Afraid of the Dark

When I woke up the next morning, I was lying facedown on the bed alone. Disoriented and a little hungover, I dragged myself out of bed and into the bathroom, where I surveyed the damage: my hair was a wreck, my eyeliner was so smudged that it looked like I was going for the zombie look, and I was wearing the same clothes as yesterday--only they were more rumpled and worn today. With a sigh, I washed my face (no make-up was better than zombie make-up, I reasoned) and tried to smooth out my hair to no avail.

I walked out of the bathroom to find Pete standing at the window at the opposite end of the room, watching the sun rise. He was so still and silent that I hadn't noticed him there before--in fact, I had completely forgotten about him for the time being. His back was turned to me and he didn't appear to have noticed me as I approached.

"Morning," I murmured. My voice was hoarse and I cleared my throat.

"Hey," he said evenly. He didn't turn to look at me.

"How long have you been up?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. A couple of hours."

I glanced over at the digital clock on the nightstand. "But we were only asleep for a couple of hours."

"Ashlee called to wish me luck. I couldn't go back to sleep."

My confusion outweighed the little jolt of hurt I felt at the mention of Ashlee. "Wish you luck?" I repeated. "With what?"

"We have a secret show today," said Pete in a monotone, tapping his fingers against the glass of the window as he stared out at New York City, as if the answers he needed lay somewhere amidst all those skyscrapers. "In Washington Square Park."

"Oh. Right. The free one." I remembered the band telling me about this earlier on in the week: one of the main reasons for their visit to New York was a free secret show they had planned to have in Washington Square Park. I had forgotten about it completely, but as I figured out today's date in my head, I realized that Pete was right. The show was today.

Today was also my last day with Fall Out Boy.

"I have to leave tomorrow," I said, out loud. I didn't know why. Maybe I just needed to hear the words.

"Yeah," he whispered. "Me too."

He still wouldn't look at me, but I watched our reflections in the window: Pete with his forehead pressed to the window, me standing just behind him, both of our gazes stony and empty, hiding the more tumultuous emotions that were brewing below. A few seconds passed and then, abruptly, he clenched his jaw in strange determination and turned away from the window.

Pete moved around the room like a hurricane, picking up all traces of us--candy bar wrappers, spare change, phones, shoes, and so on. I sat down on the bed and watched him attack the room in a weird frenzy.

And then I noticed the Polaroids lying on the nightstand. I picked up the stack of photographs and started flipping through them as he continued to rage about the room. The ones on top were the later ones--we had both been pretty drunk by then, and I didn't recognize the first ten pictures at all, except for the very top one.

It was a picture of just my face, with Pete's hand cupping one cheek, and it triggered a memory that I couldn't quite grasp. But it was a good memory, that much I was sure of...he had said something nice about me and touched my face... Had he called me beautiful...?

Yes, that was it...he had said I was beautiful, and touched my face...

"Do you want to keep those?"

I looked up and Pete was standing in front of me with his hand held out expectantly. Truthfully, I did want to keep the photographs, but there was a hardness in his face that told me there was a right and wrong answer here, and the right answer was no.

So I said, "No," and handed him the stack of Polaroids.

"Okay," he said grimly. He glanced around the room, double-checking in case he had missed crucial piece of evidence. "Are you ready to go?"

"Sure."

He walked off towards the door, pausing on the way to dump the pictures in the trashcan by the bathroom. I cringed at the sound of the trash bag crinkling and the dull thunk of the Polaroids hitting the bottom of the bin.

As I got up to follow him, something slid off of my lap and onto the floor. I turned to see what it was, and saw a Polaroid lying in the floor. I picked it up and flipped it over.

It was that last picture--the one of him touching my face. The only photograph of both of us together.

"Ready?" Pete prompted me from the doorway.

"Yeah," I said, covertly sliding the picture into my back pocket. Pete eyed me with curiosity as I moved past him through the doorway, but I avoided his gaze and said nothing. He didn't need to know how weak I was--that I was desperately holding onto the last piece of evidence of the best night of my life.

-----

"I wonder what Elvis Costello would think of you checking into a hotel room with some girl you barely know under his good name?" I teased Pete as we climbed into the back of a cab.

"He'd probably be cool with it. I met him, remember? He's a pretty chill dude." Pete paused to give the cab driver the address of the other hotel, then turned back to me with a smile. "And I don't barely know you. I'd say I know you pretty well by now, wouldn't you?"

