Lost In Us

by Layla Hagen

  Just as I open my mouth, Jess tells the driver, "There's another entrance in the back where there are no steps."

  "No there isn't—"

  "I'm telling you there is," Jess snarls at him. "Serena dear, you should get out here. Aidan just texted me that he's waiting inside with some other people."

  "No, no, I'll come and help you."

  "There's no need. My friend will help me." She grins. "I'll use the occasion to remind him of our discount."

  "Fine. See you in a bit." I pay the driver and step out of the car.

  I climb the stairs with dignity, mentally thanking Abby for all the cardio training she insists we do before our volleyball games. I take a full minute when I'm inside to admire the decor: the cherry wood furniture, the intricately painted high ceiling, and the centerpiece of the room—the beautiful chandelier. There is no one in the entrance hall except the two women behind the front desk, who are too busy brooding over some papers to notice me. I wonder where everyone is. Maybe they're in the restaurant already. I take out my phone, thinking of calling Aidan, then decide to look for him directly in the restaurant.

  "Miss, you're not allowed to go in there," one of the women calls just as I move in the direction I vaguely remember the restaurant being.

  "Why?" I ask, startled.

  "The hotel and the restaurant are privately booked for today and the weekend. I'm afraid you'll have to come back another day. I'll be happy to make a reservation for you."

  "Thanks," I say, doing a very bad job of hiding my disappointment. So much for Jess's friend. Why didn't he tell us the place was booked? I'm about to call Jess to tell her that we should spread the word that nothing is happening anymore when I see him, sitting in one of the two armchairs across the room, in front of the fireless fireplace. The amused expression on his face tells me he's been watching me for a while. My stomach churns as the memory of the two days I spent crying in my bed comes back to haunt me. The memory isn't even clear; only the pain stands out. And the pain is as raw now that I have him in front of me as it was then.

  "What are you doing here?" I ask, cursing Jess for lying to me. Why did she have to invite James?

  He gets up from the armchair and walks toward me with determined, but slow-paced, strides, holding his hands behind his back. "I heard there was something to celebrate."

  "Not anymore. Haven't you heard the second part? The place is privately booked."

  "I know." He smiles, pulling gently at the sleeves of his black shirt. "I booked it."

  I fold my arms over my chest. "I see. I take it that Jess didn't actually invite anyone else and that if I call her now, she's already on her way to our apartment?"

  "No, she's on her way to downtown San Jose actually, meeting the crowd there. I believe the words partying all night have come up twice in our conversation."

  "So what now?"

  "Now we talk."

  I snort. "You booked the entire place so you could talk to me?"

  "Well, I was aiming to get you kidnapped by elves and so—"

  I can't help smiling. My face feels a little hot. "My most embarrassing line ever, and you just don't seem to be able to forget it, huh?"

  Not that I will ever forget it. I want to taste every single recipe in Willie Wonka's chocolate factory, get myself kidnapped by elves and locked up in Rivendell, and attend the midnight release of the next book about the wizarding world that I know Rowling will write. If that last thing fails, I want to learn how to fly on a broom at the very least.

  He got the chocolate factory all right, and while this place doesn't really look anything like Rivendell in the Lord of The Rings movies, it's as close as it gets.

  "It wasn't embarrassing," he says softly, smiling. He gazes at me longingly from under his long lashes, and I suddenly feel completely naked in front of him. Exposed. "It was innocent and adorable. It showed me your dreams—the real you."

  "So did your line." I wish I could forget his words even more than I wish I could forget mine. "Your three fears. I hate snakes and always keep a light on when I sleep. And I suffer from chronic commitment phobia," I recite.

  His smile fades; his shoulders slump. "I most certainly hope that line didn't show who I am." He shudders slightly, looking away from me. "Dreams show who you are. Fears show who you don't want to be. And I like to think I've overcome one of those fears. With your help."

  "So you are not afraid of snakes anymore?"

