Even the Moon Has Scars Read online

  It’s why Dad and I went to games every single weekend, so that we could stay out of her hair while she prepped for a trial. It’s why he and I did the cheesy Freedom Trail walk every Thanksgiving morning together because Mom was busy working—even on holidays—and we needed some way to pass the time that wasn’t staring at each other from across the long table that no one ever used. It’s why after Dad was gone, I so easily ended up in a relationship with someone like Jemma.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I know it’s Jemma without looking. So this time, I don’t even bother checking. There’s nothing left to say between the two of us. She said what she wanted, and now she’s trying to backpedal.

  “Listen, I’m going to run up to my Mom’s room, see what I can find for you to wear. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen, or you can just hang out on the couch. I’ll be right back.”

  “I don’t know if I feel right about borrowing your mom’s clothes,” Lena says. She shoves her hands into the pockets of the coat I gave her—the coat that is nearly swallowing her whole.

  “Well, we aren’t going home yet. So, are you going to stay in shorts all night then?” I joke, already halfway up the steps. “She won’t even notice.”

  It’s true. Mom collects things: shoes, clothing, art, jewelry. But she never bothers to spend the time to take any inventory of what she’s already got so things just pile up.

  I stop into my room first and grab a spare iPhone charger I left behind and the stash of birthday cash I keep in my nightstand. I don’t miss this apartment too much, but I do miss my room. The room at Babci’s is fine, but it has no curtains and the sunlight is always streaming in way too early, and the floral bedspread and bright white furniture isn’t as comfortable as the dark walls and familiar bed of my own room.

  I take one last glance around for anything else I may need to bring back to Gloucester with me, and I don’t know why, but when I see my favorite blue V-neck sweater folded on the end of my bed, I grab it too. Not for me to wear—I’ll offer it to Lena. Because for some crazy reason, the thought of her wearing it feels right.

  In my mom’s room, I stand in her massive walk-in closet not sure where to look first. There are rows of shoes, stacks of neatly folded scarves, and a line of bags on the floor of the closet full of clothes that haven’t ever been taken out since she bought them. I pull out a couple of pairs of jeans from one of the bags, and a coat from a hanger near the back that I think will fit Lena’s tiny frame.

  Downstairs, Lena has taken off the massive coat and is standing with her hands on her bony hips, staring up at the painting above the ornate, white fireplace.

  My grandfather hand carved the mantel, and it’s one of the few things that Mom allowed in the house from my Dad or his side of the family. She always said that Babci and Gramps were just too simple. That her home was a place for beautiful treasures, not simplicity.

  She complained that they didn’t push Dad hard enough when he was younger to make something out of himself, and that’s why he ended up as a bailiff and nothing more, as if there was something wrong with his chosen profession.

  All of those things were easy for Mom to say, because she has always had money, passed down from her mother’s side of the family. She likes nice things, and that’s fine, but I think having her own money also helped to fuel her superiority complex when it came to Dad.

  “You like oil paintings?” I ask as I reach the bottom step.

  Lena glances over at me and smiles. That smile. It’s genuine and shy and there’s something else there too, a spark that she’s hiding, or trying to at least. “It’s beautiful. It’s a Summerfield, right?”

  I nod. “Sure, if you say so.”

  “Paintings not your thing?”

  “It’s nice,” I agree. “I’m just not so good at staying inside the lines.”

  “Staying neatly inside the lines all the time isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” she says. Her voice is so quiet that I’m not sure if I’m meant to hear it.

  “You paint, though. Like these?” I motion to the row of paintings behind us that stretch the length of the hallway. I bet Lena has the best instructor money can buy. She looks like she takes this stuff super seriously, and Gloucester is a huge art colony, This isn’t just a hobby to her, I can tell by the way she pinches her brows together to inspect the brush strokes, the way the corner of her mouth twitches up when she sees something that she likes.

  “No, not like this. I’ve tried oil, it’s okay. There’s just—” she shakes her head. “There’s something too strict about it for me. Like it’s not random enough, I guess.”

