Chapter 12
The bars of DC come to life at night. James lopes down the sidewalk, a day of back-to-back tours heavy on his eyelids.
He appreciates history, but he hates museums. Portraits of old dead guys, monuments of white marble, dim lighting, audio-visual supplements adding long, grueling minutes to each exhibit.
They are a valuable resource in preserving the past, sure, but he finds them mind-numbingly boring.
Here is an illegible piece of paper that was very important three hundred years ago!
Great! Afterward, all the dusty, spotlit information becomes a nauseous blur.
But Nelle thrived off it. She drank in the history, the artifacts, the artwork as if they were nectar.
They pass a blacked-out storefront, music thumping within. The door spits out a trio of drunk girls in heels. Laughing, they cling to each other and climb into the back of a car.
Nelle grabs James’s sleeve. “You know, I’ve never tried alcohol.”
They pass a line of people in scant clothing, their makeup artfully done in every glittery shade of the rainbow.
Nelle blends in with them, wearing a blue dress James picked out from a boutique in Charleston because it looked like it was made of sapphires.
It is short, so he wasn’t sure she would go for it.
But when he pulled it off the rack, she squealed, tore it from his grasp, and ran off to the dressing room.
Seeing it on her now, her slender calves unveiled, produces a reel of filthy thoughts in his head.
Skimming his fingers up her inner thigh, his lips on her ankles, worshipping her legs until they part for him—
It saddens him to think that she spent so long smothered when she has the spirit of a wildfire. He clears his throat. “Not even for your twenty-first birthday?”
“Quill was drunk a lot, but he locked all the alcohol in his study, so I couldn’t even go behind his back.”
He shrugs. “We can have ourselves a little taste test.”
Nelle points at a hot-pink light inside an alley. “How about here?”
James writes for her, and when the pen lifts, she is already dragging him toward the entrance. At the end of the alley, a staircase descends to the building’s basement, and a sign on the wall says The Alley Cat in LED letters. A curly arrow points down.
Music pulsates through his organs as they descend.
Lights flash above a crowd of writhing bodies.
Throngs of people hug the long bar, bottles upon bottles of liquor lining the shelves behind it.
The bartenders shift around each other and pour drinks and take orders like worker bees.
The floor mysteriously sticks to the bottom of James’s shoes, he can’t even hear himself think, beer and sweat clog the room, and yet he loves the place.
Or maybe he just loves how Nelle looks within it as she takes it all in.
The dilation of her pupils, the lights illuminating her freckles and the glimpse of her front teeth as her mouth parts in awe.
He falls in love with the adventurous stranger she has drawn out of him.
The parts of himself that, growing up, he felt pulled to in books, in movies, when he saw heroes acting stupidly courageous.
He wanted to be like them, but fear always beat him.
Until Nelle.
She has an inner compass pointing her in whatever direction is the most joyful. What better way is there to live than that? And what does it matter if she’s not a human? She’s still the most fascinating person James has ever met.
He orders four vodka sodas with limes.
“We’re gonna chug the first round,” he says, “to get a head start.”
Nelle’s nose twitches over the drink like a hesitant cat’s. “How does it taste?”
“Pretty bad, but you get used to it.”
They toast their plastic cups, then they chug.
Cold on the throat. Tangy from the lime. Ice hits the back of James’s tongue, bitter and vulgar. He nearly chokes on it but forces a final swallow until it’s gone.
A laugh bubbles up. He doesn’t usually slam his drinks, but right now he wants to be drunk and careless. Coming off the craziest few days of his life, he’s not ready for the high to end. He likes this new version of himself, the James who accepts no responsibility, no obligation.
Nelle chucks both empty cups into a big black trash can and passes him his next.
“Care to dance?” She guides him to the floor.
For once James doesn’t think before he joins the throng of moving bodies.
His limbs sway like a tree in the wind. Nelle spins, brandishing a mane of blond.
They dance together until he forgets how many songs have passed, until his second drink is gone, until he is so full of light and energy, he feels like a firework that doesn’t know its spectacle will soon end.
Nelle comes to a stumbling stop, breathlessly laughing, and tips forward into James’s arms. Time moves slowly at first, then faster, gaining momentum.
As the music picks up, two drinks grow into three, then four, until he is belting out songs he doesn’t even know, and he is pretty sure he hasn’t stopped touching Nelle for two straight hours.
