Midnight Lily

"Okay," he said, "we can work through this, Lily—"

  "There's nothing to work through," my grandmother said, latching her arm through mine.

  Ryan glared at her, the first sign of anger coming into his expression. "Can Lily and I have a moment alone, please?" he asked, his jaw tight.

  "Absolutely not. Lily, darling, we need to go. You look positively shaken anyway." She looked at Ryan. "Can you see how delicate she is? Can you see what this has done to her?"

  "It's for the best," I said weakly. "What my grandmother said is true. Everything you know of me is all a lie. It was me living a lie. It's for the best that I walk away, Ryan."

  "For the best?" he asked incredulously. "For the best?"

  He looked back and forth between my grandmother and me, his eyes slightly wild again. "You can't just walk out of here!"

  "We certainly can," my grandmother said, leading me away. "Lily's right. It's for the best. You'll come to realize that. Go back to your date, Ryan. It's good to see you doing well." Ryan stood there, shaking his head in disbelief as I allowed my grandmother to lead me away. I felt like my knees would buckle at any moment. Everything in me was screaming to run back to Ryan and beg him to take me out of there, take me with him, but I couldn't. More misery engulfed me.

  Ryan, take me back to our woods where we can be together, where we can just be us, where you were free to love me and I was free to love you back. Take me there. Oh please, please take me there.

  But, no. My grandmother was right to separate us, and the woman inside was waiting for him.

  "Lily," Ryan repeated bleakly, but he didn't attempt to stop us again. He let us walk away. He let me go. Just as I must let him go. I dared to look out the window of the limo as it pulled away from the curb. Through the glass doors, I could see Ryan still standing in the lobby, watching as our car drove away. He grew smaller and smaller as the distance between us grew, all my hopes shrinking the farther we drove, until he finally disappeared completely. Again. Finally, unable to hold the anguish off for one minute longer, I put my face in my hands and sobbed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Ryan

  The glass struck the wall and shattered, the sound breaking the silence of my apartment, jolting me free of the shock still holding me tightly in its grasp.

  Lily.

  Here in San Francisco.

  She was real—she'd been right in front of me.

  And she knew who I was, too. I'd been certain she'd figured out I wasn't Holden.

  Do you know about me? Do you know?

  Yes, love.

  But I hadn't known if she knew who I really was. Hadn't known if she’d made the connection. Of course, I hadn't even known if she was real so I hadn't allowed myself to think too much about that aspect. Each time I did, it made me wonder if I was going crazy again—even considered whether it would cause me to go crazy again—and so I would shut it down. Christ. I didn't have to wonder anymore if she was real, and so I let myself think about it now. About how she'd stopped using my name, only calling me Boy Scout after she'd looked at the picture of Holden on the magazine cover. Yes, she'd definitely known. My God.

  Maybe you don't even know me? Do you feel that way? You must.

  No, no.

  Lily. I'd found her, and I'd watched her walk away. What else could I have done? Tackle her? She'd wanted to leave. She'd looked as if she was going to collapse. But truthfully, I'd only allowed her to leave because I knew her name. Lily Corsella. Her name was Lily Corsella and her grandmother was Bianca Corsella. Her family owned Whittington. Holy fuck.

  And she was mentally ill? She'd been hospitalized? For a year? I didn't know what to do with that, didn't understand. My mind was still reeling. I loved her. God, I did. I still loved her. If I'd had any doubt before tonight, seeing her in front of me, feeling a wild surge of joy as if she'd suddenly come back from the dead—which in essence, for me, she had—took away any and all question about the depth of my feelings. Her mental illness—that was why she thought we couldn't be together. She'd spent the last year in a hospital and she thought . . . what? That I'd have looked down upon her for it? Why would she think that after what she knew of me, of the battle I'd been fighting the entire time I'd been in Colorado? Of the battle I might fight for the rest of my life.

  She'd looked so hurt when I had told her I'd wondered if she were real. Sitting here now, alone in my apartment, I wondered how in the hell I ever could have questioned it. Her eyes. Those violet eyes. Even I couldn't have dreamed up eyes like that. I ran my hand through my hair, letting out a grunt of frustration. What did I do now? A million questions swirled through my mind.