  I step in closer. I don’t mean to make her nervous, but I want to be near her. I love the excitement in her voice and the light in her eyes as she looks at and talks about the artwork.

  “Not as random as ending up in the city for the night with a strange guy, huh?”

  Lena’s laugh bounces off the otherwise sterile walls. “No, I guess I haven’t experienced anything quite that random before tonight.”

  “So, what’s your favorite thing to paint?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come on, you must have something that inspires you the most. Favorite medium? Something.”

  “Just watercolors.”

  “Okay. Painting is the only thing you can come up with when I asked what you do for fun, but that’s all you got? Just watercolors?”

  “I don’t have one particular thing that I love to paint, like flowers or scenery or whatever. I paint everything, anything. Something new almost every time I sit down. I paint in my room, and in the studio, and sometimes out on that bench by that octagon shaped house. What I’m painting isn’t as important as how I’m painting.

  “And how do you like to paint?”

  “I have a favorite technique,” she says, not really answering the question.

  “Which is?”

  “It’s sort of hard to explain, it’s something called wet on wet water coloring.”

  I rub my hand along my jaw. “But isn’t wet water coloring sort of oxymoronic?”

  She smiles and shakes head, but the copper spark in her eyes is back.

  “No. It’s a technique where you wet the paper all over with a brush first,” she says, moving her hands like she’s lightly stroking a brush across a canvas. “And while it’s still wet, you drop the wet paint onto it.”

  “Uh-huh.” I nod like I completely understand why this technique would be appealing, but I don’t really get it. I do understand the way her face lights up, the way she looks a little dreamy while she talks about something she loves though.

  “It’s so fluid. Some people hate it because it’s the most unpredictable way to paint,” Lena says. She reaches up and touches the painting above the mantel. I can’t look away from the delicate way her finger traces the soft line of the paint. “But I think it’s the most freeing. I guess that’s why it’s my favorite…And why it’s the most beautiful.” She quickly tears her hand away from the painting and faces me like she’s been caught doing something wrong. “To me.”

  “I think,” I reach over and tuck the piece of hair that’s come loose from her long, chestnut ponytail back behind her ear. “I think that’s really cool. Maybe even cooler than a doorman, even.”

  “Oh, shut up,” she laughs playfully.

  “So, here’re some clothes. There’s a guest room down the hall. Go ahead and give these a shot and then we’ll grab some food or coffee when you’re finished.”

  Lena stares down at her bare legs.

  “Are these no good?” I ask, feeling like an asshole for including my own sweater to the top of the stack.

  “No, this is great, thank you. I just—I—this is so stupid.” A flush creeps across her cheeks. “I didn’t bring any money, you know, locked out and all?”

  I crack a small smile. “My treat. Consider it payment for me dragging you all over town tonight.”

  “Thank you,” she says shyly, “But we haven’t exactly
been all over town, we’ve been two places—”

  “We haven’t been all over yet. The night is young.”

  Lena looks down at the stack of clothes. “There are still tags on some of these.”

  “My mom has…a problem.” I thumb through the pile and point to a pair of jeans. “She probably has that same pair in five different sizes upstairs. No joke. So if those don’t work—”

  “They’ll be great, thank you.”

  Lena walks down the hall to the guest room, and I’m slammed with competing feelings.

  On one hand, I feel like I should do the right thing and take her home. That I should get her back into her house and say goodbye. I can take my chances that the valve cover will still be there tomorrow. At this point, that dirtbag back at the shop probably won’t call me anyway.

  On the other, there is nothing I want to do more than show Lena everything in the city. The way I see it when I wander around alone at night. The way it’s meant to be seen—when all of the tourists clear out for the day and you can find quiet places full of surprises—if you know where to look. Something tells me she’d appreciate it more than anyone else I’ve bothered to show.