As much as I wanted to hear that, I forced myself to block it out, knowing that it would torture me later, when our time together was through. I winced and tried to focus on the conversation at hand rather than the fact that I would never see him again after tomorrow.

"Do you always use fake names?" I asked Pete.

"Usually. Otherwise a bunch of fourteen-year-old girls show up with fruit baskets outside my hotel room at two in the morning while I'm trying to take a shower."

I snorted. "Fruit baskets?"

"Yes, fruit baskets."

"I think you're flattering yourself," I said dryly.

"...Okay, maybe I am just a little," he admitted with a cheeky grin. "But fake names are fun! Don't rain on my parade, man."

I rolled my eyes at him, but couldn't help but smile. The bizarre sense of urgency that had overtaken him back in the hotel room had faded more and more as we put distance between ourselves and that room, and I was glad. I was used to this Pete--the charming, mischievous, smiley Pete--not the brooding, businesslike Pete that had stormed around our hotel room, disposing of evidence with all the brutality of a shorter, more emo-looking Terminator.

By the time we arrived at the hotel, Pete had gone back to his normal self, but all of that changed as soon as we stepped out of the cab. As we walked through the revolving doors into the palatial hotel lobby, he was more jumpy and nervous than I had ever seen him before. I couldn't blame him; I was pretty anxious myself. I followed Pete to the elevator with my head down, dodging the stares of all our fellow hotel guests as they took note of our rumpled hair and slept-in clothing and praying that we didn't run into anyone who would recognize us before we could at least get back our rooms and change clothes.

To dispose of the evidence, a little voice inside my head sneered.

As we stepped into the elevator--alone, thank goodness--and the doors swept closed before us, I reminded myself that I had done nothing wrong. So we were friends; that was all it was. There was nothing to feel guilty about. No reason to bow my head.

I had almost convinced myself that I was completely innocent when the elevator stopped at the tenth floor. The elevator doors slid open again and Patrick Stump stood there facing us on the other side. Pete and I were almost as stunned to see him there as he was to see us, and we stood there gaping at each other for so long that the doors started to close again before Stump had gotten on.

It was Pete who had the presence of mind to dive for the elevator doors, wedging a hand between them before they could separate us from Stump completely. The sudden movement seemed to jar Stump back to his senses, and he blinked a few times. He shook his head as if to clear it as he stepped onto the elevator.

"Thanks, man," he muttered to Pete.

"No problem. Top floor, right?" said Pete.

"Yeah."

Stump leaned against one side of the elevator and, without thinking, I moved to stand beside Pete on the opposite side. We stood there staring at each other--Pete and I at Stump, and Stump at Pete and I--across the narrow width of the elevator as it hummed and bumped along towards the top floor. Eventually, Stump was the first to speak.

"So, you guys are up early," he said conversationally. He adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose with shaking hands, betraying the casual tone of his voice.

"Yeah," said Pete, his voice quick and sharp and utterly guilty. I stared down at my shoes, willing myself into nothingness. "We just, uh... We went to breakfast."

"Right, right... Me too, uh--I just got something to eat downstairs, you know--complimentary breakfast... I've been down there all morning, I didn't see you guys leave."

There was a question in Stump's voice that neither of us wanted to answer.

"Yeah, well...we left pretty early..." muttered Pete half-heartedly. "You probably just missed us."

"Probably." But the way Stump said it, it didn't sound like an agreement.

It was quiet for the longest time. I couldn't believe how long it was taking for the stupid elevator to carry us up eight stupid floors. Why was it taking so long?

"Pete..." said Stump, and it was weird how his voice shook with fear when we were the ones in trouble here. "Didn't you..." I looked up at him and he was licking his lips nervously, his blue eyes steely and unforgiving despite the boyishness of his pale, round, sweet face. "Didn't you just wear that shirt yesterday?"

I didn't turn to look at Pete, but I was close enough to hear him swallow, to feel him shift his weight from foot to foot on the flimsy metal floor of the elevator beneath us. I heard the rhythm of his fingertips drumming against the steel railing behind us--a nervous habit.

"Yeah," said Pete. I could tell by the tone of his voice that he was forcing a cheesy smile. "You know me. I wear shit for weeks. I pretty much never shower. I leave rings in the bathtub."

