In Real Life (13 page)

Oooh, an opportunity to pump him for information about Frankie. I'm going for it.

“So, her blog is that big a deal?”

“Oh yeah. Did she tell you about it? She's pretty famous in Vegas. She writes about things and then they blow up. That's how our band got into the Battle of the Bands thing that got us this gig with Moxie Patrol at House of Blues. She saw us play at a party a few months ago and loved the band. She wrote a review on the blog and—
bam!
—we get an invite to this competition and our stuff is selling on iTunes and Moxie Patrol is talking about taking us along on tour this summer.”

“All because of Frankie's review? Wow.” Lo's fake voice, about an octave higher than her normal one, is in full force, the one she uses when talking to guys she's into. I call it her
look at me
voice. I'm glad she can't see me rolling my eyes.

“So is that when she hooked up with Nick? At that party?” His mention of a party a few months ago sends chills all over my body, and now I'm rubbing my arms even though it's warm in this cab. “Was this Jeff's party?”

The party he called me from? The party where he drunk-dialed me and kinda sorta hinted he might have feelings for me? The party where I shot him down and pretty much told him to forget it and never say that again and—oh my God, I totally drove him into her arms.

This is all my fault. Frankie and Nick is all my fault.

My heart beats triple-time as I replay that night in my head. This wouldn't have happened if I'd just been honest with him. Or even said I would talk to him about it in the morning. Or said literally anything else.

“Yeah, and they hooked up right after that.” Oscar says, “She goes to a different school, but we'd seen her around, and, of course, we knew who she was because everyone in Vegas knows who she is. Man, she had her sights set on Nick like you wouldn't believe.” He laughs. “And that chick always gets what she wants.”

“I noticed.” I slump down in the taxi van seat, and I watch the bright, flashing lights of the casinos and the crowds of people on the street out my window. I was supposed to be coming up with a plan of action for the evening, but now I'm thrown off by the news that the casual lie I tossed out three months ago exploded into stupid drama this evening. But I'm reminded of my need to do something, anything, as we pull up at the entrance to New York–New York. The other group is waiting for us right outside the door, and we all walk in, couple, couple, couple, single.

New York–New York is designed to look like Manhattan, and even though I've never been farther east than, well, Las Vegas, I immediately feel like I'm in the Big Apple. I'm so caught up in gawking at the NYC-themed decor as we push through the crowds of people on the casino floor that I almost forget what we're doing there.

“Here we go,” Alex says, pointing at an escalator. “Roller coaster is this way.”

Ugh. The roller coaster.

I'm never one to make a scene in a group, so I try to figure out how to explain that a thousand Chippendales dancers couldn't drag me on this thing. I decide to wave Lo aside. “I'm not doing this,” I whisper as we step onto the escalator. “I'm leaving.” But she pays absolutely no attention to my protests. Instead she grabs me by the arm, pulling me up the steps of the escalator behind her to catch up with everyone else. “Lo…,” I say, but I don't follow that up with much of anything, since she doesn't seem to be listening.

I don't know why she's ignoring me. She's supposed to be here for me. I need her.

We catch up with the group inside an arcade, where the line for the roller coaster hides in the back. Lo is still pulling me by the arm, but eventually I shake free of her grip and slow down. I need a minute to collect myself. As we pass a row of claw games, I let her go even farther ahead of me. Folding forward, I grip my knees with my hands and suck in deep gulps of air. There's no way I'm getting on this death trap. I'll wait here on blessedly solid ground until they're done. They won't even notice I'm not there, and I can use this opportunity to cab it back to Planet Hollywood and crawl into bed, covering myself with hotel sheets and denial.

“What's wrong? You okay?”

I don't have to look up to know it's Nick, so I don't. I focus on the wild design on the floor; a cartoon decal of people having the time of their lives on a roller coaster car like a bunch of masochists. I stare and I breathe and I do not look at Nick, who is standing mere feet away from me.

Somehow the sounds of the noisy arcade become overwhelmed by the silence between us. I realize he's waiting for an answer and for me to get my shit together.

