3
I WAS SCARED that if I opened my mouth, I would hurl again … from the alcohol and the embarrassment.
The world was spinning, but his face—the straight nose and chiseled jawbone—that was still and clear, almost as if the universe wanted this moment imprinted on my brain forever.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice gruff.
No. I was so very far from okay (though still very much in four-letter-word territory).
“I’m fine.” I pushed off the wall where I’d been bracing myself and tottered out into the street.
“Where are you going?”
“Away.” Just … away.
The night air was cool, and it felt exquisite against my sweat-dotted skin.
“Hold on,” he said, trailing behind me.
“Seriously?”
He should be running right now. That’s what you do when someone makes a supreme asshat out of themselves. You look the other way and keep walking.
He stopped before me, his face cast in shadows from the street lamps. “I’m not letting you walk around by yourself.”
Oh. He was one of those.
Couldn’t he take a hint? My head was spinning, and my mouth tasted like something too disgusting for me to name. I never thought there would be a moment where I wanted a hot guy to leave me alone, but it appeared there was a first time for everything.
“I told you, I’m fine.”
“Bad things happen to people who are fine every day.”
So, Dark and Dangerous was really just a Prince Charming with a buzz cut. That shouldn’t have been appealing. Normally, I couldn’t stand that kind of thing. But against all odds, I could feel myself softening, the edges of my will blurring.
I blamed the stubble. I never could resist the scruffy look.
“Listen, I get the whole protective thing. It’s what guys like you do. And don’t get me wrong, it’s kinda hot. But I don’t need a babysitter. So put the knight-in-shining-armor fantasies on hold for the night.”
I thought I sounded firm and very adult (but then again, I was drunk). The roll of his eyes told me that he wasn’t taking me very seriously.
“And I already told you that I don’t care what you think you need.”
“So, what? You’re going to follow me whether I want you to or not?”
His lips pulled together, and I could see the mirth written in the curve of his mouth. Such a tempting mouth.
“That’s exactly what I’m going to do. Someone needs to get you home.”
Not even a measly one percent of me managed to believe that “get you home” meant anything other than dropping the pitiful drunk girl off at her hostel to wallow in her nausea and misery.
We couldn’t have that now, could we?
I sidestepped him. “I’m not going home yet. So run along and find yourself another damsel.”
He smiled, but there was an edge to it. He ran a hand over his short hair, and I made myself walk away.
He called after me, “You’re a real piece of work.”
That made me smile. I stopped and spun, walking backward. I stretched out my hands and yelled, the sound echoing through the street, “You bet I am.”
If there was a museum filled with people who were a “piece of work,” I’d be the main fucking exhibit. I would have said as much, but the whole walking backward thing wasn’t the best idea in my current state. I stumbled, just barely managing to catch myself, but my stomach felt like it had plopped down to the ground anyway. I didn’t look at him, knowing I probably looked twice as foolish as I felt, which was a lot.
I took a steadying breath, afraid I might be sick again.
The funny thing about alcohol … when it makes you feel good, you feel amazing. But when it makes you feel bad, you’ve never felt worse. Not just the nausea, but all of it. I might be a piece of work, but I knew myself well enough to know that if I went back to my dingy hostel—mattress springs pricking at my back, the cacophony of snoring roommates, the threadbare blankets—it was a recipe for hitting rock bottom.
Most hostels were devised so that you met other people, and yet they were the loneliest damn places in the world. Everything there is temporary—the residents, the relationships, the hot water. I felt like a flower trying to plant roots into concrete.
Nope. I needed to walk off the alcohol before I went home if I wanted to avoid a breakdown of child-star proportions. And this time, I should walk facing the right direction.
After only a few steps, my tagalong was right at my side. I scowled and tried to walk faster, but my stilettos weren’t having that. And I didn’t trust myself not to face-plant into the cobblestone with the kind of night I was having.
And though I wouldn’t admit it to anyone, I was a little glad for the company.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
He arched one dark eyebrow.
“You waited long enough to ask that.”
I shrugged. “Names aren’t exactly the important bit in places like this.” I gestured behind us to the bar we’d just left. “And, honestly, I couldn’t care less.”
Or that’s what I was telling myself. And him.
“So, then why ask? If names aren’t important and you don’t care?”
