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"I know you will. But I also know you're merciful."
She makes that kinda gesture.
"You didn't throw my phone out the window."
"I would have."
"Really?"
"Maybe."
"I will stay here."
She looks down at me. "Okay." For a long time, she just stares at me.
I stare back at her.
The sounds from the party mix with the street beyond.
Pop music, laughter, conversation, engines, brakes, breeze.
My knees burn.
Then ache.
Concrete is fucking hard. These pants are thin. Ruined, now, probably.
But I don't care.
I need to talk to her. To explain. To fix this.
She makes me wait through two songs, then she nods okay, offers her hand, helps me up. "I don't want to go to your house."
Because my dad is there? Because it's where I sleep? Because we can't have loud sex against the wall with my father home? "How about we drive someplace nice?"
"Where?"
"The beach. Up in Malibu. It's a clear night. We can see the stars."
"That's a long way to go for an explanation."
"I know."
She stares at me for a moment, considering her options, then she nods okay and follows me to the car.
Patrick lives in Culver City. Just south of the ten and east of the 405. It's a long way from Malibu.
She knows that.
She's willing to give me that time.
That means something.
I put on her favorite album and find the nearest on ramp.
She's quiet as I take the ten to the 405 to the one.
The freeway empties as we pass the lights and sounds of the Santa Monica pier. Nothing but open road, dark sky, miles of ocean.
She loves the beach, loves the water, loves swimming.
The way I love drinking.
The way I loved drinking.
I don't know anymore. After six weeks of sobriety, the world is a different place.
Harder, colder, darker.
But somehow brighter and fuller too.
Luna sets her purse in her lap. She plays with the edges.
She's antsy too.
Because she doesn't want to be here with me?
Or because she does?
I try to think of something to say. Some way to start. But the words jumble in my throat.
There's too much.
Way too fucking much.
Eventually, I come to a quiet stretch of beach. Turn left. Pull into the empty parking lot.
Lorde's vocals fill the space as I cut the engine.
Luna turns the mirror toward her. Pulls her lipstick from her purse. Turns to me with a half-smile, half what the fuck is wrong with you. "Not a word."
I mime zipping my lips.
She just barely laughs. Shakes her head. That same you're deranged and I like it laugh of hers.
She looks to the mirror as she adds another coat of lipstick.
It's just us, in this car, on this empty beach.
Why the makeup?
Is she teasing me on purpose? Putting on a shield?
Fucking with me?
It's too hard, understanding another person.
Impossible.
And the only thing I want.
I want to know every part of her.
She drops the lipstick in her purse. Closes the latch. Places it in her lap.
"You want to stay in here?" It's a tiny space. There isn't enough room for how much I want her. "Or the sand?"
"It's freezing."
I slide my leather jacket off my shoulders. Offer it to her.
Her eyes move to the water. The sky. "Here is okay."
I nod.
She turns a little toward me. "It's fucked up, you know. You promised you'd be there and then you ditched me."
"I'm sorry."
"But you don't even stick with that. You still fix me coffee every morning and leave me dinner every night. You still walk out of the shower in a towel that's barely cinched around your hips. You still sit there, in your room, playing your fucking Nirvana, filling the entire house with your mood."
"I don't mean to—"
"Pick a side, Oliver. Either you're my friend or you aren't."
"It's complicated."
She shakes her head. "It's not complicated."
"It is. You know that."
She turns to me. "I know you're Daisy's brother. I know you kissed me. I know you regret it—"
"I don't." I'll never regret kissing her.
"Then why—"
"I'm an alcoholic."
"What?" Her eyes go wide.
"It's the first time I've said it out loud. Like this." I swallow hard. "Even in my head, I protest. 'I'm not an alcoholic. I don't have a problem. I just like to party. So what if I drink too much sometimes? So what if it's the only thing that kills the voice in my head that tells me I'm a fuckup? Why is bourbon wrong when anti-depressants are right'?"
"Are you on medication?"
I shake my head.
"Should you be?"
"How the fuck should I know?"
She shrinks back.
"Sorry." I run a hand through my hair. "I… this isn't your shit, Luna. I'm not trying to put it on you."
"Okay."
"I shouldn't snap. It's just…"
"A lot?"
"Yeah."
Her grey eyes fill with understanding. "You're an alcoholic?"
"Is it that surprising?"
"No."
"Hey."
A laugh spills from her lips. "Ollie, we bought enough booze for a dozen people in Mexico."
"Yeah."
"And that was only half of what you drank."
"You never said anything."
"Would it have done any good?" she asks.