Her arm loops around his shoulders, hot on his neck. Wet with sweat. She speaks, but James can only see her mouth moving. He leans in closer.
“I like the way you look!” she says.
He pulls back, surprised by her candor.
Nelle’s brows curve upward, hopeful. Her frizzy hair is swept aside. Where the neckline of the dress he bought her dips, a triangle of freckled skin splits her chest.
Lowering his mouth to her ear, he says softly, “I like the way you look.”
She shivers. Retreats an inch to peer up at him.
The song ends and the bar goes quiet. Something shiny glints near the ceiling: a mirror ball, suspended over the crowd, reflecting a thousand colors.
“I’m ready to leave,” Nelle says.
Are you okay? he wants to ask, but she is grinning.
After James writes for her, they stagger down the street to a circular park. A ring of trees, waxy leaves black in the night, branches clinging to each other like desperate hands. Iron lampposts put off smeared, orange light. A sculpture of four women holding a bowl stands center stage.
James pulls Nelle into the shadow of the four women.
She spins, arms flung out, cutting wheels in the syrupy air. “It feels like heaven out here.”
His hand slides into hers, stopping her mid-spin, and he pulls her in, chest to chest. Nelle’s pulse ticks through her wrist, her sweaty knuckles interlocked with his. Their bodies were made to be pressed together like this, he realizes. Heartbeat to heartbeat.
“You’re the most beautiful person,” James says, the words falling out of him.
“And you are drunk.” Nelle boops his nose.
A bright, white flash has both of them spinning around, searching for the source. At the edge of the circle, beneath the trees, a man stands with a camera. He lowers it and shrugs.
“Hope you don’t mind. I’m writing an article about young love in big cities, and you two made the perfect candid. Maybe the cover shot.”
“Really?” James wraps an arm around Nelle. “We can pose for another.”
Nelle elbows his side. “We are not models.”
“No,” says the photographer. “That one was perfect, thank you. Would you two like a picture to keep?” He pulls a Polaroid camera from his bag.
“Sure, thank you,” James says. Under his breath, “Shortest modeling career ever.”
The man holds up the camera. “Say money!”
James turns to Nelle, but she is already facing him, nose pointed up. They lock in a stare as the world flashes like a strike of lightning, the camera purrs, and an image spits out.
Once it develops, the man hands off the photograph under the lamplight.
Though a little underexposed, their faces are clear.
Holding each other’s gaze. Statue soaring behind them like a shadowy monster.
Trees frame the shot. Nelle’s sapphire dress sparkles, her hair is a wild mess, and James’s baggy denim jacket, a hand-me-down from his dad, swallows him whole.
And they are grinning like they just won the lottery.
“Thank you,” Nelle says.
The man waves his hand—“No biggie”—and starts to pack up his camera bag.
In a tone so careless he surprises himself, James says, “Do you know any cheap hotels close by?”
Such an innocuous question, yet a month ago his anxiety would have shot it down.
The man pauses, closes his bag, and laughs. “It’s funny you ask.”
The photographer’s suite in the Hay-Adams hotel is decorated in whites and creams, with an enormous bed and brick fireplace. He said that he paid for five nights but could only stay four because of a family emergency back home. If they wanted the room, they could have it.
Nelle shoots for the room’s phone, probably grateful to see one with a cord.
While James peruses the TV channels, she orders two cheeseburgers, two sodas, and ice cream sundaes.
When she finishes ordering, he climbs off the king-size bed, choosing not to think about the fact that he and Nelle will be sharing it.
A line of miniature liquor bottles teases him from the minibar.
“What’ll you have?” He drops the bottles in a heap on the plush comforter.
“Quill’s drink of choice.” Nelle unscrews a bottle of whiskey and sips. She shudders, face scrunching. “He must’ve been truly miserable if this was his escape.”
Room service plates dot the bed like lily pads on a monochromatic, cream-colored pond. James lies artfully among the plates and crumpled napkins, part of the pond himself. His sweater rides up his stomach, unveiling a dusting of cinnamon hair above his waistband.
Nelle yanks her attention away from that little detail and tilts the minibottle to her lips, downing the last drop.
James crawls around the bed to stack the plates and used napkins on the desk across the room. The plates clatter in place, and he spins around, bounding back to the bed like a puppy. Laughing, he rolls around on the mattress.