Lost in Love (4 page)

THERE'S THE POSSIBILITY THAT I
might have figured out what to say to Jude. There's also the possibility that he will hate me forever once I say it.

Things could go either way.

I swing by Jude's spot in Washington Square Park after my last class. He's performing a magic trick with big bubbles. Could the boy be any cuter?

The last time I saw Jude was Saturday night. I couldn't wait for him to come over. Words I needed to say to him were boiling inside of me. My lid was about to pop any second. When the door buzzed, I ran down the stairs instead of buzzing him in. That's how excited I was to see him. I couldn't even wait for him to climb the freaking stairs. But it wasn't Jude at the door. It was Logan, saying all the things I'd been wanting to hear since I left home.

Logan was telling me that he wanted me back when Jude came around the corner. Logan was totally focused on me. He didn't see Jude until Jude was climbing the steps with a big smile. His smile faltered when Logan turned to look at him.

I did not know how to introduce Logan to Jude. My brain blew a fuse from stimuli overload.

Mental note: Boys from different parts of my life should never meet.

Jude stuck his hand out to Logan.

“Hey, man,” he said. “I'm Jude.”

They shook hands. I had never seen Logan shake anyone's hand in any circumstance ever. Logan is not the hand-shaking type.

“I'm Logan. Darcy's boyfriend.”

“Ex-boyfriend,” I quickly clarified. “‘Ex' as in ‘not anymore.'”

Jude looked confused. “Ex-boyfriend . . . from Santa Monica?”

“Yeah. I'm living in New York for a while.”

“I didn't know he was coming,” I told Jude. “He surprised me.”

“That makes two of us.”

Logan raised his eyebrows at Jude. “Is there something I should know?”

See, that's when I should have spoken up. I should have
just come out and told Logan that Jude and I were sort of together. Or hanging out or whatever. But I just couldn't. I couldn't do that to the boy I loved ferociously not too long ago, my first love, who came all the way here to win me back. Even after what he did to me.

So I didn't say anything. Neither did Jude. He mumbled something about needing to go. I tried to get him to stay, but he wasn't hearing it. It was awful.

I was awful.

This is my chance to apologize for my awfulness. Hopefully he will forgive me and understand that I need to give Logan a second chance. I want to be with Logan, at least to see where it goes . . . but what I had with Jude felt so right. Trying to do the right thing is not going to be easy. Jude hasn't tried to get in touch with me. He hasn't responded to any of my messages. The only way to beg his forgiveness is in person.

The crowd watching Jude in an enthusiastic semicircle breaks into applause. Jude thanks everyone for coming. He'll go on break now before starting another show.

I take a deep breath and approach him. He's taking a picture with a little girl, hamming it up for her mom. Early evening sunlight is making his blue eyes glow like neon. He sees me when the last of the crowd leaves.

I approach him. “How's it going?”

“Decent crowds so far.” Jude takes a sip from his water
bottle. I love that I know his water bottle always sits by his yellow collection bucket with the smiley face. I love that I know he changes into his hipster magician costume (violet-and-black striped cigarette pants, fitted violet T-shirt, turquoise high-tops) in café bathrooms. I love that I know things all the people who've stopped to watch him never will.

“That little girl was so excited to take a picture with you. You're like a rock star with the ten-and-under crowd.”

Normally Jude would laugh at that. He'd crack an aw-shucks grin, then try to hide it by looking down. But none of that is happening. He's staring at me with the blankest expression I've ever seen on him.

“You know that's how I roll,” he says absently.

The real Jude isn't showing. He isn't being his usual warm and wonderful self with me. This is some other version of him I've never seen before. The cold and wary version I created. I want the real Jude back.

“So . . . I just . . . I wanted to come by and say I'm sorry. About Saturday night.”

“I got your messages.”

“But you didn't respond.”

“No. I didn't.”

“I'm really sorry Logan showed up like that. Seriously, I thought it was you at the door. That's why we were on
my stoop. I ran down when he buzzed because I couldn't wait to see you.”

“Too bad it wasn't me.”

What if it had been Jude? Where would we be right now?

“Logan totally surprised me,” I say. “He didn't tell me he was coming to New York.”

“You had no idea he was coming.”

“None! He showed up out of nowhere. The last time I saw him before Saturday was when he dumped me. Oh wait, it was when I threw that drink in his face. But yeah, so—”

“You threw a drink in his face?”

“You didn't know I was a badass?”

“No, I knew.”

