Lost in Love

  “I’m the luckiest guy in the world for getting to wake up next to you,” he said.

  I didn’t want to leave. Ever.

  You’d think after that stretch of intense time together I’d be okay with a break when we got back to New York. Going back to my apartment, unpacking, doing laundry. Finding out how Sadie was doing. Getting ready for the week. But I just wanted us to stay together for as long as we could. Going back to the real world will be weird after this extension of paradise.

  “Do you want another drink?” D asks.

  “No, thanks.” One drink at Soho House is my limit. Drinks are more expensive here than they were at The Hotel. “But I never want to leave this rooftop.”

  “Don’t worry. We still have mine. Minus the pool.”

  D is opening my eyes to a whole new way of life. Not worrying about money for a few days has been amazing. Letting D treat me the way he wants to, the way he says I deserve, makes me feel like I can relax for the first time ever. I don’t even think I need a Plan D the same way I used to. Having a Plan D means always having a backup plan for when catastrophe strikes. Scraping by in an expensive city and putting myself through college is not going to be easy. My mental backup planning allows me to defuse the tornado of anxieties that is constantly whirring in my mind. Once I can visualize the worst-case scenario, I realize that my situation isn’t as bad as I thought.

  My new Plan D is all about D. Donovan D. He is integral to the shiny new version of myself I established when I moved to New York. Part of redefining myself means accepting the kind of love I want. And believing D when he says I deserve to be treated to all the good things he wants to give me.

  I reach out to hold D’s hand. He looks at me with his intense laser focus that makes my heart pound. What we have is more than physical attraction. It’s more than an emotional connection. The way he’s looking at me, it’s like I can see him seeing the potential in me. Seeing my future. And being impressed with what he sees.

  TEN

  SADIE

  THE FIRST THING I NOTICE when I emerge from my nap is a weird crack in the ceiling. Did that crack just get here? I never noticed it before. The crack is near the center of the ceiling with thinner cracks extending from it like tree branches. What caused the tree crack? Did someone in the apartment above ours drop something crazy heavy in the middle of their room? Is the crazy-heavy thing still sitting there? Will their floor keep supporting the weight of it? Or will I be sleeping one night when my ceiling splits open and the crazy-heavy thing falls on top of me and crushes me to death?

  No. None of that is happening. It’s a harmless weird crack.

  I spring off the bed, yanking my sheet with me that somehow had gotten twisted around my leg. The sheet pulls my leg back and almost makes me fall on my face. I recover my balance, throw the sheet back on the bed, and glance around as if someone who films these kinds of klutzy moments might arrive. Or there could be a hidden camera. How do I know the person who lived here before me didn’t install a hidden camera in the crown molding? They could have been watching me ever since I moved in. They could be watching me right now.

  No. None of that is happening. There are no hidden cameras.

  Exaggerated negative thoughts like these have been harassing me for the past week. Normally I’m able to keep myself in eternal optimist mode. But Austin changed me. He was the harshest reminder that the world can be a cold, nasty place. That people you love can turn out to be poseurs. That life can be taken away in a random instant. That the one thing you believed in the most could be nothing more than a lie.

  A girl is entitled to throw herself a pity party when she discovers that the boy she thought was her destiny turns out to be a lying scumbag. Austin had taken over every part of me: my mind, my body, my soul. For the rest of my life, I will never forget how consuming that heartbreak was. Not only did he steal a part of my life from me, but for a time he shattered my optimism.

  Enough. I cannot waste any more time being angry. It’s time to pick myself up and dust myself off.

  My pity party is over.

