Romancing the Dark in the City of Light (26 page)

She takes one sip. Then holds it up for him.

Moony sighs. “Taxi, then.” To her surprise, he takes her flask and throws his head back. Two, three glugs and hands it back empty.

“What?” he says.

“Nothing.” But it bums her out, if it’s possible to get any lower. She’s why he did that.

As they pull his scooter over to a bike rack and he locks it, she contemplates bolting. Moony is only delaying things. But her energy is gone.

He takes her by the arm again and they walk to the street. It’s thirteen minutes past midnight, an impossible time to find a taxi in Paris because it’s the same time everyone goes home from dinner out. Plus it’s still drizzling. Moony calls for one, and gets a recording. They try to flag down two taxis to no avail.

“Anyone at your house?” he demands.

“No.”

“Staying with you. M
é
tro,” he says, fatigue flattening his voice. He gazes down the Seine. “Bir-Hakeim’s closed. Trocad
é
ro.” The two nearest metro stations.

Now Summer just wants to go somewhere and sleep. They cross the bridge. She doesn’t look over the side at the dark river because Kurt might be loitering beneath like a troll.

They shuffle past the big fountain, heading for the wide plaza and museums of the Trocad
é
ro and the M
é
tro entrance there. The rain has stopped.

Moony calls his mom and says he’s taking Summer home and will stay at her house.

They climb all the Trocad
é
ro steps. Moony drags. They pause to rest finally on the plaza and look out at the Eiffel Tower on the other side of the river, and the shimmering lights of the city beyond.

She takes his hand. “Please don’t be mad. I’ve never had a friend like you.”

“Never had a friend like
you,
” he says. They laugh. His gaze says … what, she’s not certain. Not
sorry,
that’s for sure.

“I’m not saying it’s worthless,” she says softly.

“You are,” he insists. “But I’m not you. Haven’t lived your life.”

“I just can’t stand it anymore,” she murmurs.

Moony closes his eyes, as if to end any more discussion. He grips her hand.

Underground, the next train isn’t due for six minutes according to the electronic sign, and is the last one. Her trainophobia disappeared. Of course, she thinks. Trying to jump off the Eiffel Tower cures it.

No, she’s not afraid because Moony is with her.

“Summer?” he mumbles. “You’ll get help? This iss serious.” He slurs his words.

She nods, and means it. A bit of her has thawed somewhere.

They sit in two plastic seats bolted to the mustard-colored tiled wall, leaning against each other. The lights above them gleam harshly. Moony looks ill. There’s no one else on their side, and a bum sleeps against the wall directly opposite them. Moony slumps against her in exhaustion.

“Jeez, Moony. I’ve got to get
you
home. By the way, did you see your present before … you came to find me?” she asks.

“Present?”

“In front of your door.”

“Never went up. Jus’ got the scooter.”

“Oh. Then you’ll see it tomorrow. It’s for after your operation.” She clears her throat and holds his curled hand. The pathetic bag of the gummy bears is the
only
thing she’s ever done for him. He just saved her stupid, hopeless life.

And for what?

Her eyes look down the empty tunnel, then follow the curved ceiling above them, down to the platform on the other side of the tracks.

In a hot-orange seat with his legs crossed, sits Kurt. He moves his ankle in time to some inaudible beat. Behind him is a huge wall ad of a naked woman for Acide perfume. He winks at Summer.

She glares at him and wishes with all her being he’d just give it up for a while. He walks out the exit to the stairs to the main level.

The hairs on her arms rise. She’s not only ready to back down, but to run like hell.

“Moony? Um, maybe we should take the scooter,” she says, standing, but thinking of him having to walk all the way back. Her mind is racing. Could they find a taxi easier on this side of the river? Or call a car service? Could she carry him piggyback? “I, uh…”

“Train’ll be here, three minutes,” he murmurs.

Already Kurt appears out of the passageway on their side of the tracks. He strides toward them, staring at Summer. Here he is, she thinks. Prince Not-So-Charming. Wrong guy at the right place and time. A groan escapes from her throat. Moony turns to see.

“You,” he says, standing unsteadily. “I knew it.”

FIFTY-FOUR

Kurt saunters over, trailing his pungent smell. He and Moony scowl at one another.

