Lost in Love

  My anxiety must be showing on my face because D says, “No pressure. I just want to know you better.”

  “I know.”

  “I care about you.” D says this so tenderly that all I can do is nod to keep from bursting into tears.

  We finish dinner while D tells a hilarious story about this obnoxious guy at his gym. Then he makes cappuccinos with his swanky Lavazza coffeemaker. Like a grownup. I sit at the long, sleek kitchen island to watch him. He grinds fresh coffee beans and measures the coffee out with a little triangular scoop. The open bag of coffee beans sits on the counter in front of me. I can’t stop sniffing it. I put the bag right up to my nose, inhaling slowly and deeply. If there were a way to capture the aroma of finer things in a bag, this would be it.

  It is routine for D to make cappuccinos on his upscale machine. I wonder again what it’s like to be him. Growing up in that gorgeous Upper West Side brownstone, watching the seasons change right outside his window in Central Park as if it was his backyard, having everything he needed and most of what he wanted provided for him. Going to an exclusive private school that cost as much as tuition at an Ivy League university. Donovan Clark is stable, well-adjusted, and confident. He’s not struggling to be normal like I am. He’s not running from anything. He’s not fighting to forget dark secrets. His future is bright.

  Is it wrong that I’m jealous of my boyfriend? Of course I’m happy for him. Every kid deserves to grow up the way he did. No one should grow up scared or mistreated or hungry. D doesn’t have any idea what my daily struggle is like. He doesn’t have to worry about paying for college. Or paying rent. Or buying groceries. He can just live. He will always be taken care of, no matter what. I’m horrible for being jealous of him. But sometimes I just can’t help myself.

  Materialistic is one of the last words anyone would use to describe me. If anything, I am anti-materialistic. But I can’t deny that I’m admiring the view from the high life. Being in D’s gorgeous home, imagining how good it must feel to come home every night and wake up every morning to this simple elegance, surrounded by beautiful objects that make every part of the day run smoothly . . . it all adds up to a life I wouldn’t mind living. Can there be a way to have some of this but still stay true to who I am?

  D pours foam over each of our cups, then sprinkles cinnamon on top. He puts a little stick with crystallized sugar into each cup. They had these sticks at Butter. As you stir your cappuccino, the sugar melts. I never knew coffee drinks had accessories. There’s so much I never knew before D.

  “To new beginnings,” he says, poising his cup to toast mine.

  “To new beginnings,” I say.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  SADIE

  SOMETIMES YOU THINK YOU’RE JUST buying Ruffles at the deli. You have no idea what’s about to go down.

  There’s something about Ruffles that makes them taste better than any other potato chip. I don’t know what it is. Maybe the ridges trap in extra flavor or make the chips the exact right amount of greasy. Unlike baked chips. What’s the point of a potato chip if it doesn’t taste like it’s not good for you? That’s why I’m burrowing behind packs of potato chips on a shelf at my old deli like a squirrel gathering a nut stash, digging for plain Ruffles. Not sour cream and onion. Not that weird cheddar flavor. Plain.

  It’s strange being back at my old deli. Even though I only moved last month, the last time I came in here seems like much longer ago. New Yorkers tend to frequent the same deli on a regular basis, and it’s usually the deli closest to their apartment. That’s why I haven’t been back here since I moved out. But I just went home to pick up a few things from my old room that I forgot to pack in my frenzy of moving out. My parents were there doing their usual Sunday thing of reading the New York Times with NPR on in the background, drinking coffee from their matching mugs (Mom’s has two smiling peas holding hands; Dad’s has a pea pod), and reading interesting parts of the paper out loud to each other. I let them attack me with their rapid-fire questions for a while before I made my escape.

  My persistence at digging around on the deli shelf pays off when I find a single pack of plain Ruffles all the way in the back.

  I get in line to pay. The guy in front of me has a peach Snapple. Who drinks peach iced tea? Why do they even make that?

  Peach Snapple Guy holds his disgusting beverage up to the cashier. A Korean family owns this deli. They’re all super nice. I’ve been coming here for years. The daughter always apologizes to me when they are out of plain Ruffles, even if I’m not buying potato chips. She’s working the register now.

  “Two-fifty,” she tells the guy.

  “For a Snapple?” he booms. “That’s highway robbery.”

  The cashier glances down at the counter. She’s a sweet person. Not someone who enjoys confrontation.

  The guy huffs in frustration. “Fine.” He holds out a credit card.

  “Cash only.” There’s a sign that says CASH ONLY on the side of the cash register. The sign this guy apparently didn’t notice while he was waiting in line.

  “I don’t have any cash on me,” he says.

  She points at the ATM by the front door.

  “Oh, so not only are you underreporting your income, you’re raking in exorbitant ATM fees?”

  She doesn’t respond.

  He shoves his credit card at her. She shakes her head.

  “You’re making me pay for this with cash?” he yells. “I never carry cash anymore. What if I refuse?”

  “Cash only,” she repeats.

