Missing (9 page)

 

ONE THING GAIA'S LIFE HAD DEFI-
nitely lacked in the past few days was stillness. But sitting Indian style on her hotel bed, wearing her wrinkled flannel shirt and her pajama bottoms at 3:00
A.M
., she had finally found herself a silent moment. Her father was fast asleep in the bed across the room. She was glad. She needed a moment to herself, just to think. Without any distractions.

The room was soothing in its spare beauty. An oak table covered one wall almost entirely. Her father and she had each taken one of the two spacious beds with white silk sheets and majestic oak headboards. The wall to her right had a pair of tall French doors, covered by long, flowing white drapes, that led onto a small, graceful, wrought-iron terrace. And on the table and by each bed were these perfect little baroque lamps that cast only as much light as was necessary.

Sitting in silence, hearing only the ticking of the wooden clock on the wall, with only one shaft of warm lamplight, Gaia watched her father sleep. She knew she wouldn't be able to sleep herself—and it had nothing to do with jet lag. Her eyes fell to the crusty bruise on his temple.
Hard to believe that only four days ago, she'd assaulted him.
Of course, she'd believed with all her heart that he was ...someone else. Her uncle. That sick—

Ella.
It all came back to Ella—to that conversation they'd had in that Alphabet City hellhole. The whole time Ella had talked about Loki, she'd actually been talking about Oliver, not her father. Suddenly Gaia flashed back to all those “sweet” moments with Oliver:
every one of them a manipulation, a plot, a scheme.
His “cancer” was probably just another lie concocted to reel her in, too. Saving her life in the park that night still didn't quite fit in, but Gaia couldn't figure it all out now....

There was no point driving herself crazy, though. Ella was dead. Loki was incarcerated (for now, anyway). She had her dad. She had Sam—

Sam.

The name was like an oversized bite of ice cream: so sweet, but so painful. It sent a shiver of regret through her heart. But she knew—now more than ever—that she'd made the right decision to leave him. It was only temporary. Still, she couldn't remember ever feeling such longing as she did at this very moment. It was so strange. Every emotion she usually kept at arm's length, or veiled in humor, had suddenly broken through,
left to gambol around her mind like a new litter of wild puppies.
She couldn't control them. Then again, she didn't necessarily want to control them....

Tell Sam. Tell him right now. You'll probably be you again by morning. Don't let this moment go to waste.

And then it hit her: She would write a love letter.

Yes. She would do something so totally un-Gaia-like, so totally the opposite of everything she'd stood for during the past five years, that it would be this magical, transformative experience. Given the precariousness and fragility of her life right now, she knew there was a very good chance she might not have this opportunity again.
The moment was like a slippery ball of glass.
She couldn't hold on to it forever. Soon it would drop and shatter. She had to act.

Without another moment's hesitation Gaia jumped from her bed and tiptoed over to her father's laptop on the oak table. Looking back at her sleeping father, she grabbed the laptop and tiptoed into the coat closet, making sure the phone cord didn't come unplugged. She closed the door, carefully slipping the phone cord underneath it, then pulled the chain to flip on the one stark lightbulb on the ceiling. Then she sat down, flipped open the computer, and logged on to her e-mail.

Dearest Sam,
she typed.

Ugh, too cheesy. She pounded on the delete button until the screen was blank again.

Dear Sam,
she typed.

But that was just a letter.
Not a love letter.
She attacked the delete button once again.

Sam,
she typed.

Sam? “Sam, don't forget to pick up cat food.” “Sam, please drop off the dry cleaning.” That's how a person addressed a goddamn refrigerator note....

Gai scowled.
And now the moment's gone,
she thought with a flash of her usual cynicism.
I never should have tried to write this stuff down. Now I'm totally self-conscious....

No. Gaia wasn't ready to let it go. Not yet.
She was the new Gaia.
The new Gaia who could smile . . . the one with her family just on the other side of the door.

The new Gaia in love.

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Re:
You
Time:
3:21
A.M
.

Dear Sam,

I wish I could have told you how I was feeling about four minutes ago because four minutes ago, I knew exactly what I wanted to say. But once I decided to write it down, I seemed to have no idea how to say it. Does that make sense? Well, that's what happened.

I'm not a quitter, though. That's something you should know about me by now, so here I am, still not knowing how to say it but writing anyway because I've told myself that I'm not allowed to stop writing even though I don't know how to say it and with each word I'm sounding more and more like an
idiot
, which is exactly what I was afraid of.

But I'm not stopping.

So I'm just going to tell you what I'm feeling. Hopefully, when I'm done, I'll have a love letter.

That's what this is supposed to be, by the way. A love letter. It's pretty shitty so far, huh? I just don't really do “happy” so well. I think of myself as a fairly articulate person, but reading what I have just written . . . well, let's just say it isn't college essay material.
It's just that I haven't been happy in so long that my synapses don't really know how to cope. My life has taken this crazy turn and I've got
you
and I've got my father back and I think I must have been magically beamed into someone else's life, except it's my life. It's mine.

You're mine.

Forget the college essay. This is starting to sound like a really, really lame-ass Hallmark card. But I'm not stopping. There's so much you don't even know. I can't possibly explain it all now, but I didn't go to Germany with my uncle. I went to Paris with my father. Long story. I'll tell you in person.

For the time being, let me try to make an analogy to help you understand what my life has become.

