Romancing the Dark in the City of Light (29 page)

Gripping the armrests, she closes her eyes and concentrates.

This ache is not fear of despair. With all her might Summer suffers it and names it.

Moony.

Through bleary eyes, she stares out the airport glass wall, but pictures the sprawling city that’s just forty-five minutes south. Moony is there somewhere, probably in pain, but positively persevering.

She’s doing the same.

What’s absurd is that they’re doing it alone.

She was deluded to think he’d tell her to stop sending letters. He’s not going to say anything to her ever again. It’s okay. But she knows his schedule and routines and pictured him in his room as he recovered. As she
hoped
he recovered. Even though she got precious little information, through all her dreary days, and all her worry of how injured and messed up he was, she took great comfort that at least he was nearby.

Soon he’ll be half a world away.

It’s over. It was over already. She’s been holding on to that thin shred of hope for six months.

Summer’s hand flutters to her throat at the memory of their kiss. She can’t go there. Instead, she pictures him on the soccer field with the team, clipboard in hand, yelling encouragement as gold leaves swirl around him. Possibly, occasionally, thinking of her. Probably in exasperation.

Maybe, maybe, some day he can forgive her.

Closing her eyes again, she leans into that one hug at Moony’s apartment door: his wheaty scent laced with traces of Ariel laundry soap; his warmth and easy energy, as they stood at the nucleus of the twinkling city of Paris spreading out amebalike—moving, living, pulsing—around them and how the entire universe at that moment felt so perfect and infallible.

So right.

She buries her head in her hands.

Grief, gratitude, fear, and loneliness shoot off like fireworks as Summer’s heart cleaves in two.

SIXTY-TWO

She fishes around in her backpack for a tissue, but has nothing. She can’t stop the tears and the Indian businessman is looking at her with alarm. A mom with a squirming toddler sitting opposite regards her with concern. Summer tries to smile reassuringly at them. Not to worry, just a little breakdown here.

She stuffs her music paraphernalia into a backpack pocket and charges for the ladies’ room. A toilet paper face mopping, nose ring wiping, and a splash of cold water later, she ducks into a caf
é
. There’s still time before they board and she could use some caffeine. Or something.

Summer sits at a white marble table by the window.

Now, she can’t stop the sound in her head of the train screeching in, or the sight of the lady driver going wide eyed; Kurt gripping them both, and Moony’s pale, unconscious face, his body sprawled on the concrete. It’s playing on an endless loop in her brain. Over and over. She shreds her paper napkin. Rubs her eyes trying to shake the loop loose.

The waiter brings her an espresso.

All the time, distance and effort in the world can never undo what she did, she thinks. Second chances are glowing stars, but some memories are black holes. Somehow, she’s gotten sucked too near to the edge of this one. That point where light no longer escapes.

She’s panting. Yes, she must deal head on with negative emotions, but this is obsessive. Unhealthy. She’s dangerously close to a panic attack. Get a grip.

A sip of too hot coffee burns. She swallows. Counts backward and slows her breathing.

She sniffs the scent of the toasty butteryness from baking croissants. Then pictures breaking a warm one apart and slathering it with raspberry jam. Too bad she’s not hungry.

She takes another sip of coffee. Then another. This flood of emotions, roller-coaster highs and lows, has taken her by surprise here at Charles de Gaulle. Maybe caffeine’s
not
such a good idea. She’s too damn
awake.
Like her skin is on inside out. She wishes Dr. Garnier were here. Or even Mom.

She pulls out her phone, and stares at its blank face. Calling will worry them. She’s better now. Just give it a moment.

Deep breath.

An American family with two sulky preteens steers past her table headed for a booth. Someone else follows close behind them, but stops beside her table.

Summer looks up.

Kurt smiles down at her.

SIXTY-THREE

“How—?” Summer gasps, knocking over what’s left of her espresso. The liquid darkness seeps across the marble and drips into her lap.

“
Salut,
Razorback.” Kurt’s wearing a black windbreaker and jeans. “Mind if I sit down?”

“Yes,” she croaks, as her pulse pounds in her ears.

