Melissa de la Cruz - Bloody Valentine

He noticed there was something different about the place as soon as he arrived. For one, there was a bouncer at the door with a flashlight who glared at his fake ID.

“Hawaii, huh?” the big gorilla asked skeptically.

“Look, I don’t want a drink. I’m just here to see Freya.”

“No one here by that name.”

“C’mon, man.”

“You can ask Mack, but he won’t tell you different,” the bouncer said, handing him back his ID. “But order a drink and you’re out of here.”

Oliver nodded his thanks and entered the bar. The bouncer wasn’t the only thing new. There were three bartenders behind the counter now. Two old men wearing bow ties, and a pretty girl who had the steely beauty of an aspiring actress but none of Freya’s charm. Even the crowd was different—polished and sleek in designer duds as they tilted back pastel-colored drinks in martini glasses. There was a leather-bound menu with brand-name spirits.

It was a sea of strangers. Where were the arguing tabloid journalists, the old men with long faces, the young kids at the dartboard? Speaking of, where was the dartboard? And the pool table? Sure, the Christmas lights were still up, but now there was a mechanical singing Santa, and instead of being infused with an offbeat, nostalgic charm akin to a well-worn watering hole, the Holiday looked like a plastic replica of what it had been.

Oliver shook his head and fought his way to a fancy bar stool. He ordered a sparkling water and waited. Even if the Holiday had changed, Freya was always here. She had to be.

Hours passed. Customers left. The bartenders glared at him. But Oliver sat there until last call.

Oliver did not know how long he waited, standing on the sidewalk with a bouquet of lilies, but around four in the morning, she finally arrived. She was still wearing the puffy flak jacket from the other night, but this time she had kept the hood down, and her curly hair danced in the breeze.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, and Oliver was relieved to notice she did not sound angry, only mildly amused. “Hold this,” she said, handing him her grocery bag as she removed her keys from her purse.

“I waited for you at the Holiday. You never showed,” he said. “Did I do something wrong? Do you not want to see me?”

Freya shook her head and unlocked the main door. They walked up the narrow staircase. “How did you find me?” she asked, as she led the way into her apartment.

Oliver crinkled his brow. It had been difficult. He had been sure she lived on Seventh Street and Avenue C. But he had walked the entire block and not come across the Korean deli or the shabby tenement building with the red awning. He had all but given up when he realized it was right in front of him. How had he not noticed before?

“I don’t know, really.” Oliver settled into one of the cozy chairs. “What happened to the Holiday? It’s different. You’re not there.”

“I sold it. I’m moving.”

“Why?”

“It was time,” she said. She crossed her arms. “You look better.”

“Thanks to you,” he said.

“Tea?” she asked.

“Sure.” He waited while she boiled water and fixed him a cup. When she placed the teacup in front of him, he took her hand and held it for a long while. He wanted her so much. She looked down at him. For a moment they stood without speaking.

“I thought I had done everything I needed to do,” she finally said.

“Why are you keeping me away? I’m not a boy.” He pulled her closer and she sat on his lap.

She ruffled his hair. “No, you’re not. You’re right.”

He leaned over and kissed her. He had never kissed a girl other than Schuyler. But this time, he wasn’t thinking at all of Schuyler, only of Freya.

Freya smelled like milk and honey and the wonderful scent of spring. He felt her move against him, and he pulled her closer so that he could put his hand on her chest. He felt his heart begin to pound—he was so nervous—what was he doing?—he did not know how to do this—had not planned for this—and yet…he heard Freya sigh, but it was not a sigh of exasperation…it was the sound of acceptance and invitation.

“Come with me,” she said, and led him to the bed.

She undressed and slipped underneath the covers. She looked as beautiful as a Botticelli painting. Oliver’s hands trembled as he quickly removed his clothing and joined her under the blankets. He was so nervous—what if she laughed? What if he did it wrong somehow? Could one get it wrong? He wasn’t so innocent, but he wasn’t so experienced either. What if she didn’t like what he…. Her body was warm and inviting, and he fell on her like a thirsty man in front of a waterfall. He stopped doubting. Stopped worrying. Stopped feeling nervous.

It was his first time. With Schuyler, they had been waiting for the right time, or perhaps they had waited because they knew the right time would never arrive. It didn’t matter. Only Freya mattered now.

Her hands felt warm and light on his body, and he shivered against her. Her soft mouth on his neck kissed him sweetly. She pulled him ever closer, and then they were joined together. Her body rippled underneath him, and he looked into her eyes and heard her cry out for him.

There was so much to feel, so much to see. He was in and outside of his body, in and outside of his blood. He was flying above the ceiling, looking at the two of them from below, marveling at how sleek and slippery their limbs were as they rolled together, the beautiful shape they made, their bodies intertwined. It felt as if she were turning him inside out, and all he could do was keep doing what he was doing, and he felt her all around and inside his body and inside his soul.

When it was over, he was covered in sweat and shaking. He opened his eyes and saw he was still in the same room, looking at the same cracked ceiling. “I love you,” he said, over and over again. “I love you, Freya.”

Freya looked at him tenderly. “No, you don’t, my darling. But you are no longer in pain.”

The next morning they had breakfast at Veselka, a Ukrainian diner that was famous for its borscht. Oliver felt ravenous and energized. He did not know if it was the loss of sleep or the love they had made, but he felt like a new man. He felt sufficiently brave enough to ask Freya the question he had been dreading the moment he noticed the Holiday had been irrevocably changed.

“Where are you going?” he asked, spearing a pierogi and covering it with sour cream.

“My family is moving back home. To North Hampton.”

“Why?”

“It’s complicated,” she said ruefully. “A story for another day.”

Oliver settled against the booth, feeling the cracked leather dig into his skin. Did he feel better? Different? Worse? Better. Definitely better. He touched the side of his neck. He did not feel the same throb there.

Schuyler. He could say her name. He could remember her without the pain. Remember and honor their love, their friendship, but no longer be tortured by her absence. It was as if Schuyler was behind glass. Part of his past but no longer the torment of his future. He missed his friend. But he would survive her loss. Her loss.

He put down his fork. “Who are you? What are you?” he asked Freya.

“I’m a witch.” She smiled. “But then I think you already knew that, scribe.”

“You know about the Blue Bloods?”

“Yes. Of course. We have to. But we keep away from their business. My family does not like to…intervene. But you were a special case.”

“Will I ever see you again?”

“Maybe,” Freya said thoughtfully. “But I don’t think you’ll need to.”