Page 63 of Lance

Lance

For the rest of the night, I have to fight against the urge to get drunk. Like majorly, hardcore drunk. If I’m drunk, I have an excuse for doing what I’m feeling desperate to do. And I’m afraid I’m going to need anexcuse.

“You okay?” Willa asks, her voice close in the darkness of the car as the driver makes his way toward thehouse.

I close my eyes. “Fine,” I say. “How aboutyou?”

“Great.” And she sounds great. She sounds happy. And that’s making all of this so much harder. “Those neon drinks were so sugary I only had one and half,” she adds. “So I’m doing much better than the last time I wentout.”

Damn it. Maybe it would have been better ifshe’dhad more to drink. Because if she was drunk there was no way I would try anything. I might be an asshole, but trying something with an impaired girl is way beyond any line I could even think aboutcrossing.

But no. She sounds sober as hell and I know that I am. So whatever happens tonight there’s no blaming alcohol. Whatever happens will be because of two adults making a decision. And I can’t be trusted to make adecision.

God, I want something to happentonight.

Something changed on that dance floor. I don’t know exactly what, but I know that it’s going to be damn near impossible to ignore. When she thanked me for standing up to James, when she looked up at me like…fuck, like I was some kind of hero or something, I actuallybelievedher. I felt like I could be the person to make her smile, to defend her, to take care ofher.

But I’mnotthat person. I’m obviously not. I’ve been a fuckup since the day I was old enough to start getting into trouble. There are precious few things I can do right. I knowthis.

But looking down at Willa as we danced, it felt impossible to believe it. All I could see was the way she looked at me. The way it made me felt. Like I was invincible or something. Like I could make herhappy.

The drive home is torture. We’re sitting too close and it’s too dark. I can smell her perfume, can hear her breathing. I want to touch her so bad. There’s a heavy feeling in the air between us, like expectation. We’re both waiting for something, I think, but I don’t know what. For one of us to move. For one of us todecide.

We pull up in front of the house and I don’t know if I should be relieved or disappointed that we made it back without losing our minds. I tip the driver and we walk up the path in silence. The night air is warm, the sky clear. Willa’s hair looks luminous in the moonlight. Which is not the kind of thing a guy like me should be fucking noticing. I’m in a rock band, for God’s sake, not some shitty boy band pop group that writes lyrics involvingmoonlight.

Nia is on the couch, asleep in front of the TV. I head into the kitchen while Willa wakes her, wondering what she’s going to say. Will she go home with her? Offer the guest bed? Or will she let Nia leave alone so she can stay here? Stay here withme.

I pull down a glass and fill it with water from the tap, waiting. Whatever happens next feels like it will be momentous, like everything is riding on whatever the two of them are saying to each other in whispered murmurs on thecouch.

“Did you havefun?”

I turn to see Nia standing in the doorway to the kitchen, Willa behind her. She’s yawning and she looks tired but she’s holding her keys. My stomach swoops. “Yeah, the club was pretty cool,” I tell her. “Do you want some water or something?Coffee?”

“No, I’m fine,” she says, yawning. “Gonna headhome.”

“Are you sure you aren’t too tired to drive?” There’s a part of me that’s celebrating, but I have to ask,right?

She glances at Willa, something seeming to pass between them. “No, I’m good.Thanks.”

“Let me pay you then,” I say, pulling out my wallet. “I really appreciate this,Nia.”

“It was my pleasure,” she says, pocketing the cash. There’s something in her expression when she looks up at me that feels like a warning. “And Willa deserved a night out. I’d do anything for mybestie.”

In other words,Don’t mess with my girl.Message received,Nia.

“I’ll walk you to the door,” Willa says and they disappear into the dark hallway. I pour another glass of water for Willa and take both drinks over to the dining table. It’s strewn with markers and colored pencils and half-filled pieces of paper. I pick up one from the top of the stack, glancing over it. All down one side there are pictures of what appear to be superhero body parts—muscular arms and legs, a masked face in various stages of completion. Next to each picture is a childish version of the very same thing—Simon’s attempts to copy the drawings. I look at the table and see pages and pages of the same wobbly, unevencopies.

“Nia’s gone,” Willa says, coming up to stand beside me. “She said you added an extrafifty.”

I shrug, not looking at her. I’m afraid of what will happen when I do. “She stayed later than I planned.” I hold up the paper so she can seeit.

“Did Nia drawthese?”

“Uh, no. I did those.” I finally look up at her. She seems to be avoiding my eyes, like she’s shy about it. “Simon has been working on The Flash,” she explains. “I made him a few guides to try to get the hang ofit.”

“Willa, you’re really good at this.” I pick up another paper. This one isn’t a guide, it’s a full-scale picture of a man in a red suit. He’s obviously running. Comic books were never really my thing, but even I can tell that this is professional quality. “I didn’t know you could draw likethis.”

She shrugs, taking the paper from me to peer down at it. “My mom always told me it was a waste of time,” she says. “Kid stuff.” I feel a swell of anger at her mother, but Willa grins a little. “I researched for three straight days and wrote her a twenty-page essay summarizing all the studies that showed an increase in cognition and academic performance when creative work was undertaken as a hobby.” Her smile grows. “She stopped complaining afterthat.”