“Yeah,” I groan, lifting my head to look at him. He’s young, handsome, and tattooed, like Ind—like all bartenders in LA. Like it’s some code they have to follow. The League of Pretty Tattooed Barkeeps. I giggle at the thought and he lifts a perfectly manicured eyebrow at me. God, LA is such a weird place.
“No, I’m not—” I start to explain, before waving the giggling away with my hand. He takes the wave as a dismissal and starts to move away, but I stop him.
“I don’t know what to do,” I moan, flopping my arms down on the wood.
“Well…” He takes a slow step back toward me. “I would start with a glass of water and two aspirin before you go to bed. And then the greasiest breakfast you can find.”
“Not that. I don’t get hangovers,” I sniff proudly. A bald-faced lie. I get brutal hangovers. I have no doubt I’m going to have a brutal hangover in about six hours. When it comes down to it, I’m just like everyone else. I can’t wish away my pain.
“I mean, in life, you know?” I continue earnestly. “I can do whatever I want and I’m just. So. Lost.”
Whoops. I didn’t mean to say that out loud. Maybe Dr. Crane should install a bar in his office. He might get further faster.
“Whatever you want, huh? Sounds like a pretty nice problem to have,” he says, lifting one side of his mouth in a smile as he wipes down the bar. Most of the patrons have left already. It’s just me and an old guy at the other end who may or may not be asleep. I have no idea what time it is. I don’t even remember what bar I’m in. I really shouldn’t drive home.
“Yeah, you’d think, right?” I slur. “Total freedom, no worries ’bout money or food or sleeping or—or—or anything. But it’s not—it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”
“Yeah, I get it.” He nods. “I see a lot of kids in here like you. People who get a lot of fame or money before they’re twenty-five and feel all this pressure to do something with it. You just gotta keep working. Focus on your craft, or whatever. Focus on the thing that got you all the money in the first place.”
A common misconception. He thinks I’m a celebrity, an artist. I can’t take his advice, can’t focus on the thing that gave me this life because that thing is me. It’s just the way I am. There’s no external component to it.
“I’m not a kid,” I say, because I can’t tell him anything else. “Especially not to you. How old are you, anyway?”
“Twenty-six,” he preens, and I roll my eyes.
“Oh, and here you are waxing poetic about the experiences of people, like, a year younger than you?” I laugh.
“Well, not all of us have luxury in our twenties.” He smiles. “Real life ages you quick.”
“Don’t I know it,” I grumble into my drink.
“What’s your deal, then?” he asks, leaning his arms on the bar.
“What do you mean?” I say.
“You a movie star? Rock star? Bel Air kid?” he jokes. “What’s your deal?”
“None of those.” I shake my head. “I’m just…”
He’s smiling at me with his whole face, easy and open. There’s no way this guy knows about Unusuals. No way telling him anything and then wanting him to forget all about it will harm me. The chances of my seeing him again—once I find out what bar this is and make a point to avoid it in future—are slim. The liquor and loneliness have made me care a lot less about the potential of being discovered, so I decide to let go of the act for a night.
“I’m just a kid from Nebraska who dropped out of high school.” I shrug and something starts to catch in my throat. “I’ve got a tenth-grade education, no family, no job, and everything I could possibly want always at my fingertips.”
The bartender has leaned back now, hands still on the bar, and he looks confused, his eyes squinting. It’s not as endearing as the crinkle between Indah’s eyebrows. I want to push his frown deeper until I see her face.
“And I don’t know what I want to do with the rest of my life,” I say, horrified to find that tears are gathering at the edges of my eyes. “I want … I want…”
“What do you like doing?” he asks when it’s clear I’m not going to finish that thought, leaning in again, fulfilling my desperate need to be interesting. To be the object of someone’s attention.
“I like people,” I admit, before I can stop it. I didn’t mean to say that. I never would have thought to say that. And yet, there it is, floating on sound waves toward a handsome stranger.
“But me and people…,” I continue, swirling the brown liquid around my glass again, “that’s a bad mix.”