“Anyway.” I give Jude a shy smile to test the waters. He smiles back. Not the dazzling Jude smile I know and love. But at least he's giving me something. “I'm sorry it was weird. It won't happen again.”

Jude's tight expression softens. Then he reaches out and hugs me. He lingers against me, sliding his hands down my arms.

“Thanks for coming to find me,” he says. “Not seeing you for so long was a bummer.”

“We can't let that happen.”

“What are you doing tonight?” Jude has defrosted. I
hate that I have to tell him this next part. But now that he's warmed back up to me, maybe it won't be so bad.

“Actually, I have plans tonight. With . . . um. With Logan.”

Jude drops his hands from my arms. “Why?”

I fidget uncomfortably on my peacock espadrilles. “It's . . . kind of complicated.” I want to be completely honest with Jude. He deserves to know what's going on. I desperately want to rip off the Band-Aid. Just tell him, get it over with, and move on. But the words are playing a killer game of hide-and-seek and they are crazy determined not to be found. Leave it to words to find the best hiding places.

“He's your ex, right?” Jude says. “So he shouldn't get in the way of us. Right?”

“He wants me back. That's why he came here.”

“What do you want?”

I face him like a wide-open sky. Nothing to hide.

“I don't know,” I admit. “I'm figuring that out.”

Jude would look less hurt if I had just smacked him across the face. I watch helplessly as the scalding shock turns to icy indifference. Any defrosting that might have occurred is over. The boy is back in the freezer. Way back with some old meat that expired a year ago.

“Good luck with that,” he says. He bends down to his collection bucket. He takes out a few bills, lining them up neatly before putting them in his wallet.

“Can we . . . do you still want to hang out?” I ask.

“We're done.”

Tears spring to my eyes. “Why does it have to be like that? We have so much fun together.”

“I don't want to share you.”

“But you were okay with not being exclusive.”

“No,
you
were okay with not being exclusive. That's never what I wanted. From the first time I saw you, I knew I wanted more.”

“Then why didn't you tell me?”

“I thought it was better to have part of you than not have you at all.”

“But we can still—”

“No.” Jude glares at me, blue eyes ice cold instead of glowing like neon. “There's no ‘we' anymore. There was a chance at a ‘we.' But you blew it.”

Part of me wants to tell Jude what I was dying to tell him before Logan showed up. That I want us to be exclusive casual. That I don't want to put Summer Fun Darcy on a shelf, but I don't need boy adventures with other guys to have a good time. Jude is the only boy adventure I need. Except he didn't want to be part of an adventure. He wanted the kind of commitment that's all official where people start throwing down rules and making demands and the magic dies after six months.

And now Logan is here. For real. He's back in my life the way I wished he would be. Even while I was looking
forward to a summer of fun with New York City as my playground, a secret place in my heart hoped we would get back together. I can't shut him down. But Logan can't erase all the trauma he caused just by showing up like some leading man in a rom-com. This isn't a movie. Real life doesn't work that way, all happy resolutions and polished Hollywood endings. Real life doesn't come with a big red bow at the end of a conflict. It comes with two miserable people who now have even more crushing disappointment to add to their emotional baggage. Two people who end up alone.

“You made your choice,” Jude says. “You just didn't choose me.” He turns away from me and starts getting ready for his next show. Like I'm already gone.

Real life endings suck.

“WOULD YOU CARE FOR ANOTHER
fresh watermelon juice, miss?”

I look up from my book at the pool waiter. Are they even called pool waiters? This hotel is so fancy I don't even have the right vocabulary.

When I came out to the rooftop pool earlier, I practically had the whole place to myself. A couple in lounge chairs were the only other hotel guests out here. I worried that they weren't wearing enough sunblock. They were an astonishing shade of pale. I looked around for towels to put on my lounge chair and the lounge chair next to me so it would be all ready for Donovan. But The Hotel of South Beach doesn't work that way.

The Hotel ensures that your stay is so relaxing you don't
even have to lift a pool towel. They have staff to make up your chair for you.

“Um . . . excuse me?” I asked a guy in a white polo shirt, white pants, and black sneakers. “Where are the towels?”

“Would you like a chair set up, miss?”

“Oh. Yes, that . . . thank you. May I have two towels? My boyfriend's coming out soon.” There was a moment of internal freakout after calling D my boyfriend. That was the first time I called him my boyfriend out loud.