Pete laughed and Stump and I laughed with him--a chorus of hollow, strained sounds. Finally, the elevator reached our floor and the three of us practically burst out of the elevator, eager to flee the scene and put that awkward encounter behind us.

We all retreated to our separate rooms without so much as a goodbye, and I shut myself away in my own private suite, relieved to be alone. But the guilt followed me there, too, as I sat alone in the accusing silence.

-----

A shower, a change of clothes, some make-up, half of an apple for breakfast, and an hour later, the four members of Fall Out Boy and I piled into the back of that familiar black SUV and headed for Washington Square Park. Luckily, Stump, Hurley, and Pete sat in the first row of seats, so I sat in the back with Trohman--the only bad member I felt entirely comfortable sitting with at this point.

I was worried that, after the elevator ride with Pete and Stump earlier, the car ride to Washington Square Park would be painfully awkward, but Stump and Pete acted like nothing had ever happened. They laughed and talked together, reminiscing about the "old days" and finishing each other's sentences as they told stories about the crazy pranks they used to pull on each other on tour. I just sat and listened in companionable silence as all four band members bantered back and forth between each other. They were all excited about this "secret show"; not only was it a way to give back to their true fans, but it was a way to get back to the "old days" I could tell they all longed for--the old days that they missed so much.

In the few days we had spent together, I had asked Pete about all the "you changed" accusations he was getting from fans these days, and I was always surprised by how defensive his answers were. At first I assumed it was because he got that question all the time; then I thought maybe it was because he was just deeply hurt that the people he wanted to please the most had branded him a sell-out. It wasn't until I saw the way his eyes lit up when he remembered Fall Out Boy's very first show that I realized it was because Pete knew just as well as anyone how much Fall Out Boy had changed, and no matter how often he insisted it was for the best that they grow and mature, he really wanted nothing more than to go back to being the Fall Out Boy that played half-empty clubs, not sold-out arenas. It wasn't until I saw how excited he was about the secret show that I realized that he hated the change more than anyone.

But not even Pete Wentz could stop the world from turning. He couldn't keep Fall Out Boy from changing any more than the bitter die-hards could. Those things happen. It's life. You just have to accept it. You have to put on a brave face and do the best you can with the hand you're dealt.

He never meant to, but Pete taught me that.

-----

Washington Square Park was packed by the time the black SUV arrived. So packed, in fact, that the four members of Fall Out Boy had hardly climbed out of the car with big smiles on their faces before some guy with an official-looking laminated name tag around his neck came over and informed them that they would be arrested if they continued with the concert. There were too many crazy kids there with too little security, and Fall Out Boy hadn't O.K.-ed a public concert with the city. They didn't have a permit. Technically, this secret show was illegal.

Their smiles long gone, Fall Out Boy waited for a final word on whether or not they would really be arrested for playing this show, talking with their "people" in low voices and watching the kids in the crowd fidget impatiently behind the make-shift barrier. A few cops from the NYPD hovered around the edges of the huge mass of people, eyeing the band and their handlers icily, as if the makings of a small, impromptu pop-punk concert could turn into mass hysteria at any moment.

Pete put on a pair of red sunglasses that matched the scarf he was wearing and talked to pretty much everyone but me, joking around and grinning all the while, as if none of this really bothered him. But I could tell he was nervous and worried and upset by the way he moved his feet too much, the way he smiled too big, the way he made lazy, absent-minded jokes that everyone laughed at just because he was Pete Wentz.

I saw right through the act. Maybe that's why he wouldn't so much as look at me.

But his charade dissolved as soon as he was assured that Fall Out Boy would definitely be arrested if they tried to go on with this show. Pete squared his shoulders beneath his puffy winter coat and did what he always did--he tried to talk his way into getting whatever he wanted. "It'll be low-key," he insisted. "Like, we'll just play one song--acoustic...no microphones, nothing."

Alas, the NYPD was immune to Pete Wentz's strange charm. No dice.

Fall Out Boy took the stage to apologize to the fans for not delivering on the concert they had promised them. Stump sang "Grand Theft Autumn/Where Is Your Boy" and Hurley and Trohman and all the fans clapped and sang along. Pete just stood there staring out at all the faces in the crowd--all the people he had let down--and nodded along occasionally, his dark sunglasses hiding the disconcerted look in his eyes. Still, I knew it was there.