  The ding of my phone interrupted my chaotic thoughts. Jenna. I felt terrible about Jenna, but Jesus, how was I supposed to handle that situation? Seeing Lily had hit me with the force of a hurricane. I'd driven Jenna home right after that, not offering her much of an explanation other than I'd met Lily when I was in Colorado, and she'd disappeared. I hadn't known what happened to her and seeing her there was a shock. I'd told Jenna the whole situation had given me a headache, and I just needed to be alone. Which wasn't a lie. My head was throbbing in a way it hadn't in a year. Still, the crushed look on Jenna's face had left me feeling like a complete and utter asshole. I threw my phone aside. I'd answer Jenna in the morning when I could come up with a better explanation—when I knew what to say to her.

  Pulling out my computer, I again looked up Augustine Corsella, specifically looking for information about his family. Now that I knew what I was looking for, I was able to narrow down the search and came upon a few scraps I was able to piece together: he was survived by his wife Bianca. Augustine and Bianca had a daughter named Rachel. There was one other name attached to those names on the people search sites I looked at—Lily Corsella. Rachel must be her mother. I couldn't find any information about her father. And she went by her mother's last name . . . I had to assume her father wasn't in the picture for some reason or another.

  Unfortunately, the only address I found for any of them was an address near Telluride. Shit. They were here in San Francisco. Her grandmother had said she was taking her home. How was I going to get her address? Okay, I'd worry about that tomorrow. I had several ideas. Hell, I'd call a private detective if I had to. Lily was not going to disappear again.

  I went back to trying to find information on Lily's mother. That seemed to be at the heart of the mystery. Why the hell am I not getting answers directly from you, Lily? After clicking around for another fifteen minutes, I was able to confirm that Rachel Corsella was deceased. There wasn't very much information about her. I couldn't find anything about how she'd died. But she was definitely dead. So Lily had been . . . what? Keeping her alive in her mind? She had been living at Whittington, in that dusty, deserted house of horrors, imagining her mother was there with her, walking alone through the woods day after day, finally finding me. God, Lily. I shut down the computer, finding it too difficult to continue trying to fill in the many blanks without Lily's explanation. I owed it to her to hear the story from her lips. And she owed an explanation to me, dammit.

  Everything you know of her is a lie. It was Lily living a lie.

  I clenched my eyes shut. No. I refused to believe our feelings for each other were a lie. I had been sick, too. Possibly even sicker than Lily. And yet, I loved her. That had been real. It was still real. No one would convince me otherwise. Not even myself, not again.

  I set my computer aside and then stood up, rubbing my palms on my jeans. I was antsy and still had a headache, but all I wanted to do was run across town to Lily. But I really had no idea where she was. Helplessness coursed through me, causing my gut to twist painfully. What if she did try to disappear? What if her grandmother took her somewhere I couldn't find her? No, no, her grandmother was obviously trying to protect her—misguided intentions or not—she wasn't going to hide her away somewhere. I had let them leave tonight, just walk right out. I'd let them leave, and I had to believe that my actions had soothed
her grandmother's mind. Plus, they were here in San Francisco. If her grandmother imagined I was that much of a threat, surely she wouldn't have agreed to put Lily in a nearby hospital. God, she'd probably been less than thirty minutes from me this whole time. All those nights I'd sat alone in my apartment or walked the streets aimlessly, ending up in odd places, consumed by misery, hearing her voice in my head as if it were drifting to me on the wind . . . and she'd been a few miles away. I'd dreamed of her, over and over, visions that twisted and turned and caused me to wake up in a cold sweat, swearing her scent hung in the air all around me like a benediction. And all that time, she'd been right within my reach.

