Figment. Part 7

"Do you think it looks okay?" I already knew the answer from his eyes, but I wanted to hear him say it.

"Beautiful." He brushed a tendril of hair from my forehead, then pressed a soft kiss to my lips. My arms went around his neck, and I twined my fingers into his hair. He pulled me against him, holding me around the waist. After a long moment, Davis stepped back. "You want to see your surprise?"

"Yes!" I took his hand, and he ran me down the steps. "Where is it?"

"There." He pointed to a giant white Ferris wheel that was rotating slowly not too far away. I'd noticed it before.

"We're going on that Ferris wheel?"

"It's called the London Eye." We walked down a wide stone walkway as Davis explained. "It's not just any Ferris wheel. You can see all of London from the top. And it has these little pods that you ride in, like tiny rooms, instead of seats."

"Oh, cool," I breathed, staring up at the spoked wheel rotating in the night sky like the missing piece of a giant's bicycle.

At the entrance to the Eye, we rode a short escalator to a concrete platform. It was like a train station, except that the s.p.a.ce-agey, egg-shaped pods were rotating by the platform very slowly.

A few other people were waiting to get on, all wearing c.o.c.ktail dresses, like mine, with the men in suits, everyone very chic. They turned to look at us, and I suddenly felt intimidated and tried to hide partially behind Davis.

A conductor was ushering the others into a pod. It was mostly gla.s.s, with a wooden floor and a big wooden bench in the middle. It moved so slowly, the pa.s.sengers stepped on without the pod stopping. Then the conductor shut and sealed the door, and the pod moved up the wheel.

"Do you think it ever gets stuck?" I giggled nervously.

"It's very safe, miss." The conductor must have overheard me. The door to the next pod was open, and Davis stepped on.

"This is ours." He held his hand out with a rea.s.suring smile, and I looked into his face and then stepped over the threshold. The moment I touched his hand, my fear evaporated. I couldn't feel afraid with him near.

With a whoosh, the conductor closed our door, and we began rising into the night sky. Instinctively, I clutched Davis's arm, but after a moment, I loosened my grip. The little pod rotated with the wheel so smoothly, I could barely tell we were moving at all.

Davis looked down at me. "Isn't this incredible?"

"Yes." I took a deep breath and looked around for the first time. That's when I noticed the table set up in the middle. Champagne was bubbling in two flutes, and chocolates were heaped on a plate decorated with rose petals. A Jack Johnson tune was playing softly through some unseen speakers.

"Davis . . ." I looked up at him.

He was grinning. "Well?"

"Did you do all this?" I hugged him. "For me?"

"I did it for us," he corrected me. "I thought this would be a fun way to see the rest of London."

"It is," I breathed. The view spread all around us, with white and yellow lights glimmering as far as I could see. The black Thames snaked beneath us, reflecting Parliament and Big Ben like a wavery mirror. "Look, there's Buckingham Palace." I pointed.

"And the Tower of London."

We stood at the windows a long time, picking out landmarks as the wheel rose higher and higher. Then Davis handed me my gla.s.s of champagne. "I think we should have a toast." He raised his gla.s.s. "To us, baby. They tried to keep us apart, and we're still here, still together."

Tears rose to my eyes, and I blinked them away. "I was lost without you," I whispered to him. "And now I have you-and I'm happy all day."

"Me too." Davis smiled down at me, then reached past my shoulder and pressed a little b.u.t.ton on a keypad on the wall. The music swelled around us.

"You saw her bathing on the roof . . . Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you . . ."

Davis sang the beautiful lyrics as the sad, sweet song played. He pulled me close to him, and we danced, swaying back and forth. I could feel the muscles of his chest pressing into mine and smelled the fragrance of the pine soap he always used.

I raised my head and kissed him, relis.h.i.+ng his slow, hot lips on mine. He ran his hands up and down my spine through the silk of my dress. We twirled slowly, locked in a kiss, until finally I broke away, breathless, laughing a little.

"I need to catch my breath." I sat down on the bench in the middle and put my hands to my hot cheeks, smiling up at him.

He sat down beside me and offered me more champagne. I took a long drink of the crisp, bubbly wine, then bit into a chocolate from the laden table. "Davis, this must have cost so much. Are you going to be okay?"