  I glance up the stairs and realize I’ve left my bedroom light on. Mom will know I was here if I don’t turn it off. I rush up the steps, taking them two at a time, switch off the light, then give Bruce a quick call to ask that he not mention to my mom that I was here. He’s a good guy, and he’s seen more than a few arguments between my mom and I over the years to not mind doing me a solid.

  “Lena, you alright?” I ask as I make my way down the hall.

  She calls back to me, but I can’t understand her. At the end of the hall, the door is half-open. I push it open the rest of the way without even thinking— and there’s Lena— in the corner of the room, clutching my favorite blue V-neck to her bare chest.

  I stand there wide-eyed and stunned. I can’t believe I just walked in like that.

  “Get out, get out, get out!” she yelps, shooing me away with one hand and clutching the sweater close to her chest with the other.

  “Ever heard of closing a door?” I yell back. I didn’t see anything, but I cover my eyes anyway, because it feels like the right thing to do.

  “Ah! I did close the door, you idiot!” she says. I’ve never had such a sweet voice call me names before. “It must have popped open! Just turn around.”

  “Fine,” I say. I turn my back to her so she can change. “But I don’t see what the big deal is, I promise I’ve seen—”

  “It’s not that,” she says. Her voice is softer. More serious.

  “Yeah, the whole we-just-met-tonight-bit—” I say, trying to lighten things.

  “No,” she says. “The whole, I-have-this-scar-that-I-don’t-want-to-show-off-thing.”

  My cheeks burn and there’s a thickness in my throat.

  I don’t know what kind of scar she’s talking about, what kind of hurt she’s carrying around, but I couldn’t feel like a bigger dick than I do right now.

  Isn’t that what life is about? Collecting scars. Touching people with them? Having them as permanent reminders when people leave?

  “You can turn around now,” she says. I do, slowly.

  I want to say all of those things I’m thinking.

  Instead, when I face her again, she’s got a pouty mouth and her eyebrows raised like she’s expecting an explanation. So I just do what I do: I joke.

  I wink and say, “You show me your scars, I’ll show you mine.”

  “Very funny,” she deadpans. “Now get out while I finish.”

  Once Gabe closes the door, I press my palms to my cheeks. I tried to play it cool, but they’re on fire, just like the rest of me. I’m not a prude, but I didn’t expect him to walk in—I didn’t expect him to say the things he did. I didn’t expect his eyes to go dark when he backed out of the room. And more than anything, I didn’t expect to have a little part of me wish that he stayed instead.

  Stop it, Lena. I repeat over and over in my head.

  You just met this guy, this isn’t you. This night? It’s all pretend. It all goes away when you get home later tonight.

  Tomorrow morning I’ll go back to being Lena Claire Pettitt, who sits in her room and paints and secretly dreams of NYU, even though I’m probably going to end up at Endicott just like Mom and Dad want.

  Because that’s what I do—whatever I have to do to make things as easy as possible for them.

  I think about Lily, my best friend who’s away for her sister’s horse racing tournament. She isn’t going to believe a word of this night when I replay it for her. Lily gets to go to summer camp every year in Maine. She travels to see her sister ride horses competitively. Her parents even let her do a short term exchange program last summer and she got to go to Ireland. She’s the adventurous one of our pair. But those trips, meticulously planned by her mother and father, don’t have anything on tonight. On me, standing here in a guy’s apartment, ready to have coffee with him in a beautiful city just waiting to be explored.

  The thought of Endicott reminds me that I set the mail down in Gabe’s garage on top of some old tools.

  Forty miles away, on top of some grease-stained rags and wrenches, lies what may be my future.

  How perfectly inspired.

  I shake my head and try to clear the thoughts of what trouble may be in store for me when I get home and, instead, focus on the adventure still at my feet. Even if that adventure is just coffee and car parts.

  I tuck the borrowed skinny jeans into my boots, smooth down the V-neck sweater and take a quick glance in the mirror before I open the bedroom door. Just a tiny glimpse to make sure I’ve pulled all of the store tags off of the clothes, but not long enough that I risk even looking myself in the eye.