He pulls out a chair. “It’s been so long.”

“Definitely not long enough.”

The concourse entry is way on the other side of the room. There’s an emergency exit next to the kitchen. She’s got to get out of here.

She slumps back in her seat. It won’t make any difference.

Kurt clears his throat. Sounds like he has a cold.

His shirt and jacket both are frayed at the collar and all that big hair could use some shampoo. “You don’t look so good,” she says.

“I feel great,” he says, then coughs.

“So what brings you to the airport?” His hands are dry and flaky.

“I wanted to see you. Wish you bon voyage. And maybe make a date in San Francisco. I plan to be out there soon.”

“I bet you do.” She mops up the mess with napkins the waiter brings.

It’s funny that Kurt’s waited all this time. Lots of bleak days populated the last months, especially in the beginning. A few were worse than others. When getting out of bed and putting one foot in front of the other took all the will, energy, and James Brown lyrics she had. He could have showed up on one of those.

He didn’t.

Maybe because she was working so hard? Staying focused. Staying sober.

She just picked up her six-month plastic chip at her AA meeting the night before last. Not being hammered all the time has its small rewards.

She stopped smoking.

Thanks to GED international testing options, she has now “graduated” from high school.

She’s taken up tae kwon do again and can make it through a whole hour now without having to collapse on the floor in a pool of sweat every ten minutes to rest.

Last week, she mailed a completed registration form for the first prerequisites for an education degree to a San Francisco community college. Classes start in late August.

Aunt Liz’s friend runs a French bakery in their neighborhood and he’s hiring dishwashers and food servers. Summer will apply as soon as she arrives. She’s also exploring volunteer positions working with kids.

She’s inching ever closer to her own center and knows now she is an important, if small, part of the whole, this life, this world.

Even though she’ll never be more than
half,
without Moony.

Kurt taps his fingers on the table.

The wrong jerk at the wrong time. She sighs. Maybe suicide will hang there as an option for her, forever, dangling like some foul air-freshener card looped over the rearview mirror.

Especially when the world is shifting beneath her feet. Kurt was just waiting to kick her when she’s down. That he might keep popping into her life like this, sucks more than she can stand.

He says, “I was thinking about grabbing a quick drink at that bar down the concourse.”

“Go for it,” she says.

“Care to join me?”

“Nope. Not today.”

“But I never drink alone. Just one, for the road. For the big trip. For luck.”

“Kurt. I don’t know what freaking language you need it in, but I said no. Why are you here again?”

He doesn’t answer. Examines his ragged nails.

Summer knows why. Her throat closes and her eyes fill again.

She must
really
let go of Moony. Believe it.

No more letters. No more false hope.

Accept that she must mourn the loss of him and feel sad, probably forever. Ha! That’s an understatement. Some primal part of her believes that letting him go will destroy her. It’s irrational.

She’ll be okay.

She nearly killed him. There’s no choice but to make his sacrifice worthwhile by getting healthy and moving forward with her life.

The morning sunlight slants through the window. It leaves a brilliant pool of platinum on the white marble table and spotlights slowly waltzing dust motes.

So beautiful, it aches.

“Summer?” Kurt lasers his sexy smile across the table.

His shoulders are broader, his features more symmetrical even than she remembers. But he’s slouching, his skin is coarse, and his face is lined.

“Yes,” he muses, studying her. “The last months agreed with you incredibly.” He makes goo-goo eyes at her as the scent of something acrid and sharp hits her, like mothballs mixed with cat urine. He’ll slide over and nuzzle her neck in a few seconds if she doesn’t do something.

Summer stands, pushing her chair back with a screech. “Get the fuck out of here.”

Heads swivel. The four American family members turn in unison to stare across the room.

Kurt adopts a shocked, hurt look. “That’s no way to talk to an old friend. And, hey, maybe I want to order something.”

“But you can’t pay for it, now, can you!” She’s still standing even though her knees are wobbly.

His left eye twitches. “No need to be so hostile, is there? I’ve been thinking about seeing your beautiful face and hearing your voice for months. Years. Eternity.” His dark eyes intensify and melt at her. He murmurs, “I don’t think you understand how much I’ve missed you.”

