Figment (8 page)

I moaned, and Davis moved quickly, catching me by my upper arms. “Zo!”

The sensations retreated, and I opened my eyes and saw his face above mine, knit with concern.

“I’m fine,” I said automatically. But even as I pressed my head against his chest and heard the strong lub-dub of his heart under my ear, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being skewed sideways.

Davis’s eyes searched mine as his hands held my arms tightly. He leaned down and pressed a slow, hot kiss to my lips. “Does that help?”

I nodded my head mutely.

He kissed me again, wrapping his arms around my shoulders and waist, bending me backward. “How about that?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“And this?” His lips traveled from my mouth down to my neck. His breath fluttered at the base of my throat.

How could this not be real?
I thought.
It’s the only real thing I’ve felt since I got off the plane.

We walked slowly down the promenade, my arm around Davis’s waist, his arm around my shoulders.

We walked in silence for almost half an hour. The buildings on the shore side gradually gave way from office buildings to graceful homes to the gray stone facades of some school or college. The people passing us on the promenade now were students with bags over their shoulders.

Davis steered me away from the river onto the campus, and we wandered for a time among the mossy stone buildings and manicured lawns.

“Hey.” Davis stopped at a small wooden sign in front of the largest building.
shakespeare garden
, it said. An arrow pointed to the left. “Check it out.” He smiled at me. “I bet they have yellow roses. Your favorite.”

“Oh my God.” I squeezed his hand. “We have to go see.”

We turned down a narrow passage in between two dormitories. A girl carrying a violin case hurried past. At the end of the passage was a small iron gate with elaborate curlicues.
shakespeare garden
, read a metal placard dangling from one of the fence posts.

“Look at this.” I tried the gate. It opened easily, and we stepped onto short, springy grass. In front of us, low hedges were clipped into precise shapes—balls and low walls lining little stone pathways. Roses were everywhere—climbing trellises, nodding from massive bushes, clustered around little metal benches scattered about.

Davis took my hand, his eyes sparkling. “Let’s go in.”

We walked among the fragrant bushes, breathing in their sharp aroma. Davis plucked a buttery yellow rose from a trellis and handed it to me. The edges of the petals were lined in red. I buried my nose in the syrupy-sweet scent, then looked up to see Davis watching me with a tender expression. I reached out a hand to him. “Promise me you won’t leave. Don’t go, no matter how crazy my parents are.” I blinked back tears. “I can’t lose you again.”

“Zo, I promise.” His voice sounded choky, too. “I’ll stay with you as long as you need me.”

“Get a bag of those good chips—the ones in the gold package,” I called out to Davis as he crossed the street to the little grocery.

“Don’t you mean ‘crisps?’” he called back.

“Yeah, whatever, and a Cadbury bar!” I hopped up onto the low stone wall behind me and perched there with my knees drawn up. We were just outside of Regent’s Park in central London. A massive gate, like wrought-iron lace, rose up a few yards away, dominating the block. The sun was hanging low and golden in the western sky. In half an hour, we’d be watching
Romeo and Juliet
, my favorite play, in the huge open-air amphitheater. Davis had presented me with the tickets at Harold’s coffee cart that morning, and I’d told my parents I was spending the day at the British Museum.

My parents and I had had a series of awkward, solemn conversations since the blowout three days ago. I’d closed my ears every time they repeated that Davis was dead, but I nodded my head dutifully and said that yes, yes, I understood that, of course, I was just having a little bit of a hard time before. It was the transition to London, but I was over it now, much better. They would lean forward, clasping their hands, trying to look into my eyes, and I would imagine lunging across the table, grabbing their heads, and screaming right into their lying faces. But unless I wanted to be tied up in a basement somewhere for the rest of the summer, I had to agree. “Keep Calm and Carry On.” That’s what they said over here when the bombs were falling on London during World War II. And that’s exactly what I was going to do. Tell them what they wanted to hear, then carry on seeing the boy I loved.