“Of course,” the pool attendant said. He quickly gathered the four fluffiest, largest, whitest towels I'd ever seen. “Right this way.” I followed him over to a row of lounge chairs facing the ocean. As we walked by the shimmering pool, I was mesmerized by the ribbons of sunlight dancing in the water. The water looked so clear I wanted to jump right in. But first I wanted to be decadent with my fluffy towels.

The pool attendant placed the stack of towels on one of the oversize lounge chairs. Then he spread out two towels on two of the chairs, covering each chair completely and tucking in the top and bottom of the towels. Every move he made was crisp efficiency and expert precision. The two other towels were rolled and placed near the top of each chair. Because of course neck pillows were included.

As if the lounge chair preparation wasn't impressive enough, now the pool waiter is asking me if I want another fresh watermelon juice. Um, that would be a yes
please
.
My first sip was so delicious I almost cried. Is it possible to become addicted to watermelon juice after your first sip? How could I have lived eighteen years without tasting watermelon juice?

When the waiter brings my second glass, I take a minute to admire it. Slices of pineapple and kiwi are wedged on the rim of the glass. A paper cocktail umbrella sticks out of a chunk of watermelon in the juice. The color palette of the pink juice, yellow and green fruit, and orange umbrella is so pretty and summery. Even the glass is festive. It's one of those grown-up cocktail glasses with a stem. My instinct is to take a picture before I start drinking. I really need to get a cell phone. I had a camera, but it broke last year and I couldn't afford to buy a new one. Taking a mental snapshot will have to be good enough. Once I read that experiences we have alone end up being the ones we remember most clearly. I will remember this watermelon juice in vivid detail. I lift the glass and sniff the juice. It smells like sunshine and summer.

Even though D told me to order whatever I wanted, I was planning to just have water. I already feel bad enough that D is paying for the entire trip. But he keeps saying that it's his pleasure. He wants to make me happy. He said I deserve a fun vacation. He said I deserve to be treated right.

I cannot believe this is my life right now.

Here I am, chilling on the softest lounge chair in the
world with a perfect view of the ocean sparkling in the sunshine. Watching palm trees sway in the warm Florida breeze. No longer regretting taking two days off from camp. Reading a good book and sipping fresh watermelon juice. Time slips away as I savor every second of it.

“Look at you, lounging it up by the pool,” D says from behind me. He slides onto the lounge chair I was saving for him. Good thing I did. I've been out here for a few hours (slathered in SPF 80, of course) and there are only a few free lounge chairs left.

“How was parasailing?” I ask.

“Unreal. I wish you'd tried it with me.”

“Maybe tomorrow.”

“Really?”

“Maybe.”

“You'd love it.”

Floating 600 feet above the ocean while a motorboat pulls me along is not something I think I'd love. That's 38 stories above the ground. Thirty-eight stories that I do not want to fall to my tragic, premature death. But D could not wait to go. He's gone parasailing twice before. The first time was on a family vacation to Maui when he was fourteen. The second was a few years ago at the New Jersey shore. He told me all about what a rush it was to fly through the air, nothing but blue sky around him, with the sickest view.

I'm all set on my fluffy towel, thanks.

D takes his shirt off. I try not to stare. He is one boy who is almost impossible not to stare at. Everywhere you look are features that add up to gorgeous: hazel almond-shaped eyes, sandy blond hair with a bit of a wave, cleft chin, sun-kissed skin. He's even tall, which is perfect for a tall girl like me. D has the kind of confidence that makes people notice. He has this calm stillness while he waits for someone at a café or on the corner, something I will strive to master my whole life and never achieve. I am always uncomfortable waiting for someone. I feel like I have to be checking a screen (that I don't have) or rummaging through my bag (for something I don't need) or adjusting my sandals/dress straps/hair (which are fine except for the hair). But D has a peaceful tranquility wherever he is, whatever he's doing. I really admire that about him.

“Can you do my back?” he asks. He holds up a tube of sunblock, turning his back to me.

I flip the top open and squeeze out some lotion. Then I panic that I squeezed out too much. Putting the extra lotion back in the tube would be impossible. I'll just have to go with it and hope I don't soak his back. That would not be sexy. Some lotion drips on the towel as I begin to spread it on his tan skin. He's been laying out on his roof all summer and it shows. It also shows that I have no idea what I'm doing. This is my first time rubbing sunblock on a boy. Should I be spreading the lotion in circles? Or up and down? Or in various directions to make sure I'm
covering his entire back? Does skin safety come first, or is the sensation of how the lotion is rubbed in more important?