  I grabbed my jacket. I couldn't stay in this apartment. I left and walked a couple blocks to a bar I'd never been in before. I hadn't had a drop of alcohol in the year since I'd left Colorado, but if anything called for a sudden fall off the wagon, this was damn sure it. Lily.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Lily

  The aquarium was somewhat crowded on a Sunday at eleven in the morning. Dim and cool, marine life occupying tanks on both walls and even overhead, it was like walking underwater, like being in a different world. Lost in thought, I wandered past the floor-to-ceiling tanks, trailing my finger along the glass when a fish swam right up to it, following its movement with my hand. I'd been holed up the entire day before and I'd needed to get out or I’d go crazy. That particular argument had made my grandmother pale and had her suggesting I go into San Francisco to the aquarium where she'd bought a pass several months before. She had an appointment—thank God—and so I'd been able to get out alone. I wasn't particularly interested in the aquarium, but that wasn't really the point. The point was a small dose of freedom, something to occupy my mind. And so here I was. Of course, I was certain the woman with an aquarium badge hanging around her neck who seemed to be trailing me wherever I went was not a coincidence. My grandmother had called someone to make sure I didn't run away again. I supposed I didn't exactly blame her. I'd obviously taken years off her life already. And now after what had happened at the charity event, I was sure she thought I might break at any moment. And, God, maybe I would. Still, feeling like a mental patient, even in the outside world, was intolerable. I couldn't live like that. It was no life at all.

  I felt his body heat behind me—an awareness that made the small hairs on the back of my neck stand up—before I heard him speak. My body stiffened.

  "You still smell the same. Even here." His voice was low and slightly hoarse right behind my ear. "It's like I can smell the forest all around us, even now. Pine, and," he paused and I somehow knew he was closing his eyes, "those wildflowers that grow at the side of the stream—the white ones." His breath fanned the side of my neck and I shivered, closing my eyes briefly, swearing the rush of the water in the tanks was the stream flowing past us. If only.

  "You shouldn't be here," I said, but it came out breathy and unsure. More a question than the statement I'd intended. My heart was beating out of my chest.

  "No?" He moved my hair over my shoulder and leaned in. "Then where should I be, Lily?"

  "This isn't the forest, Ryan. It's the real world and—"

  My words died as Ryan's hand moved slowly down my arm, his fingers weaving through mine. I clenched my eyes shut. "And what?"

  "How did you find me?"

  "I called the car company you used, told them I'd forgotten something in their vehicle, had them confirm the address. I followed you here."

  "Inventive," I said, pulling my hand from his. I was trembling, and I suddenly hated him just a little for doing this to me. Hated him for making this hurt more than it already had.

  "I went back, you know, every month for nine months straight. I went back to Whittington, and I searched for you. You haunted me. I walked through the forest. I called your name. And all this time, all this time, Lily, you were a few miles away from me. You just disappeared. Were you really going to leave me without so much as an explanation again?" The hurt in his voice made my chest ache. "Didn't you think of me, too?"

  Oh, God. Oh, Ryan. Please don't do this to me. He'd gone back. He'd searched for me. He pulled my arm, and I stumbled around a corner with him into a small alcove on the other side of a tank of jellyfish. Moving light danced all around us in the dim space, and I was face to face with him now. He was right in front of me—too close—his blue, blue eyes, his high cheekbones, his straight nose, and those lips . . . the lips I would never kiss again. The lips I had watched kiss someone else. "Wasn't what my grandmother told you enough?" I averted my eyes. "Everything that happened between us, none of it was real. None of it. You were a fantasy, nothing more. Don't you see, now that you know about me? We were just two sick people running through the forest like children playing make-believe."

  He leaned back suddenly as if I'd hit him. "You're wrong. You don't believe that. You can't even look at me when you say it. This isn't real. This is fake, Lily. A lie. You acting as if what we had meant nothing is false. What we had in the forest was real, and it was right. What I felt for you, what I feel for you is real."

  "You didn't know who I was," I whispered. "You didn't even know who you were."

  He watched me for several moments. "Is that part of this then? You not being able to get past me being sick? Damaged goods?"

  "I . . . yes," I lied, steeling my spine. "That, and the fact that I'm sick, too. I'm sick. That girl you were kissing at the charity event, you should be with her. Someone normal, someone . . ." I trailed off, not knowing exactly how to end that statement. Someone better, healthier . . . someone not me. Oh God, just the thought hurt with an intensity that stole my breath. I felt like I was dying inside.