“Introductions not needed, then?” says Summer. Her mouth is dry. Moony not only sees but knows Kurt.

“We’re acquainted,” Moony says. He puts his hand over his nose. “Whew.”

“When did you know Kurt?” Summer steps between them.

“Azzy,” Moony corrects. “Several times—post-rehab depression, when addicted to painkillers. And … a time or two lately.” He sighs and sinks back into the seat.

“We’re old pals.” Kurt smiles and pats Moony on the back. Then pulls Summer to him.

Summer says, “Oh.” Moony knows him all right. But how did he … avoid him?

He said
lately
.

Kurt grips Moony’s weak shoulder. Moony holds his forehead in his good hand. “Swear, though. Wonder why I fight it. Him.”

“What?” says Summer. Her scalp and neck prickle.

“Not going to make it to old age anyway.”

“Don’t say that,” she says, grabbing his other shoulder and stepping away from Kurt.

“This operation. So sick of it all,” he whispers. “Would be so. Much. Simpler,”

“Moony! You’ll do fine!” she insists.

He shakes his head.

Kurt says, “You
won’t
make it, brother. Sadly, and finally, it’s a hopeless situation this time. But you can still take control. Keep your honor and dignity.” He pulls Summer to him again.

“How do
you
know?” demands Summer, shrugging Kurt off.

“Really? You doubt me?” he asks.

The train approaches.

Kurt takes Summer’s hand. “Come, Razorback. It’s time.”

Do I doubt him? What
is
true? It doesn’t matter, she thinks. Ambivalence is a funny thing. I’ll destroy myself. I’ll live. I won’t. I will. It can all be over,
now.
She still wants that. The date doesn’t matter.

But what about Moony?

Kurt extends his other hand. “Come, my brave Moony.” He grins. “How romantic. A love triangle.” He raps, “You love each other. You both love me. That makes us a threesome … for eternity.”

“Spare us,” says Summer.

“It’s best,” says Moony, standing unsteadily.

“What?” cries Summer. “You’re Super Moony. You help everyone. Don’t help him!”

Moony doesn’t look at her.

“Kurt and I are one thing. But you’re entirely another. You’re the only true thing I know!” Summer wails. “You just told me that meaning is everywhere. Wait!”

From the tunnel at the head of the station, the rumble of the coming train amplifies.

“No waiting,” Kurt says. He pulls them to the edge of the platform. The headlight is now visible in the tunnel.

The old guy against the opposite wall stares at them with a worried expression. He catches Summer’s eye and shakes his head.

Dad chose to go with Kurt. Isn’t she just like him? He’s the one who told her to not back down.

They balance on the concrete edge. The familiar stale air pushed out of the tunnel by the oncoming train washes over them, along with the scent of old urine, and even a pungent whiff of the bum’s unwashed body. In addition to Kurt’s stink. In her line of vision, the toes of her boots emerge from the bottoms of her jeans out over the gravel, the silver gum wrapper, torn chips package, and the tracks.

The face of the driver in the illuminated cab rushes toward them from the darkness. A woman. She observes them without expression, then her eyes widen.

Summer’s left hand is in Kurt’s. The deafening thunder of the train reaches its highest pitch, and she looks over. Moony’s eyes are closed. He holds Kurt’s other hand.

Moony took Kurt’s hand with his weak one! Moony, Saint Moony, what-does-life-expect-from-you Moony is holding Kurt’s hand.

And not hers.

He fooled her! Moony was so strong for her, always there when she needed him, always ready to forgive her and extend yet another kindness to her.

She thought she was just like Dad. Dad thought so, too. He was crying when he hugged her because he was
worried
about her. He loved her and wanted what was best for her.

Sweetheart, you are not like him.

And Moony loves her. But his incredible will to survive and his love of life—his fairy Hope—have given out. She thought she was sacrificing herself to protect him. A sacrifice that takes him, too, would be a
sacrilege
.

A blowtorch ignites in Summer. The lights in the station flicker. Brighten.

She’s not afraid of dying. She’s afraid of loving.

She
is
backing down. From loving Moony.

FIFTY-FIVE

The speeding, roaring train is meters from entering the station, and a few more meters from the threesome.

