Lost in Love (19 page)

I can't wait to tell D about going to Momo's apartment. He thinks I am someone who takes action, who isn't afraid to make a difference in the world as much as I want to in my heart. D will let me see the experience of talking to Momo's mom through his eyes. He will snap me out of my foul mood. And he will know what I should do next.

Except D doesn't pick up when I call.

I don't leave a message.

We didn't make plans to see each other again when I left his place on Sunday. D said he would call me. That was two days ago. I haven't heard from him since. And now he's not picking up.

My gut is clamoring for attention. It's telling me something is off with us, too. D and I should be getting closer. This weird radio silence where I don't even know if it's okay to call him should not be happening.

I know my gut is not wrong. Not about D. And not about Momo.

WHEN I UNDERSTOOD THE RELEVANCE
of that big yellow umbrella on
How I Met Your Mother
, I had to get a big yellow umbrella just like it. I always take my
How I Met Your Mother
umbrella out with me when it's supposed to storm. Searching for an umbrella exactly like the one on the show wasn't easy. But I finally found one. My philosophy was that if I carried the same umbrella around in the same city where the show took place, the same soul mate magic that found Ted Mosby would find me.

I grabbed that umbrella on the way out the door tonight.

That guy Danny who plays guitar at Strawberry Fields said he's there on Wednesday nights. The way he said it, it was like he wanted me to come by. Going to see Danny play was not something I had planned. But I felt like going out after I got home from my internship, and Rosanna and
Darcy were both out and it happened to be a Wednesday. Swinging by to see Danny does not count as a disruption of my boy break. It's just something fun to do on a summer night.

Strawberry Fields is a part of Central Park that's near Hernshead, the hilly section where my annual Remembrance Walk meets. I walk through Strawberry Fields on my way to Hernshead for that event every year, since it's a day of remembrance. Strawberry Fields was created as a memorial to John Lennon. It's across from the Dakota, where John lived before he got shot. Beatles fans, musicians, and tourists flock to Strawberry Fields as a way to be close to him. People sit around the Imagine mosaic on the ground or play Beatles songs on their guitars like Danny. So I'm not going to Strawberry Fields specifically to see Danny. I'm going for the whole experience.

Music drifts over to me as I cross Central Park West toward the park. I twist around to look up at the Dakota. John Lennon would probably still be living there today if he hadn't been shot right outside his front door. He was coming home on December 8, 1980. He got out of a limo by the entrance of the Dakota. He was walking toward the front door when he was shot by a lunatic who was waiting for him to come home. He was rushed to the hospital, but was dead on arrival. John Lennon was murdered by a random act of anger that could not be prevented by his thousands of acts of kindness.

This is not the world I want to live in. People shooting people on the street. People killing people on the subway. Including people who aren't even born yet. The limitations of positive energy are infuriating. Lunatics are everywhere. Enraged Guy at the deli, the dimwits who pushed my mom on the subway, the deranged guy who shot John Lennon . . . Nothing could stop them from unleashing their rage. I want to believe that positive energy makes people more aware of how their negative choices impact the world. I know it does. But damn . . . John Lennon died because some lowlife shot him right outside his home. What's the point of anything when tragedy can happen anywhere, anytime, to anyone?

Danny is perched on top of a backrest of one of the benches that circle the Imagine mosaic. He's jamming on his guitar with three other guys playing “Things We Said Today.” The other guys are old, like in their thirties and forties. One of them is sitting on the ground playing an acoustic guitar that looks so beat up it might crumble to bits any second. The other two guys are sitting on the bench Danny is perched on. One of them is playing a flute. The other is singing.

The bench on the opposite side of the mosaic is empty. I sit down and watch Danny play. He has this intensity you don't usually see in guys. You can tell he loves being here. The way he closes his eyes while he plays his guitar, slowly shaking his head. How he watches the mosaic reflectively.
He even turns to look up at the Dakota at one point. I feel this sense of connection to him even though I don't really know him. The vibe he gives off as he strums his guitar to “The Night Before” is familiar. I recognize emotional turmoil. Danny is another broken soul who comes here trying to heal, just like so many others do. Just like I do.

Eventually Danny sees me. At first I can't tell if he recognizes me. He gazes over the mosaic and catches my eye. His gaze is dreamy at first, then sharpens into focus. He smiles and kind of bows his head at me. I smile back.

The jam session ends after a few more songs. Tourists take pictures around the Imagine mosaic. The musicians stick around to talk to people. Danny packs up his guitar and crosses over to me.

“Hey,” he says. “Thanks for coming.”

“You were awesome.”

