You're Magic

The ride to the airport is kind of weird. I don't talk to Pete and he doesn't talk to me. The radio is turned on low and it's playing grunge music.

Pete knows I hate grunge music.

I shut off the radio and shove my feet up onto the dashboard. Pete reaches over and takes my hand in his and even though it's such an innocent gesture, it makes me angry and sad and way too emotional. I rip my hand away from his and tangle my fingers together, glaring out the window.

"What's wrong, sweet pea?" Pete's voice is hurt and he puts his hand back on the steering wheel.

"Nothing." My voice is choked and I duck into the hood of his Stay Gold hoodie (that I stole) further.

"Are you sad about leaving?"

Remember all those times I said, "We don't talk, but we don't really need to?" I wish this was one of those times. Sometimes we don't need to talk, other times I don't want to. This would be one of those times.

"Evelyn."

"What, Pete?" The sleeves of his sweatshirt are bunched up around my fingers and I'm rubbing my eyes.

"Whats the matter?"

"I don't know, Pete. How much longer until we're there?" I pleadingly change the subject, but he yo-yos it right back.

"Twenty minutes. Now, please, what's bothering you?"

"I don't want to go." It comes out as a whisper and I bury my face in my hands again.

"Do you think I want you to go? Of course not. Do you need to go? Yes. Will you be back? Eventually."

I hold out my hand and it's shaky and there's some mascara smeared on my fingers but he holds it anyway. Pete's sort of smiling to himself but it also kind of looks like a grimace. I don't say anything even though there's so much I could say. There's so much I should say. I think Pete knows that, but he doesn't say anything for a little while, either.

"I love you," Pete murmurs eventually. His voice is low and gruff and saccharine and it reminds me of molasses and honey. I lean just close enough for my lips to brush against his jaw.

"Iloveyoutoo," I whisper in his ear and he smiles big. So big.

We get to the airport and wait in lines and they're long and awful and it's sort of awkward between me and Pete. He tries talking but the attempts are one-sided and I just rest my head against his arm and continue to be miserable. There's more people with cameras and Pete says let them take pictures and put them on their websites because he doesn't care. Our faces are shielded with sunglasses, hoods pulled up. I feel like I'm trying to go undercover only it's not working. He tells me it doesn't even matter that much, but I know it does. They ask questions that he won't answer, and I just keep my head down and stay close to Pete.

"Her name is Evelyn, okay? Now stop asking because it's none of your business." Pete snaps, gripping my hand.

This is only really a problem until we get through security and to my gate. Pete insists that he needs to go with me, which is a lie, and the only way he gets through is by signing autographs. I don't question it, however, because I'd like to savor every moment I have left.

The wait is supposed to be an hour and half but there's an extra hour delay. Pete's playing with his Blackberry, tapping his fingers on my leg. I check my Twitter feed.

petewentz: goodbye sunshine.

evelyn1614: @petewentz not-so-good-bye :(

I rest my head against Pete's arm. He talks every now and then about nothing in particular. About Twitter or Bronx or the people around us. Now he's going on about love and I'm not really listening. I catch just the last bit of what he says, "And I wrote about love so many times that I'm practically guaranteed to get carpal tunnel. But I don't think I could capture what it's like to be with you."

I smile to myself and I feel bad that I haven't been listening to anything he's been saying. I press my lips to his jaw and shut my eyes. The time goes by so slowly but so quickly. The two of us sit together tucked away in our own little world, Pete with his arm around me and me wanting to fall asleep forever. Eventually the time comes when my flight is called. Pete and I stand and I hug him to me tight. "Thank you," I whisper, "for everything."

And then we're kissing and it's more sad than romantic and I feel kind of miserable already knowing we're not going to see each other for at least two months. I'm hugging Pete to me and I'm starting to cry, but he's smiling and kissing my cheekbones.

"Don't cry, honeycomb head," he whispers. "It's okay. C'mon." He takes my hand in his and picks up my carry-on. He begins walking in the direction of the boarding line. I stay rooted to my spot on the weird patterned carpet. "Are you coming or what?" Pete asks, annoyed.

"What the fuck are--"

"We're going to New York, aren't we?" Pete's grinning so wide I think it might get stuck. I grab his hand and kiss his cheek and he's pulling me into the boarding line. He pulls a ticket from his back pocket and hands it to the flight attendant lady. I don't know how he pulled this one off, but he sure as hell got me. The flight attendant looks at him for a second, looks at the name on the ticket then asks for an autograph. Pete tells her of course, pulling a piece of paper from his pocket and taking the sharpie she holds out. He tells her she's very pretty and she gives me the "Don't kill me because your boyfriend hit on me" look. I don't get mad because this girl is pretty. She's Dove Soap ad pretty with dark hair, tan skin, and white teeth. I roll my eyes and grip Pete's hand tighter.
..........