  “Is that the only English you know?” The guy turns to me with an incredulous expression. “Can you believe this?”

  I throw the cashier a sympathetic look. She doesn’t deserve to be harassed like this. No one does. But she won’t let herself get upset in front of this lunatic. Her face remains stoic.

  This enrages him even more.

  “You’re un-American, you know that?” The guy looks so disgusted for a second I think he might punch her. Then he does something even worse.

  He spits at her.

  I gasp. She wipes spit off her neck with a napkin. He knocks over a Tastykake display as he storms out, still gripping the peach Snapple.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  She nods. She can’t even look at me.

  “That was crazy,” I say. “He was crazy. He had no right to say those things to you.” And he totally stole that Snapple.

  “I’ve heard worse.” She rings up my Ruffles, composing herself.

  “That’s horrible.” I’m so angry at Enraged Guy I have to restrain myself from running after him and schooling him on the way the world works. How can anyone treat another human being like that? What happened to him to make him so hideous? Doesn’t he realize how he’s hurting people?

  Just like those enraged guys on the subway when I was seven.

  The anger that’s always under my surface like a live wire is humming. The humming gets louder and louder until I can’t even hear what the cashier is saying as she hands me my change. I smile and tell her to have a good rest of the day.

  I never know what’s going to trigger it. The anger. Most of the time I can play it off like it’s not even there. Like I completely believe the positive outlook I project. People tell me all the time that I’m the most positive person they know. They love my warm fuzzies. They love that I appear to be an eternal optimist, despite the dark secret I keep hidden from them.

  No one knows my secret. Except Austin.

  He was so supportive when I told him about those two guys on the subway. How they scuffled for whatever stupid reason. How one of them shoved my mom. Who was pregnant with my little sister. A little sister I never got to have.

  I do everything I can to combat random rage with random acts of kindness. But it doesn’t matter how much I do. I will never be enough. I will never be able to protect everyone.

  Out on the street, I forget where I was going. I’m carrying a bag of potato chips I don’t want anymore. My mind i
nstinctively directs my body around corners and down side streets until I’m walking toward the river. My self knows what it needs to feel better.

  After my mom lost the baby, I couldn’t stop picturing what my little sister would have been like. Her personality. How much we would look alike. Whether her mannerisms would be the same as mine. Or if she’d be different enough that you couldn’t tell we were sisters. In my heart, I know it wouldn’t be like that. We would have so much in common there would be no question that we’re sisters. Like me, she’d be all about the little things. She would be a dreamer. She’d know that soul mates are real, regardless of how many times her heart got broken. She’d love kids, surprises, badminton, and rooftop gardens. She would even love New York City as much as I do. We’d live here forever, bonded not only by family but geography. We would have each other, no matter what.

  What would it have been like to be an older sister? All I know is being the younger sister. But with Marnix away at college in Arizona, everything feels different. He doesn’t even come home in the summer. The only time I really see him is at Christmas. Even before he left for college, we were never close. He shut me out a lot. Hid in his room too much. He wasn’t the kind of big brother I wanted, but he was all I had.

  Being an older sister to a girl would have been a whole other thing. I would have been the one to teach her about kindness and karma. I would have been the one she would have come to with questions she’d be too embarrassed to ask anyone else. And when she had her first breakup with a boy she thought might be the one, I would have helped her put the pieces of her broken heart back together.

  I will never get over the loss of the sister I never knew. The missing piece of her has been carved out of me permanently, leaving a gaping void. The loss is profound. Bottomless. I try to channel my sadness into a positive lifestyle. I make choices that improve my life and help others. But no amount of happiness will make up for what I’ve never had.

  All because of some asshole on the subway.

  That night I have another nightmare. I’m walking with a little girl down a dark alley, holding her hand. I can sense that I need to protect her from something scary. Dark figures appear at the end of the alley. They have fiery red eyes, glowing in the blackness. I know that the creatures will get us before we can run away. I turn away from them and immediately feel clammy claws scraping down my back. The scraping is so real that I bolt awake. I can’t go back to sleep. The sensation still lingers hours later.

  I’ve had some scary nightmares about my sister. But this was by far the scariest.

  Sometimes you think people are just arguing on the subway. You have no idea what’s about to go down.

  TWENTY-SIX

  DARCY

  “YEAH, SO. I WAS KIND of a dick.”

  “Kind of?”

  “I was a dick.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  “Sorry for walking out like that.”

  I switch the phone to my other ear. If this two-mornings-after call is Logan’s lame attempt at making up with me, he’s going to have to bring it harder. Way harder.

  “Why did you?” I ask. “Walk out.”

  “I don’t know. There was just, like, all this pressure.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “To like . . . act a certain way you wanted me to be.”

  “I just wanted you to be supportive. I cooked for you.”

  “Yeah, I know. That’s why I should have been supportive. I was stupid.”

  Seems like there’s a lot of that going around. But Logan regrets his bad boy behavior. I remember what he said that night he showed up at my door.

  I was wrong. I should have never let you go.

