The Missing Piece

by Jessica Baxter

  “Ian, that's great!” I say, grabbing his arm and squeezing it.

  His face falls. He just told me Sophie is coming home. Why isn't he smiling?

  “What's wrong?” I ask.

  Silence.

  “Hey,” I say, grabbing his hand. “You can talk to me.”

  He nods his head but doesn't say anything right away.

  I glance around the cafe. The floors are covered with blue and yellow tiles; the wood-paneled walls are painted a sunshine yellow that makes me swoon. Chinese lanterns hang from the ceiling, covering the light bulbs and creating a calm and peaceful environment. The signs directing you to the bathroom are made up of enormous planks of wood with ‘Ladies’ and Gents’ written in a light sky-blue font.

  “Sarah hasn't said anything,” Ian says, his voice is low and distant, nothing more than a whisper. I have to stand on my tiptoes so I can hear him.

  “That's good though, right?”

  “I don't know,” he says, running his hand through his hair. “If she hasn't said anything yet . . . maybe she’s planning something far worse than I imagined.”

  “Oh,” I say, my voice is small. “Um. Maybe, it was an empty threat and she never intended to act on it.”

  “That’s a thought,” Ian says as he shoots me a tight smile. “And, I really hope you’re right, but I can’t shake the feeling in my gut that something horrible is about to happen.”

  The line shifts, and we move forward. An older couple stands in front of us, their hands intertwined as they wait to be seated. The waitress hands them two menus with the phrase ‘good food, good mood’ splayed across the front in bright yellow and then shows them to their table.

  Warmth rises to my cheeks as my eyes flicker to Ian's hand, tightly clasped with mine. His hands are strong and sturdy like an anchor keeping me at bay. The world could be in utter chaos—everything on fire or in ruins—but it wouldn't phase me as long as I have Ian's hand to hold on to. If he's holding my hand, I know I'll always feel safe.

  “Why don't your parents move?”

  “It's complicated,” Ian says, his tone guarded, but his voice isn't mean or unkind. “It's something I've wanted to talk to you about, but a private setting might be better . . . ”

  Before I get the chance to ask Ian why he's being so mysterious, the waitress returns. We order two turkey club sandwiches, two mini bags of Lay’s potato chips, and two bottles of water. The waitress brings us our food neatly packed away in a brown paper sack.

  We leave the cafe, storing the brown paper bags in Ian’s backpack and begin to climb the first flight of stairs. I raise my eyebrows at Ian. “So, why don't your parents want to move?”

  “It's not that they don't want to move,” he says, sighing. “It's more they can't move. My father's job won't allow it.”

  A small shaky laugh escapes my lips. “Is he married to the Queen or something?”

  Ian gives me a look of foreboding. “Pretty close.”

  I stop walking, focusing on the stairs beneath my feet instead. The stairs appear to be made of the same granite as the archway. “What does he do?”

  “Promise you won't run,” he says, as he gives me a sideways glance, his forehead scrunched up in worry.

  “I'm not going anywhere.”

  He nods, his features relaxing some. “My dad is the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom.”

  Say what?

  I press my lips together, making sure my mouth isn't gaping open the way the Genie's does when Princess Jasmine comes on to Jafar. I'm too stunned to say anything. Ian is practically royalty.

  When I don't speak he continues. “You're the only person I've told aside from Liam. Danielle and Calliope know my dad is a politician, but they don't know exactly what it is he does. And, Sarah, well, when she met my parents my dad was just a member of the House of Parliament—which is really no different than senators and congressmen. Emily,” he says, stroking my face. “Please, say something.”

  “I—uh . . .”

  “I'm a bluttering idiot,” he says, dropping my hand. He covers his face with his hands and groans. “I shouldn't have said anything. Leave it to me, to ruin something good when it comes along.”

  “Hey." I pull his hands away from his face and lace my fingers with his once more. “One, I told you I am not going anywhere. Two, your dad's the Prime Minister, big deal, at least he's not a total dickwad like mine. Three,” I say, wrapping my arms around him and nestling my head against his chest.“You are definitely not an idiot.”