  "Serena… " He raises an arm, as if he'd like to put it around me, but I take a quick step back. Not quick enough, though. His fingers brush my arm, sending an impulse so powerful, so cutting, that it takes away my breath.

  "I said everything I needed to when we last saw each other, James."

  "No, you babbled incoherently something that has absolutely nothing to do with how things really are. You can leave right now if you want. But I'd very much like you to stay."

  "I have a choice?"

  He leans forward a bit, but doesn't attempt to touch me again. "I told you on that plane, you always have a choice."

  "It's not much of a kidnapping if I have a choice," I joke, fidgeting my hands behind my back.

  The corner of his mouth lifts into a smile so heartfelt it instantly makes him look a few years younger. "Well, there aren't any actual elves around to kidnap you either, so giving you a choice should make up for it."

  I shift on my spot, unsure what to do.

  "So, what do you say about dinner?" he asks.

  "I've had too many pancakes for that… but drinks sound all right, I guess."

  "That's my girl," he says, straightening up. "After you." He points toward the other end of the room, at a large set of wooden doors, where the restaurant must be.

  I can't take my eyes off the wall and the beautiful chandelier as I walk. I can't believe the beauty of this place. It makes it so easy to imagine that I really am in Rivendell. I steal a glance at James behind my shoulder. First the chocolate factory, now this. How determined he seems to make my dreams come true. And I… what did I ever do for him? What can I do for someone who has everything? I think of his fears and the way he shuddered, saying I helped him overcome one of them. I don't think I did. But maybe I can do it. That can be my gift to him: helping him overcome his fears.

  But I can't do that at the cost of my own sanity.

  The restaurant is as impressive as the reception area. The furniture is made of the same cherry wood, and the high ceiling is also painted—albeit in different patterns. The biggest difference is that instead of one enormous chandelier, there are a lot of smaller ones hanging from the ceiling here and there. It looks cozier this way. But right now, it also looks a bit frightening, because the place is completely empty except for one waiter who stands solemnly at the side of the only table that will be occupied tonight—by James and me.

  "You shouldn't have booked the entire place," I say as I sit down, sliding a bit on the silk cloth that covers the chair. I place my minuscule purse in my lap.

  "I thought you'd be more comfortable without other people around."

  The waiter gives each of us a menu, and I flip through the pages with interminable lists of wines, pondering how many levels of lame I would seem to the waiter if I ordered a Sprite. I glance at James, who is deeply immersed in the menu, and my heart jolts painfully in my chest. No, Sprite won't do. I have a hunch that I'll need copious amounts of alcohol if I ever want to get through this evening. Perhaps the alcohol can numb my mind and my body to the wrenching impact this man has on me.

  I put my menu down. "Why don't you order wine for both of us?"

  "What would you say if we start with champagne? After all, we have things to celebrate."

  "Sounds good."

  He orders a bottle of champagne I've never heard of, and when the waiter disappears, he says, "Jess tells me you got a job offer in San Francisco."

  "I did. It's from an investment bank."

  "And are you thinking of accepting it?"

  I shrug.
"Well, it's not like I have any other offers."

  "You'll receive more, I'm sure." He winks. "Where else did you have interviews? Parker mentioned something about New York at some point."

  I shift uncomfortably in my seat at the mention of Parker, and I try to gauge from James's expression whether Parker is still mad at me for the stunt I pulled. His lips are slightly parted, and his eyebrows raised. There is curiosity behind his eyes and something else that I can't quite read. I open and close my mouth a few times but can't pick up the courage to ask him about Parker, so I decide to let the matter drop. For now.

  "I did have interviews at an investment bank in New York."

  "Would you like to… move there?" he asks. There is an edge to his voice when he pronounces the word move that sends shivers down my spine. The waiter arrives with the champagne and I watch him pour it.

  "I haven't thought very much about that possibility, to be honest. I don't think my chances of getting the job look too good. New York is crazy competitive."

