You're Magic

"So, can I ask you something?" I'm looking down, picking at my nail polish. Then I look down to the end of the bar. There's a redhead in a tank top and miniskirt sucking face with a man in a business suit. I look back at Pete and he's smiling at me. I realize he's just said of course I can, so I try to properly phrase my question. "Well, I was just wondering," I look up at him again and he's sipping from his glass of Sam Adams. He urges me to continue with a crinkle of his eyebrows. "Remember when you cut up your face? I was just wondering what happened." I sigh. It sounds stupider out loud.

"That, my dear, is a story for another time." He's smiling, but I can tell he doesn't want to talk about it. "Come on, let's get out of here." He stands and I stand too, walking past the redhead and the business man.

We get outside and it smells like cigarettes and California air. I hear taxi cabs and cars in the distance. I walk next to Pete with my hands shoved into the pockets of my jacket. He does the same. We get to my hotel and we ride the elevator quietly to the sixth floor. It's not that awkward, even though I feel like it should be. Pete walks me to my room and we still don't talk. "Do you want to come in for a little while?" I ask, opening the door.

"Definitely," he says and the four syllables are music to my ears.

We sit down on the creme colored couch. It's dark in the living room, light spilling in from the lamp by the door. Pete turns to face me, resting his arm on the top of the couch. I'm looking at anything but him. I stare at the tan rug, the coffee bean walls, the mahogany coffee table, the turned off television.

"Hey, you." He pokes my forearm. I look at him now and he's smiling.

"Hey what?"

"What's wrong?" His smile's gone. He's looking at me, but I'm not looking at him. Instead I'm studying the buttons on his shirt, his jeans, his hands. I bring my feet up to the couch to sit criss-cross. "When are you leaving?" He asks suddenly.

"Six days."

"Okay," he's nodding now. I look at the clock and the red numbers read 12:43 A.M.

"Should you be getting home?"

"Nah," he shakes his head. "No one's expecting me or anything." The way he says it is almost as if he's devaluing himself. No one's expecting him...or anything.

"Okay." I'm picking at my nail polish now, the little red chips falling onto my jeans like snowflakes.

"Stop that, it's bad for your nails." Pete puts his hands on top of mine and it gives me butterflies. And it's stupid because it's not like he hasn't held my hand before, but this time it's different. It shouldn't be, but it is.

"How's the Baby Boy?" I ask, referring to Bronx.

"Getting big. He's not a baby anymore." Pete laughs now.

"He's almost three?"

"Yup."

"He looks like you."

"Mhm," Pete nods. He's staring at the floor, his right thumb running along the palm of my left hand. "He's with his mother until Sunday."

"Well that's nice," I hum. We sit quiet. "Hey, you." I tap his hand. Pete's eyes lock with mine almost instantly. "What's wrong?"

Pete shakes his head. "Nothing. I'm just thinking."

"Okay."

"Have you been writing?" He asks.

"Not as much as I'd like to."

"Still working at the magazine?"

"Yeah."

"That's nice. Still living in Manhattan?"

"Mhm. But I'm looking at some houses in Connecticut right by there. You know?"

"Yeah, those are nice."

A silence falls over us now, his hand is still gripping mine. His eyes are tracing over the walls, the carpet, the table.

"How're you doing? Hows that new band of yours?" I turn the conversation his way because I'm not comfortable talking about myself.

"Really great." He perks up almost immediately. "The music is super different and fun and people like it and Bebe, she's really, really great."

"That's good, Pete." I smile at him.

"Yeah, I'm happy about that." We're quiet again until Pete asks, "Do you mind if I order some wine?" I tell him it's fine and he reaches around me to call room service. Once he's called he remains sprawled across my lap. I pet his hair and he's smiling with his eyes closed.

There's a knock on the door ten minutes later and Pete gets up reluctantly. There's a tired, middle aged room attendant outside the door with our wine and then I realize I don't even know what kind Pete ordered. He says thank you and hands her a bill from his pocket. Her face instantly brightens at the amount. She says thankyouthankyouthankyou before he shuts the door. How very A-List of him.

Pete's smiling to himself as he pours the wine. He hands me my glass and I swirl it around and smell it before I take a sip. It smells sweet. It tastes sweet and rich. Pete's drinking his own, mimicking my actions. We both watch the red liquid slosh around in his glass.

"Good choice." I tell him. And it is-- it's just what I needed.

"Thanks." We're quiet for a very long time and we just keep drinking. By my fourth glass I have to say no more. Pete has another then calls it quits because it's always a lot less fun to drink alone.

"Wanna stay the night?" I ask, my speech slightly slurred.

"I'd better not," he's giggling profusely. "We don't know what could happen."

I giggle too. "Nothing's gonna happen, Pete. Let's go." I stand from the couch and pull him up. He gets into bed while I find pajamas and brush my teeth. By the time we're both settled it's 3:07 A.M and we're both tired. I feel Pete take my hand in his.

"Evelyn?"

"Yeah, Pete?" I roll over to look at him.

"I missed you."

"I missed you too."

"I'm sorry I never called or visited or emailed or tweeted or Skyped. I'm sorry she kept us apart." I knew 'she' meant Ashlee.

"She didn't do anything, Pete," my voice takes on a harsh tone. "We were both just busy with our lives."

"No, Evelyn. She didn't want me to be with you." Pete's pouting. And it's not one of those fake "feel sorry for me" pouts. It's a real pout. He leans on his elbow, looking down at me. Now his pout is more of a scowl.

"That's nonsense, Pete. You're just tired and drunk. Go to bed."

He throws his head back on the fluffy pillows and says goodnight, squeezing my fingers. He doesn't let go of my hand, and it's okay because I don't want him to. Pete's lolled off in dreamland far sooner than I am. I lay beside a snoring Pete and wonder if what he said was true.

And I know the only reason he's called me up and flown me out here from New York is because he's lonely. And I know the only reason I'm here is because I'm lonely, too. And I thought if I came out here for a week to see him we could just be together and feel a little less lonesome. Maybe it's a bad idea, but I've never been known to make good choices.