  He bends down and kisses my hair.

  “So, are you ready to climb the stairs to nowhere or are you too scared?” I ask, pulling away from Ian.

  Ian’s eyes glint mischievously. “Race you.”

  He shoots past me, his feet pounding as they hit the paved stairs. Startled, I stare after Ian for a few seconds, before chasing after him. He stops at a plateau—where the first set of steps end and a new set begins. He's bent over, hands on his knees as he catches his breath. I take gulping breaths too, as I try to calm my speeding heart.

  We haven't made it that far, but the view is spectacular. The next set of stairs is stunning and beautiful; a heart is painted at the base of the first couple of steps so that when you look at it head on you see a giant red heart. After that, the base of the steps alternates different colors like green, yellow, purple, pink, orange and blue. Tacked to a wood post in front of the next set of stairs there is a sign that reads: Welcome home. Hollywoodland: Now relax and slow down.

  “What is that?” I ask, as soon as I catch my breath.

  Ian looks at me, and then follows my gaze. “Hollywoodland?”

  I nod.

  “It was intended to be a gated housing community for Los Angeles’ elite, but it didn’t work out as planned.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The stock market crashed. America entered the Great Depression. All in all, it was a pretty good idea, the developers just didn’t foresee the potential losses.”

  His eyes meet mine and I melt. Could he be any cuter? Ian is without a doubt the most adorkable being to walk this planet and I love him for it.

  The city of Los Angeles shrinks behind us as we climb the second set of stairs. Little beads of perspiration form at the nape of my neck. I swiftly pull my black hair tie from my wrist and twist my hair into a messy bun. The Los Angeles sun is beating down on us mercilessly.

  Why did I suggest we climb the hidden stairs?

  At the top of the stairs, we take a right towards Westshire Drive, climb a few more steps and follow the path as it starts to loop downhill. We pass other pedestrians, brightly painted doors, and houses that hang off the cliff.

  We take a left to get to the next set of stairs, which are completely shaded by tall, lean oak trees. Thank goodness. My body is sweaty and clammy. Although, it is November in Los Angeles, and technically autumn the temperature is a steady 75 degrees, and I am grateful for the shade.

  This set of stairs is even steeper than the last set we climbed, but the views are even more breathtaking. We pass a set of bronze-colored doors with turtles and suns etched into it. The door is framed with trees covered in colorful shades of brown, orange, yellow and red.

  We reach the top of the stairs at Hollyridge Drive and there’s a gigantic castle on our left. A small moat encloses the castle with a drawbridge leading up to the double wooden doors, which are painted red. Above the doors sits a red coat of arms with the words ‘Hollywoodland Castle’ inscribed into the center of the shield. Two lions sit on either side of the shield, bearing its weight. The left side of the castle is covered in vibrant green moss, while a tower sits on the right.

  A couple stands outside the castle taking wedding photographs. The bride is wearing a beautiful white mermaid style wedding dress. It’s long, elegant, and fits the curves of her body perfectly. The dress ruffles out towards the bottom, once it hits the knees. Her long blonde hair is pulled back into a messy bun, with a few curls falling loose. The groom
is wearing a charcoal black tuxedo and is a foot taller than the bride, even though she’s standing on her tiptoes.

  I close my eyes, letting the sun beat down on my face. Even though I haven't known Ian for long I can't stop thinking about what our future might hold. Images of Ian lying on my living room floor playing Batman with Sammy, riding the Top Thrill Dragster with me at Cedar Point on a summer evening and driving through country back roads fill my mind.

  I bite my lip as an image of me walking down the aisle wearing a white dress forms in my mind. Forcing my eyes open, I quickly glance around. Everything fades away when my eyes land on Ian. The castle, the couple, everything disappears, it’s just me and him and my throbbing heart.

  I study him.

