Dark Wild Night

Their lobby is usually busy by now, the elevators full of people getting off work or headed out for the evening, but it’s strangely quiet tonight. I’m alone in the lift as the floors tick up on the illuminated dial overhead, alone with my thoughts as I try to figure out exactly how to have this conversation.

I’m still not really sure what I’m going to say. I just want to see her. Maybe simply apologize again about Allison; that was shitty, especially since I was pretty sure Lola would hear about it somehow. Maybe just tell her, now that I’m calmer, how—even though it wasn’t what she intended—it was brutal to be so immediately shuffled aside, a distraction, an obstacle.

I don’t think we’re ready to jump back in to where we were before everything melted down. I just need her to talk to me. As terrible as it sounds, it was good to see her so upset at Fred’s because at least I could tell it was hard for her, too. I used to feel completely safe with Lola; even without talking about our feelings, I knew where I stood with her by how she sought my company, my opinion, or even just eye contact. She was the first American woman I’d never had difficulty reading. Lola’s always been deliberate in her decision making, and it was no different when it came to us. So I was blindsided when she ended it sort of hysterically right after I felt things click for us.

I know I hadn’t been the only one deeply in love that last night at my house.

I know I didn’t imagine how profound it was in bed, all night, in the shower.

My steps are light as I move along the concrete hallway and I stop when I hear Lola’s voice through the sliding steel door. I pull out my phone to check the time. I didn’t see London’s car outside and it’s definitely late enough that she’d be at work. Harlow is supposed to be in Del Mar all day, and I might be wrong but I think Mia teaches around this time. So who could she be talking to? Her dad? Benny?

I stop just outside the door and am trying to decide if I should knock and run the risk of possibly interrupting her with someone, or whether I should come back all together, when she gets louder.

“I know,” she says, with a definite edge to her voice. “And we talked about this last week. Like I told you then, I’ve got deadlines of my own to meet. I’m sorry you feel like this is going to cut into your schedule. But if you and Langdon would have actually engaged in this conversation every time I attempted it in the meeting I took an entire week off to attend, you’d have heard me telling you the same thing I’m telling you now.”

I feel frozen in place. I’ve never heard Lola talk this way to . . . well, anyone. The logical part of my brain is telling me to turn around and call her later, and that nobody ever heard anything they liked while eavesdropping. But a larger part of me is intrigued, dying to know who she’s talking to and fascinated by this side of her.

There’s a rhythmic thump on the other side of the door, the sound of her boots as she paces back and forth across the wooden kitchen floor. I’m just about to leave when the sound comes to an abrupt stop.

“No, I absolutely understand what you’re saying. But what I’m saying is that Razor wouldn’t do that. I know there’s a certain feel you’re going for, but it’s in direct contrast to anything the main character would do.”

My eyes widen and my stomach evaporates into nothing. She’s talking to Austin. Holy shit. There’s a minute of silence punctuated by “Uh-huh” and “Yeah,” and “I see,” and I’m holding my breath, wondering if she’ll stick to her guns or let him turn the conversation around and manipulate her into getting what he wants. My heart is pounding so hard in my chest I briefly worry she’ll be able to hear me from inside.