"I've plenty of options," I mumble, wishing he'd just go away so I can try to manifest a car, some shoes, and be on my way.
"None that I can see."
I shake my head and keep walking. This conversation is over.
"So what you're saying is, you'd rather foot it all the way home than get in a car with me?"
I reach the end of the street and punch the signal again and again, willing the light to turn green so I can get to the other side and be rid of him.
"I don't know how we got off to such a bad start, but it's pretty clear that you hate me and I've no idea why." His voice is smooth, inviting, as though he really wants to start over, let bygones be bygones, make amends, and all that.
But I don't want to start over. Nor do I want to make amends. I just want him to turn around, go somewhere else, and leave me alone so I can find Damen.
And yet, I can't let it go, can't let him get the last word. So I glance over my shoulder and say, "Don't flatter yourself, Roman. Hating requires caring. In which case, I couldn't possibly hate you."
Then I storm across the street even though the light has yet to turn green. Dancing around a couple of speeders intent on beating the yellow, and feeling the insistent chill of his gaze.
"What about your shoes?" he shouts. "Shame to just leave 'em like this. I'm sure the heel can be fixed."
But I just keep moving. Seeing him bow deeply behind me, his arm sweeping upward in an exaggerated arc, my sandals dangling from the tips of his fingers. His all-encompassing laugh chasing behind me, following me across the boulevard and onto the street.
CHAPTER 13
The moment I cross the street I duck behind a building, peer around the corner, and wait until Roman's cherry red Aston Martin Roadster pulls onto the road and drives away. Then I wait a few minutes more until I'm fully convinced he really is gone and won't be returning anytime soon. I need to find Damen. I need to find out what happened to him, why he disappeared without saying a word. I mean, he's (we've) been looking forward to this night for four hundred years, so the fact that he's not here beside me proves something's gone terribly wrong.
But first I need a car. You can't get anywhere in Orange County without one. So I close my eyes and picture the first thing that comes to mind —a sky blue VW Bug—just like the one Shayla Sparks, the coolest senior to ever walk the halls of Hillcrest High, used to drive. Remembering its cartoonish round shape and the black cloth top that seemed so glamorous and yet took such a beating in the relentless Oregon ram.
Picturing it so clearly it's as though it's right there before me —all shiny and curvy and adorably cute.
Feeling my fingers bend around the door handle, and the soft stroke of leather as I slide onto the seat, and when I place a single red tulip in the flower holder before me, I open my eyes and see that my ride is complete.
Only I don't know how to start the engine.
I forgot to manifest a key.
But since that's never stopped Damen, I just close my eyes again and will the engine to life, remembering the exact sound Shayla's car used to make as my ex-best friend Rachel and I stood on the curb after school, watching in envy as her super cool friends piled into the front and back seats.
And the moment the engine turns, I head toward Coast Highway. Figuring I'll start at the Montage, the place we were supposed to end up, and take it from there.
The traffic is thick this time of night, but it doesn't slow me. I just focus on all of the surrounding cars, seeing what everyone's next move is going to be, then adjusting my journey around it. Moving quickly and smoothly into each open space, until I arrive at the entrance, jump out of the Bug, and sprint for the lobby.
Stopping only when the valet calls out from behind me, "Hey, wait up! What about the key?" I pause, my breath coming in short shallow gasps, not realizing until I catch him staring at my feet that I'm not only keyless but shoeless as well. Yet knowing I can't afford to waste any more time than I already have, and reluctant to go through the whole manifesting process in front of him, I run through the door, yelling, "Just leave it running, I'll only be a sec!" I make a beeline for the front desk, bypassing a long line of disgruntled people, all of them weighed down with golf bags and monogrammed luggage, all of them complaining about checking in late due to a four-hour delay. And when I cut in front of the middle-aged couple that was supposed to be next, the griping and grumbling hits the next level.
"Has Damen Auguste checked in?" I ask, ignoring the protests behind me, as my fingers curl around the edge of the counter and I fight to steady my nerves. "I'm sorry, who ?" The clerk's gaze darts to the couple behind me, shooting them a look meant to say —don't worry, I'll be done with this psycho chick soon!
"Damen. Auguste." I enunciate slowly, succinctly, with far more patience than I have. She squints at me, her thin lips barely moving as she says, "I'm sorry, that information is confidential." Flicking her long dark pony-tail over her shoulder in a move so final, so dismissive, it's like a period at the end of a sentence.
I narrow my eyes, focusing on her deep orange aura and knowing it means strict organization and self-control are the virtues she prizes the most —something I showed a glaring lack of when I jumped the turnstile a moment ago. And knowing I need to get on her good side if I've any hope of obtaining the info I need, I resist the urge to act all huffy and indignant, and calmly explain how I'm the other guest who's sharing the room.
She looks at me, looks at the couple behind me, then says, "I'm sorry, but you'll have to wait your turn. Just.
Like. Everyone. Else."
And I know I have less than ten seconds between now and when she calls for security.
"I know. " I lower my voice and lean toward her.
"And I really am sorry. It's just that —"
She looks at me, her fingers inching toward the phone as I take in her long straight nose, thin unadorned lips, and the hint of puffiness just under her eyes, and just like that, I see my way in.
She's been dumped. She's been dumped so recently she still cries herself to sleep every night. Reliving the horrible event every day, all day —the scene following her wherever she goes, from her waking state to her dreams.
"It's just that, well —" I pause, trying to make it seem as though it hurts too much to say the actual words, when the truth is I'm not sure which words I'll actually use. Then I shake my head and start over, knowing it's always better to stick with some semblance of the truth when you need the lie to seem real. "He didn't show up when he was supposed to, and because of that... well... I'm not sure if he's even still coming." I swallow hard, cringing when I realize the tears in my eyes are for real.
But when I look at her again, seeing her face soften —the grim judging mouth, the squinty narrowed eyes, the superior tilt of her chin—all of it suddenly transformed by compassion, solidarity, and unity—I know that it worked. We're like sisters now, loyal members of an all-female tribe, recently jilted by men. I watch as she taps some commands on her keyboard, tuning in to her energy so I can see what she sees—the letters on the screen flashing before me, showing that our room, suite 309, is still empty. "I'm sure he's just running late," she says, though she doesn't believe it. In her mind, all men are scum, of this she's convinced. "But if you can show me some ID and prove that you're you, I can—" But before she can finish, I'm already gone, turning away from the desk and running outside. I don't need a key. I could never check into that sad empty room, waiting for a boyfriend who clearly won't show. I need to keep moving, keep searching. I need to hit the only other two places where he might be. And as I jump in my car and head for the beach —I pray that I'll find him.