“I don’t know,” he says, “I think you’re doing okay so far.”
I look back up at him and see that easy smile on his face. Must be nice. To be handsome and kind and carefree. Getting to talk to different people each night, a bar between you, never having to commit to anything, never having to give too much away.
“Yeah?” I breathe, and his eyes sparkle. What it must be like for him—to know that he’s desired, that he has something people want. To see women bat their eyelashes at him for quicker service and then for his attention when they see his face, and to never have to say yes or no. I want that. I want people to try to catch my eye the way that you try to catch the eye of the person pouring drinks at a busy bar.
“Yeah.” He nods, moving in closer, and suddenly his lips are on mine. I keep my eyes open, watching his close, as he leans into the kiss. I press back slightly, closing my eyes a bit, seeing what it feels like. It’s calm and sweet and warm and not nearly enough. I can smell his aftershave and feel his breath on my skin, and nothing about it feels quite right but it feels like something. I wanted connection and here it is. This is playing by the rules of the world, isn’t it? This is what people do?
“Whoa.” His eyes widen as he pulls back. “I’m not—I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with … but I’m not gay.”
“Yeah, neither am I, dude.” I shrug, covering up my blush by taking a swig of my drink.
“Oh.” He blinks. “Then what was … what are you then?”
“Fuck if I know,” I snort, feeling strangely sobered by the kiss. “I’ve never given it much thought to be totally honest.” I look into my drink and swirl it around in my hand, feeling a rare self-consciousness as Indah’s words—You can like more than just one—echo in my head.
“Oh,” he repeats. “So, then, was that…”
I turn my focus back on him and he looks panicked, bracing for a blow.
“It was nice.” I shrug and he relaxes. Ha, guess “not gay” doesn’t mean he doesn’t have an ego. “But, I don’t know, nothing special.
“You didn’t really want it,” I add quietly, uncertain if that’s true. All the wants are jumbled up inside me and I want to fit them into neat boxes but I don’t know how.
“What do you mean?”
“Forget about it,” I say, and he does. “But I guess I wanted it,” I mutter. “I must’ve, on some level, but it wasn’t right, you know?”
“Not really…”
“Yeah, I guess you wouldn’t,” I mumble. I shouldn’t drink. All my wants get tossed around and distorted and control flutters away.
“So … what do you want?” he asks, and for a moment I feel like he actually wants to know.
I think of the girl at the New Year’s party, the touch of her hand on my arm, her smile pressed into her boyfriend’s lips. I wanted her and I didn’t. I wanted to be her, or him. There are a million desperate people in LA—I could have any one of them, but that doesn’t mean I want to. Sometimes I feel like I’m supposed to, but “supposed to” doesn’t make my ability work.
“I want it to mean something,” I say honestly, after a moment.
“Then maybe you should go out and find someone it’ll mean something with.” He shrugs, pulling up the bottle to refill my glass.
“Yeah … I guess I should,” I say. “It’s just that most people aren’t very interesting. They’d have to be interesting.”
“Well,” he says as he pours me another, “who’s the most interesting person you know?”
* * *
Ms. Crane really never does come back. But eventually the principal shows up, and I’m so close to choking on the loneliness that I can’t keep him away. I don’t want to be alone enough.
There’s no good reason for me to stay in school. But it’s something to do. And there’s still a small part of me that thinks if I just stay put, if I stay in Ithaca, They’ll come back. They’d want me to stay in school. Or, at least, They would if They ever thought about me at all.
It was fun at first, when my ability first started. When I didn’t know what it was or how it worked but I just seemed to always get what I wanted. Dessert before dinner. Then dessert instead of dinner. All the toys I could possibly ever want for Christmas. Except then my dad had to sell his truck because suddenly we were in debt. Too many years of buying too many things that I wanted. And he broke his leg trying to get my Frisbee back because I wanted him to come off the roof right now, shouting and crying directly under the eaves, barely having time to move out of the way as he plummeted to the ground. And then Mom was mean to Mrs. Henshaw because I was afraid of her dog and wanted Mrs. Henshaw to stay away. Wanting something should be a binary equation—you should either get it or not. There shouldn’t be consequence. And even when I realized that there was, I didn’t know how to not want things.
