Lost in Love (7 page)

LOGAN TOLD ME TO MEET
him at Pier 40. He wouldn't tell me what for. As if showing up in New York to win me back wasn't enough of a surprise, the boy wants to surprise me even more.

I say bring it.

Pier 40 turns out to be a big building in Hudson River Park. I thought it was going to be an actual pier with like seagulls and attractions and stuff. Not that I was expecting anything as dope as the Santa Monica Pier. There is only one Pacific Wheel. But I wasn't expecting Pier 40 to be a . . . recreation center? No wonder Logan told me to dress down.

Logan is doing his sexy sloucher thing near the entrance. He's leaning against the wall, all tall and lanky with his dark hair falling across his face. I always loved that he was
tall. I could wear my highest stilettos without towering over him. And those smoldering dark eyes. I used to get lost in those eyes for days.

“Hey, Gorgeous,” Logan drawls. He's got the same megachill vibe as always. Same half smirk like you just did something risqué and he knows every last detail about it. Same magnetic aura that draws you in and won't let go.

Mental note: This boy tore your heart into a million bloody shreds. Proceed with caution.

“So what are we doing here?” I ask. “Playing baseball?”

“Think bigger.”

“Basketball?”

“Think higher.”

“Volleyball on trampolines?”

Logan pushes off the wall. He takes my hand and walks me away from the building.

“Check it.” He points to the roof.

Part of the roof is covered with clear netting. I can see dangling ropes through the nets. Like swings . . .

A big smile breaks out on my face. “Trapeze?” I ask.

“Time to catch some air, shorty.”

“This is just like—”

“Our first date? Yeah. I remember.”

Logan took me to a class at the Trapeze School on the Santa Monica Pier for our first date. We had dinner at a hella good taco truck after. This girl couldn't have asked for a better first date. I was beyond impressed how Logan
knew what I wanted even before he knew me. Almost like we were meant to be together. If you believe in that sort of thing.

Our trapeze class is an open class with three other students. We'll all take turns on the trapeze while everyone else watches from the AstroTurf green below. When it's my turn to go, I climb the ladder up to the board we jump off. The instructor is a cute blond girl who tells me how to get into position for my first attempt. She stands behind me on the board after I'm strapped into my safety belt. I remember some things from the class we took before, like how I have to tilt my hips forward and bring the bar up to eye level. This bar is surprisingly heavy, just like the one in Santa Monica.

“When I say
ready
, give me a little bend in the knees,” the instructor says from behind me. “When I say
go
, bunny-hop off the board and hang straight.”

I have my faults. Being afraid to let go is not one of them. I'm swinging through the air, gripping the bar, when I hear the instructor yell, “Let go!” I release my grasp and fly at the other bar that's swinging toward me. My hands find the new bar and I grip it tight. Logan hoots from where he's watching with the rest of our group.

This is the way I hoped living in New York City would be. Exhilarating, tantalizing, and just the right amount of dangerous. Being in the Now is not hard when you're flying through the air far above the ground. I can see for
miles up here. Night is my favorite time of day, but I've always loved this summer evening pre-sunset time when the anticipation of night makes your pulse race and your imagination run wild. You never know what the night can do. One night can change your life forever.

Logan's tall lankiness does not interfere with his agility. I watch as he takes his turn. He puts power behind his swing, flipping up to bend his knees over the bar. I hoot for him even louder than he hooted for me.

“You were awesome,” Logan tells me as we're leaving Pier 40. “You always were.”

“Awesome at the flying trapeze?”

“Awesome at everything.”

We stop on the sidewalk, staring at each other. The people weaving around us are barely detectable beyond my trance. This is how it was with us back home. This is how we were.

I want to kiss him. I want to kiss him until we become the way we were again. But I remind myself what he did. The bitter memory is enough to hold me back.

Logan doesn't kiss me when he puts his arm around my waist. He just walks me over to one of the cute West Village streets. Did he want to kiss me, too? Could he tell I wasn't ready? He stops next to a shiny black motorcycle parked between two cars.