Danny sits down next to me. He leans back on the bench, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Trying to be awesome, anyway.”

“No, you're officially awesome.”

“Possibly remotely awesome.”

“How did you meet those other guys?”

“They've been coming here for years. They were down with letting me join in when I started playing guitar about a year ago. I'm hoping they'll still let me jam with them after my grown-up job starts. Don't want them thinking I sold out.”

“You're like the opposite of selling out.”

“Aw.” Danny nudges his shoulder against mine. “Go on.”

“You're a genuine person. I hardly know you and I can tell you're the real deal.”

“How much am I paying you for the compliments again?”

I laugh. Danny is helping me remember how mellow summer nights like this can get heavy and introspective, but can also make me so happy. Instead of worrying about one of the many Austin mines buried around this city, ready to explode, I finally feel like I'm reclaiming my city. Like I'm remembering who I really am. Reconnecting with the heart of me.

Tree leaves rustle. The comforting smell of warm pretzels from the cart outside Strawberry Fields wafts over. With the cool summer breeze, I remember the essence of those epic feelings I had before I met Austin. I knew my soul mate was here somewhere. I knew we would meet someday soon. Despite the devastation with Austin, deep down I can never give up hope of finding the person I'm meant to be with. I can't let negative experiences prevent me from living the life I want to live.

“So what's your story, Sadie?” Danny asks. “You into the Beatles?”

“Who isn't?”

“You'd be surprised. This world is filled with an abundance of ignorance.”

“Tell me about it. I was thinking about John Lennon before. How he was killed right outside his building.”

“Unreal, right?”

“I hate that something so tragic can happen anytime. It shouldn't be allowed.”

“By who?”

“By anyone. The world just shouldn't work like that. We should be better than this.” Rosanna is always saying how people could be better versions of themselves by caring more about the world around them. And I know how powerful kindness can be. Why don't people care more about how they're affecting others?

“That was John's message,” Danny said. “‘Give peace a chance.'”

A wave of sorrow hits me. Danny feels it, too. I don't have to tell him about my personal grief for him to get me. We can just sit here like this, on a contemplative summer night, sharing the loss.

One second we are staring in silence at the Imagine mosaic.

The next we are nearly drenched in a sudden downpour.

Girls shriek. Guys yell. Everyone makes a run for it.

Danny springs up from the bench, grabbing his guitar
case. “Come on!” he yells. He wants to make a run for it, too. But I pop open my big yellow umbrella and shelter him. It's a big enough umbrella for both of us.

We walk calmly out of Strawberry Fields as people race past us. Car tires make slick fizzing sounds on the wet street as they roll by. I can't wait until after the rain. I love it when the air is fresh and everything shines in the city lights. That's when New York feels the most glamorous to me. The classic city of Tiffany's and FAO Schwarz, high tea at the Plaza and drinks at the Rainbow Room, the Empire State Building and Rockefeller Center. The contemporary city of Soho galleries, green architecture, and infinite possibility around every corner. My beloved New York City, then and now.

“Which way are you going?” I ask as we cross Central Park West.

“One train.”

“Same here.”

“
Yes
. I don't care if I get soaked, but my baby is another story.” Danny pats his guitar case.

“Don't worry. I would walk you wherever you had to go. I wouldn't let either of you get soaked.”

Danny gets a twinkle in his eye. I get a twinge of wanting to break my boy break. But tonight isn't about Danny. Danny is a symbol. He's a sign from the Universe, telling me that more soul mates are here. The key is to never give up. If you never stop believing the love of your life is out
there, if you know in your heart that true love is your destiny, you will find the love you want.

People aren't perfect. Neither is love. Soul mates aren't always people you can, or even should, be with. But now that I know how it feels to be with a soul mate, I refuse to settle for anything less.

WHY HELLO, DOLCE FAUX-ALLIGATOR STRUCTURED
tote winking at me in the boutique window. I think I'll come on in and snatch you up.

I stride into the boutique, making a beeline for the Dolce totes display. This was not a chance occurrence. The instant I flipped through the pages of
Vogue
and saw this exquisite bag, I knew I must possess it. The way the bag is flirting is further proof that it was made for me. Darcy Stewart knows what she likes and she knows how to get it.

The cashier takes my credit card. And the world as I know it starts to crumble.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “Your card has been declined.”

“What?”

“Yeah, it's . . .” He tries running it again. “The same alert keeps coming up.”

This is exactly what happened to Logan's cards at the Standard. Did my card get switched with one of his? I was crushing so hard on this tote I didn't even look at my card when I took it out of my wallet.