I watched a robin peck busily at the grass nearby as I pondered the magnificent irony of Davis and I watching
Romeo and Juliet
, a play about lovers kept apart by their families.

“Zoe?”

I almost fell off the wall. Oliver stood on the sidewalk in front of me, wearing yet another worn flannel shirt and holding a big black portfolio. A messenger bag was slung across his chest.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. I hadn’t seen him since my babbling confession in the courtyard.

“I could ask you the same thing.” He hopped up onto the wall beside me, and I cast a glance at the door of the grocery shop. Davis probably wouldn’t like it if he came out and found me sitting with another guy.

“I’m interning at a gallery here in Westminster,” Oliver told me. “A friend of a friend owns it.”

“And I’m here with Davis.” I pointed to the store. I could see Davis’s figure vaguely now through the glass. He was standing in a front aisle, looking at the shelves. I had probably five minutes or so before he came out. “He’s just getting us some snacks before
Romeo and Juliet
.”

“So your boyfriend’s still here?” He was looking at an advertisement on the side of a bus stop in front of us, not meeting my eyes. “I thought your parents would have you on lockdown after the other night.”

I hesitated. I wasn’t sure how much I was ready to tell Oliver about my parents’ lies. This wasn’t exactly the time to get into it, anyway.

“They do—I mean, they would—except that they don’t know Davis is still around. So it’s all a big secret.” Davis was at the counter now, talking to the cashier, indicating something. The cashier pulled a baguette from a rack on the wall. Then, thank goodness, Davis wandered back into the aisles and disappeared.

A thought struck me, and I leaned over. “Oliver, maybe you could help me?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Yeah? Do you need to score some more Crunchies?”

I smiled and shook my head. “They are awfully good. But, no, what I really need is a cover—maybe a planned one this time.” I leaned forward. “I know I caused you so much trouble the other night. But I want to go out with Davis, while he’s still here. Can I tell my parents I’m with you? We can work something out, maybe, where I tell you where I’m going? You’re at your gallery all day, right?”

He nodded, somewhat reluctantly. “Yeah, most of the day.”

“Well, see, this could really work out,” I continued excitedly. “I’ll just tell my parents that I’m helping you at the gallery or something.” I clasped my hands together on my chest.

He fidgeted with the strap of his messenger bag. “I don’t know. That night was pretty intense. Are you sure this is what you want to be doing?”

“Yes!” I burst out. “This is the only way Davis and I can be together.” I dug my fingers into the grass behind the wall, feeling the soil work its way under my fingernails. “Oliver, please help us.”

“Look, I’m sorry. I don’t think I should get involved, okay?” He looked away down the street, his brow dark and furrowed.

A sheen of perspiration broke out on my forehead. Davis was going to appear any second now. “Oliver,” I said desperately.

He brought his gaze back to my face.

“Please. I’m begging you. I know it’s wrong to lie like this, and believe me, I wouldn’t do it if there was any other way, but there’s not. For the sake of love?” I touched his hand gently.

He sighed, his eyes lingering on my face. “Anything for love, right?”

“Right!”

“Jesus. Okay. Okay. I’ll cover for you. I’m not happy about it, Z, but I’ll do it.”

I looked up, startled at the nickname.

Oliver grinned crookedly. “Doesn’t anyone call you Z?”

“No, no one.” I smiled back. “Thanks, Oliver. I really mean it.”

“Well, why don’t you give me your
mobile number, so we can coordinate?” He pulled out his own phone.

“No phone, remember? My parents took it.”

“Ah. Right.” He took up his portfolio. “I’ll just have to throw pebbles at your window when I need to reach you.” He hopped off the wall and headed down the sidewalk, reciting, “‘From forth the fatal loins of these two foes, a pair of star-crossed lovers take their life.’”