His brow darkened. "Hey, now. Why are you worrying?"

"I'm not," I rea.s.sured him quickly. "It's just, you know, the plane ticket over here, and all the stuff we've been doing, and now this." I reached for his hand. "I just don't want you to stress out because of me."

His face cleared. "I'm not stressing. I have plenty of money, Zo."

I have plenty of money. The sensations. .h.i.t me then, sending me reeling. I staggered backward, knocking the plate of chocolates to the floor. I clutched my head as the image filled my mind: Davis's face, turned toward me in the dark of the car that night, looming up in front of me, blown up to a monstrous size, as if I were Alice in Wonderland.

"The money, Zo. It's the money." His disembodied voice echoed in my ears, slowing down like a record played at low speed.

Then, just as suddenly, the flash was gone. My vision cleared. I saw Davis's face still in front of me but shrunk back to normal size. "Zoe? Zo?" he was saying anxiously. He was holding my upper arms. "Are you okay? Talk to me."

I was breathing heavily. "I'm okay," I managed. Davis sat close to me, chafing my hands in his.

"You're totally white," he said. "What the h.e.l.l just happened? I thought you were having a seizure or something."

I barely heard him. There was something I could almost understand, something about the money and the car following us that night. It was something I knew then, but I'd forgotten. Whatever it was hung tantalizingly at the edge of my mind, as if in my peripheral vision. I could sense its shape, but if I tried to look at it directly, it disappeared.

A gla.s.s of sparkling water appeared in front of me, lifting me out of my reverie. "Here. You look like you need this," Davis said. His eyes were still concerned.

I took a long, fizzy sip. "It was weird," I said slowly. "Like something at the corner of my mind I can't quite see. Something about the accident."

A cloud pa.s.sed over Davis's face, but just as quickly, it disappeared. He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed the back. "Don't think about it. I don't want you to ever have to remember that awful night. Just think about now-we're here, together, and that's how it's going to be, always."

I could see the love in his eyes as he touched my cheek with his fingers. I stretched up to kiss him, and as our lips met, I knew he was right. I should try to forget the past, especially the accident. My life was happening right now, right here.

TWELVE.

I knocked on the door marked 2F, my pulse already beating fast. I hadn't been able to stop thinking about my flash on the Eye. I had to find out more about the accident. I had to catch hold of whatever it was I couldn't remember. Bring it, squirming, into clear focus and pin it down.

Oliver opened the door. "Zoe!" he said in surprise. He was s.h.i.+rtless and holding what looked like a ham sandwich. His worn jeans hung off his hips.

"Hi, sorry to barge in on you like this," I said, trying not to notice his lean chest and abs. I plowed ahead. "I just, um-actually, I really need to use your laptop. Just for a little while. Would that be okay?"

He looked slightly taken aback but stepped aside, holding open the door. "Sure. Come on in."

The flat was spa.r.s.ely furnished, but in a clean, modern way. It looked like something out of one of my mother's design catalogs. Oliver led me past an all-gray living room to the bedrooms at the back. "My parents are out visiting a site," he explained. "They're in real estate."

I breathed a small sigh of relief. I wasn't really in the mood for parental small talk just now. "Do you have to work at the gallery today?"

"Not till tonight. I was just working on a few drawings." He grabbed a T-s.h.i.+rt from the back of a chair and pulled it on over his head as we entered his room.

It was small but flooded with light from two huge windows. A single mattress lay on the floor in a corner, covered with a wool blanket. But I barely noticed anything else, because I couldn't take my eyes off the walls. Oliver's drawings were pinned everywhere. I revolved slowly in the middle of the room. They were all of London, everything from the Tower to the street performers in the Tube. He worked in charcoal, and his stark, spiky lines made the figures and buildings jump off the page, daring me to ignore them.

"Wow," I breathed. "You must really like London."

"It's the best city in the world." Oliver pointed at a sketch of a man in a cap and ap.r.o.n, with a big belly, holding up a huge fish. "I saw this guy at Billingsgate Market. He's been selling fish there since he was fifteen, he told me. And this one-this just seems like the quintessential London. You know what I mean?" He indicated another drawing of a row of old brick buildings, all squeezed together, big and small, with the rooflines crooked, on a cobblestone street. "It's like d.i.c.kens's London is still around."