The sound that comes from her vocal cords is bitter, not really a laugh, but it gives her strength. “You’ve got some nerve showing up now. Or ever.” She points to the door. “Go. Away.”

He scowls, coughs. Waits one, two, three beats, then rises slowly and leaves.

Summer sinks into the chair even though right now she could soar out of it. It’s like tapping ruby slippers together three times.

It was there all along. And she’s floored with the power of it.

Grateful.

So
many
things to be grateful for.

One day at a time. It
is
a good strategy. She’s got today, thanks to Moony, and what life expects from her is that she make something of it.

SIXTY-FOUR

The final boarding call for Summer’s flight crackles over the PA system. She pays and leaves the caf
é
. Air France agents are herding stragglers in the now almost deserted boarding area.

Near the gate, in the middle of a bank of seats sits a lone young guy, reading. One leg is sprawled at an angle. A cane leans against the seat next to him. He reminds her of …

Moony!

Unbelievable.

“Ohmigod!” Summer exclaims, breaking into a run. She stops.

She closes her eyes and breathes out, then walks over.

“
Excusez-moi?
” she says.

Moony looks up slowly as if so engrossed in his book that he can’t tear himself away. “Yes?”

His clear brown eyes sweep her mind clean of all thoughts, except that he looks older. She stutters, “I … er … you are … uh?”

“On this flight.”

“What are the odds?” she murmurs.

“Low.”

“It was a rhetorical question.”

He grins. “Traveling around the States this summer. Part of my graduation present.”

“Oh, right. I heard. Are you staying in San Francisco?” She tries to tamp down the sheer joy in her voice, but doesn’t do a very good job. Feeling and acknowledging emotions is one thing. Frightening people with them is another.

“Yep. With family friends. Then meeting an old PAIS buddy in Los Angeles next week. Traveling across the Southwest with him, end up in Missouri.”

“Missouri! Are you studying there then?”

“Hmm-hmm. Full ride. Premed.”

“That’s so awesome!” she cries, reaching out to clap him on the shoulder. But she stops short. Swallows. “You’re feeling … good then? I mean, you look great.” He looks thin. She can’t help glancing at his arms bones jutting under his long-sleeved T-shirt. His color is good, though. And his eyes are twinkling.

“I am.”

“I’m … I’m so happy to see you.” She’s full of understatement today. Keep cool, Summer, don’t blow it, she reminds herself.

“Happy to see you,” he says with his sly smile. “You look really good, too.”

“Um. So can I give you a hug hello?”

“Why not?”

He stands, pushing up awkwardly from the armrest.

Summer embraces him. Lightly, carefully. She breathes in his warmth and grassy, limey soap smell and they don’t let go as the loudspeaker announces in French, then English, that this is truly the final boarding call and the door to their flight is closing.

Or as the woman’s voice blares, “Passengers Munir Al Shukr and Summer Barnes, on Air France Flight eighty-four to San Francisco, please proceed to gate fifty-four immediately. The captain has ordered the aircraft doors closed.”

“I guess it’s time,” says Summer finally, unentwining herself from Moony. “You’re on this flight,” she repeats. She still can’t believe it.

“Not yet.”

“Heh.”

She studies him closely as he fishes out a boarding pass, then slings his backpack over his shoulder and grabs his cane. He moves stiffly, but his left arm seems to work okay.

The annoyed flight attendant takes their boarding passes.

“I hope you plan to fill me in on everything that you’ve been up to,” Summer says. “You know what
I’ve
been doing.”

“Yep. Pages worth.”

“One thing’s for sure,” she says. “Some day, we’ll look back on all this”—she reaches for his curled hand—“and probably change the subject.”

Moony laughs, deep and true.

As they walk down the ramp, Summer gets it. In a new, wide, forever way. While one day at a time is an outstanding concept—really, she only has
this moment
.

Ever.

Presently, it happens to be the totally astonishing gift of Moony’s hand in hers.

No matter what happens, in all the moments from here on out, it’s enough.

SUICIDE PREVENTION RESOURCES