“NOOOooo, let go!” Summer cries, releasing Kurt, pulling toward Moony. But Kurt holds her fast.

For chrissakes! Dad wasn’t talking about soccer coaches or gangbangers. He meant don’t back down from
life
!

“Step forward,” commands Kurt over the thunder.

Dad was
afraid
she might one day do what
he was going to do
. He wanted her to do better, to stay and fight and love and triumph.

Living is freaking hard.

Mom’s voice through the door—
You have your own strength
.

She is not her father. Or her mother. Their choices are not hers.

What life expects from her … is to have Moony’s back.

The flame of hope and attachment to this dark world blazes, and the anger she has felt for so long focuses into a laserlike beam as she struggles against the fake, sleazy liar who is using her to rob the world of someone who is … everything she isn’t.

She spews a lifetime of fury at the most worthy target possible.

“You ASSHOLE!” she screams. She jumps back, yanking herself from Kurt’s grasp. She grabs Moony from behind. Her tae kwon do kick into Kurt’s back pushes him in front of the train, a nanosecond before it roars past.

At the same time, Summer pulls Moony with every ounce of her strength.

Moony is torn from Summer, his body knocked by the train.

Brakes screech forever.

Summer lands hard on her butt, slams her head, lies sprawled on the concrete.

Perfectly alive. She is Summer and she’s free.

A groan down the platform.

“Moony!”

Summer pulls herself to her knees, stars flashing, head spinning, and crawls to him.

She gasps. His eyes are closed but moving beneath his lids. His marble-white face glows with perspiration. He groans again but is unconscious.

“Oh my god, oh my god, someone help us!” Summer screams.

FIFTY-SIX

The following hour is as if Summer is under water, in the dark, with earplugs. Suddenly people are all around and tired faces are getting in her face. Some are concerned looking, some brusque. As paramedics examine Moony, a man gently pulls her aside and shines a penlight into her eyes. She’s aware that her head and her tailbone really hurt, and that she feels like she’s going to barf. They make her lie on a board, put a plastic thing around her neck, and check her over.

A man in a dark uniform squats beside her and asks her what happened in French.

Summer doesn’t answer.

He demands in English. “Mademoiselle, what happened?”

She cannot begin to explain what has come to pass, and so says nothing.

When they take Moony away on a stretcher, Summer tries to get up, but realizes she’s strapped down. Two guys carry her out.

Above ground, outside the M
é
tro entrance, too many red lights are flashing. Too many people loiter. The guys put her into the back of one of too many vehicles. She lies there mutely, praying that Moony will be okay.

A woman officer, or maybe she’s a paramedic, uses Summer’s cell phone and contact list to call her mother, who is asleep in a hotel in Geneva. The lady talks briefly then hands the phone to Summer.

“Summer? Darling? Are you okay?” Mom sounds a little hysterical.

As if swimming up to the surface to answer, Summer musters every bit of strength and coherence she can. “I’m okay, Mom,” she says, taking pains to pronounce each word clearly.

“But you’re on the way to the hospital! It’s one thirty in the morning!” Mom’s flair for the obvious. But the pain and fear in Mom’s voice is concern about her.

“We were too near the platform edge when the train came, and Moony”—she gulps, almost chokes—“got hurt.”

“Why did they call me? What’s wrong with you?”

“I fell on my butt. I’m a little dizzy, I guess.”

“I’m calling Monsieur de Villefort. Don’t answer any questions until he comes.”

Summer shuts her eyes. Probably another lawyer. Mom’s worried about her saying something wrong or incriminating. She’s fully responsible and will tell anyone who asks her.

Mom continues, “I’ll be there in a few hours.”

They leave the Trocad
é
ro with sirens blaring,
weee-ooo, weee-ooo, wee-ooo
. Before long, the truck stops and they pull Summer out in time for her to see two men rolling Moony from another truck through the doors of the emergency room. His eyes are closed and he’s so still.

It’s the last glimpse she has of him.

Summer’s rolled into a room where a doctor examines her. Again, the woman is kind enough to speak English and Summer realizes it’s just another way in which she is spoiled.

She has a mild concussion, a cracked tailbone, and a week-old fractured rib from the catacombs. The doctor gives her a prescription for something with instructions to rest.