Dark stays on the line the entire time, with his “hmms” and “ohs” just to tell me that he’s still listening. That what I feel is important—that I am important.
“You remind me of him,” I tell the voice on the radio.
“And what would you say to him if I was?”
“I’d tell you how much I’m going to miss you.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, so long I think he hung up, but then he says, “I . . . think you should tell him. If you mean it.”
I grin into my mic. “Oh no, remember our deal? I’ll tell mine when you tell yours.”
Then he laughs—a real laugh, not the cynical one I usually get—because obviously it’s a lot funnier on his end. “All right then, Niteowl. It’s a deal. And, Niteowl?”
“Yeah?”
“If you have nothing left to lose, then I hope you get that internship. If Grams is going away, then why don’t you, too?”
I shake my head, even though he can’t see. “I don’t think I’d be that good at—” But then my words freeze in my throat. “Wait. I never told you about that! Hey, Dark—Dark?”
A dial tone buzzes through.
I sit back, perplexed. Had I told my listeners about the internship? And if I hadn’t, who did I tell? But then, does that mean I know Dark? Does he live in Steadfast? Do I know him?
Suddenly, I’m trying to puzzle out who it is. Not Micah, not LD, and Billie isn’t even in town anymore—who would call? I go home that night with all the questions rebounding in my head, taking long looks at every person I pass on my way home, wondering if they’re Dark, but I can’t help but think that I’d know him when I saw him.
I’d know Dark, like my hand knows to dot the i’s and cross the t’s.
Chapter Thirty
Whoever Dark is, he’s right.
After I help Grams finish her puzzle on the kitchen table, I dig out the internship letter from the trash and call Muse Records. The interview is the following week, with a complimentary plane ticket.
“I’m going to New York,” I call LD to tell her while I pack.
“OH MY GOD!” she cries. “You are not!”
“I am! Leaving Tuesday, coming back Wednesday!”
“What’s your flight?”
“I don’t know, I have to print out my ticket.” I look over at my laptop and read off the flight information. “Why?”
I hear a few clicks of the mouse and then she says, “Because I just booked a flight with you. There is no way in hell I’m letting you go to my favorite place in the world without me.”
A small curl of relief releases in my stomach. “Bless, I was so scared of flying alone—”
“We’ll have so much fun, it’ll be epic. A girl-cation.” She giggles.
“Well on this girl-cation, should I bring my cat taco sweater?” I hold it up, inspecting the purring cat heads poking out from delicious-looking tacos. “It’s been on this wild ride with me so far, it’d be a pity not to take it now.”
“Dress for every occasion!” she crows.
“Point.” I shove it into my duffel.
I don’t tell anyone else I’m going. Not Micah, not Bossman (as luck would have it, the interview is on a day when I’m off work), not Heather or her cohorts, not even Mick. It’s my secret, but more than that it feels like a dream I’ll wake up from. The only people I tell are LD’s parents, who Grams’ll be staying with while I’m gone that night.
On Tuesday morning, when I’m set to leave, my bags are packed and waiting by the door. I’m only taking a duffel and my backpack. I stand on the porch, shifting back and forth, rubbing my sweaty hands on my skinny jeans. I’ve never flown before. I’ve never even left the state of Nebraska.
Airplanes pass over the skies of Steadfast all the time, small pinpricks of white leaving trails like tractor tracks. I used to try to guess where they were heading with—with who? I frown, trying to remember.
Lying on a shingled rooftop, the soft murmur of Thirty Seconds to Mars and My Chemical Romance wafting from the open window below us. A boy with shaggy hair that hung in his eyes. He always swiped the hair out of his face and smiled a golden smile—oh.
Oh, it was Billie. Before his father passed. Did we hang out often? I can’t remember; only Micah, and I feel like such a jerk for that.
I wonder if I will ever see Billie again. I wonder if he’ll forgive me. I wonder whose forgiveness I really want: the boy with the shaggy blue hair or the young man with the sad green eyes?