“Can I see it?” I put my hand out for him to give me the card back. But he doesn't hand it over. He holds the card up in front of me so I can see it. My name, my card. “Oh. That's my card.”

“I'm sorry about this.” The cashier presses his lips together, giving me a sympathetic look. “The bank is saying I have to confiscate your card.”

My heart hammers. This is the only credit card I have. I use it every day.

“There must be a mistake,” I say. “It was working fine yesterday.”

He shakes his head, looking at the screen again. The screen that's telling him to confiscate my credit card like I'm some kind of criminal.

“Is there someone I can call?” I try. “This is the only credit card I have. It's basically what I use for everything.”

“The only thing you can do is call the credit card company and have them send you a new one. If there really was a mistake, they should be able to get a new card out to you tomorrow.”

How weird is this? First Logan's cards are all denied. And now mine? What the hell?

“Would it be okay to take my card back? Just until I find
out what's going on?”

He throws me another pity look. “I'm supposed to cut it up.”

Slow your roll, Cashier Boy. No one's destroying my credit card.

“Wait, let me just . . .” I take my phone out and call Daddy. It goes to voice mail. “My dad's not answering. He would know if there was a problem.”

“There
is
a problem. I'm sorry, but—”

“It's okay. I know you're just doing your job. I'll call him later and have a new card sent out. This one probably died from overuse.”

The cashier smiles, relieved I'm not diving over the counter and tackling him for the card. “That has been known to happen.” He takes a thick pair of scissors out of a drawer. I watch him cut my credit card in half. Then in quarters. And then he throws the pieces away.

I try calling Daddy again as I leave the shop. My mom isn't going to know anything about this. Still no answer. He's probably in a meeting. I'll keep trying him until he picks up. I start walking home, telling myself to keep calm and rock on. There's always the ATM if I'm desperate for cash.

When my phone rings a few minutes later, I'm expecting it to be Daddy. It's Logan. My first instinct is to tell him about my card being confiscated. But then I remember that none of the cards he tried at the Standard were confiscated.
They were denied, but he got them all back. The thing with my card was probably a glitch on Daddy's end. Maybe the card reached its limit or something. Unless . . . Daddy didn't cut me off, did he? The deal was that I get good grades and he covers the credit card bills. My art history grade is questionable, but grades aren't out yet. What if he saw the Standard charge, flipped out, and canceled my card? How am I going to explain why I stayed at a swanky hotel?

“Hey, Gorgeous,” Logan drawls when I pick up.

A tight
hi
is all I give him back. I'm super tense about the credit card annihilation. And I'm still pissed that he forgot my birthday. Three days later and he still hasn't mentioned it. There's been no “I am so sorry I forgot your birthday! I'm such an idiot. But you already knew that,” or “Will you ever forgive me for forgetting your birthday? Let me spend every single day making it up to you,” or “I'm taking you out for the birthday dinner that should have happened on your birthday. Prepare to be spoiled like you've never been spoiled before.” Logan has said none of those things. He hasn't even cared that I've been blowing him off. For a boy who supposedly came here to win me back, his attempts aren't exactly dazzling.

“What are you up to tonight?” Logan drawls some more.

“I don't know yet. Maybe going out and getting wasted.”

“Want to get wasted with me?”

It's Friday night. I tackled three major exams this week. There's a massive paper due on Monday that I do not even want to think about. Daddy's threat to cut me off if my grades suck looms over the rest of the summer like a dark storm cloud. And that was before the possibility that he went ballistic over the Standard charge. Oh yeah, and Logan's hot for me one minute, cold the next. All I want to do tonight is go out, find where the party's at, and forget about everything else.

A ridiculously gorgeous guy coming my way locks eyes with me. He doesn't drop the eye lock as we pass each other. I could have talked to him if I wanted. I could have hooked up with him. The control I potentially have over him brings a whoosh of endorphins, making me feel insanely powerful. Boys are like the only thing I consistently have control over.

“You still there?” Logan asks.

“Tonight's not going to work,” I tell him.

“How about—”

“I gotta go.” I hang up before I let Logan talk me into anything. He's not the one I want to see.

Before I realize what's happening, I'm at the park. Jude's park. Somehow I walked here without planning to. But I don't go up to Jude. I keep my distance, hiding behind a tree and convincing myself that I am exhibiting completely normal behavior. Spying on the boy I like from afar
does not make me a creeper. I'm simply being respectful of Jude's need for space.

Jude is performing a trick with a glittery gold Hula-Hoop. He holds the Hula-Hoop up and throws a gold foam ball through it. The ball doesn't come out the other side. It vanishes into thin air. He repeats the trick a few times, smiling like he's having the best time ever. I'm not close enough to hear what people are saying, but I know they are in awe of Jude. We all are.

