Afraid of the Dark

"Do you want something to drink?"

I watched Pete cross his hotel room to the wet bar I had never noticed before, where he produced a bottle of champagne from some hidden cabinet. With the clink of glass, two champagne flutes followed, and he stood there looking at the two glasses together for a while, fingering the corkscrew in his hand absently. Then he opened the bottle and filled both glasses almost to the brim.

I stood near the doorway of his room, but I wasn't aware of myself; I felt like I wasn't even standing there, like I was watching from a ghost's perspective, caught up in some strange out-of-body experience. When he handed me my drink, I couldn't even feel the glass in my hand.

He sat down on one of the sofas arranged artfully around the suite. I didn't move. He patted the space beside him on the sofa.

"Sit," he said.

I didn't sit beside him. Instead, I took a spot on the sofa opposite his--as far away from him as I could manage.

He tipped his glass at me. "Take a drink." He took a sip of his own champagne, leading by example.

I obeyed without thinking. I didn't notice the taste. I looked up at him sitting there, so far away from me, and suddenly I felt stupid for ever coming here in the first place.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I shouldn't have come."

Pete downed the rest of his drink with a grimace and leaned forward to set the empty glass on the coffee table. When he straightened up again, the look on his face was grave. "No, you shouldn't have," he said very carefully. "But I'm glad you did."

We sat in silence as I tried not to think about what he had just said. I stared down into my glass for a minute or two, and then, deciding that this was the absolute worst time I could think of to get drunk, I placed the full glass of champagne on the table, alongside Pete's empty one.

"So...you're going home tomorrow, right?" Pete's tone was subdued. "You're gonna go home and write an article about us."

"I guess so."

He folded his arms across his chest, leaning his chin down and curling into himself like a sulking child. He looked almost mad, but I guess he was just deep in thought, because a few seconds later, he asked, "So when did you decide to become a writer?"

One last interview, I thought to myself, and the look on his face--all business--confirmed it.

"Hm. Well..." I remembered the day, but wondered if I should tell him or not. I did anyway. "In the sixth grade, we had to write a personal narrative. I wrote mine about my relationship with my sister, and how even though we argued sometimes, I really loved her, and she was my best friend. I got an A on it, and it was published in the local newspaper and everything."

"Wow." He actually looked impressed, and that broke my heart.

"Yeah," I said, laughing bitterly, "except it wasn't true. I really can't stand my sister. We never got along. At all."

Pete stared. "You made the whole thing up?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"I don't know. It was just...what I had always wanted, you know? A sister I could be close to. A best friend." As I tried to justify the lie to myself, I couldn't look him in the eyes. "And that was the only time my mom was ever really proud of me..."

I didn't have to explain. The silence that followed said more than I ever could have.

"So when did you decide to be a musician?" I said finally.

He half-smiled, half-frowned, but didn't laugh. "I don't think I ever really decided anything," he said. "It just kind of happened. You know?"

"Yeah. I guess I do."

More silence.

"I never meant for it to be like this," said Pete. He stared down at his hands in his lap. "I mean, I never meant for it to become...what it did. I always thought we'd be different. But I guess we became exactly what they all were...just in different ways." He looked up at me through dark eyelashes and clarified, "The band, I mean."

"Oh."

"You can tell them that if you want," he said softly.

"Tell who what?"

"Tell your readers. That I'm sorry."

I didn't know what to say.

"I don't know what happened. I just...somewhere along the way... I forgot what I came here for. You know?"

I nodded.

"It's like the thing with Ashlee. Some days, I'm in love with her. But some days I'm not even sure if I know what love is. I mean, sometimes I wonder if I've ever loved anyone. And sometimes..."

A sigh.

"Sometimes I wish we hadn't had Bronx. Sometimes I wish we weren't married. I mean..."

He pressed his fingers together, raising them in a steeple as if in prayer, and stared into space. He chuckled bitterly under his breath.

"Sometimes...I wish I'd never met her. Sometimes I hate her. Sometimes I...sometimes I even hate him. How terrible is that?"

The silence between us felt unsteady, trembling with some dark energy. I couldn't look at him.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because we're doing an interview!" said Pete, and the sudden force of his voice made me jump. "You're interviewing me! That's what I'm supposed to do--I'm supposed to tell you things--"

"Not things like this, Pete." My voice shook.