Sunblock application shouldn't make me this nervous.

Last night made me way more nervous. After our flight got in and we checked into our hotel, D took me out for an amazing dinner at Joe's Stone Crab. Then we walked along Ocean Drive. D told me people stay out there partying all night. Was he hoping I'd want to stay out all night, too? Is that what he'd do if he were here alone? Partying all night is not my thing. I hope D doesn't think that's lame.

When we got back to our hotel, we took the elevator up to our floor and paused where the hallway split in two directions. Our rooms were at different ends of the hall. I was nervous all over again. How much would D expect from me? Was he going to come to my room? Would he ask me to go to his? What guy takes a girl on an elaborate vacation and doesn't expect to sleep with her?

“This is where I leave you,” D said. He knows Jonathan Tropper is one of my favorite authors.

“Thanks for dinner. And for everything else. Tonight was amazing.”

“Like I said. You deserve the best.” D put his arms around me, holding me close. The elevator dinged. A glamorous older couple got off the elevator. They smiled at us as they passed by. You could tell they thought we were cute.

D pulled back just enough to look at me. His hazel eyes were golden in the warm light of the hallway.

“See you tomorrow for breakfast?” he asked.

I nodded.

“News Café at eight?”

I nodded some more.

And then he kissed me. A perfect good-night kiss at a fabulous hotel in beautiful Miami.

“Sweet dreams,” he said.

I had been nervous for nothing.

Last night was something out of a dream. It was a night other people get to experience. And now I get to be other people. D and I have three more nights here. I will never want to leave.

We lay out together in the soothing sunshine. I savor the rest of my watermelon juice. D says I should order another one, but I've already decided that two is my limit. What they're charging for one watermelon juice is my grocery budget for the week.

The sun is much lower in the sky when we start getting restless.

“Ready to head in?” D asks. “We have that surprise I told you about.”

I nod with excitement. D wouldn't tell me what we're doing. Just that I'm going to love it.

Getting into the shower back in my room and working the knobs smoothly, I already feel like a fancy hotel pro.
It took me a while to figure out how to work the posh shower fixtures when I took my first shower here. The hot and cold water knobs I was used to seeing were nowhere to be found. Instead there were two polished chrome knobs and a major lack of information about what each knob did. I was scared that I would have to call the front desk to ask how to use the shower and that D would somehow find out. Eventually I determined that the top knob switched the water from overhead rain shower flow to hand faucet flow. The bottom knob controlled the water temperature.

D is waiting for me in the lobby when I come downstairs. He told me to dress casual for the surprise activity. I hope cutoffs, a flowy floral-print tank, and my destroyed old pair of Converse is okay.

“You look pretty,” D says when he sees me.

“Thanks.” You look gorgeous. As always. Why are you even with me?

“Ready to go?”

“I can't wait.”

The surprise turns out to be bike riding along this little boardwalk that runs between a strip of hotels and the beach. I'm surprised D picked such a low-key, old-school activity. He picked it because he knew I'd love it. I can't believe he already knows me so well.

We ride single file with me in front of D. I go slowly, taking in the ocean views and letting the heat soak into my skin like a salve. I ding my bell when people up ahead
are in the way. Or not even in the way. Ringing the bell is fun.

The seat of my bike is a little too high. When we have to stop at a crossing, I wobble and almost fall over.

“Do you want me to lower your seat?” D asks, straddling his bike next to mine.

“You don't have to.”

“I want to.” D gets off his bike. He leans it against the boardwalk railing. Then he adjusts my seat. The muscles in his arms flex as he works. Everything about him is golden. Not only does he have a heart of gold, but amber sun rays are making him glow all over. The blond highlights in his hair look like they're sparking. His eyes are all glittery. His skin is more sun-kissed than ever. I resist the urge to reach out and run my hand up his arm, his chest, his shoulder. For a second I almost topple over again, I'm swooning so hard.

“You're all set.” D holds my bike while I swing my leg over. He glides his hand slowly down my hair. “Your hair is glowing.”

“So is yours.”

“Really?”

“More like sparking.”

“My hair's on fire?”

“That's how it looks.”

“Cool. I can't tell you how long I've been going for the hair-on-fire look.”

We smile at each other in the shimmering sunshine. I'm trying to come up with a witty response when D moves closer to me. He holds my bike handle with one hand and puts his other hand on my waist. I forget what I was trying to say.

When he kisses me, I glow even brighter than the sun.