  The first thing is to put away all reminders of Austin. I’m not ready to throw out our mementos. Maybe I never will be. But leaving them out where I can see them is not an option. I scrounge around in my closet for an old photo box that’s mostly empty. The box has some notes and ticket stubs and fortune cookie fortunes in it. I grab the box when I find it stashed behind a blanket on the top shelf. Then I go around my room filling it with Austin stuff. Our scorecard from mini golf. The tiny pencil I stole from mini golf. The photo strip we took in Bubby’s photo booth. A game piece one of the guys in Austin’s board-gaming group gave me that time I went with him. A dried flower Austin picked for me that night in New Jersey. Everything goes in the box. The box goes back behind the blanket in my closet. I close the closet door with a satisfying thud.

  Cleaning is up next. My room is disgusting. I open both of my windows all the way to let fresh air in. The hardwood floor peeks out here and there from under the mess. I pick up everything that’s on the floor, sorting into four piles: dirty clothes, garbage, recycling, and other. I drag the old vacuum cleaner my mom gave us from the front closet into my room. Running it a few times over my floor helps tremendously. Then I mop my floor until it shines. I push the mop forward and pull it back in slow, deliberate strokes, visualizing my problems being washed away with every swipe. By the time my mind is clear, the floor looks better than it did when we moved in.

  My dirty clothes get added to the hamper. I lug the heavy hamper down to the laundry room and start two loads. Back upstairs, I sit at the breakfast bar to make a grocery list. In my catatonic stupor I can’t guarantee that I didn’t eat some things that did not belong to me. I want to replenish everything that’s missing or we’re almost out of.

  As I’m adding maple syrup to the list, Rosanna comes home from South Beach. She wheels her luggage into the living room.

  “Hey!” she says when she sees that I am showered, sitting upright, and fully functional. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better. But enough about me. You’re so tan! How was it?”

  “Amazing. We had the best time. I could have stayed there forever.”

  “Tell me everything.”

  Rosanna tells me all about relaxing by the pool, romantic bike rides and sunset beach walks, her new addiction to watermelon juice, and the incredible dinners they had. The more I hear about Donovan, the more I love him. I tear up when she tells me about seeing the ocean for the first time. D made that monumental experience possible.

  “He sounds like the sweetest guy,” I say. “Super generous.”

  Rosanna nods, her eyes sparkling. “He said that I deserve good things and he wants to be the one to give them to me.”

  “Aww!”

  “We didn’t want to leave each other when we got back. So you know where he took me?”

  “Where?”

  “Soho House.”

  “What.”

  “I know.”

  “He’s a member?”

  “Yeah, and so are his parents.”

  That is amazing. I’ve lived here my whole life and have never even seen the pool. “Dude. It’s like impossible to get a membership there. Everyone wants to get in.”

  “I know!”

  “You’re so lucky.”

  “I would feel just as lucky without anything fancy, though. D makes me feel lucky just to be with him.”

  That’s exactly how I felt about Austin. It didn’t matter what we did or where we went. Being with him was the best feeling in the world.

  I hope Rosanna and D don’t disintegrate like we did.

  “I’m really happy for you,” I say, and I mean it.

  “Thanks. I kept wondering how you were doing.”

  “Today woke me up. Have you ever gotten to a point in your life where you’ve had enough?”

  “You mean like when I moved to New York to start over?”

  “Exactly. I kind of
had a mental move from the corner of Miserable and Pathetic to Done and Moving On.”

  “Awesome. Can I help with anything?”

  “Nope. Enjoy being home. I have to put clothes in the dryer. Can I throw anything in the wash for you?”

  Rosanna smiles at me.

  “What?” I ask.

  “It’s good to have you back.”

  “It’s good to be back.”

  By the time I’ve put my clothes in the dryer, added a Spring Fresh fabric softener sheet, and started the machine, I’ve made a resolution. Most people wait until the new year to make resolutions. Not me. I like to make resolutions throughout the year. I resolve to keep myself in the light. This past week was the worst. Trying to focus on anything beyond my heartbreak was like trying to see the world from underwater, gazing up at images wobbling above the surface, but being too weak to break through to them. Drowning was so much easier. But now there’s no turning back to that dark underwater world. I will ignore boys for the foreseeable future. I will focus on taking care of myself and helping others. I will put more effort into planning for my future. I will make healthy lifestyle choices so I can feel good every day. These are the priorities that matter.

