Page 37 of Licks

Mary Hamilton, the Male Magnet. Another impossible fact. The ballerina checked her watch and tightened her lips. A bathroom toilet flushed. Time wasn’t on my side.

“This guy picked her up some days,” I added quickly. “Waited for her to finish.”

She studied the ceiling while pointing and flexing her foot. “Sorry, but that’s all I know. You could try speaking with Mr. Hawton. He’s the only other instructor left from back then. He’s away for a month, but should return toward the middle of May.”

August emerged, ending my interrogation. Not that it mattered. I may have learned my mother had been a silly clown who’d lightened rooms and had seduced men, but this lead had dried up.

Adorning his rock star persona, August escorted his fan to the exit. She fawned over his music and the song about him dousing me—my shadow—in gasoline. Always a good time. After having her purse signed and cheeks kissed by her crush, Loretta Walsh, as we’d come to know her, left the center a happy lady.

August, however, glared at me from inside the exit. “A bad stomach? I just love my refried beans?”

I swirled my hand in a dramatic flourish. “I was in character.”

“And now rumors will spread that I get the shits.”

I didn’t even try to curb my snickering. “Everyone uses the bathroom and puts their pants on one leg at a time. You’re no different, Mr. Rock God.”

A sweet blush highlighted his cheekbones. He dropped his gaze and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m no rock god. I just play music.”

His modesty had my heart tripping over itself. “Don’t downplay what you do.” When he didn’t reply, I said, “I lied, by the way—at my mother’s house. I listen to your music all the time. It’s brilliant.”

He glanced at me through his thick lashes. One beat dragged into two. “Thank you,” he said softly.

Forget tripping. My heart freefell, taking my belly with it. And my IQ. It was nice to be joking with him again, talking about real things, even as my wits scattered, but his earlier reserve lingered. He hadn’t moved to touch my back or hold my hand.

When with my friends, I never hesitated calling them on their bullshit. I believed in laying your cards on the table, being honest with those in your life. After my WTF, I’d realized too late how vital it was to be honest with yourself. Yet here I was, since August had parachuted into my life, hemming and hawing, thinking more than speaking. Keeping the depths of my thoughts on mute.

“We should take off,” I said. “Before someone breaks into our cars.” Not the thing I should have said. It was the easy thing. The don’t get hurt thing. “We’ll need to read more of my mother’s diary, search for more clues.”

He cast a dark glance at the street beyond the exit. “Best to meet somewhere else, a bar or something that doesn’t come with men who want your sugar.”

Heading to our separate vehicles meant another round of erratic driving. I was bound to lose my license before I officially lost my mind. “Maybe we should pare down to one car? We can meet at my apartment. Go through the diary there, then stick together after.”

His eyes dropped to my chest, then skimmed up to my neck and face, lower again to my breasts and hips. The zig-zagged pattern tied me into knots. “Sure,” he said.

I looked back in the direction of the glass case, where my mother’s photo was tucked inside. A strange pressure cramped my lungs, as though fresh oxygen lay that way. Answers. Stones I had yet to turn. But there were no more clues leading to my father. Nothing here would help me find him.

August placed his arm around me as we pushed outside, shielding me with his body. A silly effort. Although a few panhandlers called out for cash, no one paid us much attention. Not that I minded leaning into his side. We arrived at my car too soon.

I gave him my address, and he followed me home and up the stairs to my apartment. I put my key in the lock like I had a thousand times before. I opened my door by rote, but I didn’t enter the space.

Not with August behind me, ready to enter as well.

My place looked stark from this angle, my surfboard and mountain bike hidden from view. All that lay ahead were empty slate walls, an Outside magazine splayed on the kitchen counter, a shopping list stuck to the fridge. August was about to walk into my home, my life, and learn things about me. Discover the woman I’d become. What struck me harder, though, the blow that had me frozen in place, was that he hadn’t fully known me all those years ago, either. Not really.

He’d seen what I’d let him see. He’d heard what I’d chosen to say, never fully speaking my heart. Even when tipsy and texting on my nineteenth birthday, I’d diluted the truth, hinting at an older crush, not admitting I’d still loved him irrevocably.

I had no clue how long he was in town, if our lives could converge, or if this was a wild waystation we’d been stranded on. He’d made the first step, at the restaurant, blurting our history to our friends. It was my turn to offer some blunt honesty, share the extent of my feelings for him back then: hiding from them had never served me in the past.

All he had to do was open my closet door and see the August Cruz poster tacked inside. Proof my feelings hadn’t diluted much. (Note to self: remove at first opportunity.)

“Gwen?” His hesitant voice was close, just behind me.

Gathering the strength that served me when powering through an insane workout, when I was sure my lungs would give out and my legs would buckle, I turned to my former best friend, and said, “I loved you.”

7:00 p.m., 29 hours…

August