Afraid of the Dark

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"No, thank you," I declined, politely waving away the tray of alcoholic beverages the waiter was holding out to me. He raised his eyebrows and grinned at me, as if I had made a mildly amusing joke.

Before I could insist any further, Pete said, "Thank you," and took a beer and a delicate crystal glass from the tray. Satisfied, the waiter smiled again, bowed infinitesmally, and hurried away to the next table.

Pete handed me the glass and took a sip of the beer. I set mine down on the table and eyed it warily.

"I said I didn't want one," I grumbled.

"But you do want it--you know you do. Just try it," said Pete, gesturing to my drink with the hand that was still holding his own, so that the rich amber liquid sloshed out of the bottle and spilled on his sleeve.

"How very Lindsay Lohan of you," I observed, watching as he put the drink down long enough to lick the alcohol off his arm. "Real classy."

"Nah. Lindsay doesn't drink beer," he said off-handedly. "Too many carbs."

He took another gulp of his beer and set it down on the table again, his expression oddly serious as he focused on the label he was peeling off of the beer bottle. Sitting there in the VIP booth of the too-dark, too-loud club, slumped down in his seat with his hood up, he looked so out of place--a sulky little boy left alone in gloomy Hollywood.

Some corporate suits had organized this party in order to whore out their new, shiny product (a phone, an iPod, a videogame system...none of the people here really knew or cared) and then invited as many celebrities as they could, to reel the public into thinking this new, shiny product was worth shelling out the big bucks. And--surprisingly, sadly, disgustingly--it worked.

No matter what they say on late night talk shows or in magazine articles, most celebrities honestly don't care how they affect other people as long as they get their time in the spotlight. These celebrities were no different; they had no idea what showing up here tonight meant for American consumers, they just knew it meant free drinks and expensive gifts and more exposure for them. They were happy, carefree, ignorant. All around us, people were talking and laughing and dancing and flirting, wallowing in their beauty and fame and wealth and fabulous lifestyles.

But amongst all this revelry, Pete Wentz was sitting in a VIP booth, alone with some wack-job reporter he had known for just a few days, peeling the label off of a beer bottle and remembering a girl he used to know. The girl who had come to symbolize Hollywood itself.

"You knew Lindsay, didn't you?"

Pete shrugged, never once taking his eyes off of that label. "I guess so. Sort of. Once." The label finally tore free from the bottle and he set it aside gingerly, as if it were a living creature with feelings and deserved his respect. "But I don't think anyone really knows Lindsay."

I watched as he ran his fingertips over the now-smooth surface of the bare beer bottle, but he didn't seem to notice or care. He still didn't look up at me.

"Well," I said carefully, "what was she like?"

He shook his head a little, tapped his fingers against the side of the beer bottle. "Damaged," he said. "Just like everyone else in this business."

That was a very good word--for her, for him, for all of us: damaged. Perfect, actually. At least, as perfect as anything gets in this world.

"You really should drink that," said Pete, his little half-smile finally making a reappearance as he nodded at my untouched drink. "It's good. I promise."

He was blatantly changing the subject, of course, but I couldn't really blame him--remembering Lindsay, he had just looked so sad. I knew it was unprofessional, but I didn't want to make him talk about things that made him sad. I hated to see him that way.

So I gave in and went along with his change of subject. "I'm sure it is good," I said, nodding at the drink as well, "but I can't drink it."

"Why not?"

"Because," I told him, "I don't drink on the job."

His eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise. "Are you on the job? I thought this was just me and you, you and me--remember?"

For some reason, I felt a blush spread across my face as he quoted my words from the day before.

"Well, I don't know." I squirmed in my seat, uncomfortable all of a sudden. "You're the one who said I should come because of my job--because I was writing about you--"

In the middle of taking a drink of his beer, he frowned at me and waved his hand in objection. He choked the alcohol down and said, "Well, I only said that to get you to come."