I moved over to the large drafting table in a corner. A half-finished picture of several guys skateboarding was pinned to it. He'd drawn them doing jumps off a set of stairs. They seemed to fly through s.p.a.ce like acrobats. I bent to examine it more closely. "You're really good."

He shrugged, the tips of his ears going pink. "I just fool around. It's fun, though."

I picked up a piece of paper lying on the table.

London REcreated Young Artist Showcase: Oliver Downing Solwatt Gallery 25.6 "Are you having a show?" The twenty-fifthwas in a couple of days.

"Yeah, well." He fiddled with some chubby pencils lying on the table, rearranging them into a straight line. "My boss thought some of them might sell." He cleared his throat. "Crazy, right?"

"Not at all. Is it by invitation?" I teased. "I'd love to come."

"Really? It's not going to be much, but there'll be a good party, at least, and some free food and booze."

"Sounds perfect." We smiled at each other; then Oliver moved abruptly before the moment got awkward. "Here, did you want to use my laptop?" He picked up a slim silver Mac and handed it to me.

"Thanks." I took it and ran my fingers across the slick lid. Dread began gathering in my throat. There was nothing to be afraid of, I told myself. I didn't even know what I was looking for.

Oliver bent over his drawing again, and I opened the computer. It felt odd to be typing on a keyboard again after a few weeks away. My in-box had over a hundred e-mails. I scrolled through them rapidly. Ads, notices from school, random messages from friends about the accident, and-oh, no-about fifty messages from Becca. I clicked the first one open.

Zoe, I cannot even tell you how sorry I am about the whole mess the night before you left. I never, ever want to betray you. I was under some serious pressure-I don't want to say more than that-but you probably know what I mean. You're my best friend in the whole world, and that will never change as far as I'm concerned. I hope you can forgive me-please??? Love, Becs The next one was basically the same. And the next one. And the one after that. Poor girl. I felt a surge of sympathy. This whole thing hadn't been easy on her either. And it had all worked out after all-I was okay and with Davis again.

Becs, I typed. Thanks for all the e-mails. I'm sorry we left the way we did, too. Everything is awesome over here. I can't wait to fill you in when I get home.

Better not be more specific than that. Just in case my parents were reading my e-mail from their computer. I wouldn't put it past them, no matter how well my mother and I had made up.

Don't worry about me, though. Love, your BFF, Zo I hit SEND and glanced up at Oliver. He was apparently absorbed in his drawing, scratching away with his back to me, but I sensed he was trying to give me some privacy. A sensitive guy. I liked that.

I took a deep breath and went to Google. My fingers were poised over the keyboard but trembling so hard, I wasn't sure I would hit the right keys. I hadn't seen any press about the accident. And I didn't want to see it. I didn't want to see that night spelled out in black-and-white. I didn't want to relive those memories. But I had to find out what was missing from my dream.

Car accident May 20 Stanton, Connecticut, I typed.

I hit ENTER, and a page of search results popped up. Apparently, the accident had been one of the lead news stories that day. I'd have liked to feel flattered, but nothing much happens in Stanton.

I clicked through the first few entries-local newspapers, all reporting pretty much the same thing. Local teenagers driving on Route 28 . . . slick conditions . . . speed thought to be a factor . . . I scanned each article briefly before moving on to the next. Nothing. Nothing. Then, at the end of a transcript from the TV news, the words jumped out at me: There was one fatality: Davis Edwards, 18.

The sentence hit me square in the chest. My breath went out of my lungs as if I'd been punched. Oliver turned to look at me, and I gave him a sick smile I'm sure didn't convince him for one minute. He turned around again, and my eyes flew back to the article. What? What? What? my mind was screaming. Davis's name was linked. With my fingers shaking so badly I struck the wrong key several times, I finally clicked on it.

An obituary popped up.

Davis Edwards, age 18, died Monday, May 20, in a car accident near Stanton, Connecticut. Davis was the only son of Sherry and Matthew Edwards of New Yamston, Connecticut. He was a student at West Seaton High School, where he played varsity lacrosse. Davis will be remembered for his wit, love of fun, and creativity by his many friends and family. A memorial service will be held on May 24 at Hall-Jordan Funeral Home, 820 Mulberry Ave., Stanton.

