Even on the Darkest Night

by Allie Martin

  We round the last corner on the way to the Aftershock club, and I’m stopped abruptly by another body in my way. Rick jumps back, but I’ve got nowhere to go. A girlish squeak hits the air as I absorb her body into mine, grabbing her shoulders so she doesn’t fall. A sharp inhale sucks my focus to her pale, wide-eyed face. She sees the world through coffee brown eyes, from behind waves of rich chocolate hair, and under caramel-colored freckles sprinkled across her nose. Words pile on top of each other in my brain as I take her in.

  A world of sadness, locked away. So cold, the bars that slit her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice like silk. Her gaze shifts down, lids obscuring those bars in her eyes and what she hides behind them.

  “My fault. Are you okay?” I still grip her shoulders, but her hand presses to her chest as she nods.

  “I’m fine.” She seems to use words in direct opposition to me—keeping hers tightly locked up while I let mine spill from my cornucopia soul.

  I drop my hands, stepping back.

  “Sorry,” I say again and turn my back to her.

  “She’s it,” Rick mumbles as we walk away, and I straighten my back.

  “What?”

  “She’s the one. You lost the bet. The girl is my choice. I choose her.” Rick claps my shoulder and rounds the corner. I steal a glance over my shoulder, but the girl’s face is hidden by a fountain of crooked waves. She hugs her green hoodie tighter around her, keeping her head angled down. This girl is all locks and chains and barbed wire fences.

  She does not appear to be the random hook-up type. Not that there is a set list of features or anything.

  “But you haven’t even seen any of the other girls!” I call after him.

  Rick turns and throws his hands out. “You think she’s cute.”

  She was more than cute.

  “Yeah, but—” But what? Rick doesn’t hear my mumbles. I yank the Sharpie from its holder and scratch it along the chalky brick wall of the Aftershock.

  “Don’t question my brilliance, dude.” Rick points to me snapping out of my trance. “Now get over here. I need my ticket.”

  I walk away from the thought I left on the wall, but it follows me into the club.

  Reluctantly, I hand Rick a ticket.

  I wish I had given Annie that ticket. I wish she’d taken it. I wish she didn't lie. I wish I didn't keep secrets. I wish my dad was free, and my brother didn't work so much. I wish I didn’t agree to this ridiculous bet.

  I wish a lot of things, but they all seem to get caught up in the wind and blown apart, each word like a dandelion seed floating alone, no longer part of the whole. No longer sure of where it will land. Or what its new purpose will be.

  Friday, April 19 • 7:16 PM

  Evan

  My fingers squeeze into fists at my side, and every part of me wants to watch him walk away, but I keep my eyes closed. I ignore whatever tried to claw its way up when he looked at me like that—brown eyes sucking everything from my chest.

  “Oh my God, who was that?” Nat returns to my side.

  “Who was who?” I avoid her, reaching out to pretend I saw something on the red brick wall of the old underground club.

  “Um, that dreamboat who ran you over. He was major gorgeous."

  My head snaps up. “Was he?"

  Nat loops her arm through mine. “You're a terrible liar, Jordans. And he looked back at you. Twice. You should totally hook up with him. At least he shares your impeccable taste in music.”

  “I’m not hooking up at a concert, Nat. Especially with a total stranger. He looked at me. It doesn't mean anything. Sometimes I really think you need to break up with Aaron and do some hooking up yourself. You’re obsessed.”

  Nat’s disbelieving smirk gets wider and wider the more I talk. Which makes me nervous, like she doesn’t believe me and I’m expected to explain myself.

  “That guy bumped into me, and he made sure I didn’t fall over before continuing on his way. There’s nothing more to it than that,” I argue, but Nat’s not really listening anymore.

  (Side note: I am so, so aware that there was a lot more to it than that.)

  I continue to walk, bouncing my fingertips across the brick around the corner into the entrance to the building. My fingers graze something black, leaving little smudges of ink on my skin.

  Squinting and leaning, I almost put my nose to the brick before I can read the tiny neat letters written on the wall.