So am I, Nick. So am I.

Smoothing my hair back, I straighten up and put some sort of smile-ish arrangement on my face. “I'm good,” I say. “Let's go.” I don't know why I say that. I was seconds away from going back to the hotel. I have no earthly intention of getting on this roller coaster. Why do things I don't even mean constantly come out of my mouth?

Nick takes a step closer. Now it's like he's mere inches from me instead of mere feet. Oh, holy hell. “Don't lie to me, Ghost.” He searches my face. “I know you better than that.”

I open my mouth to throw back something snarky, like maybe
You're one to talk,
or even
Where's Frankie?
But he cuts me off before I can say anything, almost like he knows I'm about to downshift into passive-aggressive gear and wants to save me from myself.

“I know you hate roller coasters. You couldn't even get on the Dumbo ride at Disneyland.” He laughs a little and shakes his head, like,
Oh, Hannah, you silly little girl who is scared of even the kiddie rides—how cute.
And he's closer. How did he get closer?

“That was freshman year.” I take a step back. I can't handle his nearness. “Seriously, I'm fine. I can do this.” What the hell am I saying?

He narrows his eyes at me, and the side of his mouth curls up in a smile. “Well, I can't.” He waves back at the roller coaster line, which has absorbed our group. “I'm going to sit this one out. Come with me?”

I blink at him. “What?”

“I'm not feeling so hot. I think it's that burger I got at the diner. Not sitting well. I'm sure you don't want me puking on your sister, right? That would make a terrible first impression.” He jerks his head in the direction of the escalator we just rode to get up here. “Let's stay on solid ground.”

All the tension flows from my shoulders, and my clenched stomach unclenches. I'm not sure what's more of a relief, that he's getting me out of this or that I am going to remain panic-attack-free for the time being.

We walk back through the arcade, weaving around other groups who seem excited to get on this death trap. He swerves around an attached-at-the-hand couple, and his arm brushes mine, sending a path of hairs on my arm standing straight up. I'm struck with the urge to reach across the inch or two that separates us and grab his hand, his fingers, his wrist, something—but I know I can't.

The cab conversation with Oscar pops back into my head. Nick met Frankie that night, the night of that party, when I told him I would never have any feelings for him. I want to ask him about that. And we need to finish our conversation from earlier, when he was playing the slot machine. I'm still mad at him for lying, and I need an explanation. As much as I want to hide in the hotel, we have so much to say to each other. “Can we finish talking now?”

I figure we'll find a bench or sit at some slots right by the escalator up to the arcade and the roller coaster. Instead he says, “Follow me,” and walks deeper into the casino.

“Where are we going?” He's walking quickly, his legs so much longer than mine, and I'm practically trotting to keep up with him.

“Let's get a coffee,” he says. He knows coffee is my weakness. After a few minutes, we're in a food court area that, according to the sign, is supposed to look like Greenwich Village. We wander until we find a walk-up coffee shop, and he motions me into line. “Caffeine first,” Nick says. “Then we'll talk.”

He's behind me in the line, and there's no one after him. But he's standing close to me—so close, I can sense him against every part of me. Too close. The only part of him touching me is his leather jacket grazing my bare arms, but he might as well be pressed right up against my back.

I hold my breath. I can't help it.

When we're next in line, I scan the choices. But before I can say anything, Nick looks down at me and says, “Skinny hazelnut latte, right?” He's smiling, proud of himself for remembering my favorite. I'm so overcome with … something. With the feelings for Nick I've kept locked up in a box in my head. I thought I'd be able to take them out tonight, but I had to seal them back up. Now they're trying to escape again, and they are at odds with the part of me that's still so hurt.

All I can do is nod at him. He knows my favorite coffee.
It's just a little thing,
I tell myself.
Don't make a big deal out of it.

We take our coffees to one of the little tables across from the shop. Even though I know we're in the middle of a casino and everyone we're with is still close by, on the roller coaster, I also feel like I do when we are on the phone. Like it's just me and Nick and no one else, and we're in this secret, private world occupied by only the two of us.