"What kind of things am I supposed to tell you then, Sarah? Huh? You want me to tell you everything is perfect? That fairies and unicorns really do exist and one day you'll marry Prince Charming and your dad will be there to walk you down the aisle?"

The words stung like a slap in the face, but I was too shocked to move, too hurt to flinch. I just sat there, staring stupidly, as I tried not to realize what he was saying.

But he was on a roll. "That's not how life works, Sarah," said Pete, his lips curling, his tone slicing me deep. "Life fucking sucks. There's only a few ways to get it right, and most people screw up somewhere along the way. I screwed up, and I think it's safe to say that you have, too. Haven't you?"

I couldn't answer.

Suddenly the steely look in his eyes gave way, and his expression crumbled into one of pain. He closed his eyes and hid his face in his hands. His voice was muffled as he said, "I just...I don't know what to do, Sarah. I really don't. I don't know what to fucking do."

I wanted to leave, to just walk away from the mess I had made, but I couldn't. Something inside wouldn't let go of this place, of him--something held me there, captivated, even as he broke down before my eyes.

I assumed he was crying, but I couldn't know for sure. When he finally showed his face again, I wouldn't look at him, but stared down at the carpet instead. I watched his expensive neon Supras move as he got to his feet and paced across the room.

When he finally spoke again, his voice came from the other side of the room, near the balcony.

"You know," he said, so clearly, so matter-of-factly, "I fell in love with you the first time I saw you. You were just sitting there, and..."

I was on my feet before I could even process what was happening, and then I heard myself say, "I think I should go."

He was standing with his back turned to me, facing the windows by the balcony. Outside, it was the blackest of nights, polluted by the yellow-orange lights of the city all around us. He said nothing, and in the reflection of the window, his face was unreadable.

I turned to leave.

When my hand touched the doorknob, he stopped me.

"You can't just pretend I didn't say it."

He waited for me to stop and turn around and face him, because he knew that I would. And I did.

When I turned to look at him, he was staring right at me, his dark eyes glittering in the dim light. He looked like he was about to cry.

"You can't just block out the truth," he said, and his voice was less steady, less calm now. "Because you know the truth Sarah--it's in here," he said, patting his heart, "and you can't hide from that. That follows you everywhere."

I wanted to run, but I couldn't. I wanted to stay, but I couldn't. I stood there, rooted to the spot, torn between a thousand conflicting emotions. Why wouldn't he just let me go already?

I swallowed hard and mustered what little strength I had left. "What do you want from me, Pete?"

"Just tell me the truth," he breathed, his eyes alight with some sick blend of triumph and adoration and pain and passion. "Just tell yourself the truth for once."

He half-smiled, half-grimaced, his gaze wondering. "Why did you come here tonight? What are you doing here? Just tell me the truth, Sarah."

A second passed, my heartbeat pounding once. Twice. Three times.

"The truth is..."

The words dangled on the tip of my tongue, longing for the replacement of a lie instead; I forced them out before I could back down from the truth. I had to get it out.

"The truth is...I'm in love with you."

So there it was.

The worst thing about the truth is that you can't take it back. What's true once is always true in the context of that particular situation. You have no "it was all just a misunderstanding"s or "I swear I didn't mean it"s to fall back on. It is what it is.

And this particular truth was Earth-shattering.

It all happened so fast, and yet so slowly. He crossed the room to where I stood by the door, and then his hand was on my face, his fingers running through my hair, cupping my cheekbones gently. He was so close that our breath mingled, with his forehead pressed to mine and our noses touching. Then he moved as if to kiss me, but I pulled away.

"This is wrong." My voice cracked as I stated the obvious.

Pete shook his head, but he said, "Yes. Very wrong. Very, very wrong."

But the fire blazed on in his eyes--black with passion, as bleak and inviting and neverending as eternity.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm not good. For you." He added the last part a second too late, and the words formed two separate statements.

I said, "I know. I don't mind."

And the worst part was that I knew it was the truth.

He came close again, and this time I leaned into him. His body was soft and warm against mine and I was suddenly sure that he was meant to be a part of me.

When he pressed his lips to my ear, he whispered, "I can't make you any promises."

"I don't want you to," I said.

Then the lights were out. We spent the night in darkness, crossing the lines we had blurred beyond recognition together. And for the first time in a long time, I wasn't afraid anymore.