Even the Moon Has Scars (6 page)

“No. It’s a technique where you wet the paper all over with a brush first,” she says, moving her hands like she’s lightly stroking a brush across a canvas. “And while it’s still wet, you drop the wet paint onto it.”

“Uh-huh.” I nod like I completely understand why this technique would be appealing, but I don’t really get it. I do understand the way her face lights up, the way she looks a little dreamy while she talks about something she loves though.

“It’s so fluid. Some people hate it because it’s the most unpredictable way to paint,” Lena says. She reaches up and touches the painting above the mantel. I can’t look away from the delicate way her finger traces the soft line of the paint. “But I think it’s the most freeing. I guess that’s why it’s my favorite...And why it’s the most beautiful.” She quickly tears her hand away from the painting and faces me like she’s been caught doing something wrong. “To me.”

“I think,” I reach over and tuck the piece of hair that’s come loose from her long, chestnut ponytail back behind her ear. “I think that’s really cool. Maybe even cooler than a doorman, even.”

“Oh, shut up,” she laughs playfully.

“So, here’re some clothes. There’s a guest room down the hall. Go ahead and give these a shot and then we’ll grab some food or coffee when you’re finished.”

Lena stares down at her bare legs.

“Are these no good?” I ask, feeling like an asshole for including my own sweater to the top of the stack.

“No, this is great, thank you. I just—I—this is so stupid.” A flush creeps across her cheeks. “I didn’t bring any money, you know, locked out and all?”

I crack a small smile. “My treat. Consider it payment for me dragging you all over town tonight.”

“Thank you,” she says shyly, “But we haven’t exactly been all over town, we’ve been two places—”

“We haven’t been all over
yet
. The night is young.”

Lena looks down at the stack of clothes. “There are still tags on some of these.”

“My mom has...a problem.” I thumb through the pile and point to a pair of jeans. “She probably has that same pair in five different sizes upstairs. No joke. So if those don’t work—”

“They’ll be great, thank you.”

Lena walks down the hall to the guest room, and I’m slammed with competing feelings.

On one hand, I feel like I should do the right thing and take her home. That I should get her back into her house and say goodbye. I can take my chances that the valve cover will still be there tomorrow. At this point, that dirtbag back at the shop probably won’t call me anyway.

On the other, there is nothing I want to do more than show Lena everything in the city. The way I see it when I wander around alone at night. The way it’s meant to be seen—when all of the tourists clear out for the day and you can find quiet places full of surprises—if you know where to look. Something tells me she’d appreciate it more than anyone else I’ve bothered to show.

I glance up the stairs and realize I’ve left my bedroom light on. Mom will know I was here if I don’t turn it off.  I rush up the steps, taking them two at a time, switch off the light, then give Bruce a quick call to ask that he not mention to my mom that I was here. He’s a good guy, and he’s seen more than a few arguments between my mom and I over the years to not mind doing me a solid.

“Lena, you alright?” I ask as I make my way down the hall.

She calls back to me, but I can’t understand her. At the end of the hall, the door is half-open. I push it  open the rest of the way without even thinking— and there’s Lena— in the corner of the room, clutching my favorite blue V-neck to her bare chest.

I stand there wide-eyed and stunned. I can’t believe I just walked in like that.

“Get out, get out, get out!” she yelps, shooing me away with one hand and clutching the sweater close to her chest with the other.

“Ever heard of closing a door?” I yell back. I didn’t see anything, but I cover my eyes anyway, because it feels like the right thing to do.

“Ah! I did close the door, you idiot!” she says. I’ve never had such a sweet voice call me names before. “It must have popped open! Just turn around.”

“Fine,” I say. I turn my back to her so she can change. “But I don’t see what the big deal is, I promise I’ve seen—”

“It’s not that,” she says. Her voice is softer. More serious.

“Yeah, the whole
we-just-met-tonight-bit
—” I say, trying to lighten things.

“No,” she says. “The whole,
I-have-this-scar-that-I-don’t-want-to-show-off-thing
.”

My cheeks burn and there’s a thickness in my throat.

I don’t know what kind of scar she’s talking about, what kind of hurt she’s carrying around, but I couldn’t feel like a bigger dick than I do right now.

Isn’t that what life is about? Collecting scars. Touching people with them? Having them as permanent reminders when people leave?

“You can turn around now,” she says. I do, slowly.

I want to say all of those things I’m thinking.

Instead, when I face her again, she’s got a pouty mouth and her eyebrows raised like she’s expecting an explanation. So I just do what I do: I joke.

I wink and say, “You show me your scars, I’ll show you mine.”

“Very funny,” she deadpans. “Now get out while I finish.”

Once Gabe closes the door, I press my palms to my cheeks. I tried to play it cool, but they’re on fire, just like the rest of me. I’m not a prude, but I didn’t expect him to walk in—I didn’t expect him to say the things he did. I didn’t expect his eyes to go dark when he backed out of the room. And more than anything, I didn’t expect to have a little part of me wish that he stayed instead.

Stop it, Lena.
I repeat over and over in my head.