"You're an asshole," I tell Pete, wiping my still teary eyes. "Why didn't you tell me?" My voice is quiet. We're in first class on a direct flight and there are three other people. One is a business man, the other a very pretty woman and the last an older man in cowboy boots.

"I wanted to surprise you, of course!" Pete shrugs.

"You're a dick. You put me through all of that for nothing?"

"I didn't want to, Ev but, again, I wanted to surprise you!"

"I can't believe you." I roll my eyes and put on the seat belt that the flight attendant is instructing us to secure. I take Pete's hand in mine and fold our fingers together. "I love you, though," I say, a little smile on my face. Pete smiles back and slumps down in his seat to get comfortable.

We get to the beloved 31,000 feet and Pete takes my iPhone to play with. He takes a picture of the two of us that I look awful in but he insists I look great. I find it interesting that people do this all the time-- document their lives to share on the Internet with millions of people.

Pete tweets the image with the caption "31,000 ft. with the girlfriend."

"I give it five minutes before you start getting erotic at-replies." I tease, pulling a copy of The Catcher in the Rye from my carry on.

"Would you bet your life on it?" He hands me my phone, spazzing over the amount of at-replies. I roll my eyes and plop it back into his lap.

"Go blog about your life, pansy. I just got the new Tumblr app." I laugh and start to read.

I'm on chapter five when Pete hands me my phone and it's opened to his Tumblr. The writing is amazing and cryptic about a "someone" and then there's a little blurb explaining my name is Evelyn and that we're together and stuff about privacy and being nice. Then there's a picture of the two of us from years ago walking down the street by my house that he must have found in my photos. Under it it says, "Circa 2004/2005 Evelyn's magic." The smile on my lips is soft and sure and Pete squeezes my knee gently. He pulls the book from my hands and we argue about my sleeping habits in hushed tones, for everyone else has dozed off.

"Please, Baby Girl. You need rest."

The name Baby Girl hits me and makes me smile and I get butterflies. Pete hasn't called me that in years. I smile and rest my head against his arm with my eyes closed.

"You called me Baby Girl." The words are quiet and slow and Pete shifts under me.

"I know I called you that," he says into my hair. "Now go to sleep. I love you."

I don't argue or say anything back because I'm still in that glow of having him call me Baby Girl. It's always been my favorite name, which is why I call Bronx Baby Boy. The name holds a special place in my heart.

..........

The next time I wake up there's only an hour or so left on our flight according to Pete, who is still awake and reading The Catcher in the Rye. "Hey, sleepyhead." He smiles, shutting the book. I rub my eyes and slump my shoulders. I never have anything to say after sleeping. "Have a good sleep?" I nod. "Do you want anything? Candy or something to drink?" Pete's such a good boyfriend. The fucking best.

As he stands to find me a drink I smile and pick up my phone. The twelfth or thirteenth tweet down is Pete.

petewentz: baby girl's asleepin on a jet plane.

The replies are all "Awww" or something related. I also see that Pete's changed my Twitter name to Evelynmarie. I don't know why but I decide, ultimately, it's better not to question his ways.

evelynmarie: @petewentz you're lookin' cute. sleepless and NYC bound.

Pete returns bearing a bottle of water and Reese's Cups. "I know it's not the healthiest thing, but you should probably eat a little something," Pete starts, bending down to catch my lips in his. My fingers travel up to his hair, his fingers reach down to curl around the side of my neck. After a minute I'm getting lightheaded and Pete smiles before pulling away. "And the pretty flight attendants wanted pictures." Pete rolls his eyes before taking a bite of a Reese's Cup, tossing the other two in my lap.

"Really now? Why would they want pictures with you?" I tease, taking a sip of water.

Pete takes my hand and runs his thumb along my fingers, looking at my newly painted nails with electric blue polish. We're quiet for a few seconds before a flight attendant walks over to ask if we need anything. Pete says no, but she's pretty and she smiles wildly, touching his shoulder before walking away. Ah, Peter Wentz, what a charmer. Always making people feel good. He kisses me and it's soft and quick and innocent.

He looks into my eyes with a slightly mischievous smile on his lips. "They're definitely not prettier than you."