  He raises his glass when the waiter is gone, and I do the same, until they meet in the middle with a clang. "You shouldn't put yourself down. You have an excellent résumé. Though personally, I hope New York won't work out." He smiles, as if he's said the words as a joke, but his eyes darken a notch, and I know he was more serious than he wants to let on.

  "How encouraging," I say sarcastically, but smile back. I take a sip from the champagne. It's sourer than I'd hoped, and the bubbles fill me with a jittery kind of energy that no doubt will transform in a blissful state of pre-drunkenness before long.

  "You know what I think the perfect workplace would be for you? My dad's chocolate factory."

  I choke on my champagne, and do a lousy job trying to disguise it as a cough. I clear my throat and then say in what I hope is a very steady voice, because James seems to be dead serious, "What could I possibly do there?"

  "They do have a finance department, you know. I could talk to my dad—"

  "That won't be necessary, James," I say. "I prefer to build a career on my own."

  "You would be building a career on your own. My father doesn't hire or promote people unless they prove their worth. My introducing you to him wouldn't give you much of an advantage, I assure you. Just keep that option in mind."

  "I will." I raise my glass to my lips again, and realize it's full again. The waiter replenished it before I emptied it. That's not good. How will I keep track of how many glasses I drink? As I take another sip, images of James and me in the chocolate factory start playing in my mind, and a hot shudder runs through my whole body as I remember his tongue licking off the chocolate I smeared on my breasts, and the way he made love to me in that office. If he hadn't talked so seriously about it, I would think he brought it up on purpose, to arouse me. To torment me. To make me forget everything that happened between us except that night. Is it really possible that the same images aren't playing in his head right now? His solemn expression as he sips from his glass tells me they aren't.

  But then he puts his glass down and leans in slightly over the table, running his tongue over his lips, leaving them wet and oh so appealing. There is a playful twinkle dancing in his eyes that wasn't there before.

  "I could come visit you after work," he says. His voice is deep and throaty, and I think the alcohol isn't numbing my senses—it isn't making me immune to him. Quite the contrary. "We could take another… private tour… through the factory. I've developed quite a taste for chocolate after our last trip there."

  So he did bring the chocolate factory up on purpose. I take a deep breath, leaning back in my chair, my hands behind my back, pressed between the silky backrest and me. I dig my nails in my palms, and I don't feel anything in the beginning, but as I dig them deeper in the flesh, it hurts. The pain needles me, not as strongly as I'd liked, but it's enough to remind me why I must remain firm.

  At the end of indulgence there will be nothing but pain.

  "What makes you think I'd go anywhere with you?" I say. My words come out weak and entangled. I decide on the spot not to drink one sip more.

  His sits up straight, the twinkle in his eyes vanishing. "All right. Let's do what we are here for. Let's talk."

  We lock eyes, and for a few seconds, or perhaps minutes, neither of us says anything. I find that holding his gaze isn't as strenuous as I thought. It's much easier, in fact, than talking.

  "Don't be quiet, Serena."

  "I don't know…" I take a deep breath. My tongue feels like it's made of iron. "I don't know what you're expecting me to say."

  He frowns at the glass in front of me. "Why don't we start with you explaining to me why you ran off that night?"

  "What more is there to explain? I don't want to be with you."

  "That's not true, is it, Serena? Your body was telling me something completely different that night."

  "My body has a habit of ignoring my mind." I bite my lip, looking away. "Especially around you."

  "Then we'll just have to do something about your mind, won't we?"

  "Do you care about my mind at all?"

  "Of course I care," he says, raising his voice slightly. He pulls his chair closer to the table, tilting forward, until his chest presses against its edge. I remain as flattened as ever against my chair. I wish there was a way to put more distance between us. Suddenly, the inexplicable fear that the wooden table between us will melt, chills me. There will be nothing protecting me from him if it does. "You're not just a body to me, Serena. And I hope to God I'm not that for you, either. I know I could have you right now. You want me; your entire body shouts that. Just like I want you. But I don't want only your body. I want your mind, your heart."