A bell tinkled faintly, and Davis pushed open the door of the grocery. He crossed the street and displayed the contents of a brimming brown bag. “Look, French bread and cheese and strawberries and
champagne. So much better than chips and chocolate bars.” He looked after Oliver’s retreating back. “Who was that?”

“Our savior.” I climbed off the wall and took Davis’s hand. “Come on, Romeo.”

“After you, Juliet.” He raised my hand to his lips, and we went into the park.

*
* *

I grinned at Davis the next morning as we sat across from each other on the rocking train. “I’m so excited about the beach.” I grabbed for my overstuffed tote bag, which was about to topple off the seat, and crammed my towel back inside. “I can’t believe I’m even wearing a bathing suit in England.” I didn’t say that I was still feeling a little self-conscious about the scars on my abdomen. I’d stuffed one of my father’s button-down shirts into the bag that morning to use as a cover-up.

The train car was flooded with sunlight and filled with other weekenders, all going out to Brighton, I assumed, like us. Outside, the endless London suburbs were giving way to picturesque English countryside—gently rolling pastures, big woolly cows standing in knee-high grass. We’d gotten bold since Oliver started covering for me. This was the first time I’d been out of London since we arrived.

Davis thumbed through his phone, then held it up for me to see. “It’s not like Florida or anything.”

I squinted at the photo of some people in jeans and T-shirts lying on a brownish beach. “Is it rocks? Where’s the sand?”

Davis read the text below the photo. “Yeah, it’s little pebbles, not sand. Like Maine. They’re calling it ‘shingle.’”

“That’s okay.” I smiled at my beautiful boyfriend. He looked like a blond Adonis this morning, with the sun shining silver on his bright hair. “Nothing matters except that I’m with you.”

I leaned across the little table between us to kiss him, then noticed a nun across the aisle sending me an odd look. I smiled at her sweetly and let my lips linger on Davis’s before settling back in my seat.

“You’re bad.” Davis grinned at me. The nun was looking pointedly out the window.

“That’s why we’re so good together. Oh, we’re here!”
brighton
, read the blue and white sign on the approaching station.

We gathered our bags and followed the crowd to the platform and then out to the street. Everyone was piling into black cabs waiting at the curb, so we followed.

The beach was stone, we found, and brown, like the picture, with choppy waves sending spray up onto the beach. The air was filled with the pungent ocean smell of saltwater and rotting seaweed and, faintly, of French fries, from the beach cafés just beyond the shoreline. People lay spread out on blankets, wearing bathing suits and sweatshirts, eating from plastic takeout containers, talking. Wet children ran up and down in the shallow surf, wielding buckets and shovels like small wild-eyed Vikings.

I shivered, crossing my arms in front of my chest. “It’s cold!” The brisk air raised gooseflesh on my arms.

“Here.” Davis spread out our blanket on an empty patch of shingle, stripped down to his T-shirt and swim trunks, and pulled his sweatshirt from his backpack. He worked it over my head as if I were a child.

“Better?”

“Much.” I hugged the sweatshirt around me and smiled at him. “Let’s check out the water.”

We threaded our way through the assorted blankets and towels to the waterline. The shingle became rough sand here, washing up big floating clumps of dark seaweed. The water foamed around our ankles. I shrieked as a big wave splashed me, soaking my jeans to the knees. “I’m already wet!”

Davis snared one of the seaweed clumps and held it up, dripping, just over my head. “Here’s your wig, darling.” He grinned.

“No!” I tried to run away, but the water caught at my calves. He grabbed me and plopped the seaweed onto my head. Cold water ran down my face.

I shrieked again and snatched it off. “You’re so getting it!” I waved the seaweed at him. It was rubbery and sandy and smelled strongly of the ocean. Minuscule shells were caught in its fibers.

Davis laughed, backing away, but a huge wave crashed over us then, and he lost his balance, pinwheeling his arms before sitting down hard in the surf. I laughed until my stomach hurt at the sight of him up to his armpits in the water, the waves lapping at the collar of his shirt.