  He strolls around the castle, slowly, steadily, with his hands behind his back, whistling the Jurassic Park theme song. He walks towards the edge of the castle, sits down on a loose rock lining the property and stares out towards the Los Angeles’ skyline. A breeze ruffles his dark hair, he swipes his hand across his head attempting to brush each strand back in place, but only makes it worse.

  I feel his gaze on mine, willing me to sit next to him. All of a sudden, I feel timid, shy and a little uncertain of myself. Why do I feel so out of sorts? I’ve hung out with Ian plenty of times on my own and never felt anything like this. I slowly walk towards him and sit next to him on the boulder. My heart is thumping in my chest and my mind is running a mile a minute.

  My mouth feels dry and coarse as if I just swallowed a bag of cotton balls. I rack my brain for something, anything to say to break the silence, but my mind comes up blank. I don’t know what to say, it’s like I no longer know how to act around him. I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, place my hand on the rock and gaze out at the skyline.

  Forget everything that you’ve heard about New York’s skyline. Los Angeles’ skyline makes New York’s skyline look like a miniature snow globe frozen in place. It is stunning.

  The U.S. Bank Tower sits in the center of the skyline, with smaller buildings surrounding it on the left and right. The tall peaks of the Santa Monica Mountains stand behind the buildings illuminating the skyline and brightening the colors of the buildings.

  Ian shifts beside me.

  My heartbeat quickens. He places his hand inches from mine and I feel as if my heart is running a marathon. I try to control my breathing. I try to focus on the skyline. But all I can see is Ian’s perfectly shaped hand resting so close to mine. His fingers stretch towards mine, and my heart feels like it’s about to explode. His fingers brush lightly against mine. My hand shakes and I blurt out, way too loudly, “It’s beautiful.” I gesture to the skyline.

  Ian turns towards me and then tucks a loose piece of hair behind my ear. “You're beautiful.”

  He cups my face with his hands. Our eyes lock, and just like earlier today, I find him glancing at my lips and then back again. Except, this time as my heart beats rapidly in my chest, he tilts his head, lightly brushing his lips against mine. His kisses are soft, gentle, but then they come with more urgency. He presses his lips against mine with ferocity. I follow his lead as I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him closer and he groans in response. My fingers knot in his hair, his hands slide down to my waist. Our lips crash together as we each try to tell the other exactly how we feel.

  Last time Ian told me I was beautiful I thought it was just the moment, but this time as he pulls away from me and stares deeply into my eyes, I know without a doubt that he really means it.

  Chapter Thirty

  We’re both exhausted and hungry when we finally make it to the end of the hidden stairs. It takes hours of roaming downtown Los Angeles, looking at different menus, until we find a suitable Thanksgiving dinner. We finally find a quaint buffet, across the street from the Hollywood Wax Museum, promising an authentic Thanksgiving dinner.

  I let out a sigh of relief, thankful we finally found somewhere to eat. Ian probably would have settled for any restaurant, but this is my first Thanksgiving away from home and I just want a nice, home-cooked meal. Or, at least the closest thing I can get.

  The waiter leads us to our table and pours us each a glass of Martinelli's Sparkling Apple Cider. I hold my glass up for a toast.

  “To finally finding a suitable Thanksgiving dinner.”

  Ian grins, and I can't help but smile too. “To your mum.”

  My smile falters.

  The last time I called home to ask about my mom, my father refused to tell me how she was doing, even though I begged and cried. He ignored my questions and cut me off.

  At first, I was scared to call him back, worried he'd put me up for adoption or something worse, but the Gaping Hole of Doubt at the pit of my stomach told me if there was any chance of me improving my grades and finishing my senior year, not as a dropout, I needed to know if mom was going to be okay.

  So I called his phone every 15 minutes until he finally caved and told me about her latest scans.

  Mom is doing better, I just—I don't want to put all my hopes up on the shelf only to have them left to collect dust and grime. I close my eyes and inhale.

  Ian's hand reaches across the table and brushes mine. “Em?”

  I look up at him and force a smile; I know I should be happy—no, I shake my head. I should be relieved—but . . . I can't control the swarm of horse flies rising in the pit of my stomach from calling bullhonkey whenever I get hopeful that she'll finally be better.