“That one’s going to Hawaii,” he once said during a game. It was April—no, the middle of May, just before high school. “There’s a man on the plane with a secret mission to bust a mass smuggling ring.”
“Smuggling what?” I asked.
He tilted his head, deciding. “Coffee.”
“Oh, that’s scary.”
“But it’s what’s in the coffee that they’re smuggling,” he argued, turning to me. His eyes glittered in the afternoon sun. The airplane made a white streak across the clear blue sky. “Millions of dollars of diamonds.”
“Now that’s more interesting.”
Billie and I used to make up stories like that. A teenager going to Russia, only to find out she’s the great-great granddaughter of Grand Duchess Anastasia. An old man off to Australia to single-handedly wrestle a kangaroo. A couple jetting to Paris to BASE jump off the Eiffel Tower.
As I sit on the steps, I play the game again, but this time I don’t have to lie.
Billie, off to a wide, wonderful future outside of Nebraska.
And me, sailing across the skies to the city that never sleeps, all the years of abandoned dreams in tow.
I sling my duffel bag over my shoulder as a yellow cab pulls up. I breathe out through my mouth, trying to calm my fluttering heart. My bones feel all jittery. This is it—this is how you feel when you leave. So full of possibility you could burst.
The yellow cab idles in the driveway as I make my way down the steps and round over to the trunk to dump my crap inside.
I hear footsteps behind me. “Bless, LD, cutting it close, aren’t you?”
But it isn’t LD.
It’s Micah, looking from the taxi to me with a confused crinkle to his strong dark brow. “Heather . . . Heather says you quit the store. And . . . what’s this? What’s this for? Your grandma—”
“Is staying with the Darlings.” I turn away from him to shove my backpack into the trunk, too. “This taxi’s for me.”
“You could’ve asked for a ride.” He motions back to his car in the driveway. “You didn’t have to call a taxi—no offense, man,” he adds to the driver, who finally dragged his lazy butt out of the cab after I’ve already put my things in the trunk. Perfect timing, dude. “I mean, I don’t mind . . . going to Omaha? I’m off today so . . .”
“No, I’m only flying out of Omaha.”
“Yeah it wouldn’t have been a—flying? You’re . . . you’re flying out of . . .”
“My plane’s in three hours.”
He recovers quickly and steps between me and the open door to the taxi. “I can still give you a ride—”
“No thanks, Micah,” I interject softly, closing the trunk. The cabbie lowers himself back into the driver’s seat stealthily, as if he isn’t even here. I wish I could, too.
Micah sighs and threads his hand through his hair. The curls hug his fingers like mattress springs. I used to dream of running my fingers through his hair when we sat watching the stars, his head in my lap. “I’m sorry, Igs. I didn’t mean to hurt you—I just can never say no to her. You understand. You have to understand.”
“I do, Micah,” I reply with a sigh.
“Then why are you leaving? Is it about the flowers?”
“It’s about more than the stupid flowers. It’s about everything else.”
“Last I thought, we were good.” He puts his hands on his hips. “You said we were good.”
With a sigh, I shake my head and murmur something under my bre
ath.
“What?”
Our relationship will never go back to the way it was. I don’t think it can. I wish I could rip my heart out and tell it to fall out of love and shake it until all the bits of Micah fall out of it. I wish we could go back to the summer. Back to before.
But I think I’ve been in love with the thought of Micah for way too long.
I take a deep breath and jut my chin up. “I’m angry, Micah. I’m sad. I’m everything. Whenever I see you and Heather together, so freaking happy I think . . .” My heart is in my throat, and when I try to swallow it down it feels like a marshmallow. A wet, salty marshmallow. “I think why can’t it be me? Because I’m not pretty? Because I’m not interesting enough?”
He opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. From down the road LD’s voice shatters the silence.
“Oh thank God you haven’t left yet!” she cries and comes to a stop between us, gasping for breath. She swings a backpack off her shoulder and pounds a manicured hand on the trunk. “Open up! This bag’s killing my arm.” When the driver pops the trunk, she shoves her bag in, and finally decides to acknowledge Micah. “Oh, hi there. Here to see us off?”