“This is us.” He unlocks a compartment at the back and takes out two helmets.

“How is this us? This isn't your motorcycle.”

“It's my friend's.”

“The guy who's letting you stay at his place?”

“Another guy.”

“How do you know so many people in New York?”

“I know like three or four guys. That's not so many people.” Logan puts his helmet on. It's black with red flames. “Put your helmet on.”

My helmet is red with black flames in a reverse pattern of Logan's. I'm bummed that it will flatten the beachy tousled look my hair cooperated in achieving this morning but delighted that it matches my candy-colored oversize tank, black leggings, and cherry-red BOBS. I grin at the irony of wearing sneakers tonight compared to the stilettos I was wearing the first time Logan took me motorcycle riding. We rode down the California coast on our second date.

“Wait,” I say before Logan gets on. “Why are we doing the same things we did on our first and second dates?”

“Are we?” Logan asks in an overly inquisitive tone.

I wait for him to spill.

“Tonight is all about going back to the good times,” he reveals. “So, I don't know . . . I thought re-creating highlights from our first three dates might be romantic.”

My heart swells. It's amazing that this boy can still surprise me in the most unexpected ways.

“Look . . . I can tell you're reluctant to trust me again,”
he says. “I get it. I messed up big-time. I'd probably feel the same way if I were in your position. That's why I want to show you that you can trust me. I want to remind you of what we had.”

This is an absurd conversation to be having in motorcycle helmets. Will helmets protect us in case of an emotional crash? Nervous laughter bubbles up in my throat. I tamp it down.

“Do you remember how good it was?” he asks.

Of course I do. But I also remember him dumping me. Why did he break us apart?

Logan gets on the motorcycle and starts the engine. I get on behind him, put my arms around his waist, and hang on tight.

We ride way up the West Side Highway. I watch the skyscrapers of Midtown fade to the shorter buildings of uptown. The terrain changes into a picturesque countryside filled with trees. Are we even in New York City anymore? Is this what New Jersey looks like? I wrap my arms tighter around Logan, excited to see where he's taking me.

Logan stops the motorcycle in a grassy area with more trees and flowers. A blue butterfly lands on a purple flower. I absorb the Now like a sponge, taking a mental photo of everything all at once. Sadie told me about how she sometimes has epic feelings. She'll be walking down the street and she'll see something that will trigger an overwhelming emotion. Is this what she was talking about?

We get off the motorcycle. Logan stashes our helmets. I attempt to salvage my hair by stabbing at it with my fingers like a pick. Good thing my look today was beachy bedhead.

“Where are we?” I ask.

“Fort Tryon Park.”

“In New Jersey?”

Logan laughs. “We're still in Manhattan, babe.”

“What street is this?”

“We're above One-Ninetieth.”

“The streets go up that far?”

“They go to like Two-Eighteenth.”

I have a flashback of watching the sunrise with one of my boy adventures on the East Side Promenade. I had no idea what we were looking at across the river. I told myself that I should look closer at a map of New York City so I could actually understand the geography of where I live. Really need to get on that.

We walk around the park for a while. The summer air feels so green and fresh that it permeates my skin. The slight humidity seals in the sensation, pressing summer into my bones. I can even feel summer in my teeth. Logan tells me about the Cloisters, this old monastery up here that displays medieval art.

“Righteous,” I say. “Should we go check it out?”

“We would if we weren't already doing a related activity after this.”

“Related to . . . a monastery?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“You're right. Surprises are way better.”

“Like when the guy who loves you shows up at your door, begging you to take him back?” Logan leans on a tree, pulling me up against him. He puts his arms around me. He looks at me more intensely than I've ever seen. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry I messed up. I'm sorry I got scared. You're the first girl I've ever loved. The first and only. When you said you were moving . . . I couldn't stand the thought of us being so far apart. I didn't think I could swing the long-distance thing. But I think you were right. We can make it work.”

I'm speechless. The boy has taken all my words.

Logan slides his hand through my hair. I try to concentrate on him instead of worrying about how tangled my hair is.