  Run your silk fingertips across the rough surface of my heart.

  I wipe the ink on my jeans and study the freshness of the words. My stomach rolls as if the words were written for me.

  But that’s ridiculous.

  7:30 PM

  “I can’t believe we made it,” Nat grins in the dim light of the basement club. “I can’t believe we actually snuck out.”

  She tosses her purse onto a table by the edge of the large square dance floor and fishes out her cell phone. The table is tucked in the shadows beyond the glaring stage lights, but has a great view of the whole stage. The air is cold in the large dark space, waiting for dancing bodies to warm the air. I tug the sleeves of my green hoodie over my hands and cross my arms to stay warm. Nat’s exuberant features are lit in the glow of her cell phone as her thumbs tap wildly across the screen, so I lean in closer to her, setting my own purse down next to hers.

  “What are you doing?” I attempt to read the messages, but her grin gets bigger. She hugs the phone to her chest.

  “Aaron’s live texting me Supernatural in the style of an erotica novel.” She holds the screen up and lets out a full laugh. The throwing her head back so I can see half way down her throat, style that's all Nat. “This is hilarious.”

  “Ew, that is weird. I’m going to go get drinks.” I tug the sleeves of my hoodie down around my fists again and fold my arms around me as I weave my way through the growing crowd toward the bar. I’ve been to a couple of all ages bars, and they're always lame, trying too hard to be like a real bar by serving virgin drinks or overdoing it with super cool and trendy things. This place is just a place. Raw brick walls, mismatching tables, posters of bands, ripped and worn and tacked onto the walls in weird places. The bar is a little hole in the back wall, and the girl standing behind is close my age. There’s a cooler behind her with soda and bottled water and a row of hangars for a coat check. This would be a cool job. Seeing all the concerts for free, getting paid to listen to music... I could do that. I work a little at the Astronomy Club in Des Moines, mostly admin stuff because astronomy isn't exactly a high school job, but this is a job I could do. I had to beg Dad to let me work, and his compromise was it had to be low impact. Filing paperwork is pretty low impact. If it were up to him, I'd live in a bubble.

  I adjust my hoodie sleeves again and lean my forearms on the peeling wood paneling of the Aftershock's bar counter.

  “What can I get you?” the girl asks, her blue eyes studying me behind thick rimmed glasses.

  “Um, a Coke and a water please.” I lean closer, and a slice of pain shoots across my shoulder. I bring my hand to my chest and gently cover the ICD with my palm. The bartender puts two bottles in front of me and a glass.

  “Eight dollars, please.” She holds out her hand, and I fish through my pocket to pull out six bucks.

  “How much is the water?” My voice raises. Who pays that much for water?

  “Four.” The girl seems bored, and it bugs me, but not because I have to pay four whole dollars for a liquid I’d die without. I’m annoyed because she appears like she’d rather be anywhere but here, and I was thinking about how awesome her job would be.

  “Really? Four dollars?” I should let it go, but her eye roll makes me even more angry.

  “Yup.”

  I left my purse at the table and wave to get Nat’s attention, but she’s lost in her supernatural-sexting with Aaron. When I turn back there are two dollar bills sitting on the counter and a body leaning against the bar next to me. I turn to Absor
bent Eyes—the guy who ran into me outside, and he’s folding up his wallet, tucking it back into the pocket of his dark jeans. I slide the bills over to him.

  “No,” I say and he raises an eyebrow. He picks up the bills.

  “Yes.” He puts them into the bartender’s hand with my money, and I see her face soften for him. She stares at him all gushy-like for a moment, but he's focused on me, completing our awkward triangle of stares.

  “EJ.” I hear a voice behind me. I ignore it, preparing my argument for why I refuse to take money from strangers. Strangers with wild curls and fierce eyes. Strangers with a hint of un-placeable familiarity.

  “Hey,” Nat calls me again, but I’ve been completely stupefied by this guy offering to buy my water. I am never at a loss for words. “Hey! Jordans!”

