Paz
8:53 p.m.
I don’t know how much time passes while I cry over Dad, or when we go from standing at the end of the pier to sitting on a
bench that overlooks the beach, or how long I’ve been quiet. I only know that Alano won’t leave my side.
“Do you want me to take you home?” Alano asks.
Okay, scratch that, Alano wants to leave my side.
I shrug out from under the arm he’s wrapped around my shoulders. “Yeah, no, I’ll go home,” I say, walking down the pier, pissed
at myself for flirting with Alano, for opening up to Alano, and most especially for meeting Alano. I could’ve been dead instead
of dealing with more shit like this. Maybe I should go jump into the ocean since I can’t swim.
Alano chases after me and blocks my path. “Whoa. Time-out. What did I say?”
“It’s what you’re being too nice to say. You’re trying to get rid of me because I’m too much.”
“, I’m definitely not trying to get rid of you, and I don’t think you’re too much. I’m having a great night with you, even when things get heavy. That’s part of getting to know the real you without all the smoke and mirrors. I offered to take you home because you’ve been so quiet, and I thought you wanted to be alone but were stuck with me.”
It’s absolutely psychotic that Alano thinks he’s stuck with me and not the other way around.
“I’m sorry,” I say, hiding my face behind my hands.
“No, I’m sorry for bringing up your father and then trying to leave you. Abandonment rage is a clear issue for borderline
personality disorder, and I violated that. I promise I’ll be more careful.”
This is my dumbass brain telling my heart to take things personally.
I hate BPD.
It’s horrifying to remember that this is me on Prozac and that this is me embracing new beginnings. Even with antidepressants
and good intentions I almost self-harmed today and I’ve had freak-outs that I’m still trying to figure out if they’re justified
or triggered by my disorder.
I hate being a mystery to myself, but I’m lucky that Alano is trying to solve me too.
“Don’t apologize, this isn’t your fault, it’s all mine,” I say, desperate to win back Alano’s charms. I try turning on Happy
. “Let’s go play some games.”
“No,” Alano says firmly. “Your disorder isn’t your fault.”
“Okay, but come on, let’s do something fun—”
Alano grabs my hands. “Tell me your disorder isn’t your fault.”
“It kinda is, right? BPD is created by trauma, and I shot my dad, that was a choice I made—”
“Your disorder isn’t your fault,” he interrupts.
“I gotta take some blame—”
“Your disorder isn’t your fault.”
I stare into Alano’s beautiful eyes, promising myself to try to see myself as he does. To always be honest and show him who
I am so he forgives me whenever my disorder takes over like some demonic possession. “My disorder isn’t my fault,” I say,
voice cracking.
“No, it’s not,” Alano says, wrapping his arm around my shoulders again, proving that he isn’t trying to get rid of me. He
only wants to hold me close.
9:47 p.m.
After playing a bunch of games in Pacific Park, we go on the Ferris wheel.
We get into the passenger cabin, and once the door is shut and bolted, we’re lifted away from everyone, even Alano’s bodyguard.
“I used to be terrified of heights,” Alano says as we slowly glide toward the sky. “It wasn’t acrophobia, but close. I refused
to go into my father’s office at Death-Cast unless his blinds were down. I avoided roller coasters. I begged my parents to
avoid bridges because I was sure we would roll off and die, even though we didn’t receive Death-Cast alerts. It didn’t help
when we moved into a penthouse when I was ten. The slow ride up the elevator made me so aware of how high we were going. It
was torturous, but nothing was worse than flying.”
“What made you get over that fear?”
“I was more scared of missing out on life,” Alano says, completely cool as we get higher and higher, even though it’s a real
possibility that he can fall out of this cabin and die. “If I couldn’t handle great heights, I wouldn’t be able to travel
or go on hikes or be at peace in my own home. Exposure therapy helped. It’s hard to be scared of flying after you’ve dived
out of a plane.”
“Or climbed a frozen waterfall,” I say.
“Yeah—” Alano looks up, blinking, like he’s processing. He smiles. “I never told you about Helmcken Falls.”
Oh, right, I’m not supposed to know what I know from Alano’s Instagram.
“Wow, look how high up we are,” I tease, looking down onto the pier.
Alano laughs. “Were you checking me out online? Maybe because you think I’m cute?”
I stare at his Gotcha smile. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Alano stands, and the cabin rocks. I tell him to sit down, but he’s still smiling. “Do you really want me dying without knowing
the truth?”
“Okay, fine, I think you’re cute, Alano.”
My heart is pounding so damn hard as Alano howls triumphantly. It definitely doesn’t calm down when he finally sits, because
now he’s sitting next to me, the balance shifting.
“I can now die happy,” Alano says.
“You should know that your face is cheating.”
“My face is cheating?”
“Yeah, you got two different color eyes. That makes anyone hot.”
“Now I’m hot?” Alano says.
How high is too high before a person is not getting enough oxygen? I’m gonna guess it’s as high as we are now.
“Honestly, , that means a lot. Kids made fun of me for my heterochromia. They called me an alien with weird eyes who could
foresee how people died. That eventually spun into this stupid theory about Death-Cast shackling an alien to a bathtub to
predict End Days.”
“That’s definitely dumb, but not liking your eyes is dumber.” I remember being at the foot of the Hollywood Sign when the
helicopter beams lit up Alano’s eyes. They were so striking then, and they’re so striking now. “Your psychic alien eyes are
dope. I wish I had them.”
“I don’t. Then I wouldn’t be able to look at your eyes.”
“There’s nothing special about my eyes.”
“Are you kidding? They remind me of this plant—”
“Let me guess, a dying plant that needs to be watered?”
Alano laughs. “No, a cymbidium orchid. My father gave some to my mother on February fifteenth for their thirtieth dating anniversary.
The shade was so beautiful. A color trapped between brown and bronze.”
“That’s a really poetic way of saying light brown,” I joke.
“Nothing wrong with poetry.”
We’re now at the top of the Ferris wheel, and instead of taking in the dark sky or ocean, Alano stares at me with his psychic alien eyes, the right eye as green as bright leaves, the left as dark as tree bark. (There’s some poetry for you.) Alano might not be seeing the End Days, but maybe he’s seeing the future, or imagining one. And I don’t just hope, I believe he’s seeing me in his future, just like I see him in mine. And why wouldn’t I? There’s no future without Alano.
His psychic alien gaze shifts to my lips before returning to my eyes.
Yes , my cymbidium orchid brown eyes answer for me.
Our eyes close as we lean in, and the Ferris wheel suddenly thrusts us down, and we grab on to each other’s hands to stay
upright, laughing and screaming with the other passengers as the ride picks up speed, cold winds whipping our faces, and after
two more rapid spins, we slow to a finish.
I hate that we didn’t get to kiss, but that was so fun. The best part might be how Alano still hasn’t let go of my hand.
“Hey,” I say, bringing us to a stop as we cross the pier. “I’m really happy you got over your fear of heights before climbing
up the Hollywood Sign.”
Alano flinches slightly, like he’s imagining what would’ve gone down— who would’ve gone down—if he hadn’t been there. “I like to think I would’ve chased after you anyway.”
“A total stranger.”
“A stranger whose life was worth saving. You’re more than a stranger now.”
My heart is pounding even harder than when we were suspended in the sky. “Who am I?”
“Someone I hope I get to know forever,” Alano says, and instead of leaning in for a kiss, he pulls me in for a tight hug.
It’s unspoken, but I read between the lines: Don’t kill yourself .
This isn’t like Mom’s threat. This is Alano pleading. He doesn’t need to.
I can’t think of any better reason to keep living than having a life with Alano.