Tonight the Streets Are Ours

“It’s my life,” he argues. “It’s my story about my life. And this is who I say I am. This is what I say happened. If Bianca wants her story about my life to be different, then good for her. Let her write her own version.” His hands curl into fists.

Arden snorts. “You just loved getting all those comments from girls fawning over you, strangers sympathizing with you, telling you how unfair your life is.”

“So what if I did?” He jumps to his feet, too agitated to sit still. “So what if I wanted that? And furthermore, what I wrote online basically is what happened. I said that I fell in love with a girl who had a boyfriend, which I did. I said that she cheated on him with me, which she did. Have you stopped to ask yourself why you were okay with that when Bianca’s boyfriend was just some guy? Why is it, now that you know he’s some guy who is my brother—now that you know he freaked out over it—suddenly it’s not okay anymore? Suddenly I’m a monster?”

She stands as well to look him in the eyes. “I don’t think you’re a monster. But why do you do these things? And seriously this time, why did you take off this morning, when I had no idea where I was or how to reach you? That was an asshole thing to do, Peter.”

And all of this is making her know even more that she really, really needs to find Lindsey, like, right now. She shouldn’t even be wasting her time on this guy, trying to find answers that don’t exist to questions she can’t even express, when she should be out scouring every block and every building for Lindsey.

“You got me,” he says, holding out his hands. “I’m an asshole. I do asshole things. You’re right, Arden. You see right through me. That’s exactly what I am.

“I woke up this morning and I looked over, and you were lying there, and I felt terrible—I mean, stomachache, headache, everything-ache. And I remember a lot about last night, but just the very end of it is fuzzy. I remember visiting that doll store on Fifth Ave. I just don’t remember how we got home from there, or if we … you know, if anything happened after that.”

“You don’t remember if we had sex,” she says flatly.

His cheeks flush a little. “And I know you have a boyfriend, and I opened my eyes and there you were, fast asleep, and I felt so terrible and everything just seemed so terrible, and all I could think was, Not this again, I can’t believe you did this again, what is wrong with you, what is wrong with you?”

“So you left,” she supplies.

“So I left. I know I shouldn’t have. But I do a lot of things I shouldn’t do. I don’t know why. I can’t help myself. I just hope I didn’t do anything to mess up things with … What’s his name again?”

“Chris.”

“Right. I don’t want to be the grenade in your relationship.”

You already were, she thinks. Aloud, she says, “Don’t worry about it. You and I didn’t have sex. Nothing happened.”

“Oh.” He clears his throat. “That’s good.” His hands drop by his sides awkwardly, like he’s not sure what to do with them now.

“Are you honestly going to publish Tonight the Streets Are Ours as a memoir?” she asks.

He blinks rapidly a few times. “I’m going to try. If any publisher will have it, then yeah.”

She takes a deep breath. “Don’t do it, Peter. It’s not fair to Leo. It’s not fair to Bianca, or to your parents. It’s not fair to anyone who reads it, who might feel like … like maybe you understand what they’re going through. You’re taking advantage of all of them.”

He turns his face away from her. “Stop. Just stop. Look, I don’t know what your life goals are. But I’m not going to stand here and tell you that you shouldn’t try to make them come true.”

She stares at him. “You’re really going to do this.”