They finished the song and we returned to the long black SUV, disappointed. The car ride back to the hotel was quiet. Hurley tapped out one of his constant rhythms against one leg and Stump made a half-hearted joke that no one laughed at; Trohman made some comment about the weather and I told Stump that his voice sounded great today. We all complained about the NYPD a little and then we just shut up and listened to the bad music on the radio.

Pete didn't say a word the whole way back.

-----

When we got back to the hotel, Pete tore out of the SUV and darted into the hotel lobby before the rest of us had even unfastened our seatbelts. The four of us followed him into the lobby just in time to see a pair of cold metallic elevator doors sliding shut, Pete standing behind them with a grim look on his face. Stump sighed and pressed a button to summon the other elevator.

"Maybe you should go talk to him," he said as we waited on the elevator.

I looked around to see who he was talking to, but Hurley and Trohman were a good six feet away. "Who? Me?"

Stump shrugged and looked down at the floor, a little embarrassed for some reason. "Well...yeah."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I just think...I think he'd listen to you more," Stump mumbled.

"Really? He's been avoiding me all day," I said sourly.

"Oh, well...yeah, don't worry about that. It's not you. Well--I mean, it is you, but--well..." he rambled. "It's not because he doesn't like you, okay? Lets just put it that way."

The elevator arrived and Stump stepped inside before the doors were fully open, overly eager for a distraction. I hurried in after him and immediately pressed the button to close the doors.

"Hey, wait--" said Stump, lunging to open the doors again as they slid shut in front of Hurley and Trohman.

"Oops," I said insincerely. I pressed the button for the top floor and the elevator began to rise. Sure, I felt bad for Hurley and Trohman--who we had left behind to wait on a third elevator--but I needed to be alone with him. I turned to Stump and cut right to the chase. "What do you mean, 'it's not because he doesn't like you'?"

"Awww," Stump groaned. "I don't know. I don't know what I meant."

"Patrick. Come on."

He sighed and buried his hands deep in his jean jacket, staring at the rows of buttons on the wall instead of at me. "I'm not going to discuss this with you."

"Why not?" I said innocently.

"Because it's none of my business!" said Stump shrilly. But he was getting flustered; he would break soon. I guess he knew this too, because he sighed again, and admitted to the floor, "He's just scared. You know?"

The confined space of the elevator was silent except for the dull hum of the machine pulling us up steadily. Then I said, "I know."

The elevator finally arrived at the top floor and Stump turned to me one last time before we parted ways. "Just--just talk to him, okay?" he said wearily.

I nodded. "Okay."

And despite everything, Patrick Stump smiled at me a little before he turned and walked off down the hallway, towards his own hotel room. And I turned and walked the other way, toward the very room I should have been avoiding at all costs. Because he had asked me to? Yeah, that's what I told myself as I knocked on Pete Wentz's door.

But when the door swung open and when I saw his face--finally rid of the horrible red sunglasses meant to mask his emotions--I knew that I would have come anyway.

"Hey," he said, and I was surprised by how raspy his voice sounded. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Hey."

"Hi." I opened my mouth to make some excuse about what I was doing at his door, but before I could get the words out, he stepped to the side and indicated with a sweep of his hand that I should come in. So I did.

He closed the door behind me and then moved past me to wind his way through the mess he had made of his suite. If it had been messy a few days ago, it was practically desecrated now. Dirty clothes, food wrappers, books, CDs and stacks of paper were piled up everywhere. Almost every surface in the room--the floor, the table, the chairs, the miniature kitchen counter, and even the bed--was covered in clutter of some sort. I could barely walk without tripping over something.

"Sorry about the mess," he mumbled.

The door to the balcony was ajar, and he stepped out onto it. I followed him.

It was really, really cold out there on that balcony, and I hugged my arms against my chest, wishing we could just go back inside. But soon enough, I was so perplexed by his behavior that I forgot about the biting cold completely.

"You've been avoiding me all day," I said as I joined him in leaning against the railing.

"Is that so?" he replied absently.

It was a very un-Pete-like sort of response, and I felt a little shaken up by it, but I didn't let it show. "Yep," I said.

"Huh." He just stood there staring out at all of New York City laid out before him, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like he always did when he was nervous. The sunglasses were gone, but he kept his face turned away from me so I couldn't read the look in his eyes. He dug around in his pocket for something. "Can I borrow your lighter?" he said, his eyes still averted.