You just met this guy, this isn’t you. This night? It’s all pretend. It all goes away when you get home later tonight.

Tomorrow morning I’ll go back to being Lena Claire Pettitt, who sits in her room and paints and secretly dreams of NYU, even though I’m probably going to end up at Endicott just like Mom and Dad want.

Because that’s what I do—whatever I have to do to make things as easy as possible for them.

I think about Lily, my best friend who’s away for her sister’s horse racing tournament. She isn’t going to believe a word of this night when I replay it for her. Lily gets to go to summer camp every year in Maine. She travels to see her sister ride horses competitively. Her parents even let her do a short term exchange program last summer and she got to go to Ireland. She’s the adventurous one of our pair. But those trips, meticulously planned by her mother and father, don’t have anything on tonight. On me, standing here in a guy’s apartment, ready to have coffee with him in a beautiful city just waiting to be explored.

The thought of Endicott reminds me that I set the mail down in Gabe’s garage on top of some old tools.

Forty miles away, on top of some grease-stained rags and wrenches, lies what may be my future.

How perfectly inspired.

I shake my head and try to clear the thoughts of what trouble may be in store for me when I get home and, instead, focus on the adventure still at my feet. Even if that adventure is just coffee and car parts.

I tuck the borrowed skinny jeans into my boots, smooth down the V-neck sweater and take a quick glance in the mirror before I open the bedroom door. Just a tiny glimpse to make sure I’ve pulled all of the store tags off of the clothes, but not long enough that I risk even looking myself in the eye.

If I do that, I may start seriously questioning what the heck I’m doing.

In these clothes.

In this apartment.

In this city.

With this guy.

This guy who is a total and complete stranger.

A guy who maybe is dragging me along out of pity, or maybe—just maybe—he wants me here just as much as I inexplicably want to be here with him.

None of it makes any sense.

And maybe that’s the beauty of it.

Maybe that’s why I’m playing along.

I walk down the hall, glancing at the paintings one last time. They are beautiful, but there’re so many of them crammed into the narrow space it feels like overkill—it feels like trying too hard. The weird things about this apartment is that I haven’t seen a single photograph in the place. No framed school pictures of Gabe, not candid shots of him and his mom. Come to think of it, there’s nothing personal about this entire space. I wonder if his room is more of the same.

He’s waiting at the front door, his hand resting on the polished brass handle like he can’t wait to get back outside.

“All set?” he asks, reaching up to push the dark hair out of his face. “Sweater looks good.”

I brush my hand down the front of the soft blue wool. “It’s comfortable.”

“It’s actually my favorite sweater,” he says, ducking his head shyly.

“Oh, you didn’t have to—is it okay that I wear it?”

“That’s why I gave it to you.”

“Well thank you. Here’s your coat,” I say.

I hand over the thick wool-lined jacket that smells like him. A couple of hours ago, I’d never even been close to a guy. I mean, yeah, I’ve sat next to my sister’s boyfriend at the movies or waited in line behind a man at the grocery store. There are even a couple of guys in my art class.

But I’ve never been close to a guy in the way I have been tonight with Gabe. I’ve never been close enough to see the tiny bit of stubble he has on his deeply tanned cheeks, and now somehow I already know the way he smells. I’ve never borrowed a guy’s clothes or pressed my nose to the collar of his jacket and inhaled the soapy, body wash smell that was competing with the scent of something like motor oil.

I’ve turned into a total psychopath in the last couple of hours as well, apparently.

“I really am sorry about that, I went upstairs...and I came back down and the door was half open—”

I shake my head and beg my cheeks not to light fire again. “It’s fine, really, don’t worry about it.”

I hold up the shorts I’d been wearing along with my Dad’s cardigan. I’ve now got Gabe’s soft sweater and a new jacket and jeans from his mother’s closet to keep me warm. Every part of me, from the clothes I’m wearing to the feelings swirling around inside me feels foreign.

Unrecognizable. Completely, and utterly exciting.

“Do you mind if I leave these behind?”

“Sure thing,” Gabe says. “I’ll run them up to my room.”

***

“How do you take your coffee?” Gabe asks as we step up to the cart. We’ve stopped at a tiny coffee cart a couple of streets down from the building he lives in. Or lived in.

“Do they have decaf?” I ask.

“Ah, come on, you worried about sleeping already?” he throws his head back feigning disapproval and snickers. “Light weight.”

“No, I just avoid caffeine.”

“Right,” he nods his head slowly. “What else do you avoid?”

“My sister,” I say, and watch as Gabe flashes a grin. “House keys, obviously.”

“Obviously,” We both step forward in the line when it moves. Then he adds, “Proper winter attire.”

“Guys who think they’re funnier than they actually are,” I say. I poke him in the ribs, and I like that he doesn’t flinch away from my touch.

“How about you, what do you avoid?” I ask. So far, Gabe hasn’t given much of anything about himself away this evening.

“Decaf.” He says very seriously. The line moves up again. We’re next. “Other than that, I’m up for anything.”