We sip in silence, but I know this time I can't sit around and wait for him to explain. I tried to let him go at his own pace back at the slots, and look where that led us.

“So,” I say.

“I owe you an explanation.”

“And there are no slot machines here to distract you.”

He scratches the back of his head and looks down at the table. “You have to admit, winning a thousand bucks was a pretty worthwhile distraction.”

“I'm not complaining.”

“Good.” He looks up and smiles at me, and it's even better than in his pictures because the real thing comes with eye contact. I hold on to that like it's keeping me from flying out of my chair. Like it's gravity itself.

“I like this,” he says, still looking right in my eyes. Still smiling.

“What?”

“You. In real life.”

“I'm not a ghost anymore,” I say. But as soon as it's out of my mouth, I regret it. I don't want my nickname to go away.

He shakes his head. “You'll always be Ghost.” He lets a sigh escape as he pulls the lid off his coffee, then snaps it back on. “So, the band. I know you told me to stop saying it, but I am so sorry. I was never in the band, not exactly. But I was trying to be. Because I hated lying to you.” He looks up from his coffee, right at me. Having his face in front of me while we speak is still so strange. “I know it sounds dumb, but some part of me thought if I told you this thing, it would force me to try to make this thing happen. Like, have you heard of
The Secret
?”

I couldn't help my surprised laugh. “Are you serious? My mom totally went through a
Secret
phase when she read that book, like, ten years ago.”

“Don't mock me!” He's trying to sound offended, but he can't keep himself from laughing. “So, it's based on something called the ‘law of attraction.' My government teacher is super into it. Like, if you imagine something being yours long enough, it eventually becomes yours because you attract it to you with positive thoughts. So I just thought, well, if Ghost thinks I'm in this band, then I'll think I'm in this band, and eventually I'll be in this band.” I must be giving him the side-eye, because he says, “Okay, I realize it sounds completely ridiculous when I say it out loud.”

“During all this visualization, were you ever actually practicing the guitar? Because that seems like it would be more useful than just thinking about it.”

“Yes, smart-ass.” He laughs again. “And I am part of the band in a way, even though I don't play anything. But I've been trying to be official, you know? I wanted to surprise you.”

“So, you're part of the band because you sell the merch?” My heart beats a little faster, and I can feel my mouth curl up in confusion. “That's the surprise?”

“No, that's not it.” His face clouds over and he looks off into the distance. “I can't do it now.”

I don't really get what he means, but what I want even more is to get to the heart of this Frankie situation. I want to ask about her, but that'll involve bringing up Jeff's party and what he said to me that night. I don't think I can do that, so I focus on my coffee lid, trying to figure out how to bring up this subject.

Right when I decide to go for it and I open my mouth, he beats me to it. “So, Grace's internship, huh? That's why you guys came out here?”

I look up at him.
No. It's because I realized I'm in love with you,
I think.
But it's too late, and it turns out you're a bit of a liar, anyway.
Instead I say, “Yup. That's it. And Lo and I had no spring break plans other than Netflix.”

We both look anywhere but at each other. I shift on my chair and he sips his coffee and I wonder if he's wondering why this is so difficult, like I am. Why our connection is so easy on the phone, but when you add eye contact and nearness and realness and lies, feeling normal becomes impossible.

“I'm sorry,” he mumbles.

“What?”

“I'm sorry I'm so weird. When you got here. You … you took me by surprise. I wasn't expecting you, and I'm so bad at stuff like this. I had these plans for when we met for real.…”

He trails off, and I can't help but think about how this scenario went in my head the whole way out here—him twirling me around, kissing me. I wonder if his “plans” were anything like mine.

“Ghost,” he says, and his voice sounds strained. It cracks a little. Then he reaches across the table for my hand and gently covers it with his, sending all the hairs on my arm straight up, lighting my skin on fire. “Ghost, I need to—”