“Whatever it takes,” he says. “That's what I'm going to do to win you back.”

I press up against Logan with my cheek on his chest. Listening to his heartbeat. Feeling his heat. We stay like that for a long time. Night birds chirp around us and a summer breeze rustles some tall grass, and it could not be more romantic. The strong connection we had back in California comes rushing at me. This must be one of those epic feelings Sadie has. It's like the entire history of our relationship flashes by in an instant, transmitting its
intensity in a sonic boom. I remember everything we had, everything we were. I can feel it in the air.

Almost as if none of the badness ever happened.

Before I realize what's happening, Logan kisses me. Our first kiss was just like this. Pressed up against a palm tree near the Santa Monica Pier. I remember how sweet that kiss was. How he tasted like honey.

“Wow,” I say after. “You even re-created our first kiss.”

“That part wasn't planned.”

“Yeah, no, you're clearly a horrible planner.”

“Maybe I'd be better if I had some inspiration. I wonder what would inspire me to plan a whole special night?”

“Hmmm. Maybe a special girl?”

“She would have to be really special. The most special.”

“So.” I pull away from Logan a little. “That was our first two dates. What about the third?”

“What do you remember?”

Logan took me to the Santa Monica Museum of Art on our third date. There was an amazing exhibit with light and color I had been dying to see. I was stoked when he told me he got us tickets.

“Everything,” I say.

“Next stop, east side. With a ride through Central Park on the way.”

We ride back down the West Side Highway. I feel like I'm flying in the glimmery sunset. I press the side of my helmet against Logan's strong back and close my eyes,
wrapping my arms around him even tighter. I remember this. This feeling of being with Logan like we were the only ones in the world who could ever feel this much. This much passion. This much contentment.

When Logan turns off the highway, I lean into the steep turn. I love the way we lean into turns together. You have to completely trust the person you're riding a motorcycle with. If you don't lean into the turn with him, the imbalance will throw you both off.

To re-create our third date at the museum, Logan brings me to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. They're having a Sunday night special exhibit.

“I'm not dressed for this,” I say outside the museum.

“That's okay. We're not going in.”

“We're not?”

“Trust me. What we're doing is much better. Come on.”

Logan brings me around to the side of the museum. In the soft glow of the lamplights, I can see a perfectly manicured lawn extending from the museum wall. He takes us onto the lawn close to the wall and stops under a tall, skinny open window. The soothing musical sound of a string quartet glides out to us.

“You're right,” I say as he takes me in his arms. “Being outside the reception is way better than being inside the reception.”

“I told you, you could trust me.”

We dance. We dance in the lamplight, under the music, pressed together on a hot summer night.

“Do you remember dancing on that roof we snuck up to?” Logan asks. “After that party we crashed when the roofdeck door was open? I put one earbud in your ear and the other in mine. We played our favorite songs. God, that was amazing. I could have danced with you all night.”

Yes. I remember.

I remember us.

FRANK STILL HASN'T DONE ANYTHING
about Momo. A camp director not even bothering to follow up on a camper who might be in danger. Nice. I thought by now Frank would have gotten in touch with Momo's mom. I assumed everything would get taken care of. But I just stopped by his office and I can't believe what I am hearing.

“What happened when you called?” I ask.

Behind his desk, Frank huffs. He's sitting in front of several piles of paper, looking frazzled like he is every Monday morning. A sharp, acrid smell is coming from somewhere. Frank picks one sheet of paper off the top of a pile, glances at it, and puts it on top of another pile. “I left a message. She hasn't called me back yet.”

I cannot believe that's all he's done. He basically hasn't
done anything. Why isn't he treating this as a potential emergency? It's like he's not even taking his job seriously. Or taking
me
seriously. He should be worried about Momo as much as I am.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask.

“Better to stay out of it.” He shuffles another paper between piles. “Like I said, parents prefer to deal with the camp director personally.”

But he's not dealing with the parent. Why is he being so lazy? He's acting like a typical administrative tool, with all of the power and none of the heart.

“When did you leave that message?” I ask.