My dad and I were at Notre Dame Cathedral. Right in front of the main facade of the cathedral, there's a gold sort of compass star set in the pavement, not really even that big. It says, “Point Zero.” It's the center of all of Paris. The entire city is measured from that one golden star. And that's what my life feels like. I feel like, from now on, everything that happens in my life should really start with this point. This is my point zero. I'm starting my life from this point in this hotel with my father. I'm starting from this point with
you
, Sam.

That's what I'm trying to say.

Before I met you, I'd never in my life
experienced that feeling that I just had four minutes ago, now I guess five or six minutes ago. The feeling that made me have to write this letter. In a way it was kind of like being sick.

You know how they say there's a fine line between pleasure and pain? You know, like the way laughing can suddenly turn into crying or the other way around? Well, I was lying in my bed here in the hotel, and when I thought of you, I felt like—sort of like I was sick but without any of the pain of sickness. I was sort of shivering.

Never mind.

By the way, if you ever show this to another living soul, I will
kill you
. And I mean that. I actually can and actually will kill you.

I love you, Sam. I love you so much, it kind of hurts. And I miss you.

Okay. I think this was sort of a love letter. It's a good start, anyway. But you know, this is just point zero. I'm just getting started here. I promise these letters will get better. But it's not a real love letter until I press send, so I'm going to press send now.

Have I got balls or what?

I love you,
Gaia          

P.S. I wonder if you're thinking about me right now.

 

The
thing that seems so strange to me now is that I was so sure I was in love with Sam Moon. I mean, Sam was the perfect guy. He was intelligent, he was in college, he was hot. (Still is, actually.) I would have done anything for Sam when we were going out. I would have done whatever he wanted, wherever he wanted. I couldn't even picture my life without him.

But it turns out . . .

That was nothing. That wasn't love.

In the last few days I've remembered what true love is. I remember what it feels like. I remember how it kills brain cells so you end up washing your face with the shampoo and trying to shave your legs with the toothbrush. I remember what it's like to forget where you're going between the kitchen and the dining room or not to realize people are talking to you—so that by the time you realize, you have
no idea what they're talking about. You can't concentrate on anything because every single second is spent just thinking of
him
. Just picturing
him
.

I remember it so well because the only two times I've ever felt that way in my life, it's been with the same guy. I just wish we'd never been apart. I let that stupid accident get in the way of that feeling. If we'd just stayed together the whole time, then I could always tell people that it was love at first sight and that we'd been together ever since.

And it was love at first sight. I don't even think I've ever told Ed the truth about how I used to look out the window of the Astor Place Starbucks to watch him skate. How lame is that? I know, but it's true. I used to “conveniently” end up at the corner table by the window with Megan and some of my other friends every day at three. And then, sipping latte and using a
few well-placed “uh-huhs” and “oh, totallys,” I could watch him for an hour without them ever even knowing.

I'd scan down from his mussedup brown hair, through his confident devilish smile, to some long-sleeve T-shirt—it was always too big, but you could still tell he had a great body—to the low-hanging worn-out jeans, down to his worn-out vintage Puma sneakers. I guess I was a little obsessed.

Of course, once we found each other, I think I can safely say he was, too. We were inseparable. It was perfect. It was true love, it was first love, it was my “first time,” it was perfect.

Nothing should have ever torn us apart.

But that doesn't matter now. Because we're together again and that makes me the luckiest girl in the world. I am with my first and only true love. And I will never let him go again. I can't
even believe I'd ever thought for a second that twenty-six million dollars had anything to do with my wanting Ed back. I mean, I was just as in love with him before we'd even spoken—back when he was just a scruffy skate rat who didn't even know I was watching him—back when he'd do skateboard stunts for a dollar just so he could afford a Rice Krispy treat. That's the Ed I love. That's the Ed I will always love. For richer or poorer. In sickness and in health. For as long as we both shall live.

Okay. I'll calm down. I guess I'm a little young to get married.

But in a few years . . .

Hmmm.
Heather Fargo.
It does have a kind of downtown supermodel ring to it. . . .

Something about Heather's tone had just . . . thrown him a little. It was so mercenary.

 

“AH, MONSIEUR FARGO,
BON SOIR.
Ze lady, she has already arrived. Follow me, please.”

French. Of course Heather had chosen a French restaurant. Capsouto Frères. Heather said that it was “not necessarily all that trendy” (a classic Heather-style understatement) and “only mildly overpriced” (ditto), but very romantic.

That last part Ed didn't mind at all. And looking around, he saw that the place was actually very cool—a lot of space, with pristine blond wooden floors and big windows covered with long, flowing white drapes. There were lots of candles, too, reflecting off the shiny copper work on the ceiling in a warm, golden glow.

Now Ed felt it was worth it to have put on his black suit.
He wasn't a suit kind of guy, but it fit the occasion.
He just prayed that he wouldn't have to eat any frogs' legs or snails. There was absolutely nothing romantic about that. He could not understand how anyone in their right mind would want to eat a snail.

“Euh, eef you don't mind me saying, monsieur,” the maitre d' muttered from the side of his mouth, looking down at Ed as they wove through the maze of beautiful people, “your sister, she is
très belle, monsieur,
very beautiful.”

Sister. Ed smirked. Of course. How could a guy in a wheelchair have a girl like that, right?

Ed was very used to that kind of moronic shortsightedness. He actually managed to get a kick out of it a lot of the time.
People were funny in their ignorance.
But tonight was just one of those nights; for some reason, it pissed him off. He considered running over the chubby waiter's foot. But Ed didn't want to risk getting kicked out. Besides, there might just be a day, not so far in the future, when Ed wouldn't have to put up with this kind of crap anymore.