Davis was dead. Davis was dead?! The seconds ticked past as I squeezed my eyes shut, grinding my fists into the sockets. Was I crazy? I was. I was crazy. My breath mewled in and out of my throat. I was sweating, shaking, perspiration trickling down the sides of my face and pooling under my bra cups. But the moisture was all on my skin, because my mouth was as dry as crepe paper. My fingers groped for the infinity charm around my neck, found it, squeezed. The room was airless. Why hadn't I noticed that before? How could Oliver work without the windows open? The obituary glowed on the screen in front of me like some kind of evil temptation. It dared me to look at it again.

"Hey." It came out as a croak.

Oliver turned around, a pencil in his hand. I had no doubt my face looked completely bizarre, because he immediately rose from his stool, his eyes wide with surprise. "Zoe, are you okay?"

Little black spots were gathering in front of my eyes. Oh, it was so flipping hot. I was going to be sick right on Oliver's rug-I knew it. The black spots were getting bigger. I bent over and rested my head on my knees. "I-I'm actually a little sick. But, um, can I print something out?"

Oliver knelt on the rug beside me, his arm across my back. "Forget the printer. You need a doctor." He fumbled in his pocket. "Here, I'll call the clinic-it's right around the corner."

"No!" I straightened up. My stomach threatened to rise up in my throat again, and I fought it down. "Sorry. I'm not really sick. Just, um, surprised. I found out I failed one of my exams." I listened as if from a great distance to the ordinary-sounding words tumbling from my mouth. "Maybe something cold to drink? Like a c.o.ke?"

"Oh, sure, absolutely." Oliver looked glad to be able to do something. He scrambled to his feet.

As soon as he was out the door, I hit PRINT on the computer. The obituary hummed out of the sleek silver printer on the side of Oliver's drafting table. Then, fast, I erased my search history and closed out the window, being sure to log out of my e-mail. I shut the laptop just as Oliver came back in bearing a gla.s.s of c.o.ke with ice.

I jumped up and s.n.a.t.c.hed the paper from the printer, stuffing it into my bag. "Actually, my mom just called-" Whoops, he knows you don't have a cell phone. I plowed ahead anyway. "-and she needs me at home. My, uh, dad just cut himself in the kitchen. So I have to go. Sorry!" I was down the hall before he could say anything. After a brief, tense struggle with the locks, I wrenched the front door open and pounded down the hall to the stairs, the obituary burning in my bag as if it were radioactive.

THIRTEEN.

The empty, late-afternoon street seemed strangely hostile, as if it, too, were hiding secrets. I pounded along the pavement, my heart keeping time with my steps. I kept my eyes forward, scared that if I looked right or left, I'd see phantoms coming out of the doorways. I had to find Davis. There had to be some explanation. Unless I was crazy. Mad. Insane. Nuts. Bonkers. Out of my mind. Certifiable. I'd never realized how many words there were for crazy before.

My parents had said he was dead. And here was proof-concrete proof. Which would leave only one explanation. That I was crazy. Enough to imagine Davis in front of me-would that be a hallucination? Oh yes, Zoe, I believe that's what it's called. Hallooo-cination. Say it five times fast! I mentally flashed through the few genuinely crazy people I'd encountered in my life, their hair a mess, carrying odd collections of old bags and useless items. No. That wasn't me. I was normal. A little shaken up, maybe, but normal enough to comb my hair. And I didn't talk to myself. Unless Davis wasn't real, in which case, who the h.e.l.l had I been talking to? And kissing?

Our apartment building loomed in front of me. Odd, I didn't remember making the turn to get there. A little fold in time. A little blip. It meant nothing. I ran up the inner stairs, for once not caring who saw me. My breathing was ragged in my throat. I pushed open the penthouse door. My eyes flew to our corner.

Everything was gone.

No gray blanket. No backpack. No Davis.

My heart stopped.

It was true.

Then suddenly, from behind me, I heard the door open. Footsteps. I swung around. Davis stood there, smiling at me.

"Hey." He dropped his backpack to the floor with a thud. "I didn't know you were coming up. Sorry, I went out for a sandwich. Starving." He pulled a sub from his bag and unwrapped it. The paper crinkled loudly in the silence. He took a big bite and chewed noisily, sliding his back down against the wall at the same time.