He purses his lips together and shoves his hands into his pockets. “No, I was just leaving. Have a good time, you two.” Then he walks quietly back across the lawn from where he came.
“We will!” LD shouts after him, wrapping an arm around my shoulder, and leads me toward the door. She lets me slide in first, and then comes in after. “To the airport, chauffeur!” she cries. “Our destiny awaits!”
As the cab backs out of the driveway, Micah watches from his porch until we disappear down the street. I turn back to face forward. He didn’t have an answer. He couldn’t answer me. His silence sits in my stomach like a lump of coal.
LD resituates herself in her jeans, and gives a sigh. “Sorry I ran late. I had to do some last-minute things.”
Her hair is a bright teal, the color of mermaid scales and violins. I rub at a splotch of color on the side of her neck. “I can tell. I’m glad you’re here.”
“Wouldn’t miss this for the world, Iggy-Pop.” She kisses my forehead and squeezes me into a tight side hug. “I love adventure games.”
The taxi bumps along the highway toward Omaha, but I can still smell Steadfast lingering in the car, a whiff of sunflowers and confectionary. After a while, I settle back to lean my forehead against the warm window. The soft pop from the taxi’s stereo fills the cab like an elevator hum.
“I’m sorry he wasn’t smart enough to tell you the truth,” LD says softly, like the words might break me.
“Nah, I heard him loud and clear.” I rest my head on her shoulder and listen to the taxi’s radio murmur out Roman Holiday’s hit, “Crush on You,” as the bright flowering fields pass in a blur of golden smiles.
Chapter Thirty-One
The airport swarms with hundreds of people, all millimeters from colliding into each other as they flit from one terminal to the next. It’s overwhelming, the smell of Auntie Anne’s swirling with the aroma from Starbucks across the way. The inside of the airport looks more like a shopping mall than a place of departure, Cornhusker knickknacks on display alongside bestselling books promising to alleviate the boredom of a long flight. How can anyone be bored when you’re flying thousands of feet in the air?
LD meets me on the other side of security, hopping back into her heels. She mutters something under her breath about being body searched, and eyes me. “How’d you get out so quickly?”
I shrug. “I don’t have on much jewelry.”
“Well, lah-dee-dah,” she mutters, repinning her victory curl.
Rolling my eyes, I grab her suitcase and begin to roll it in the direction of our terminal. This seems easy enough—just follow the signs. There are a lot of signs, each promising a different destination. Dallas, Chicago, Copenhagen, London—so many places I’ve read about in novels and heard mentioned on TV but never actually been. From here, you can go anywhere. You’re free; your small hole of a life cracked open to endless possibilities.
That realization seems wasted on LD. She’s flown before. Her parents vacation in Hawaii every few years, and she flew to Juilliard for the audition she never made. She knows how to navigate the airport, which terminal to go into, how far down the gate is—and step by step, moment by moment, Steadfast begins to peel off her. The stiff, jaded shoulders, the wary gaze, until she’s the girl I've always known in her room, bright eyed and adventurous.
“Come on, I think we’re going to miss our flight if we don’t hurry,” she says, pointing down to the last gate. The plane is already boarding, its past passengers filing into line. She speeds her gait.
I don’t. It’s not that I don’t want to, I just . . .
I don’t know.
Annoyed, she spins around, walking backward. “Come on, Iggy!” she calls. “Last one to the plane has to buy the first coffee in New York!”
“But what if the plane goes down?” I ask, and she rolls her eyes. “And what if I get there and they’ve already chosen someone else?”
“What if the sky falls down? What if the universe implodes? What if you get the gig?”
That makes me an entirely different kind of scared.
LD sees the hesitation and stops walking backward. The stewardess at the gate says, “Final boarding call for flight 4779 to New York City.”
“What if I get it?” I echo, watching her retrace her steps back to me. “This was a bad idea—I should be home with Grams. I should be helping her pack for her move. I should be—”
“Ingrid North,” she says my name softly, and puts her hands on my shoulders. She looks deeply into my eyes, her gaze like a fishhook snagging at my stomach. “It’s okay to follow your dreams.”