I laughed. "Why? You know I would have come anyway."

He shifted closer to me, so subtley that I almost didn't catch him at it. "You would have?"

Earlier, I had said the words without thinking. I didn't fully realize their gravity until Pete pressed it into me with the heavy weight of his gaze. Something lurking in the darkness of his eyes gave me that same feeling I had had back in my hotel room, when he had said... What had he said?

"I just wanted to see you..." Yes, that was it...

When I didn't answer his question right away, Pete tapped his fingers against the beer bottle again and asked, "Would you have come anyway?"

My heartbeat sped up, pumped hot blood through my flushed skin, to all my electric nerve endings. "Yes."

He looked at me the way beautiful actors smolder at beautiful actresses on the silver screen before they lean in for the sweetest kiss. And he did lean closer to me, and his gaze was smoldering, but he didn't kiss me.

Instead, he glanced over at my drink again and said, "Take a drink."

I wanted to make some joke about his persistance with this drink--maybe something to do with date-rape drugs--but the mood was all wrong now. Laughter would have felt so out-of-place.

So I took a drink. It was champagne.

"Well?" he prompted.

"It's good."

The brilliant flash of his smile was so unexpected, but so welcome; I almost heaved a sigh of relief at the sight of it. He finished his beer with one long chug and then slid the empty bottle across the table. He leaned back and stretched a little, smirking at me with self-satisfaction.

"Told you," said Pete.

-----

The waiter brought us more drinks before we even got a chance to ask for them--and then more, and then more, and then more, and then we weren't in the booth anymore, we were wandering around the star-studded party, talking to celebrities, and I wasn't sure how I'd gotten there, I just knew that I was standing beside Pete and I could feel his body heat radiating off of him, and we were both drunk and swaying and sometimes we moved into each other by accident and stayed there. Yes, when we touched, we stayed there, at least until someone noticed, and then Pete moved away just enough for politeness's sake and introduced me as his "friend," gesturing towards me with great wide arcing sweeps of his hand, so that the ring on his third finger caught the light, blinking and flashing like the automatic reminders on all modern-day technology: "He's married! He's married!"

But my mind had gone so foggy from the champagne that it was easy for me to forget the shine of his ring, to follow him into a new circle of semi-celebrities to make semi-drunken conversation with, where I could lean into him and bask in the warmth of his smile until one of them got suspicious and brought up the dreaded "So, how do you two know each other again?" The explanation got shorter and shorter as Pete got more and more drunk, and once, when the clueless, tipsy John Legend referred to me as Pete's "girlfriend," Pete laughed and got too flustered to even object.

Of course, we were both pretty drunk. I've been more drunk and I'm sure Pete has too, but we were drunk enough. And the sheer strangeness of that night added to the alcohol, knocked our thoughts and feelings and words and movements that much more off kilter.

And it was so dark in the club that I hardly knew what I was doing. The darkness jumbled up my thoughts, got me confused. I wasn't scared, exactly--there were too many people, too many flashing, grungy red and blue lights for that. It was just hard to get my head lined up right in there.

I think we might have danced for a bit. Honestly, I'm not sure. I remember Pete asking me if I wanted to dance, I remember saying yes, I remember all the sweaty, drunken, happy people moving all around me, I remember Pete smiling and laughing and looking at me like there was no one else in that crowded room, but I don't remember dancing myself. Maybe I stood there in the middle of the dance floor, just staring at him and his weird, damaged beauty the whole time. Frankly, I wouldn't have put it past myself that night.

We drank some more, chatted some more, unneccessarily brushed arms and legs and fingertips some more, and then we left. There was a long black car with tinted windows waiting for us outside.

"How did this get here?" I slurred delightedly as Pete held the back door of the car open for me. "It's like magic!"

He climbed in behind me and shut the door. The driver glanced at us darkly in the rearview mirror and then turned his attention back to the road as he merged into traffic, automatically heading for our hotel, I assumed.

