Kissing Midnight (20 page)

But I sober just a little when I notice Antoinette watching us from the kitchen. Silhouetted in the doorway, she looks more like a picture from a magazine than a real person, too perfect for the real world.

Sipping his wine in the candlelight, Dev looks like he could have been clipped from the same pages.

“Where do you know Antoinette from?” I ask, scooping up a last bite of crème brulee.

“Summer music conservatory, mostly. We met when we were kids, but our families go way back.”

Great. She’s not only beautiful, she’s talented, too.

Dev laughs. “What’s that disgruntled expression for?”

“You never told me you studied music,” I say, although listening to him sing with the radio in the car should have made me guess as much. I remember joking with Delia about how we would swoon if Dev were a musician.

He shrugs. “I play a bit. Would you like to hear?”

I nod enthusiastically. “
Oui oui, si vous plait!”

He laughs. “Well, in that case…” He stands and holds out his hand. I take it, and he pulls me up into a swift kiss before whisking me over to the baby grand in the corner. It’s a beautiful instrument, the black surface so polished I can see our ghostly images reflected on the wood. I glance around nervously. “Will they mind if you play it?”

Dev sits and strikes a dramatic chord. “They better not.” He grins at me. “I’m sure Antoinette expects me to. She knows I have trouble keeping my hands off beautiful things.” He runs his fingers over the keys, and I feel it as if he’s running them up my spine. A little crescendo of excitement slides through me as he whips through a few sets of scales and then begins to riff, his fingers tripping easily from ragtime to bits of Beatles songs to snatches of classical, unable to settle on any one thing, but making it all sound good.

I watch him, dumbfounded. “Why didn’t you tell me you were so good?”

“Please!” Antoinette’s voice comes from the kitchen doorway. “Don’t encourage him! He is only showing off to impress you!”

“What?” Dev shouts, banging the next few chords loudly. “We can’t hear you!”

Antoinette rolls her eyes dramatically and retreats back into the kitchen as Dev reaches up and takes my hand, pulling me down to sit beside him. For a long moment, I watch his confident fingers flow over the keys, letting myself feel the vibrations of the music deep in my chest. Dev seems content, like a little kid playing, but I’m eager to hear a real song. “Play something all the way through.”

“Hmmm…” his fingers slow as he vamps thoughtfully. “What should I play?”

“I don’t know. What comes to mind?”

“Well…” His hands trip up and down the keys. “I told you I had a question to ask you, right?”

My heart skips a beat, like a missed note in a scale. “Yes.”

“I could sing it for you.” He glances up to gauge my interest.

I’m watching him curiously. “It’s a question you can sing?”

In answer, he shifts into an old time song, slow and sweet:

“
Maybe it’s much too early in the game

Ah, but I thought I’d ask you just the same

What are you doing New Year’s, New Year’s Eve?”

I smile at him as I recognize the song. His voice is clear and warm.

“Wonder whose arms will hold you good and tight

When it’s exactly twelve o’clock that night

Welcoming in the New Year’s, New Year’s Eve
”

I listen, and by the time he hits the last refrain I know I’m glowing—with the champagne, with the music, with the thrill of having someone sing to me and me alone. Dev scales back the last two lines, looking me right in the eye and almost speaking them, quietly, to me.
“What are you doing New Year’s, New Years Eve?”

He lets the last few notes trail off, his expression suddenly shy. “So,” he says, “what do you say, Saintly? Will you ring in the New Year with me?”

“Dev.” I take his hand. “That was beautiful. Truly. But you already know what I’m doing New Year’s Eve! I told Delia I’d work at the ball.”

“Saint,” he says, “this is our big chance to start over, and I want it to be special. I told Delia I don’t want you serving drinks or taking coats, I want you out dancing with me, so I bought us tickets. Will you go with me?”

“You bought tickets?” I stare at him, shocked. “But they cost so much.”

“What does it matter? You want to go, don’t you?”

I do, don’t I? Why wouldn’t I? It’s like a dream, to go to a beautiful ball with Dev at my side. Like a fairy tale come to life. So why is my stomach suddenly in knots? Why are my instincts recoiling at the thought?

