Page 61 of A Summer to Save Us

I have no idea how long I’ve been walking.

My feet hurt with every step, and my throat feels as dry as dust. Tired, I retreat to Caesars, wander around, and come to a monumental, multi-story hall where the floors form a ring around an inner courtyard.

Maybe I’ll spot River from the very top.

I go up the curved escalators and past Roman statues as tall as houses that seem to carry the upper floors on their heads.

On the top floor, I walk past more shops in a dreamlike state.

In a dark, sheltered spot, I lean against the balustrade and stare down four stories.

I don’t see him anywhere.

Maybe I wouldn’t even recognize him. Or maybe he’s already gone. Maybe my last point—the I love you— wasn’t reason enough to stay.

I think about everything the others said about him.

Would he go to Lost Arrow Spire alone?

“Hey, baby.” In the darkness, an arm wraps around my neck, and I shudder deep inside myself.

For a moment, I fear that River will throw us both over the railing, that he will simply end everything that was, and that we’ll fly and fall, together for eternity.

And even as I think that, I cling tightly to his upper arms, so tightly as if I never want to let go of him again.

“I told you I would find you,” he whispers roughly and this time the shiver down my spine is a mixture of confusion, fear, and desire.

In the next second, he kisses me so longingly, so passionately, that I forget everything else.

I forget my family, my mom, the Davenports, and Caesars.

During these moments, I float with the stars, embraced by the light of a thousand moons, surrounded by all the beautiful words he invented for me.

I feel his cool tongue, his cool lips, and the heat of his hands as he holds me tight.

Moon twilight blue. Angelic night song. Dream magic cocoon.

I love you. I love you. I love you. Even if I could, I wouldn’t say it because then it would be over.

When we pull apart, he looks me directly in the eyes. They’re dark blue, something that is true about him. Real. It seems to me as if those eyes have always been honest with me, maybe not in what he has kept secret, but in everything he has felt.

“You were at the hotel, and they were there,” he says, brushing the damp hair from my face.

I shake pathetically but don’t know why.

I try to say something, choke out something, but he puts his finger to my lips.

“You don’t have to say anything. You’re carrying my things.

If no one had been there—your family or mine—you wouldn’t be wandering around Las Vegas.

You would’ve been there, waiting for me.

” As so often, he’s right. I pull out my phone.

I received a ton of messages. They say you’re sick.

They say you’re bipolar. They say you always save girls when you’re in one of your phases!

He reads the words, and I see somberness cloud his features like a fog that won’t go away.

“It’s not like they make it out to be, baby,” he says darkly and leans down to me.

I feel his warm breath against my face. He smells of the sweetness and heaviness of Jack Daniel’s, and before I can react, he kisses me again.

He kisses me so consumingly, like his life depends on it, and I grow dizzy from the desire behind it.

He pushes me hard against the balustrade, and a tiny, frightened voice whispers in my head: What if he’s too sick to realize it?

What if he doesn’t want to know the truth?

“Wait here,” he murmurs when he releases my lips. “Don’t run away, even if they call or whatever message they send you. Give me a chance to explain everything.” He nods his chin at the people milling around the hotel. “But not here. We’ll get a room.”

How is he going to get a room if everyone knows he’s here?

His picture is probably all over the media, although I still haven’t checked on that.

He kisses me on the forehead and goes to a trash can, where he pulls out a plastic bag and conjures up the wig and sunglasses.

He holds a card in front of my face. An ID card.

Tanner Davenport with a picture of him with dark hair.

So, he’s not blond at all. His hair is dyed. I have no idea why that shocks me so much.

“It’s a good thing I kept my old passport and renewed it.

Tanner Davenport is definitely not Asher Blackwell.

At least, the press and people don’t know that yet.

They only know my face and stage name.” He deftly puts on the wig, adjusts it, and hurries to the escalator.

“Wait here. I beg you, Tucks. Wait!” The last part sounds like a plea, and I nod.

Obviously, I’ll wait. Of course, I won’t run away. I always do what he says.

A short while later, he returns and grabs my fingers while pulling the wig and sunglasses off with his other hand.

“My family won’t find us here; no one will suspect that we’re at Caesars of all places.

” He opens a heavy door that separates the hotel’s shopping center from the hotel rooms, and we walk down a corridor.

The air conditioning blows a mixture of cinnamon and eucalyptus into the hallways, a combination that increases my nausea.

“Sam posted a photo of me online, so everyone suddenly recognizes me. The photo spread like the bubonic plague, Tucks. He didn’t mention my real name, but Chester or someone must have discovered this photo. ”

I nod. My brother is Mr. Spock , I type on my phone. That’s how they knew where we were. I wrote to him because he said he wanted to end his life. I’m sorry.

“You shouldn’t be sorry. Just imagine if Mr. Spock hadn’t been your brother. You did the right thing, even if it turned out badly for us.” He glances at me and smiles. He seems so normal—not sick at all.

We study the arrows with the room numbers and continue toward four hundred and five.

“Your brother must have been scared when he heard about the girls from my family,” River says darkly. “Zozoo told Ches and my father... after the photo was made public and my father called him.”

I stop. I don’t understand any of this!

“That’s why we’re here. So I can explain it to you in peace.” He pulls me along. “Sam and Zozoo wanted to get me into a psychiatric hospital. I was really sick. We were booked for gigs, but they knew that I wouldn’t be able to sing. Too many drugs... too much alcohol. I always need it...”

During those phases , I add quietly.

We stop in front of room four hundred and five and River holds the key card against the locking mechanism. A green light lights up, and the door opens.

“Come in.” He shows me in like a gentleman.

When you’ve spent weeks in run-down motels, every nice hotel room seems like the most luxurious suite. I turn on the light, and ceiling spotlights illuminate everything like stage lights: a black king-size bed, a kidney-shaped black couch, and gleaming stainless steel accents.

Click. Suddenly, it’s dark again, except for the colorful lights of the city shining through the window. “Love me like my demons do,” I hear River say. “Akif Kichloo. You can write that in your Kansas’s Strange to know who he truly is and if I mean anything to him.

As if I could ever have meant anything to Asher Blackwell!

Without saying anything, he strolls to the minibar and pulls out a few bottles.

Then he drinks two shots in a row and wipes his face.

“Zozoo is our guitarist, Sam plays the bass, and Jasper the drums. They said it was so bad, they had to tell my family. They were afraid I would...” He pauses.

Jump , I add in my mind. He looks past me for a moment, then back at me.

“They knew I hate, hate, hate my family.” He slams the mini-fridge door shut.

“I rue the day I told them about my parents.”

I nod, and he takes a third shot that he had put on the minibar earlier. He is sick, I think now, even though he seems so normal sometimes. While I was waiting for him, I googled and found out that people with bipolar disorder often numb their mania and depression with alcohol.

To calm down!

“Don’t look at me like that, Tucks, I’ve got it under control!”

Is that why you jumped into the river three years ago? Because you had it under control?