  He regarded me for several tense moments, his eyes moving over my features. "Is that what you want? You want me to be with her?"

  "Yes," I said, feeling as if I might be sick. "Yes, that's for the best." My body was cold and shaky. Ryan took a step backward. I opened my mouth to beg him not to go, but snapped it shut. This was for him. And really, this was for me, too. This was for the best. Wasn't it?

  "Why'd you come to San Francisco?" he demanded.

  "Why?"

  "Yes. If what you felt for me wasn't real, then why are you here?"

  "The hospital . . . it's one of the best and—"

  "That's a lie. There are plenty of good hospitals all over the United States. Why here?"

  I released a breath. "I just . . . I wanted to make sure you were doing okay. I wanted to be able to check on you, to see you. I was worried, I—"

  "You did care."

  "Yes, of course I cared. I know what it's like to be sick and alone. But that's all. I checked on you, but I never meant to see you again."

  "You were following me. I saw you. God, Lily, I thought I was going crazy again." He put his hand on his forehead and leaned his head back, gazing at the ceiling for a moment before looking back down, directly into my eyes. No. No, he was never meant to notice me.

  I blinked. "I didn't know you saw me. I'm sorry."

  "You're sorry? Jesus." He ran his fingers through his hair, already tousled as if he'd been running his hand through it before he even got here. I remembered the feel of that hair, remembered the texture as if it were a memory branded into my skin. "You're sorry," he repeated as I chewed at my lip.

  "You thought I was nothing more than a vision," I said, the hurt of that, the ridiculous, irrational hurt finding me again. But maybe it would make it easier for him to walk away now. And that was a good thing. It had to be.

  "And yet I still longed for you. I should have known." He looked off behind me for a moment. "It's just that everything was . . . and I had a hard time trusting myself—"

  "I know. I understand."

  Something came into his expression. Something I couldn't read, something intense. "You don't think it's fate? That we met each other? And then that we were at the same damn party? How is that not fate? We found each other once, through that huge expanse of forest—two people reachin
g for each other in the dark. Take my hand, Lily. Grasp on to me now. Please." He reached his hand out toward me, begging me with his eyes. I sucked in a gasp of air, raising my hand. Just as I knew the soft texture of his hair—longed to run my fingers through it again—his strong, graceful hands had touched me intimately. They'd touched my body and my soul. I ached for his touch again. Just one touch, Lily. Feel his love one more time. Our fingertips brushed.

  Behind Ryan, I saw the woman with the aquarium badge walk past, glance at us and hurry away. There was my answer. There was my fate. Not Ryan. Never him . . . "I have to go," I breathed. I dropped my hand. "No, Ryan, I have to go. We can never be together. Never. Don't contact me again. I have to go." Ryan stared at me for a second and then dropped his own hand, stepping aside.

  "Go then."

  I moved around him and hurried toward the entrance, resisting the urge to break into sobs.

  **********

  "Hey, girl," Nyala said, swinging the door open and turning away immediately. "Close it behind you. I'm writing." I shut the door and headed toward her office, the despair of my run-in with Ryan making me feel slow, sluggish, heartsick.

  I had left the aquarium needing a friend, needing Nyala. I'd called her, but she hadn't answered. I knew that didn't mean she wasn't home and available, though—she rarely answered her phone—so I'd hoped for the best and taken the bus to her duplex in The Mission.

  "Sorry, Nyala. I don't want to interrupt you." Ny had only been home for a couple months, and I'd only visited her here once in that time. She would check herself into the hospital when she felt as if she were unraveling. She'd been there a handful of times over the year I'd been treated, and we'd become fast friends despite not having a whole lot in common—on the surface at least. She was in her fifties, wore her hair in long dreadlocks that fell down her back, and usually dressed in bright African-print dresses. She was warm and wonderful, and I thought of her as a mother figure, albeit one who was unpredictable and given to flights of fancy. At least, that's how I put it. The doctors would describe it differently I was certain.