I swallow the knot in my throat. “It's just for a day, right?”
“It's just for a day—and for that day you can be anyone.”
“Niteowl,” I murmur.
“Hmm?”
The stewardess makes one last call, and LD takes me by the hand. She squeezes it tightly. I squeeze back.
“You’re right,” I say louder, and she smiles like she’s always known, and we run for the closing gate. To the beginning of possibility—or whatever you call what LD and I are running toward. Certain failure? Mortification? Demise?
Either way, we make the flight and get situated a few minutes before the plane disconnects from the terminal. As it aligns with the tarmac, I grip the armrests nervously, sneaking a look out of the window. LD takes out her earbuds and plugs them into her phone. She sticks one bud in her ear and offers me the other.
“No, thanks,” I reply, my knees bumping up and down. I stare out the window to the other planes rounding through the landing strips like a merry-go-round. Our plane eases into the lineup. “I think I’m too nervous.”
“There’s really not much to listen to taking off,” LD replies, twirling the earbud around on her finger. “C'mon, Iggy.”
I hesitate—and jump when the jet engines rev to life. I swallow the lump in my throat as I take the other earbud. "Yeah, that might—that might be a good idea. What’re we listening to?”
“A really cool podcast. I’m addicted to it.”
“A podcast?”
“Yeah, here it is. It’s actually a radio show but a fan catalogs them and puts them up on the Internet afterward.” She selects one out of the library of files she has, and presses Play.
I begin to ask if that’s legal when a familiar jingle—a silly guitar lick and a bass beat—interrupt my thoughts. I don't pay attention when the flight attendant goes through what to do in an emergency. My mind is back in Steadfast. It’s in the radio tower on Saturday nights.
“Happy midnight, Owlers, and welcome to NITEOWL radio, 93.5 KOTN . . . ”
Heat betrays me in my cheeks, turning them a rosy red. Hearing my voice is one thing, but hearing it coming from my best friend’s iPhone is another. Act cool—there’s nothing to see here.
It’s not actually me we’re listening to, it’s . . .
I am Niteowl though, aren't I? I’ve always been Niteowl. Ingrid North wouldn’t be on a plane right now. Ingrid North would be back in that stupid little confectionary store. Ingrid North would be helping Grams pack for Omaha. Ingrid North would still be pining over Micah . . .
But would she, really? I'm not sure anymore. When had Ingrid and Niteowl blurred? When had I become the other, or the other become me? Or was I always her?
I don’t know, I can't decide.
“And by fan,” LD begins, casting a glance over, “I mean me.”
“You . . . you know?” When she nods, I squirm in my seat. “And you’re . . . not mad? That I kept it a secret?”
“Are you kidding? I was mad ecstatic when I realized it was you.”
"For how long? Does anyone else know? Does—"
"Remember when we went to crash Heather's birthday party last summer? When you freaked out and left? Well, I followed you to the radio station." She shrugs. "I was worried."
I feel like a fool. Who else knows? I thought I was so careful, too. "You knew this whole time and didn't tell me?"
"It's your secret, not mine."
"But does anyone else—"
"Ooh! This is my favorite part!" she exclaims, and turns up the volume. I know this show, it's one of the first with Dark and Brooding, when he tells the terrible cat-astrophe joke. She giggles at the joke, and I can't help but smile, too. It's kind of fitting, in a way, to listen to my radio show as the plane roars to life, vibrating the hull until everything inside of it is humming. LD just turns the podcast louder, until my head is full of Dark and Brooding’s velvet voice.
Suddenly, the ground begins to move under us. Slowly at first, but then faster and faster. The ground rushes like a river beneath us, and I can feel the wings cleaving through the wind like butter. LD drops her phone into her lap and takes my hand tightly. Squeezes it. The wheels hop into the air, and my stomach flips, before the tail dips down and we rocket into the sky, pushed by nothing more than the sheer force of our speed.
We Own the Night Page 16