  Coming up for air is a powerful thing. Like pressing an internal reset button. Or replacing all of your groggy old cells with glittery new ones. I feel better right down to the core of me. I can already feel my internal light shining brighter than ever.

  Sometimes to start feeling like yourself again, you just have to remember who you are.

  ELEVEN

  DARCY

  LOGAN TOLD ME TO MEET him at Pier 40. He wouldn’t tell me what for. As if showing up in New York to win me back wasn’t enough of a surprise, the boy wants to surprise me even more.

  I say bring it.

  Pier 40 turns out to be a big building in Hudson River Park. I thought it was going to be an actual pier with like seagulls and attractions and stuff. Not that I was expecting anything as dope as the Santa Monica Pier. There is only one Pacific Wheel. But I wasn’t expecting Pier 40 to be a . . . recreation center? No wonder Logan told me to dress down.

  Logan is doing his sexy sloucher thing near the entrance. He’s leaning against the wall, all tall and lanky with his dark hair falling across his face. I always loved that he was tall. I could wear my highest stilettos without towering over him. And those smoldering dark eyes. I used to get lost in those eyes for days.

  “Hey, Gorgeous,” Logan drawls. He’s got the same megachill vibe as always. Same half smirk like you just did something risqué and he knows every last detail about it. Same magnetic aura that draws you in and won’t let go.

  Mental note: This boy tore your heart into a million bloody shreds. Proceed with caution.

  “So what are we doing here?” I ask. “Playing baseball?”

  “Think bigger.”

  “Basketball?”

  “Think higher.”

  “Volleyball on trampolines?”

  Logan pushes off the wall. He takes my hand and walks me away from the building.

  “Check it.” He points to the roof.

  Part of the roof is covered with clear netting. I can see dangling ropes through the nets. Like swings . . .

  A big smile breaks out on my face. “Trapeze?” I ask.

  “Time to catch some air, shorty.”

  “This is just like—”

  “Our first date? Yeah. I remember.”

  Logan took me to a class at the Trapeze School on the Santa Monica Pier for our first date. We had dinner at a hella good taco truck after. This girl couldn’t have asked for a better first date. I was beyond impressed how Logan knew what I wanted even before he knew me. Almost like we were meant to be together. If you believe in that sort of thing.

  Our trapeze class is an open class with three other students. We’ll all take turns on the trapeze while everyone else watches from the AstroTurf green below. When it’s my turn to go, I climb the ladder up to the board we jump off. The instructor is a cute blond girl who tells me how to get into position for my first attempt. She stands behind me on the board after I’m strapped into my safety belt. I remember some things from the class we took before, like how I have to tilt my hips forward and bring the bar up to eye level. This bar is surprisingly heavy, just like the one in Santa Monica.

  “When I say ready, give me a little bend in the knees,” the instructor says from behind me. “When I say go, bunny-hop off the board and hang straight.”

  I have my faults. Being afraid to let go is not one of them. I’m swinging through the air, gripping the bar, when I hear the instructor yell, “Let go!” I release my grasp and fly at the other bar that’s swinging toward me. My hands find the new bar and I grip it tight. Logan hoots from where he’s watching with the rest of our group.

  This is the way I hoped living in New York City would be. Exhilarating, tantalizing, and just the right amount of dangerous. Being in the Now is not hard when you’re flying through the air far above the ground. I can see for miles up here. Night is my favorite time of day, but I’ve always loved this summer evening pre-sunset time when the anticipation of night makes your pulse race and your imagination run wild. You never know what the night can do. One night can change your life forever.

  Logan’s tall lankiness does not interfere with his agility. I watch as he takes his turn. He puts power behind his swing, flipping up to bend his knees over the bar. I hoot for him even louder than he hooted for me.