"Yeah, black magic, maybe," Pete half-laughed. His voice was too loud--especially for such a small space--but his words were clear and even, measured. He held his liquor better than I did. "It's not as pretty as it looks."

"I know," I sighed. I leaned back against the cool leather seats, and, thinking about Pete and Lindsay and absolutely everything, I just wanted to cry all of a sudden. "I know it's not..."

Somehow, Pete still read me perfectly. "Don't cry," he said. "You're just drunk. That's all. There's no reason to cry."

He reached over to hold my hand in both of his. His wedding ring was shockingly cold compared to his warm hands, and I drew my hand away from the two of his, away from the ring that was supposed to symbolize eternal devotion. Fidelity.

"I know," I murmured again. "I know."

Pete folded his hands together and placed them carefully in his lap. He was quiet for the longest time; in fact, looking back on it, I don't think he said anything for the whole ride back to the hotel. But the windows were tinted and it was well past midnight and it was so dark in the back of that car, so after a while, he reached up to turn on the overhead light. He winced and looked away and I knew the light must have given him a headache, because it was giving me one, but still, it chased away the confusion and the fear and then I didn't want to cry so much anymore--partly because the light was back, and partly because Pete was the one who returned it to me. He was the only one who knew and cared and understood enough to do so, and I was so glad that he did.

-----

I had sobered up a little by the time we got back to the hotel, thankfully. I think just being away from that party helped--it had just been so dark and strange in that club.

The hotel lobby was as bright and inviting as it was during the daytime, but upstairs, the hallways were deserted. Most people were asleep already. Pete and I rode the elevator up to our floor alone together, just as we had the night before.

I groaned and rubbed my temples as the elevator climbed upwards floor by floor. "I can't believe you got me drunk."

"I didn't get you drunk."

"You made me drink the champagne!"

Pete shrugged and rubbed the dark circles under his eyes. "Yeah," he said after a few more floors. "I guess I did get you drunk."

I sighed. "Now I'm gonna have a hangover. Shit."

The elevator finally reached our floor and he let me exit first--the perfect gentleman. He slid his hands into his pockets as we walked down the hallway towards our rooms together.

"Well," said Pete, "I wish I could say I'm sorry that I got you drunk, but I'm really not." He flashed me a mischievous grin, and I didn't have the clarity of thought to return it with a scowl. "I'm glad you came tonight."

"Yeah," I found myself saying, "me too."

He stopped walking abruptly and turned to face me, his expression dark and intense. I stopped walking, too, and we just stood there staring at each other--me waiting for him to say something, him not saying anything.

"What?" I said.

His eyes darted to the side to look just past me, and he gestured towards something behind me. "This is your room."

"...Oh, right." I laughed a little out of embarrassment as I turned around and realized that the door behind me was, in fact, the door to my room, and he was just waiting for me to go inside. "Sorry. I'm just a little tipsy, you know."

"Tipsy." Pete raised his eyebrows at me, biting back laughter. "Right."

"Shut up!" I snapped at him over my shoulder as I fumbled through the contents of my purse for my room key. The minutes passed and I still couldn't find my key--my vision was getting blurry and every tiny item looked the same to me...

"Here, let me help," said Pete, and then before I even knew what was happening, he had taken my purse from me and started rooting around in there himself. A tiny part of me felt a little violated and a little mortified at the thought of a man (especially Pete Wentz) going through something so personal, but this part was easily overwhelmed by the much larger part of me that was drunk and tired and just wanted to get inside and go to sleep and didn't really care how it got there.

Pete found the room key in approximately five seconds, and then he didn't chance handing it to me--he slid it into the slot on the door and unlocked my room himself.

"Oh, thank you!" I gushed as he pushed the door open for me. "Thank you so much."

He stopped me before I could go inside. "Are you gonna be okay by yourself?" he asked.