"Uh...sure," I agreed uneasily. My hand touched the smooth plastic of the lighter in my back pocket automatically. When I looked up at him to hand him the lighter, I was shocked to see an unlit cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

"Thanks," he said, his voice muffled by the cigarette pursed between his lips. He cupped his hands around the cigarette and lit it, then handed the lighter back to me.

I watched him take an unsteady drag. His hands shook and he choked on the smoke a little, then let it all out in one crude, hacking gasp.

"You don't smoke."

He shrugged. He took one more drag and then put out the cigarette against the metal railing, flicking the dead stub off into the distance.

"Are you okay?" I asked him, seriously concerned by his behavior.

"Yeah." He leaned into the railing and shook his hair back into his face like the emo kid he supposedly was. "I'm okay. Just stupid."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because I am. I thought..." He trailed off, chuckling bitterly. "I thought that...that today could be like...like the old days again...you know?" He shook his head, and I caught a glimpse of his eyes crinkling around the edges in pain. "I was so stupid, Sarah. I should've known... It'll never be like the old days again."

And something about the way his voice sounded just then made something inside of me crumple.

"Oh, Pete...I'm so sorry."

And I didn't even think about it. I just closed the distance between us, wrapped my arms around him and pulled him so close, and he held me back, and I felt all his pain as he trembled and shook in my arms and I squeezed him tighter, like I could force all the hurt out of him if I could just hold him tight enough. And he held me back, still, and we almost felt like one--almost whole, like two broken halves mashed together into some crude farce of what we were before. And it didn't feel perfect at all, but it felt right somehow, even though we were clinging so tightly to each other that we must've left bruises and he was shaking--maybe crying--and I was biting my lip because I didn't know what to say, and I could barely hear his voice pressed into my shoulder, but I knew the words anyway.

"I just wish I could go back, you know?" he whispered into me over and over again. "I wish I could just go back..."

And it seemed like so much time had passed, but still, I didn't know what to say. So I told him, "Me too."

And it was the truth.

After a while, he raised his head and stepped back from me just far enough to get a good look at my face, but he didn't let go of me. He never let go of me. His eyes were glassy and the look on his face was like an open wound when he said, "Can I ask you something?" and honestly, I would have given him anything.

"Yes," I said.

"Do you believe in...soulmates?" he asked. And he looked right at me.

I swallowed hard and tried to return his gaze evenly. "Yes."

"How do you know...when you find them?"

"You just...know."

He nodded as if this made perfect sense.

When he didn't say anything else, I said playfully, "So it's my turn to ask you a question now, right?"

He didn't smile as I'd hoped he would--he just nodded again, his eyes tight. "Sure."

"Okay." I took a deep breath and willed myself to be brave. "Why... Why are you so afraid of me?"

"Because..." he said softly. "I...I'm not in control around you. You make me feel like...like everything I used to think was true...maybe isn't after all. You know?"

Something inside of me flickered in recognition. "I know."

Pete licked his lips nervously. "Can I ask you another question now?"

"Sure."

"Okay. What...what would you do if...if..."

He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against mine; though my brain was screaming at me to pull away, I leaned into him instinctively. He opened his eyes again, and holy shit, he was just so close, his breath soft and warm and easy against my face when he spoke...

He tried again, and the words flowed smoothly, confidently this time. "What would you do if..."

He paused to breathe in and I swear, all at once I knew exactly what was coming next--but I still wasn't ready for it. I don't think I could have ever been ready for it.

"...If I kissed you right now?"

I remember every single little detail about that moment--I remember the cold wind on my back, the gray backdrop of New York City all around us, the sounds of car alarms squawking and people talking and cars rushing by on the streets below, the sharp wintry smell of December, the feeling of his arms wrapped around me and my arms wrapped around him and his body close to mine, and the smell of mint gum and the one cigarette on his breath, and the heat of him pressed so close, and the smile on his lips and the straight white lines of his teeth and the dark loveliness of his eyes, and the question there.

This question was more important than the others. And I could see the uncertainty in his eyes as he wondered how I would answer it.

My senses came back to me and I pushed aside all the things I was suddenly hyperaware of, and I forced myself to give him the answer I knew was right. "I...I would slap you," I said.

In true Pete Wentz fashion, his reaction was completely unexpected: for a moment, he just smiled at me like this was the best news he had ever recieved. And then he kissed me.

And I kissed him back.

When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against mine again and looked into my eyes, and I stared right back. And, goddamn him, he was still smiling at me as he said, "You're such a fucking liar."