It’s your anxiety
, I tell myself.
Ignore it.
After all, I can’t exactly trust myself. I’m insane.

Dev looks me in the eye, and there’s a longing there, a desperation I haven’t seen in him before. “Saintly,” he says, “I want to know—I
need
to know—I can spend every minute of New Year’s with you.” Gone is the carefree Dev playing around on the piano. His jaw I set, and there’s an intensity behind his eyes that scares me.

“This really matters to you,” I say.

“Of course.” He pulls back, hurt. “Doesn’t it matter to you?”

“Sure,” I say quickly, “I mean, I’d love to go to the dance with you, but…” I’m not sure what else to say. I don’t want to disappoint Delia? I feel like I’ve been neglecting her lately, and this is so important to her.

But I know it’s not just Deals. I’m worried about the ghosts. I’m afraid something will happen there, in public, in front of everyone.

But maybe there in public is the safest place to be. With happy, celebrating people. With Dev. What could be safer than being with Dev?

Dev’s voice is low. “You want to know why this matters so much? Because I want you to be a princess, not some Cinderella working behind the scenes. And because we both deserve this, Saint! A new year, one that starts out right.” He reaches up and strokes my hair. “You feel that, right? That we need this?”

“Sure,” I say, “Of course.” After all, who needs a fresh start more than I do? Maybe this is exactly what I need to start the new year off differently.

Dev’s eyes flick down to my lips and then up again, like he’s thinking about kissing me. “I swear, if I can’t kiss you at midnight, I
swear
I’ll die.”

The burning hunger in his eyes makes my breath catch. “Yes,” I say faintly, “I’ll go with you.”

“Yes!” He grabs me and kisses me deeply. I can taste the sweet champagne on his lips. When he pulls back, he’s smiling, like the sun breaking through the storm. He laughs, relieved. “I thought for a minute you were going to tell me no!”

I laugh, too. It’s a ridiculous idea. Who would say no to Dev? And it’s almost refreshing, seeing how relieved he looks, as if there really is some insecurity under that unshakable Deveraux charm.

But now that I’ve said yes, his confidence is back full-force. He looks almost cocky as he gets to his feet. “Now,” he says, “to show you the real reason I brought you here.”

Saintly

My heart fumbles about three beats. Does he mean he wants to go upstairs to bed? The thought thrills and terrifies me at the same time.

I try to sound more confident than I feel. “You mean it wasn’t to get me tipsy and sing me songs?”

But he must have seen me blanch because his smile is kind and reassuring. “I mean I want to show you something out back. Get your coat.”

Out back? I grab my coat from my chair and I follow Dev through the empty tables and past the door to the kitchen, to the far back of the restaurant, where a set of sliding glass doors leads to a flagstone patio dotted with little wrought iron tables, like a street-side café. “Lovely,” I say. “But isn’t it a little cold for drinks al fresco?”

Dev laughs. “This way.” He leads me down a snowy little path, into the woods behind the restaurant. The night is beautiful but bitter cold. The moon is nearly full, and its silver light glitters on the icy branches of the trees. I can hear water running somewhere up ahead, and it makes me feel colder still. I pull my hands up unto the sleeves of my jacket and Dev puts his arm around my shoulders, rubbing some warmth into me. “Not much longer now,” he says, and in a minute we emerge into the moonlight again, where a pretty black iron footbridge crosses a river. The water isn’t wide, but it must be deep because, although the edges have frozen like a long white hem of lace, the water in the middle runs black and swift, pushing little chunks of ice along with it. In the moonlight, they look like diamonds.

The bridge glitters, too—shards of moonlight glinting off something hanging from the railings.

“It’s beautiful,” I breathe. “Are those icicles on the bridge?”

“Come and see.” Dev takes my hand, and together we walk onto the bridge.

Up close I can see what sparkles: The ornate iron latticework of the railings is covered with padlocks, from heavy silver ones to tiny gold and bronze, the sort you use to lock luggage or a little girl’s diary. Some of them are worn and tarnished as if they’ve been out here in the weather for years, while some shine like they’re brand new.

I take one in my hand. It’s locked tight to the bridge, but I can turn it over part way. There are two sets of initials scratched into the other side. “What are they?”