“I don't remember,” he says, all defensive. “A few days ago.” He looks up from his paper shuffle. “Don't worry. I'll handle it.”

All day I fume about Frank's lack of action. Camp directors should want to help every single kid at their camp. When a counselor reports suspected abuse, the director should be relentless in investigating instead of waiting for a call that may never come. It makes me sick that Frank isn't burning to discover the truth like I am.

When my sexual abuse was reported to the police, nothing was done about it. The police didn't have sufficient evidence to convict the guy who was molesting me. Reporting suspected abuse to authorities without sufficient evidence is a big waste of time. They don't do anything and you deal with a lot of extra stress for nothing.
Date rapists are exonerated all the time. Husbands who beat their wives walk free. The system is a joke. Thinking about every raped woman who never saw justice, every abused wife who was tortured into silence, every molested girl without an advocate, makes me infuriated to the brink of insanity. I would do anything to help them. Anything.

I wish I had enough evidence to file a police report about Momo. Or at least to try to find someone who could help me. All I have is a gut feeling that something is not right. Police can't take action if all you can tell them is that a kid is jumpy and worried that she got her shirt dirty. If I want to file a report with sufficient evidence to the police, I'm the one who has to find that evidence.

I want answers. And it's becoming clear that I'll have to get them myself.

There's no way I could talk to Momo's mom on the phone. I highly doubt her mom would call back a counselor if she's not calling back the director. Even if she did call me back, she could easily lie about the situation. I really don't expect her to admit anything over the phone. The only way to get a real sense of what's going on is to confront Momo's mom face-to-face. That means going to her apartment.

I really want to talk to D about this. He might come up with a better strategy.

After camp I go home to take a shower and change. Then I head over to D's place. The burst of cold air that
hits me when his doorman opens the door is such a relief from the suffocating humidity that I actually feel faint for a minute. The doorman tells me that D isn't home, but I can wait for him in the lobby. I cross the polished marble floor to the nearest seating area. I glide onto a satin upholstered wing chair and rummage through my bag for one of the small tubes of lotion I snuck home from The Hotel. This lotion smells so good I should have collected an entire bag of it. I kept calling housekeeping for more lotion until I had stockpiled ten tubes. Now I can smell lemon-minty-cucumber fresh all summer. Probably all year. I am officially addicted to this lotion along with watermelon juice, which I unfortunately could not sneak back to New York in my bag. Who knew going to South Beach would be stimulating on so many levels?

I watch the front door as I rub lotion on my arms and legs. Then I take out the book I'm reading. Even though it's a Rainbow Rowell novel, I can't concentrate on anything besides watching the front door. You know you're stressing hardcore if you can't even concentrate on Rainbow. And you know you're a stalker when you show up at your boyfriend's place uninvited. But I can't help myself. My nerves are jangling, my mind is spinning, and I need someone to help me figure out what to do.

At first I don't even realize it's D when he finally comes home. I gave up on watching the door an hour ago. Immersed in my book, I catch D coming in out of the
corner of my eye. But I assume it's someone else because he's not alone. Then I look up and realize it is D.

With a girl.

A girl who is hanging on his arm, laughing hysterically at something he just said.

She's one of those annoying size-zero girls who irrationally irritate me. Girls like her can get away with wearing whatever they want. They can wear three-inch heels and still look cute. I tried wearing three-inch heels once. As if I'm not already tall enough. What an embarrassing catastrophe. It was my cousin's wedding. I had just turned sixteen and wanted to look as sophisticated as possible, so I borrowed three-inch heels from my friend. I spent the whole time lurching around, towering over everyone else and hunching down to hear what people were saying. It was not pretty. But this girl with D is pretty. Really pretty. She has long, pin-straight blond hair. Big blue eyes. The kind of girl who would set the fashion trends in high school. The girl who ruled the cool table at lunch. She was the most popular girl who dated the most popular boy. They were expected to have popular babies.

Girls like her can have any boy they want. Including mine.

D looks over and sees me in the wing chair. He reclaims his arm from the girl's grasp.