Watching Jude in action, I can't help wondering what my summer would have been like if we were together. What if Logan never showed up? What if Jude and I had the whole summer to be in lust? Or maybe even to fall in love? I wasn't expecting to find love when this summer started. But watching Jude now and remembering how amazing it felt to be with him, the possibility of loving him feels right.

Watching from a distance is too painful. It's time to go home.

When I open the front door of my building, the momentary high I got from watching Jude vanishes into thin air like that gold ball. Actually, not thin air. More like heavy, humid, oppressively hot air. The dark storm cloud is back. It follows me up the three flights of stairs to the apartment. The only thing I can think about is getting in a cool shower with lots of soapsuds.

When I open the door, I'm engulfed by even more hot air. The apartment is stifling. The air in here feels like it's been baking all day and then got hotter when the heat was accidentally turned on. I didn't even know an apartment could get this hot.

Rosanna comes out of her room. I can't believe she's home.

“Why didn't you turn on the air conditioner?” I say. “It's broiling in here.” I go over to the living room air conditioner and snap it on.

“Do you know how much our electricity bill is?”

“Of course I know. We each pay one-third of it.”

“More like your daddy pays one-third,” she mumbles.

I whip around. “Excuse me?”

“We each pay one-third. Meaning I pay one-third. So I have a say in whether I want the air conditioner on.”

“Well, I'm getting ready to go out and I'm not leaving here looking like a hot mess. The air conditioner stays on.”

“Fine. Then you should pay more than one-third of the electricity bill this month.”

“Fine, I will.”

Rosanna stares at me. It's a hard stare I've never seen on her before.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“No. No, I'm not okay. Not at all.”

She looks like she's about to have a breakdown. Or maybe she already has. I could be walking into some sort
of freaky aftermath. How much do I really know about this girl? Only what she's told me and what I can deduce from her behavior. I'm beginning to think she has mood swings on the reg. Could she be bipolar? There aren't any prescription meds in our medicine cabinet, but she could be hiding them in her room. She could be covering up a whole other side of her she doesn't want me or Sadie to know.

I follow Rosanna into her room. The contents of her closet are strewn everywhere: all over the floor, on her bed, hanging from the door. Her closet door is flung open. All that's left hanging are the hangers.

“What's going on?” I say.

Rosanna scoops up a bunch of clothes from her bed. They are all clothes I gave her.

“Take these back,” she says.

“They're yours,” I say slowly, surveying her room. “I want you to have them.”

“I didn't earn them. I didn't buy them. They don't belong to me.”

“They were a gift.”

“It doesn't matter how hard I work, does it?” Rosanna stands there holding the pile of clothes, that hard stare freaking me out all over again. “I must have been delusional to think I could reinvent myself.”

“Look, I don't know what's going on—”

“You'd never understand. You people think you can
buy anything. But some things aren't for sale.”

Seriously with this girl? I tried to be patient. I tried to be understanding. When she ripped me a new one that night she made me clean the living room, I restrained myself from blowing up at her. But she can't keep attacking me and expect me to just take it. Whatever's wrong with Rosanna, I've had enough. She needs to know that I will not be pushed around. Especially after executing a major fashion hack with her new wardrobe, thank you very much.

“What is your problem?” I ask.

“My problem. Is spoiled rich kids who don't know how lucky they are. You have everything you want and you don't even appreciate it.”

I sweep my hands toward the heap of clothes she's holding. “Did I not buy you all of those clothes?”

Rosanna throws the clothes she's holding at me. Some flop against my stomach. The rest fall to the floor. “Take them! Take them all back! I told you I didn't want them! I asked you to return them and you wouldn't!”

“I was trying to help you!”

“I don't need your charity!”

“And I don't need you blasting the same song on repeat a thousand times or skulking around in your ratty robe like some crazy bag lady, but here we are!”

We stand there glaring at each other. Clothes scattered around me. The suffocating heat making my head throb.

“At least I don't snore!” Rosanna jabs.

Oh no she
didn't
. “If you want to be ungrateful, that's your problem. But I'm not taking these clothes back.” I stomp toward the door, whipping back around to have the final word. “Any time you want to apologize, you know where I live.”

Rosanna doesn't come to my room to say she's sorry while I'm getting ready. I look in her room on my way out. She's bent over her bed, picking up the last of the wardrobe explosion. The clothes I gave her are packed away neatly in a big, clear bin.

She snaps the lid shut.