Dark Wild Night

“And why is that?” she asks, watching.

“Probably for the same reason you don’t.”

Lola stirs the straw in her drink, using the tip of it to pierce the lime slices one by one, and just beside me, someone opens a door to a patio, letting in a blast of cold air.

“Do you want to leave?” she asks, looking up at me. “Go someplace more our speed?”

I open my mouth and the cool air hits my tongue like a spark of electricity. “Sure.” I wonder how it’s possible that the hammering of my pulse feels louder than the music around us.

Holding out her hand, Lola gives me her secret little smile. “Well, then . . . let’s get out of here.”





Chapter SEVEN


Lola

WE DRIVE OLIVER’S car back to the hotel and leave it there, walking a couple of blocks to what the concierge has assured us is a perfectly humble venue. And he’s right: it’s dark and nondescript, with an oval bar in the middle of the room, some high tables on one side, and space for a band and handful of fans. Except tonight there is no band, no fans. Hardly anyone else here.

I only had one drink at the party, but I feel silly, clumsy, distracted by the thump-thump-thump behind my breastbone, and know it’s the way it feels like being here with Oliver is a mini-vacation. There’s something about getting away from home and routine, and suddenly anything is possible.

We could stay here for a week.

We could pretend we don’t have responsibilities here or back home.

We could change everything between us.

The panel shows the girl, falling backward: arms out, eyes closed.

He picks two seats at the bar and helps me with my coat and purse before sitting down. The way he touches me trips my pulse into overdrive; his hands are firm and sure, fingers not shy about reaching for the collar of my coat, gently dragging it down my back. He cups my bare shoulder, asking, “Is here good?”

I want to ask him good for what but when he nods to the seat I realize he means geography. Not whether here is good for this flimsy barrier of still-platonic to melt away.

“Perfect.”

He catches the bartender’s eye, waves him over, and we sit in silence while the man wipes a glass dry, puts it away, and makes his way over to us.

It feels like a date.

“You want a Manhattan?” Oliver asks.

“Yes, please.”

He orders for both of us, gives his thanks, turns back to me. My heart wants to escape, to flap out of my body and into his. And, God. Is this what it means to become infatuated with someone? A heart becomes a hybrid, half yours, half theirs. Mine beats like this because it wants out. My chest aches to let his heart in.

“How do you feel about all of this?” Oliver asks.

The pounding in my chest intensifies and the swoon of it, the reflexive joy brings another, less pleasant sensation with it: fear.

When I smell fresh bread, my mouth waters.

When I see a pen, I reach for it.

When I want someone, I worry.

What happens if the brains decide to walk away from it all? Does the hybrid heart wither, leaving us with only half of what we need?

He must sense the shift in my posture because he touches my jaw with one finger so I’ll turn my face up to his, adding, “I meant the movie, Lola Love. The book. Tonight.”

“Oh.” I am an idiot. The panic dissolves and I smile, letting it grow from a grin to something that makes Oliver laugh. “I think it’s all pretty awesome.”

“I only got the tiniest glimpse of you before it all started,” he says. “Razor was released not long after Vegas, and it was a whirlwind from the get-go. You didn’t seem to really believe it was going to happen at first. I’d love to get a peek at Lola from before even that. Before it sold.”

“She was a college kid,” I remind him. “Stressing about finals and rent money.”