  “I’m sorry I walked out,” Logan says.

  Which time? I almost ask.

  “Don’t sweat it,” I say, rummaging through a pile of new clothes on my bed. When I saw some fresh merch in the window of Free People, I had to go in. You can never go into Free People without leaving with at least a few cute pieces. Or, um, two large bags.

  “What are you doing today?” Logan asks.

  “I have a paper due for Social Foundations.”

  “When’s it due?”

  “Tuesday.”

  “So you don’t have to finish it until tomorrow night.”

  “If by ‘finish,’ you mean ‘start,’ then yeah. Although I think starting it today would be smarter.”

  “Since when do you choose smarter over more fun?”

  “Did you have something in mind?”

  “Actually, I did.” I hear Logan take a sip of something. Ice cubes clink against the glass. “You know that hotel over the High Line? The Standard?”

  “Their rooftop bar is overrated. We should go to that one next to the—”

  “I’m not talking about the bar. I’m talking about the hotel.”

  “Oh.”

  “We should get a room.”

  “When? Today?”

  “Why not?”

  “Wait, so . . . you want to have Sunday Funday in a sexy hotel?”

  “With sexy you.”

  “That’s the best idea you’ve ever had.”

  He’s waiting for me in the lobby. Leaning against the wall. Hair falling over one eye, giving me that half-smirk smile. Like we’re about to do something naughty.

  I slink over to him in my four-inch metallic Gucci stilettos. I take my time, letting him drink me in. My Dior newspaper print dress flutters as I pass an air-conditioning vent. Logan’s half smirk busts out into a full smile.

  “Happy to see me?” I ask, gliding two fingers down the front of his worn Nirvana tee.

  “You look . . . incredible.”

  “Well, it is the Standard. A girl best come correct. There are certain . . . standards.”

  “Sorry I’m underdressed.”

  “No worries. You’re not going to be dressed much longer.” I grab the front of his shirt and pull him toward me. He kisses me so passionately that people are staring when we break apart.

  “We should get a room,” he jokes.

  We hold hands on our way to the check-in desks along the back wall of the lobby. There’s a line at the desks. Logan puts his hands around my waist, kissing my neck. His shampoo smells like lemons. He must be using a new shampoo. His hair never smelled like lemons before.

  “The things I’m going to do to you,” he whispers in my ear.

  A shiver runs down my spine.

  People are looking. People are always looking.

  By the time it’s our turn, I want him so badly I’m delirious with lust. It’s so obvious what we’re here for. We have no luggage. We can’t take our hands off each other. The lady behind the desk gives us a tight smile when Logan asks for the room choices. He reserves a standard king room with High Line views for one night.

  “Which credit card will you be using?” she inquires.

  Logan pulls his wallet out of his back pocket. He takes out a card. The lady gives him another tight smile as she takes the card from him.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” she says after tapping on her keyboard. “This card was declined. Would you like to try another?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I can run it again if you’d like.”

  “Please.”

  She runs it again. She shakes her head, handing the card back to Logan.

  “Okay, uh . . .” He takes out another credit card.

  Same problem.

  “Here.” I fork over my own credit card. Daddy isn’t going to be rejoicing that I paid for a night at a boutique hotel. Or any hotel. Like I said, it’s no secret why we’re here. But I don’t think Daddy even looks at my statements. He has assistants to take care of all that.

  I don’t know what’s going on with Logan’s credit cards. And right now I don’t even care. We need to get up to a room. Any room. ASAP.

  We make out in the elevator up to the thirteenth floor. We go the wrong way down the hall before finding our room. The green l
ight blinks on when it recognizes our key, Logan pushing the door open as he rushes us inside.

  We don’t look around the room at all. We just fall onto the bed and into each other.

  “We forgot to check out the view,” Logan says, lying next to me on the bed.

  “We should probably do that,” I say. “To make sure the world’s still there and all.”

  “I wouldn’t care if it wasn’t.” Logan slides his hand over my stomach. His fingers trace the curve of my hipbone. “All I want to do is be here with you.”

  “We could stay another night.”

  “We could stay for a week.”

  “We could move in. Like those people who live in hotels instead of apartments? My parents know a couple who lives in a Trump Tower penthouse. Their place must be sick.”

  “Are we really talking about your parents?”

  “No. Although . . . Daddy’s going to see this charge on my card.”

  “You’ll think of a way to explain it.”

  “How would you explain it?”

  “I don’t know. Research?”

  “For what, Human Anatomy? I’m not even taking that class.”

  Logan laughs. “Too bad. This would be my kind of field trip.” He traces the curve of my hipbone again, up and down in lazy loops.

  “That was weird with your credit cards,” I say.

  “Stupid magnetic strips. They can get deactivated if they’re too close together.”

  We both know that is not what happened.

  I get up and put my bra and panties back on. Then I go over to the windows, pull back the curtains, and look down at the High Line. A tourist in an orange shirt notices me. He waves.

  “That guy’s waving at me!” I yell.