good evening,” he says with his fancy doorman inflection. “Is Mr. Clark expecting you?”

  “Yes,” I say. The yes comes out all garbled. I clear my throat. “Yes, he is.” This doorman always makes me nervous. They all do. How can you not be nervous around someone who holds doors open for glamorous, polished people as they sail through them, exchanging pleasantries effortlessly, accustomed to speaking eloquently with doormen on a regular basis? I feel like doormen can tell I grew up in poverty, and having a door held open for me is a much bigger deal than it should be. The ironic thing is, this doorman could be struggling to make ends meet, spending his days opening doors for people with more money than they know what to do with. I need to work on not feeling so intimidated.

  The doorman calls D on the phone that sits on the podium by the front doors. The podium phone is the fancy way in which guests are announced. “Rosanna to see you,” he reports. Then he hangs up the phone with a clipped nod.

  “You can go right up,” he tells me.

  “Thank you.” It’s not right that he knows my name but I don’t know his. I need to learn all of D’s doormen’s names.

  I have the elevator to myself. When the doors close, I scrutinize my reflection in the glossy silver paneling. Why oh why did my hair have to choose tonight to freak out? Yeah, it’s hot and humid. My hair always puffs up and frizzes out when it’s hot and humid. But can’t I ever get a break? I frantically paw at my waves. As if anything I could possibly do in an elevator would improve the situation.

  The elevator doors glide open on D’s floor. His hall smells like roasted chicken. And something else. Warm biscuits.

  He opens the door right away when I ring the bell. Like he was waiting on the other side.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hi.”

  “Thanks for coming over.” He steps aside so I can come in. I can’t help smiling when I realize the delicious dinner smells are coming from D’s place. Takeout containers are spread out on the coffee table in the living room. Candles are lit on the end tables around the big sectional couch. The blanket D bought for us to use on Central Park movie night is spread out on the floor in front of the TV with some pillows scattered around it. Subtle acoustic guitar plays from the overhead sound system.

  “What’s all this?” I ask.

  “I suck for not showing up last night. It was unacceptable and I’m really, really sorry. So I redid movie night. True, it’s inside, but it’s gross out anyway. Better to have movie night where we can be cool and comfortable.”

  D did all of this for me. I can’t believe it.

  “Sorry I had to work late,” he says. “All this stuff went down with a top client account I’m working on. And then one of the guys took us out for drinks after. I didn’t want to go. It was a political move; he has a lot of pull with the guy I’m trying to get a recommendation from. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you what was going on, but there was no way to get in touch with you. You need to get a cell phone.”

  D will never know the truth about why I don’t have a cell phone. I’d rather die than admit I can’t afford something everyone else has. As far as D knows, I’m just making a statement about the importance of being an individual by refusing to succumb to societal pressures.

  “Did you stay for the movie?” D asks.

  “Yeah. It was so crowded and I was kind of in the middle. Leaving early would have been impossible. And I was afraid that if I left, you would show up and then we’d lose our spot.”

  “I hope you weren’t looking around for me the whole time.”

  “I wasn’t.” I totally was. I’m sad all over again when I remember how it felt to be floating solo in a lake of groups. But then I look around at the takeout containers and candles and the blanket with floor pillows. D put a lot of effort into tonight. Everything looks and smells amazing. “Dinner smells really good,” I say.

  “We’re watching Her.”

  “Who?”

  “The movie.”

  “Oh! You remembered.” I mentioned to D that I’ve been wanting to see Her.

  “I ordered in from Landmarc. Have you been there? Of course you haven’t—you just moved here. Sometimes I forget you’re still new to New York. It seems like you’ve been here forever!”

  Yay that he thinks I blend in with the real New Yorkers.

  “Should we eat?” D says. “I don’t want
it to get cold.”

  From the array of food containers spread out on the enormous coffee table, it looks like D ordered about a hundred sides with the roasted chicken.

  “Hey.” D takes me in his arms. He kisses me gently. “I really am sorry about last night. Let me make it up to you.”

  I look into his striking hazel eyes. He clearly feels bad about what happened. He’s making it very easy not to be mad anymore.

  “Okay?” he asks.

  “Okay.”

  D puts his arm around me, guiding me into the living room. “Take your pick. Couch or blanket.”

  “The blanket would be more authentic, but I’m going with the couch. It’s too comfortable to reject.”

  “Excellent choice.”

  I sit on the plush couch, suddenly shy. D shakes out a cream-colored cloth napkin and drapes it over my lap. He makes a plate for me, filling it with so many delicious things my eyes water up in gratitude. We’ve come a long way from D catching me sneaking packs of chips into my bag. I blink my tears away quickly before he can see, embarrassed that I’m emotional.

  We talk about work while we eat. D complains about the douche he shares a desk clump with. I complain about Frank, who still hasn’t done anything about Momo. D tells me about the trainer he started working with at Equinox. I tell him about the volunteer jobs I’m considering.

  “Did you have movie nights like this back in Chicago?” D asks.

  “You mean . . . at home?”

  “Yeah. I can totally see you and your brothers and sisters having movie nights when you were little. All piled on the couch in the living room in front of a huge TV.”

  I take another bite of my extravagant dinner.

  “Why do you always do that?” D says.

  “What?”

  “Avoid answering when I ask you questions about your past.”

  “No I don’t.”

  “Yes you do. Every time I ask about your home life, you deflect.”

  “I told you about my family! And my friends.” He’s right. There are certain questions I refuse to answer. I told D all about my brothers and sisters, about their personalities and idiosyncrasies and the funniest stories that have accumulated over the years. But when the conversation leads to more specific details like our house (that wasn’t big enough) or family vacations (that we never took) or the size of our TV (way too small and falling apart), I either change the subject or let the question hang awkwardly in the air. Not just because I can’t admit how poor my family is. I’m paranoid that D’s questions will expose the most damaged parts of me. He’s so easy to talk to. I’m scared the truth will come out. Would D still want to be with me if he knew I came from nothing? If he knew I was molested? Could he ever love me, knowing I am broken?