“Well, first, we’re no longer in said bar. And second, you’re following me, and I’m asking questions to fill the silence because otherwise things will get awkward. And talking keeps me from thinking about how you’re probably a serial killer, hence the whole following thing.”
“From a knight in shining armor to a serial killer.”
“The nice-guy bit could be an act. And you definitely look like you could be dangerous.”
“Are you always this honest?”
“Not even close. It’s the alcohol talking. Totally powers down my filter.”
The smile was back in his eyes, and maybe it was because I was drunk, but this guy didn’t make a lick of sense. That should have worried me. Maybe there really was something off about him. But at the moment, my brain was full just trying to stay upright and breathe.
He said, “I’ll tell you my name if you’ll tell me something about yourself.”
“Like what?” My pin number?
“It doesn’t matter. Something else honest.”
I couldn’t seem to walk in a straight line. My path kept veering toward his. Probably because I was drunk. Or his muscles were magnetic. Both completely plausible options.
My arm brushed his, and the sensation went straight to my head, electric and fuzzy, so I said the first thing I thought of.
“Honestly? I’m tired.”
He laughed once. “That’s because it’s almost dawn.”
“Not that kind of tired.”
“What kind of tired, then?”
“The bone-deep kind. The kind of tired that sleep doesn’t fix. Just tired of … being.”
He stayed quiet for one, two, three steps down the narrow, echoing street. Then his pace slowed, and I could feel his eyes on me. I strained my peripheral vision to see more of him. He said, “You don’t show it.”
“I don’t show much of anything.”
Three more silent steps.
He said, “I bet that gets tiring, too.”
What was I doing telling him this shit?
I looked over at him. My stilettos apparently weren’t safe unless I was watching them, because they slipped between two stones on the street. My ankle turned for the second time that night, and I teetered sideways. I reached out to try to balance myself on his shoulder, but I was falling away from him, and I was too slow. Luckily, he was faster. He turned and caught my elbow with one hand and wrapped the other around my waist. He pulled me upright, and I could feel a stubborn blush creeping up my neck. I had no problem playing the ditzy blonde to get what I wanted, but I hated that I was living the stereotype unintentionally at the moment.
“How are your cheeks?” he asked.
I blinked, hyperaware of his hand around my waist and the long fingers that could easily have skated farther down my body. Just thinking this had my heart racing to catch up with my thoughts.
“Can you feel them?” he added.
Oh, those cheeks. Disappointment doused the longing flame in me.
The hand that had been tucked around my elbow came up and grazed the curve of my cheek in reminder. And the flame was back.
“They, um,” I swallowed, “just feel a bit heavy is all.”
His eyes pinned me in place for a few seconds. There was so much behind that stare, more than there should be from a guy I’d just met tonight (if vomiting in front of him counted as meeting, since I still hadn’t even gotten his name).
He righted me, and his warm hands left my skin.
Resisting the urge to pull him back, I said, “Your turn.”
“My cheeks feel fine.”
I smiled. “I meant your name.”
He nodded and started walking again. I followed, more careful now of where I placed my feet.
“Most people call me Hunt.”
I took a few quick steps and caught up to him.
“Should I call you that? Am I most people?”
He pushed his fists into his pocket, and his strides grew even longer. He glanced back at me once before focusing on the narrow stone street ahead of us.
“Honestly, I have no idea what you are.”
What did that mean? He didn’t know what kind of girl I was? (Because I would totally tell him what kind of girl I was.)
Based on the set of his shoulders and the fact that he barely looked at me, I was guessing he meant something a bit more serious.
I didn’t know how to answer, so I didn’t try. I’d spilled enough to him already.
Together, we walked. I didn’t really know where we were going, and he stayed silent, following me when I chose to turn at random. I let my mind wander from the brooding gothic architecture to where I might travel next to home and then back to the man next to me.
Hunt.
What kind of name was that?
Predatory. That’s what kind.
I really should be scared, walking around a dark, unfamiliar city with a complete stranger. But there were a lot of things that I should be and wasn’t. And when I looked over at him, I couldn’t seem to conjure an ounce of the fear I knew I should have. Dad always accused me of having a death wish. Maybe he was right.
A glow began to creep across the sky, and we exited a narrow street into open air. A winding river bisected the city, and the sunrise peeked its head above it.