  “To my mom and her health,” I say, raising my glass and clanking it with Ian's.

  “So, um, you don't have to talk about it,” Ian says as he ties his loose straw wrapper into a knot. “But how is she doing? How's your mum?”

  “She's doing . . .” I pause, not really sure what to say.

  Her most recent tests came back negative, showing no new growth, but does that really mean she's doing good? What's to stop her from waking up in the middle of the night because she can't breathe, again? I rest my head in my hands and slowly breathe through my nose.

  Why is this such a hard question to answer? The test results are good and the radiation is killing the tumor (at least for the moment), so why am I finding it so difficult to talk? And, to Ian of all people—the one person I've grown closest to since being out here.

  “I'm sorry, Em. I don't mean to be intrusive.” Ian clasps his hands behind his neck. “I just, I read how hard radiation can be on cancer patients; how it just drains them of the little energy they have.”

  Warmth rises from my toes to my cheeks. Ian researched my mom's cancer? He leans closer to me like we're conspiring to steal Sleeping Beauty's castle from Disneyland and replace it with a giant, squishy bouncy castle instead. “Ugh. I'm such a wanker! I'll stop—“

  “No.” I interrupt him. “Don't be . . . it's just, you're the first person that's ever asked me. I mean, really asked me about how she's doing. Thank you.”

  He starts ripping his tied straw wrapper into little pieces. “It's nothing.”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head, enthusiastically. “It is something. Mads won't even return my calls and even if she did, I doubt she'd have any idea what I was talking about and she's back in Ohio with her. And . . . “

  My mind briefly wanders to Mason. Would he care about my mom if I told him? I swallow. I haven't talked to Mason since he sent the email, and I don't really have a desire to talk to him either, but every once in awhile I'll find myself thinking of him, aching for him to lead and direct me. “Anyways,” I say, clearing my throat. “Thank you.”

  Ian stirs his drink with his straw. “If you had a magic wand and could go back in time and prevent your mom from ever getting cancer would you want to?”

  I flatten my mash potatoes with my fork. Of course, I'd want to take the pain and agony away. It would be nice to not have to worry about my mom's health and be able to enjoy life like a normal teenager, to see my mom laughing and smiling as I tell her about my crazy high school escapades. But then again—

 
“No,” I finally say. “My mom wouldn't be the same if she hadn't gone through this. I wouldn't be the same.”

  “Do you believe in fate?”

  “Kind of.” My nose scrunches. “I mean, I don't think there's a set outcome we're being guided towards, but I do think our lot in life—the choices we make and the hardships we face—all shape us into the person we're meant to become.”

  “My mom always says 'everything happens for a reason.' I didn't know what she meant when I was growing up, but after meeting you, I think I finally do.”

  “Oh yeah?” I ask, surprised by my sudden boldness.

  Living in Los Angeles, with my new group of friends, the past couple of months has really empowered me. When I first got here I was terrified to do anything, to try something new that was out of my comfort zone, but today I climbed the stairs to nowhere and now I'm sitting across from this beautiful British boy, instead of cowering behind a book.

  “I've been thinking, you should go with me.”

  My heart sputters, heat rushes to my cheeks. “What?”

  “Emily, I fancy you,” He says, grabbing my hand again. He traces a line back and forth, with his thumb, over my hand.“Will you go with me?”

  I blink.

  “Go where?”

  He throws his head back and laughs. “Sorry, sometimes I forget how we say things differently in England.” He lets go of my hands, running his fingers through his hair. “What I'm trying to ask is: will you be my girlfriend?”

  A flutter of anticipation washes over me and once again my voice surprises me. “Yes.”

  “You don't know how happy that makes me.”

  Cupping my face in his hands, Ian leans across the table and gently presses his lips against mine. As his lips brush mine, all the anxiety I've been feeling dissipates like a match flickering in the wind. The smile on his face as he pulls away almost sends my heart into cardiac arrest. He laces his fingers through mine, resting our hands on the table.