“Signs of love. Couples carve their initials on the locks and lock them here, then they throw the key into the river. It’s a tradition that started on the Pont des Arts in Paris, this little pedestrian bridge that crosses the river Seine near the Louvre. Antoinette decided to start her own version of the tradition here, which is why I brought this.” He takes a small bronze lock out of the pocket of his coat and presents it to me.

I turn it over in my hand. It’s shaped like a heart and there are two sets of letters engraved on the back: DR + MS. Deveraux Renard and Mariana Santos. “It’s beautiful.”

“We’ll only hang it if you want to.” Dev looks solemn. “I take this sort of thing seriously, Saint. I only want to do it if you do.”

I take this sort of thing seriously, too. Dead seriously. And I want to do it, I really do. But I know this moment isn’t just about locks and keys. It’s about whether we’re ready to take our relationship to the next level, whether I’m ready to sleep with Dev. And, even more than that, whether I love him.

I look out over the locks that decorate the bridge. So many lives bound together! He must be wrong, I think, about Antoinette having started the tradition, because she can’t be much older than we are and some of these locks are old, scratched and worn smooth until only the ghosts of letters remain, like scars.

“Saint?” Dev sees my hesitation. I can see the disappointment in his eyes. “Listen, if it’s too soon…I know we’ve only known each other a for a week…Or if this is too hokey…”

“No! Not too hokey! I love hokey! It’s just…” I toy nervously with the lock in my hand. “It’s just… remember our conversation about dark secrets?”

His face closes for a moment. Not a good sign.

I take a deep breath. “Well, there are still things I didn’t say.”

He’s listening. “You can tell me, Saintly. Whatever it is, you can say it.”

I want to. I really want to. But I know this could be it. I focus on the black water rushing beneath us. I imagine it taking me far from my past, washing me clean with its icy sting. I imagine the words flowing out of me like a dark river.

In reality, my words come out as a trickle, so quiet Dev has to step closer to hear me above the rushing water. “After my brother died, I had to go into a hospital.”

Dev stands frozen, as still as the ice that lines the river below us. “What? Like a..?” He trails off, unsure what word to use.

“Like a psychiatric hospital,” I say. “For crazy people.”

He is still frozen. I can’t bring myself to look at him long enough to gauge his expression. “Because of the stress,” he supplies cautiously.

I could leave it at that. I could say I had to be hospitalized for stress, and it might still sound understandable, within the realm of normal. We could drop it.

But I’ve come this far. “It wasn’t just stress,” I say quietly. “I saw things.”

I steal a glance at Dev, and what I see makes my heart sink. He looks nervous. He’s been so confident and understanding up until now, but now he’s starting to get scared.

And I don’t blame him. I feel scared, too. Scared of losing whatever it is we have between us, and scared of other things, too. I’m suddenly aware that we are in the middle of a dark wood. The cold wind slices through the trees, hissing as it goes. We are far from campus, but I was kidding myself to think that we have left the ghosts behind. There are ghosts everywhere. No one knows that better than I do.

“What did you see?” Dev whispers.

I turn away, letting my hair fall down between us like a mask. “I saw Enrique.” It’s not a lie. He really is the first one I saw. He just isn’t the last.

“You said you imagined him everywhere,” Dev says evenly. “That’s normal, Saintly. That’s wishful thinking.”

I almost laugh (but I don’t, because that would seem really crazy, wouldn’t it?) I want to laugh because
wishful
thinking doesn’t sound right. No one would
wish
to see their brother the way I did. I mean, it’s not like I saw him on the soccer field in the sun, running with his friends. For a minute, an image of Enrique as I really saw him comes to my mind—standing by his locker at school, dressed as he was when we found him, his clothes dripping wet. I remember how the bath water pooled around his sneakers and the way his wet black hair hung in front of his blank, staring eyes. I saw water for days after that—dark water stains spreading on the ceiling of our math classroom, the steady drip of water in the library. I saw water rushing out when I opened my locker, water running in tiny rivers down the stairs, like veins. Cold water, tinged pink with blood. Water no one else could see.

Don’t remember him like that
, I tell myself firmly and try to supply one of a million other memories, like pasting a happy snapshot over a bleeding wound.