I wanted Them to leave, so they did. But I didn’t want Them to stay away. That They chose on Their own.
* * *
“Indaaaaahh,” I singsong, throwing my arms out and nearly toppling off the bar stool.
“This your boy?” the bartender asks from behind me.
“I guess so,” she drawls, coming toward me. She’s wearing Neon’s leather jacket, which perfectly matches the frown on her face, the familiar crinkles in her brow lighting up my brain.
“I’m glad to see you,” I slur.
“Mm-hm,” she says, crossing her arms.
“I’ve gotta lock up—”
“Yeah, I can take him from here,” Indah says over my shoulder. “How many have you had?”
“Lots.” I grin. “I had some and then he kissed me”—I sweep an arm back in the direction of the bartender—“and it was just okay and then we started talking about who I thought was interesting and I got sad about missing Neon and so I had some more and here you are!”
“Why didn’t you call Neon?” She glowers.
“I don’t have her number,” I tell her. “I don’t have your number either. I don’t have a phone. But I told him you work at Bar Lubitsch and—”
“And here I am,” she sighs.
“You came for me.” I smile, spinning slowly on the stool. Nope, bad idea. I stop the motion by slamming my arm on the bar and Indah flinches.
“I don’t know why,” she mumbles.
“You came for me,” I talk over her, “and I wasn’t even there to make you want to do it! You came all on your own.” I’m grinning big at her and she sighs again before taking a few steps toward me.
“Come on, Robbie,” she says, reaching an arm out. “Let’s get you home.”
“Robbie,” I spit. “Ugh, I hate that name. You know I hate that name, why would you call me that?”
“To annoy you,” she says simply.
“But you shouldn’t be able to.” I blink blearily, sliding out of the stool and into Indah’s open arm. I trip a bit over my own feet and Indah catches me, looping her arm around my torso in a half hug. It’s nice.
“What?” she asks, guiding me to the door.
“Nice talking to you, man,” the bartender calls. “Get home safe.”
“Yeah, s’nice,” I slur in his general direction.
“Oh,” Indah says, catching up, “because of your power. Yeah, how’s that work out for you when you’re this trashed?”
“I dunno.” I shrug, nearly toppling us as we exit the bar. “Never been this trashed before.”
“Trust me, after tomorrow morning, you won’t get this drunk again for a long time.”
“It’s gonna be bad, huh?” I grimace as Indah leans me up against her car.
“Oh yeah.” She nods and I groan. All this walking from the bar stool to the door to the curb has made me dizzy, and the next thing I know, I’m sitting in the passenger seat, and thankfully Indah takes it upon herself to put the seat belt around me.
“‘Beautiful one’…” I giggle. “You’re so pretty.” Her face is only a few inches from mine as she reaches across me and the orange light from the street is warming her brown skin in a way that makes her seem even more touchable than usual.
She huffs a laugh as she clicks the seat belt, and the wry smile she’s wearing pushes up her cheeks and creates new shadows on her face. I want so badly to kiss her in that moment, to have something that matters, so I do.
“Whoa.” She’s pushing at my chest seconds after my lips touch hers, tearing me away from the tantalizing warmth, the smell of her perfume. I flop back into the seat as my eyes try to focus on her confused expression. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m sorry,” I slur. “I just—you’re so beautiful and you’re so nice to me and I just wanted—I wanted it to matter.”
She sighs, shaking her head, that familiar furrow pulling down her eyebrows.
“Wrong tree, remember?” she says simply, her voice and smile tight as she pats me on the chest before moving to put her own seat belt on.
“Am I really not your type?” I ask, settling back into the chair and wondering how I can convince her to let me kiss her when I don’t have the sobriety to use my ability.
“You’re a man, so … no,” she says, sounding irritated as she turns the engine on and shifts into drive.
