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“That doesn’t mean you can’t tell me how you’re feeling.”
I watched him squirm a bit in his seat as if to find a more comfortable position, and just as it looked like he was about to say something, a car swerved into our lane, missing us by a few inches. Pierre hit the horn a couple times.
“Asshole,” he muttered.
Letting out a sigh, I dropped my head back against the headrest and closed my eyes. Pierre had always been pretty shy when it came to discussing his feelings, thanks to his idiot father and careless mother. This wasn’t the first time I’d have to pry, and every time, trying to get him to open up felt like pulling teeth.
But it was worth it.
“Look,” I said, letting out another huff of air, just to let him know just how much on my tipping point I really was. “You scared me, you know. When I found out what you did … what you tried to do, I … I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to think.”
I felt my lungs freeze up, and I bit down on my tongue as I felt the prick of tears begin to invade my senses. Both of us knew that we could skirt around the subject all we wanted and still be able to understand exactly what we were saying.
“I didn’t want to think,” I murmured, my thoughts turning to that night sitting with Felix in the lounge. I’ve had a lot of scary moments in my life, moments I wished I could erase from my memory. That was one of them. “I’m came here because I wanted to see you. To talk to you. Because I—”
Finally, Pierre turned to look at me. “Because you what?”
“I care about you,” I answered lamely, even though it was true. But it sounded weak compared to what I had wanted to say.
Because I love you.
The car slowed down as we drove off an exit, but I could feel my heartbeat speed up. So much for judging Pierre’s inability to explain his feelings. I could barely do it myself.
We drove in silence for a minute or two, and I took the time to draw in some long, deep breaths. Everything was going to be okay. I had to convince myself of that. I was here with him after all. That had to be a good sign.
A sign that certain things were coming to an end. I’d never let Pierre—or myself—become victims ever again. I was stronger now. Tougher.
I knew how to use my anger to my advantage.
“Here we are,” Pierre said, and I could hear him trying to smile through the tone of his voice. Looking at him, I saw that he was doing just that, as if I hadn’t just tried to bring up his suicide attempt less than twenty minutes after meeting up. I shouldn’t have tried. Should’ve given him more time. “So … you’re sure you have a gift card?”
“I’m positive,” I replied, but Pierre held a finger up to my lips.
“I didn’t finish asking my question,” he laughed. “Are you sure you have a gift card with enough on it?”
I mirrored the cheeky grin that somehow found its way onto his beautiful, innocent face. “Enough for myself,” I answered, gently taking his hand in my own and lowering it from my face. “Don’t know how much you’re planning to eat.”
Pierre took back his hand from mine and ran it through his hair, laughing. “Doesn’t sound like it’ll be enough.”
“Well, we have the whole weekend to use it,” I said. “So let’s pace ourselves.”
Pierre tossed me a lopsided grin and turned off the engine. “Come on, let’s get dinner. I wanna make sure we have enough time to show you around after.”
Nodding, I unbuckled my seat belt and stepped out of the car to find myself bombarded with the most glamorous array of lights I’d ever seen. The restaurant’s façade resembled the entrance to New York’s Plaza Hotel, with a wide scarlet carpet leading up to a spread of multicolored stained glass and, above that, a row of glowing orbs that were light bulbs.
It was the physical incarnation of a world that was never ours. A world that people like Elliot Lancaster called home for so long.
“Fuck yeah, baby,” Pierre whooped, his skin reflecting the golden light. “Who gave you the gift card, again?”
“It’s a surprise,” I replied a little more absent-mindedly than I intended. But my eyes couldn’t help but spring from one thing to the next—I mean, I was in London. Fucking London. For the first time in my life, I was surrounded by genuine, shiny city life. My mom never had enough money to get us out of Raleigh except for a few camping trips out West. Forget about leaving the country.
She had told me to send her a postcard. My mom was just as excited as I was about leaving, as if she was the one who was going to visit my best friend and not me. She’d get a postcard and so much more. I was planning to buy a suitcase and drown it with souvenirs—tea biscuits mostly, for my mom to consume.
“Wow,” Pierre said, staring up at the entrance to the restaurant, as if he was the one who had just stepped out of an airplane. “Okay. I’m totally not dressed up for this.”
“Neither am I,” I said, stepping around the car to join him at his side. “Race ya.”
On cue, we both bolted toward the doors, and I let out a wild laugh as we both slammed into the wide plane of glass. A couple had been walking toward the door to make their exit when our bodies collided against the surface of the door, and they jumped back, which only made us laugh harder.