  "You have those, too. You know that," I whisper, lowering my gaze. One more reason I can add to the list of why I should never drink alcohol. The dizziness it brings seems to come with an acute urge to be honest.

  "Look, nothing happened between Natalie and me that day I left from the hospital."

  "But you went to her." I bolt upright in my seat, as if an electric current coursed through me. I prop my hands on the table to steady myself, because the brusque movement threw me off balance. I find myself inches away from James, but maybe distance isn't the best defense I can build for myself right now. Confronting him is. Does he truly not understand that regardless of the outcome of that day, that the act of seeking her out is devastating in itself? "Which means you—"

  "Which means I made a mistake. I cannot take that back, and I cannot change it. But you know what? That is one mistake I don't regret."

  I gasp, a burning sensation I am all too familiar with starting to form behind my eyelids.

  James shakes his head, grabbing both my hands in his. "That didn't come out right. What I meant was I do regret, from the bottom of my heart, that I hurt you. But I'm also glad I went to meet her. Because it made me realize that the only person I want to be with is you. I need to be with you."

  "What's to say you won't make other mistakes like this? I can't bear the thought that something… unpleasant… might happen between us, and you'll just run to her again."

  He shakes his head more vigorously than before. "I'd never do that, Serena. I've learned my lesson. If it puts your mind at ease, I can cut off any contact with her."

  "You'd do that?"

  "Yes. I'd do anything to reassure you. I'm serious. One word from you is all I need."

  I suck in my breath, suddenly painfully aware of his hands on mine. They're warm and soft, and trembling slightly. Here it is, my one chance to get rid of the lark. I gaze into his dark blue eyes, and there is no flicker of hesitation in them. If I ask him, I think he really will do it. But if I ask him, I'll transform myself into the kind of selfish person I never want to be. Not only selfish, but also weak.

  "I can't ask you to do this. I… I know she's part of your company. It would cause a lot of trouble for you to exclude her from your life."

  "Then you will have to learn to trust me and be patient
with me."

  "Patience isn't my strongest suit," I say. "And it's not just Natalie I'm worried about. Your whole lifestyle… being with another woman every other day or week or whatever… this is what you do, what you're used to. This is what you like. You wouldn't do it if you didn't like it."

  James pulls his hands away from mine, leaving the skin on the back of my hands prickling with a sense of cold and loss. He rests the fingertips of both his hands together, forming a triangle between them and his lips.

  "I used to be a better person, Serena," he says in a low voice. "A very long time ago."

  "When you were with Lara?"

  He jerks his head back, the tiny muscles around his eyes tightening. "In the very beginning of our relationship, yes. But then I don't know what the fuck happened, and I began to transform into this monster that made her life a living hell. After she . . ." He inhales deeply, his gaze darting away from me. "After she passed away I worked my demons out with parties, booze. And women. Many women. It was refreshing not to have to think about feelings at all. It gave me a sense of freedom, a space where I could exist without my guilt. They were my entertainment, and, as far as I am concerned, I was the same to them. You're right, I got used to that life. So much that even after I decided to change from a good-for-nothing party boy to a decent man who worked his ass off, I still kept my habit of messing around with women. I never once attempted to have anything more with any of them. This is what I thought I deserved. This is all I had to offer until now. But I can offer more, I know that." His voice is nothing more than a whisper now.

  His eyes search me, and I think he's expecting me to say something, but there's a lump in my chest, heavy and biting—a warning that I should keep my words to myself. My head is so fuzzy from the champagne that I'm not sure the words would come out right anyway. James stretches his hands toward mine but I pull them back quickly, resting my balled palms below my chin. He grabs his glass instead, clutching it so forceful I'm afraid he might break it.