Dark Wild Night

The panel shows the girl, staring down at the beating organ in her hands.

We fall silent as another customer approaches, and I turn away, headed back toward my things on the couch. I slip my sketchbook back into my messenger bag and sling it over my shoulder, ducking past Oliver and around an aisle of comics so I can discreetly escape.

“Where you headed, Lola?” Not-Joe calls.

“Just going out,” I mumble, pushing open the front door.

Outside on the sidewalk, I carefully dodge the reporter and pull my phone from my bag, quickly dialing my dad just to look busy.

He answers on the second ring. “What’s shaking, baby girl?”

I duck, speaking quietly into the phone. “Hey.”

“Hey.” He pauses, waiting for me to say why I’ve called. I did it as a cover, but now that I’ve got him on the phone, I realize how it feels like water is building behind a dam in my chest. Art and writing and the film and Oliver. My fits and starts of flirtation, the way I’m terrible at reading Oliver and even worse at trusting my own instincts with guys. It’s too much all at once on my plate.

I could have called one of the girls, but I almost regret talking to Harlow about it the other day and don’t want her poking me about Oliver right now. London is at work, and Mia can’t help but pass along everything she hears to Ansel.

“What’s up?” he asks again, prompting.

I grimace, closing my eyes. “I’m just short-circuiting.”

“Tell me about everything that’s got you.”

“Who gave me a grown-up card? Like who thought that was a good idea?”

Dad laughs. “They give out grown-up cards? Huh. Must have passed me right up.” He inhales again, voice tight with a held breath when he says, “Spill.”

God, where do I even start? Dad would have opinions about Austin—he sounds too slick, do you really think he’s the right guy for this project?—and the idea of Razor as an alien from Mars—is he fucking kidding? Did he read the damn story? Talking to him about my work always triggers his protective don’t-let-them-screw-you instinct and, while I do love how proud he is of me, he has no experience with Hollywood. His opinions would be loud and unhelpful.

But the weirdest bit is that I don’t need to talk that out yet; work is always the one realm where I’ve felt confident, and besides, my reaction to Razor-as-Martian is still percolating. Oliver is what has me the most tangled and I may as well talk about that with someone who’s the least likely to dig too deep.

I chew on my nail before saying, finally, “I guess I’m in a weird place with Oliver.”

“Ah.” I hear him inhale sharply on the other end, can imagine the way he squints as he holds the cigarette between his lips. He blows out his breath. “We’re talking about this now?”

“I guess.”

When Mom left, Dad had to take over all the aspects of raising a girl that would normally have gone to her—helping me sort through minor dramas, crushes, and heartbreaks, getting my period. He did it all with the kind of straightforward stoicism I’ve come to absolutely adore about him. He’s a teaser, a jokester, and uses sarcasm as a defense, but inside I know he’s soft. Inside, his heart is too big sometimes.

He laughs, a short exhale. “So talk.”

“So . . .” I start, squinting up at the sky. “I think I might want more.”

Dad clucks his tongue. “I don’t know, Boss. I can’t read that kid. I think he adores you, but is it more for him?”

This is the exact kind of honesty I need. Dad likes Oliver a lot, but he isn’t invested in the idea of us being romantic the way Harlow is. Frowning, I admit, “I don’t know. In Vegas it was pretty clear he wasn’t interested.”

“And Oliver’s a good friend,” Dad says. “You always gotta be careful when you try to make it more.”

I shrug, kicking at some dried leaves on the sidewalk. Dad is a mirror to my own thoughts on the matter. “Yeah.”

I hear him inhale and blow out smoke again before saying, “But I know we all got itches that need to be scratched.”