“Ah, so all of this is just an average night in the life of Gabe Martinez?”

The couple in front of us steps aside and Gabe and I walk up to the coffee stand. I have to perch on my tip toes to see over the counter of it.

“One decaf, one regular,” Gabe says to the man working.

“Actually, I’ll take a regular as well,” I say.

“Living on the edge tonight, Lena. I like it,” he says with a wink.

We take our cups and I swirl a generous amount of cream and sugar into the steaming coffee before snapping the plastic lid back on. The piping hot paper cup feels amazing in my icy palms. I should have brought gloves. Or, you know, my own pants.

“Where to?” I ask. I blow into the tiny opening of my lid, trying to cool the liquid down enough so I can take a sip.

“Anywhere you want. The city is ours,” Gabe says.

Everything about my life up to this point has been so closely monitored and controlled. Just standing on the pavement with a cup of non-decaf coffee in my hand feels like a complete and total act of defiance.

He slides his phone out of his pocket. “Well, at least for the next two hours. Then we’ve got to get back to check on that damn part.”

Gabe opens his mouth and for a second I think he’s going to say, “screw the part, let’s see everything!” but he clamps it shut again.

I realize it’s because the phone in his hand is now illuminated. Ringing.
Again.

“You want to take that this time?” I ask.

“Just—” He holds up one finger and says, “Just give me one second.”

“Sure,” I mutter, but he’s already turned his back and taken a few steps away.

I walk over to a small bench and test a few scalding sips of my coffee while I wait. It instantly makes me feel warm, and I’m appreciative of that, but it’s so hot that it leaves my tongue feeling rough like a cat’s. Plus, even with the heaps of sugar, it’s still bitter.

A few feet away, Gabe is pacing back and forth while he talks on the phone.

It’s weird sitting back and really looking at someone for the first time. I’ve only known Gabe for a couple of hours, so I study the way he walks back and forth, with a little swagger. I like the way he talks with his hands, I don’t know if he’s upset or not, but he’s definitely animated. The button-up plaid shirt he threw on as we were leaving his grandmother’s house is wrinkled under his coat, like he probably just grabbed it from a pile of clothes he has stashed in a room that isn’t really his. His jeans fit him perfectly and fall to his ankles against expensive looking boots.

Gabe isn’t bad to look at all.

I glance down at the ground and there’s a small white piece of paper stuck to my boot. I bend down and peel it off the rubber sole.

“Told you she’s always watching,” he laughs.

I startle a little, not having realized he was back, and for a stupid fleeting second wonder if he could hear what I was thinking while I spied on him.

I look down at the paper, flip it over, and see that the second side of it is striped in red, white, and blue. It’s a re-election flyer for his mother.

“Yep. Guess you were right.” I force a smile. “Was that about the car part?”

I know it wasn’t. I could see the way he was working his jaw back and forth while on that call from where I sat on the bench.

Gabe shakes his head slowly. “No, that was...something else.”

“Listen,” I say. “If you need to go, we can—”

“No, no, no,” he says. The collar of his shirt is flipped up. I want to tuck it back down, but don’t know if I should. “That was—I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to avoid that call and—”

“It’s really alright. If you have somewhere you need to be I’m happy to take the train back—”

“Lena,” Gabe says with a small chuckle. He reaches a hand out to help me off of the bench. “Why do I have the feeling you’ve never taken the train by yourself?”

I fight the urge to pull in my bottom lip like I do when I feel embarrassed, and instead, I  raise my chin defiantly.

“I’m not an imbecile. I can take the train by myself.”

Gabe steps out of the way, like he expects me to storm off. “Do you even know where the T is from here?”

“It’s that way,” I say, giving a noncommittal motion in the general South/West/North direction.

“So close,” he says with an infuriating smirk. “It’s actually just over there.”

East. Naturally.

“Right, well, I would’ve found it. Eventually. Anyway, your phone has been ringing like crazy, you obviously have somewhere else to be.” Someone to be
with
.

“I’ve got nothing going on but this coffee that has obviously been sitting on that warmer for a while,” he says, choking around a sip. “And hanging out with you.”

“Why are you doing this?” I ask.

“Doing what?”

“Why did you bring me along? Why didn’t you just leave me at home with your grandmother?”

“You really want to hang with Babci? I mean, my grandmother is a hip lady, but have you ever endured a
Murder, She Wrote
marathon? Or is it that you prefer the main course of your dinner to be a handful of those hard, strawberry candies that miraculously appear in every household once the owner reaches retirement age? If so, I can certainly bring you back—”

“I’m being serious. This is weird, right? Us being here, when we don’t even know each other.”

“And how exactly do you usually get to know people, Lena? I don’t know about you, but when I want to get to know someone,” he raises a condescending eyebrow and it makes me want to punch him in the throat, “I usually spend time with them.”

Wait. “You
want
to get to know
me
?”

“No. I wanted to drag you all the way to the city so you could maybe freeze to death, be hit on by some asshole, share some really stale coffee, and then I wanted to bail on you. Or maybe I wanted some company, and your smile said you might not be a bad pick.”