“Wait…” I blink a few times, adjusting to the sudden movement of the car. “I thought you said you didn’t just like one.”
“I said it’s possible. And I meant it when I said emo white boys weren’t my type.” She glances over at me, the ghost of a laugh on her lips. “But boys in general aren’t my type.”
“Oh,” I say, wrong-footed and disappointed.
“Even if I did like both, you can’t just go around kissing people,” she says, the familiar scolding tone bringing me back down to earth.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, and I think I actually mean it.
“Just don’t do it again,” she tells me sternly, and I nod enthusiastically, wanting to do whatever I can to avoid Indah’s looking at me the way she is right now, like she’s both disappointed and angry.
We drive along in silence, the streetlights flashing by my eyes, making me dizzy. I’m about to ask Indah to pull over, afraid I’m going to get sick, when she speaks again, her voice distracting me from the roiling in my gut.
“I was talking about Neon,” she explains. “Neon’s the one who likes both. She likes everyone really,” she grumbles.
“And that’s a problem?”
“No, not at all.” She shakes her head. “It’s not a problem for Neon. It’s sometimes a problem for me.”
“The ‘not girlfriends’ thing?” I guess, leaning my head back against the seat.
“Yeah.” She nods, glancing over her shoulder before she merges left. “Neon is sort of impossible to tie down. And it’s hard not to get jealous when she’s had a thing at some point with basically everyone we hang out with.”
Indah’s voice is sharp, cutting through the fog gathering in my brain.
“You mean…” I flounder. “Her and Marley?”
“Mm-hm.” She nods, lips pursed. “Mostly before I met them, but every now and then…”
“Huh,” I say, because it feels like it’s my turn to make sounds. I get the feeling that Indah wants something from me in this moment but I’m not sure what it is. I’m not used to the wanting going the other way.
“Maybe you should find someone who just likes girls then,” I offer. “Less … competition.”
�
��Don’t let Neon hear you say that,” Indah scolds, and I shrink into the seat a bit more, feeling like I did something wrong without meaning to again. Indah clocks it and rolls her eyes and sighs.
“Neon’s problem isn’t that she likes everyone,” Indah explains. “That’s not a problem. People can like whoever they want to like. Her problem is that she’s too terrified to commit to anyone.”
I nod like I know exactly what we’re talking about.
“And,” Indah says, sighing again, “maybe that’s not even a problem. I don’t know. But she’s always the one that’s calling the shots and sometimes I just wish…”
Indah is talking mostly to herself at this point, and I want to reach out and comfort her but the motion of the car is starting to get to me and moving at all seems like a bad idea at the moment.
“Maybe I’m the problem,” she mutters. “Neon’s allowed to do what she wants. Just because it doesn’t match up with what I want doesn’t mean it’s a problem.”
She shakes her head and flexes her hands on the steering wheel, sitting up straighter.
“You’re in love with her,” I say, not even a question.
“Yeah,” Indah sighs.
“And she’s not in love with you?” I ask, and she winces.
“I don’t know who Neon is in love with,” she says softly.
“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to follow a script I’ve never performed before.
“Eh.” She shrugs. “I knew what I was getting into with her. Falling for a free spirit only ends in heartbreak.”
* * *
The first time she saw her, Indah knew Neon was trouble.
It was like something out of a movie. Indah was sitting on a café patio when a motorcycle pulled up to the curb. The driver took off their helmet to reveal the most beautiful face Indah had ever seen. As the stunning, leather-clad figure walked past and into the café, she noticed Indah openly staring and threw her a lopsided smile. Goose bumps appeared over Indah’s arms.
It was the instant attraction that masked Neon’s nature from Indah at first. Not until Neon chose a table on the patio a few feet away from Indah did she realize that the goose bumps weren’t just because a gorgeous girl looked her way—it was her unique sensitivity, her sixth sense, telling her that Neon was special. That’s what ultimately drove Indah to be bold enough to go talk to her. She didn’t usually approach strangers with gifts, but she had a feeling deep in her gut that whatever Neon could do, it wasn’t dangerous.
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