The look on his face made it clear that he was being completely serious; he was genuinely concerned. I almost laughed.

"Look, I'm going to walk in there and pass out on the bed in the clothes I have on--shoes, hose, everything. So yes, Pete, I think I'm going to be just fine."

The look on his face softened and changed somehow, and then he was backing away from me, moving towards his own room down the hall. "Okay, then," he said. "Goodnight."

I didn't realize what I had said until I went inside and shut the door behind me. Then, as the echo of the automatic lock sliding into place registered in my mind, something else clicked into place.

I had called him Pete.

Without even thinking first, I whirled around and yanked the door open again. Pete hadn't made it to his room yet; he was still walking down that empty hallway, his back turned towards me.

"Pete!" I yelled after him.

He turned around to face me, startled. "Yeah?"

"Uh... Well..." I was in no state to gracefully articulate what I meant to say to him. "I mean... Is it okay if I call you Pete?"

To my surprise, he almost laughed. "Well...it's not like it's the first time."

I was in no state to even begin to grasp what he was saying to me, either. "What...?"

"That day, when the lights went out," said Pete, his voice soft and easy and maybe a little sad, "you were screaming...you just kept screaming my name..." He trailed off and took a stab at a grin, but it came out looking twisted and bitter. "Make your own joke, huh?" he said roughly, and then he turned around to unlock the door to his own hotel room.

But I couldn't let him go. Not yet.

"Pete! Wait!"

He stopped with his hand on the door handle. "Yeah?"

"So..." I swallowed once and then forced the words out. "So you lied."

Pete blinked at me, the look on his face a little indignant, but mostly just confused. "What?"

"You lied to Stu--Patrick," I explained. It hurt to remember that day, but somehow, I felt that I had to. Somehow, this seemed very important. "He asked if you heard screaming, and you said, 'No.'"

"Well, yeah," he said, "but that was just a white lie."

I bit my lip as I hovered there in the doorway, just looking at him. The idea of him lying was bizarrely unsettling.

He saw my concern and frowned back at me. He was agitated. "What--you didn't want me to tell them, did you?"

"No, no! I just... I... I mean... Thank you."

I hadn't meant to thank him, but the words fit, so I left them there. And Pete smiled at them.

"No problem," he said, the friction gone from his expression.

We stood there grinning at each other across the length of the hallway for while, and then I didn't know what to say.

"Uh...so, I'll see you later," I said finally.

"Right," said Pete. "Goodnight, Sarah."

I wanted to say goodnight to him too, but I couldn't find the words before he had turned away.

I slunk back into my own room, but I ended up lying to Pete: I took off my shoes and my hose and my dress and pulled on a dirty pair of a shorts and a T-shirt I found lying in the floor. I didn't take off my make-up though, or brush my teeth, even; I downed some aspirin and rinsed my mouth out once and that was it. I lay down in my big bed all alone, and I was almost too tired to care how dark it was, so I turned the light out and relied solely on the moonlight and the artificial city light streaming in through the window.

And for all its grime and filth, New York City was so beautiful. The city never lost its shine for me; through the window, it's millions of tiny lights sparkled and gleamed there in the darkness of night, just like all my wildest dreams come true.

Had all my wildest dreams come true? I used to think so. But, lying awake in bed that night, my thoughts slow and unrefined from the champagne, I wasn't so sure anymore.

Yes, the city was beautiful on the outside, glossy and polished and preserved in two-dimensional postcards to be sold to the masses. But inside the city, there were people--poor people, rich people, famous people, happy people, sad people, people who never found what they were looking for. People who never knew what they were looking for in the first place. People who stumbled across it--whatever "it" was--by accident.

But once you found "it," could you give it back? What if "it" was never yours to take?

I didn't have the presence of mind to consider this too seriously. I turned away from the window, facing the blank white wall instead, and closed my eyes and fell asleep--and in the darkness, it was easy to pretend that I wasn't completely alone.