  The guy leaning next to me perks up and spins around at the same time as me, which is weird. I finally allow myself to take him fully in. From his grey beanie, holding down his wild hair, to his olive-toned skin, thick lips, broad shoulders covered in an oversized zip up hoodie.

  “Jordan, I presume?” He ducks to catch my eye, obviously aware that I’m checking him out.

  "Jordans is my last name."

  "I see," he says as his gaze passes over me slowly making my cheeks flare even hotter. Which is completely hypocritical, because I did a 300 dpi full body scan of him.

  Nat looks from me to the guy, whose name is obviously Jordan, and steps between us. "Never mind, I wanted to make sure you got me a straw. I'll get it," she says and winks, her back to Jordan.

  After she leaves, Jordan's still watching me. "So, do I get your first name, too, Miss Jordans?"

  I take a sip of water, wary of this guy, of the way he sees me like he gets something about me that even I don't understand.

  "Evan," I finally say. "My name is Evan."

  “Well, shit.” He grins, and I’m washed with confusion.

  “I’m sorry?”

  He grabs onto a black pen that's tied around his neck. I hold up my fingers smudged with black.

  "Your name is Evan Jordans?" he asks.

  I nod slowly, not sure what he finds funny. Confusion bubbles still popping in my brain.

  "Well, Evan Jordans. My name is Jordan Evans."

  "Weird." It's all I can think of. He leans back and glances at a tall guy leaning against the back wall.

  “Um, thanks for the water.” I tilt the bottle to him and step away.

  “Just a sec,” he says wrapping his hand around a Sharpie that hangs from a necklace at his chest. His face twists up in thought. “See my friend over there?”

  For a second my gut drops, and I have no idea why, so I shove the feeling away and nod.

  “He’s my idiot best friend, and he made me a bet. A bet that I lost.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” I grimace. What am I supposed to say to that?

  He chuckles and leans against the counter while I nervously pass my water bottle from hand to hand.

  “He bet that I wouldn’t be able to hook up with you tonight.”

  My mouth opens, but all sounds are locked inside. That’s ridiculous.

  “And what do you have to do if you lose?” I ask once I’ve regained my composure. I’m curious, but mostly because I never understand why guys think that this is okay. That they can hand pick girls from a crowd.

  He shrugs and leans in really close. “I’m not going to lie to you, Evan Jordans. You don’t seem like the hooking up type.”

  “You’d be correct in your assessment.”

  Jordan leans back. “I thought so.”

  “What type do I seem like to you?” I can play cocky hot shot as well as this guy.

  “Like the type of girl who appreciates an honest conversation. The no games and no bullshit kind. The type of girl who doesn’t need any more secrets or lies in her life. And I’m not the kind of guy who would trick a pretty girl into kissing me because of a bet.” Jordan twists the pen around his neck and then pops it from the cap.

  I’m completely unable to speak. Instead I gawk at his mouth.

  He taps the end of the pen to his bottom lip then holds out his hand. Before I can tell my brain that it’s a bad idea, the back of my hand presses into his smooth palm. He slides my hoodie sleeve up to my elbow, sending goose bumps rippling out from his touch. He traces the tip of his marker along my skin. His lip twitches as he writes, but there's an overwhelming distance in his eyes. He’s the embodiment of Quantum Mechanics—he's here and across the universe at the exact same time, he’s completely amazing and a total jerk all at the exact same time. I have no idea what to do with that.

  When he's done writing, he clicks the pen back into its cap. "See you around, Evan Jordans." Then he's gone, swallowed into the growing, building crowd of Lemming Garden fans.

  My heart beats hard, and I hope two things. One, that my pacemaker can keep up with the yapping in my chest, and two, that he didn't write something horrible or offensive on my skin with permanent marker.

  Evan Jordans, Jordan Evans. Opposite but the same, a reflection of hearts.

  My stomach twists and folds as I slide the fabric down over my arm. My mind begins to spin around inside my head, plucking thoughts from every corner to the center, throwing them in a pile to sort through their logic. The words on the brick outside, the way he watched at me as he steadied my balance, what he said about honesty, the tip of the marker tickling across my forearm...