“Hey,” he says, coming over. “What are you doing here?”

“It's good to see you, too,” I mutter.

“Of course it's good to see you. I'm just surprised.”

I don't mean to glare at the girl. But I'm pretty sure I'm glaring anyway. She was touching my boyfriend. More than touching. She was
clinging
to him.

“Rosanna, this is Shayla.” D turns to the girl. “Shayla, Rosanna.”

“Hi!” Shayla bubbles.

I do not bubble back.

They look at me expectantly. What, am I supposed to make small talk? Who is she? And why was she hanging on to D's arm, laughing like that?

“Um.” Shayla gives D a heavy look. A look like she knows I'm bothered. “I'm taking off. See you tomorrow?”

D nods.

Shayla gives us a tinkly wave and saunters out, perfectly poised. Could her dress be any shorter?

“So what's up?” D says. Acting like he doesn't owe me an explanation. Acting like nothing's wrong.

“Who was that?”

“Shayla? She's my friend.”

She didn't look like a friend.

The doorman is throwing us glances like he's keeping tabs on a potentially explosive situation. I take D over to the couch farthest from the door so the doorman can't spy on us. We don't sit down.

“How do you know her?” I ask.

“Shayla is a good friend of mine. From high school.”

“You've never mentioned her before.”

D smiles, shaking his head like he thinks I'm joking. “Have you told me about all of your friends from high school?”

“No, but my high school friends aren't here.” Hanging all over me. Flaunting their size-zero perfection.

“That's because you're from Chicago. I grew up on the Upper West Side, remember? Lots of my high school friends still live here. Or their families are here and I see them when they come home on breaks.”

“Does she know I'm your girlfriend?”

“Not yet.”

“Not yet? If she's such a good friend, why didn't you tell her?”

“It didn't come up. We were mostly talking about her.”

“Then why didn't you say I'm your girlfriend when you introduced me?”

D sighs. “I'm sorry I didn't tell you who she was. I'm sorry I didn't introduce you as my girlfriend. I'll tell her all about you when I see her tomorrow. Okay?”

“Why are you seeing her tomorrow?” I hate how I sound. I wish I weren't so paranoid. But that's the thing with trust issues. They take control of every part of your life and make you say nasty things. Especially to the one person you're supposed to trust the most.

“She's been going through a hard time,” D says. “Family
drama. That's why she got back in touch with me. She needed a good friend she could trust.”

“Wait. You haven't been in touch with her since high school?”

“Not until recently.”

“Why would she contact you after three years?”

“Her parents are high-profile. No one can know what's happening. She can't talk to anyone else about it.”

There has to be someone else she can talk to. There has to be more to this story. I hate that she's making me feel this way.

No. That I'm letting myself feel this way. I need to get a grip.

“Can we go up to my place now?” D says. “Or did you want to chill in the lobby all night?”

“What's the family drama?” I ask. Maybe if I felt bad for her, I wouldn't be as jealous.

“I can't tell you.”

“Why not?”

“I promised Shayla I wouldn't tell anybody.”

“Not even me?”

“How would you feel if I promised to keep a secret you told me and then I went and told someone else?”

“You don't trust me?”

“It's not a matter of trust. I gave her my word. I can't break my promise.”

Okay, that's . . . wow. That's like saying Shayla and I
are on the same level to him. That we are both equally important.

D is one of the most important people in my life. I was hoping he felt the same way.

My eyes fill with tears. I blink them back.

“Hey.” D hugs me. He holds me close, rubbing my back. “You have nothing to worry about. Shayla and I are just friends. That's all.”

It doesn't feel like that's all. It feels like she was there first and she wanted me to know it. Like there's something more between them. She managed to make me feel totally insecure in less than a minute. And now I have to accept that my boyfriend is hanging out with her.

Feeling powerless really bothers me. I get that this is one of those things I can't control. When I feel this way, like there's something out of my control I want to change so desperately but can't, it makes me want to take control of the things I
can
change even more.

Like what I suspect is happening to Momo.

I will help her. No matter what it takes.