  “You were awesome,” Logan tells me as we’re leaving Pier 40. “You always were.”

  “Awesome at the flying trapeze?”

  “Awesome at everything.”

  We stop on the sidewalk, staring at each other. The people weaving around us are barely detectable beyond my trance. This is how it was with us back home. This is how we were.

  I want to kiss him. I want to kiss him until we become the way we were again. But I remind myself what he did. The bitter memory is enough to hold me back.

  Logan doesn’t kiss me when he puts his arm around my waist. He just walks me over to one of the cute West Village streets. Did he want to kiss me, too? Could he tell I wasn’t ready? He stops next to a shiny black motorcycle parked between two cars.

  “This is us.” He unlocks a compartment at the back and takes out two helmets.

  “How is this us? This isn’t your motorcycle.”

  “It’s my friend’s.”

  “The guy who’s letting you stay at his place?”

  “Another guy.”

  “How do you know so many people in New York?”

  “I know like three or four guys. That’s not so many people.” Logan puts his helmet on. It’s black with red flames. “Put your helmet on.”

  My helmet is red with black flames in a reverse pattern of Logan’s. I’m bummed that it will flatten the beachy tousled look my hair cooperated in achieving this morning but delighted that it matches my candy-colored oversize tank, black leggings, and cherry-red BOBS. I grin at the irony of wearing sneakers tonight compared to the stilettos I was wearing the first time Logan took me motorcycle riding. We rode down the California coast on our second date.

  “Wait,” I say before Logan gets on. “Why are we doing the same things we did on our first and second dates?”

  “Are we?” Logan asks in an overly inquisitive tone.

  I wait for him to spill.

  “Tonight is all about going back to the good times,” he reveals. “So, I don’t know . . . I thought re-creating highlights from our first three dates might be romantic.”

  My heart swells. It’s amazing that this boy can still surprise me in the most unexpected ways.

  “Look . . . I can tell you’re reluctant to trust me again,” he says. “I get it. I messed up big-time. I’d probably feel the same way if I were in your position. That’s why I want to show you that you can trust me. I want to remind you of what we had.”

  This is an absurd conversation to be having in motorcycle helmet
s. Will helmets protect us in case of an emotional crash? Nervous laughter bubbles up in my throat. I tamp it down.

  “Do you remember how good it was?” he asks.

  Of course I do. But I also remember him dumping me. Why did he break us apart?

  Logan gets on the motorcycle and starts the engine. I get on behind him, put my arms around his waist, and hang on tight.

  We ride way up the West Side Highway. I watch the skyscrapers of Midtown fade to the shorter buildings of uptown. The terrain changes into a picturesque countryside filled with trees. Are we even in New York City anymore? Is this what New Jersey looks like? I wrap my arms tighter around Logan, excited to see where he’s taking me.

  Logan stops the motorcycle in a grassy area with more trees and flowers. A blue butterfly lands on a purple flower. I absorb the Now like a sponge, taking a mental photo of everything all at once. Sadie told me about how she sometimes has epic feelings. She’ll be walking down the street and she’ll see something that will trigger an overwhelming emotion. Is this what she was talking about?

  We get off the motorcycle. Logan stashes our helmets. I attempt to salvage my hair by stabbing at it with my fingers like a pick. Good thing my look today was beachy bedhead.

  “Where are we?” I ask.

  “Fort Tryon Park.”

  “In New Jersey?”

  Logan laughs. “We’re still in Manhattan, babe.”

  “What street is this?”

  “We’re above One-Ninetieth.”

  “The streets go up that far?”

  “They go to like Two-Eighteenth.”

  I have a flashback of watching the sunrise with one of my boy adventures on the East Side Promenade. I had no idea what we were looking at across the river. I told myself that I should look closer at a map of New York City so I could actually understand the geography of where I live. Really need to get on that.