  His name.

  My name.

  Nat would say it's fate, but I don't believe in fate. If I did, I would have to believe that my body failed for a reason. That can't be my fate. It can’t.

  But even though I don't believe in fate, the rational me understands this is odd. My brain does weird things with coincidences. They feel strange to me because I like things to have a reason. An answer. A tangible outcome brought about by an organized sequence of events. Like this concert.

  Yes, a coincidence that we would be here on the night of the anniversary concert, but the logical answer is that they are from Philadelphia, and they are young, so why would they not have a concert here tonight? And my end of that same coincidence is that the Children’s Hospital here is where my dad did his residency, so why would I not be here to have my procedure done by people Dad trusts?

  Logical.

  As I walk back to the table with furrowed brow, I can’t explain this strange new boy and his peculiar confession.

  I sit down across from Nat and pull up my sleeve. She leans over casually, and then squeals and grabs my wrist, tugging me clean over the table. I suck in a painful breath and swear loudly at her. Nat’s eyes, wide and apologetic, glance up at me for only a second.

  "Dreamboat wrote this?" The giddiness is thick in her voice, and it amuses me, despite my still present reservations. Okay, so maybe it is kinda exciting that someone smiled at me, and I liked that smile. Maybe I do feel good that out of all the girls here, Jordan’s friend picked me.

  "Yeah," I say and scan the crowd, my eyes finding him easily. His hands are stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. His shoulders are hunched forward with not even close to the amount of confidence he had at the bar.

  "That's so romantic! You have to go talk to him." Nat runs her finger over my forearm, but I don’t take my eyes off Jordan. There's a girl standing in front of him, her hand securely locked into the hand of another guy who stares at his shoes. She's speaking animatedly, and she's gorgeous (like America’s Next Top Model Tyra Banks gorgeous). I feel stupid for thinking that he was flirting with me. Those are probably the types of girls he goes for—girls who fill a whole room with their presence.

  He probably told me the truth about that bet to get out of talking with me.

  “No way. His friend bet him that he couldn’t hook up with me. I’m not going there.”

  “So, you’re going to let him lose his bet?”

  “You’re supposed to be on my side, Nattie.”

  “Believe me, I am.” Nat nods, and I follow h
er gaze back to Jordan.

  His attention is on me, even while being torn apart by some angry girl. Through the thick crowd, and my even thicker insecurities, I nod at him.

  “He’s staring at you, EJ. Go.”

  “I’m not going to talk to him.” I yank my sleeve down, and Nat flops back against her chair. “Don’t you see the supermodel talking to him?”

  Nat flicks her wrist dismissively. “She’s yelling at him. And holding some other guy’s hand.”

  I chew on my thumbnail and lean back in my chair, shaking my head. I can’t compete with that. They may not be together, but they were. (It’s painfully obvious in the way they look at each other, or I suppose I should say scowl at each other).

  Nat lets out a long exaggerated sigh, and a Nat-lecture is on its way. I glare at her, waiting for her to begin.

  “Evan you might, you know...die.” She takes another breath and purses her lips before continuing. “Don’t you want to know what being with a guy feels like?” Her words slam into my chest, backing my poor heart into a corner.

  “Ouch. Whose side are you on here? You really aren’t messing around.” I joke, but her dark expression says she serious. She doesn’t often remind me of the fatality risk of my condition, but when she does it’s never for real. It’s never with this serious of an expression. “Nat, there are more important things than boys. And I've kissed guys before. Stop making me seem like some virginal sick-kid.”

  She crosses her arms across her chest. “I’m always on your side, EJ. Always. What is some stupid bet anyway? He’s cute. If he didn’t want to go through with that bet he’d have laughed in his friend’s face and never talked to you.”

  “Is this supposed to be a motivational speech? Because I think you’re approaching it from the wrong angle.” I fold my arms, mimicking her. Nat glares and leans across the table.