There was too much to see, and I slowed to a stop to take it all in. The sky breathed in pink and purple, and a soft gold glinted off the river. I couldn’t remember the name, but it was the same river that was only a block or two from my hostel. Despite my wandering, we’d ended up fairly close to the home to which Hunt was supposed to be taking me.
I swallowed, still feeling antsy at the idea of returning to the hostel. So, rather than walking north toward bed, I pointed south. “There’s a club a little ways that way that’s open until six.”
He gave me a hard look. “I think you’ve partied enough tonight.”
The judgment in his tone made me squirm, mostly because I knew he was right. If another drop of alcohol passed my lips, I’d be sick again in no time.
But that buzzing was there at the back of my mind, telling me I needed to do something. It was always safer to do than to think. I turned away from Hunt and jogged into the street toward the riverbank.
“Where are you going?” Hunt called after me.
I turned, walking backward again, and said, “Absolutely no idea.”
I was raising my shoulders in a shrug and my lips in a smile when he darted out into the street and grabbed me by the elbow. With a forceful tug, he turned me around and pulled me up onto the sidewalk on the other side of the road.
“Are you crazy? Don’t walk across a fucking road without looking where you’re going!”
I pulled my elbow out of his grasp and stepped away from him. “Relax. I’m fine. There’s no one out this time of morning anyway.”
Then the universe one-upped me as a sports car zoomed past, wind rushing around us in its wake. Hunt raised his eyebrows at me. His jaw was tense with anger, and I couldn’t tell whether I wanted to push it away or press my lips to it.
“You don’t have to say it,” I said, turning before he could say, I told you so. “I’m a piece of work. Got it.” I jogged ahead toward the river. “But you know what? I’m so good at it.”
I reached down and slipped off one heel, and then the other. My feet ached against the flat, cool stone, but I didn’t mind. I held both of my shoes in one hand and skipped toward the river, Hunt following behind.
I screamed just to hear the sound echo out over the water.
“You’re ridiculous,” he said.
I didn’t like the way he said it. Like he pitied me.
“Correction: I’m fun.”
I left him behind, running for the water. I thought briefly of just diving in or perhaps skinny-dipping in the river, but decided people would be coming out soon, and there was no telling what was in that water.
Dark and deep, like a bruise, the river had a quiet energy that made me slow down and stare. It was beautiful and silent and solemn with just a dab of pain written in the current. Even the rising sun only broke through the first layer, the light swallowed by the dark just a few inches below the surface.
A little ways down the riverside, small dark shapes lined the edge of the walkway, and I moved toward them, curious. But when I got there, I didn’t understand any more by seeing them up close.
There were shoes. Dozens of them. Black and cast in iron, lining the river’s edge. Empty shoes.
It was a sculpture of some kind, but I was at a loss for what it meant. The shoes ranged in size and shape, belonging to both men and women. Some were small, made for the tiny feet of children. Some were simple and others elaborate. I took a step forward to walk among them, but something held me back. If the river was a bruise, these were grief. Loss. There were no feet in them, but they were far from empty.
“It’s a holocaust memorial,” Hunt said from behind me.
I sucked in a breath, the cold air was slightly tangy on my tongue. All those shoes. I knew they were just replicas, just pieces of metal, but they spoke. They sang.
You don’t realize how small you really are until you’re faced with something like that. We live our lives as if we’re at the center of our own universe, but we’re just tiny pieces of a shattered whole. Here I was … worried about how I was going to survive life post-college. God, it didn’t even seem right anymore to think of it as surviving, not with this reminder of all the people that hadn’t. I pushed my fingers back through my hair, lacing them behind my neck.
I knew I was lucky. Blessed, even. But it was a lot of pressure … trying not to waste what you’ve been given. I wanted to accomplish something. To love something. To be something. But I didn’t know how. I didn’t know what.
All of my friends were off chasing their dreams, moving into their futures, and I just wanted to want something with that kind of desperation, that kind of fire. I was an actress. I’d spent nearly half my life stepping into a character, searching out her desires, finding what drives her. But for the life of me, I couldn’t do the same for myself. It had been a long, long time since I’d let myself want something enough for it to matter.
I felt like such a failure. Every shoe before me represented a dream that would never be lived, a life that would never be loved. I’d never faced that kind of oppression or struggle.
This place bled with history and tragedy, and in comparison it made the wounds of my past seem like scratches.