  If I do that, I may start seriously questioning what the heck I’m doing.

  In these clothes.

  In this apartment.

  In this city.

  With this guy.

  This guy who is a total and complete stranger.

  A guy who maybe is dragging me along out of pity, or maybe—just maybe—he wants me here just as much as I inexplicably want to be here with him.

  None of it makes any sense.

  And maybe that’s the beauty of it.

  Maybe that’s why I’m playing along.

  I walk down the hall, glancing at the paintings one last time. They are beautiful, but there’re so many of them crammed into the narrow space it feels like overkill—it feels like trying too hard. The weird things about this apartment is that I haven’t seen a single photograph in the place. No framed school pictures of Gabe, not candid shots of him and his mom. Come to think of it, there’s nothing personal about this entire space. I wonder if his room is more of the same.

  He’s waiting at the front door, his hand resting on the polished brass handle like he can’t wait to get back outside.

  “All set?” he asks, reaching up to push the dark hair out of his face. “Sweater looks good.”

  I brush my hand down the front of the soft blue wool. “It’s comfortable.”

  “It’s actually my favorite sweater,” he says, ducking his head shyly.

  “Oh, you didn’t have to—is it okay that I wear it?”

  “That’s why I gave it to you.”

  “Well thank you. Here’s your coat,” I say.

  I hand over the thick wool-lined jacket that smells like him. A couple of hours ago, I’d never even been close to a guy. I mean, yeah, I’ve sat next to my sister’s boyfriend at the movies or waited in line behind a man at the grocery store. There are even a couple of guys in my art class.

  But I’ve never been close to a guy in the way I have been tonight with Gabe. I’ve never been close enough to see the tiny bit of stubble he has on his deeply tanned cheeks, and now somehow I already know the way he smells. I’ve never borrowed a guy’s clothes or pressed my nose to the collar of his jacket and inhaled the soapy, body wash smell that was competin
g with the scent of something like motor oil.

  I’ve turned into a total psychopath in the last couple of hours as well, apparently.

  “I really am sorry about that, I went upstairs…and I came back down and the door was half open—”

  I shake my head and beg my cheeks not to light fire again. “It’s fine, really, don’t worry about it.”

  I hold up the shorts I’d been wearing along with my Dad’s cardigan. I’ve now got Gabe’s soft sweater and a new jacket and jeans from his mother’s closet to keep me warm. Every part of me, from the clothes I’m wearing to the feelings swirling around inside me feels foreign.

  Unrecognizable. Completely, and utterly exciting.

  “Do you mind if I leave these behind?”

  “Sure thing,” Gabe says. “I’ll run them up to my room.”

  ***

  “How do you take your coffee?” Gabe asks as we step up to the cart. We’ve stopped at a tiny coffee cart a couple of streets down from the building he lives in. Or lived in.

  “Do they have decaf?” I ask.

  “Ah, come on, you worried about sleeping already?” he throws his head back feigning disapproval and snickers. “Light weight.”

  “No, I just avoid caffeine.”

  “Right,” he nods his head slowly. “What else do you avoid?”

  “My sister,” I say, and watch as Gabe flashes a grin. “House keys, obviously.”

  “Obviously,” We both step forward in the line when it moves. Then he adds, “Proper winter attire.”

  “Guys who think they’re funnier than they actually are,” I say. I poke him in the ribs, and I like that he doesn’t flinch away from my touch.

  “How about you, what do you avoid?” I ask. So far, Gabe hasn’t given much of anything about himself away this evening.

  “Decaf.” He says very seriously. The line moves up again. We’re next. “Other than that, I’m up for anything.”

  “Ah, so all of this is just an average night in the life of Gabe Martinez?”

  The couple in front of us steps aside and Gabe and I walk up to the coffee stand. I have to perch on my tip toes to see over the counter of it.

  “One decaf, one regular,” Gabe says to the man working.