Hours of trekking through the mud, along creeks and through leaves and uphill and back down again: his shirtsleeves are bloodied, the soles of his shoes worn through; he has fought seven monsters in seven days and there is evidence of those battles beneath his eyes, at the crease of his brow, in the stray white hair he finds at his temple. At times he feels stripped of the laughter, the light that once set him apart.
That's why he finds himself wandering into the disco on a too-full Friday night, not dressed for the occasion but wholly ready to lose himself, leap into the star-spangled scene of harsh light and neon and dance to forget. Everything here is a façade of glitter, glamour, sophistication; he knows better and he doesn't care. He steps onto the dance floor and is met with the shameless joy of the Hustle and high-waisted shorts and Icelandic pop in all its brazen glory. And he does forget: to breathe, to know, to fear (everything is fancy footwork/strobe lights/skin on skin/eyes briefly met).
Soon he is flung from the throng by the screaming of his heaving lungs, thrown to the bar where he fumbles for a water that a girl ends up handing him. He chugs the bottle and eyes her as she eyes him—her gaze is a steady green and her hair is startlingly, stunningly red to match a smattering of freckles. She doesn't look like she belongs in a dress but he can, for some reason, imagine her in heavy boots and flannel in the forest: an axe in hand and a tree fallen in submission at her feet.
"Stan," he says, because she hasn't stopped staring, and he holds out his hand and she takes it with a firmer grip than his, her handshake so effortlessly crushing that he never, ever wants to introduce himself to her father. Not that he'll be introducing himself to her father.
"Gwendolyn." The feeling he gets when she speaks matches the feeling he had when he first heard the name of this town—mystery, adventure—something intangible and instinctive that makes him think she'll make him smile more than he does now. "But my friends call me Wendy."
She's smooth. Could have said "But you can call me—" or given him "Wendy" outright. Instead she's given him an in, allowed him to deem himself a friend.
"Well then, Gwendolyn," he says, and she laughs. The sound is a stream in the forest, spilling into some bright, sun-spattered waterfall, and he wants to get lost along its banks, see nothing but the light as it glints off the water.
And his prediction was right, because now he's smiling.
"Smartass," she says.
"Flirt."
"Dance with me?"
Oh, he likes this one. Stan offers his hand a second time—she takes it with grace and a grin:
It's a sunspot, a starburst of glitzy panache. Technique met with hopeless abandon and footwork marked by surefire confidence, Wendy is fearless, flighty; when he twirls her he half-expects her to disappear mid-spin but she stays until he's danced her straight into his arms. He is overwhelmed by the urge to steal the airy laugh from her lips and kiss her senseless.
He's about to do just that when she says, "You're new." Amusement tickles her consonants, lingers comfortingly at the edges of her vowels.
"You're observant."
She clucks her tongue on the roof of her mouth, reprimanding. "Don't sass me." The good humour still etched into her expression gives her away. "Why'd you come here, mystery man?"
"Does it matter?" he says, and then winces. Locking down won't keep her from prying. Lying would—he's very good at lying—but he doesn't want to lie to her.
"Not really," she admits as he spins her away. It looks as if she'll fly off the dance floor in that moment just before their palms catch, before their fingers entwine and he pulls her right back. "Everyone has their secrets."
There's a good DJ on tonight. There is no audible break between the rave and the slow song that pulls up next to it on a sweet, low note; no pause between Wendy's dancing and the way she pulls closer, closer, enough that he can catch the scent of sawdust and cider. A smile is playing at her lips. "I just thought it might be fun to see if I could find out yours."
Stan looks at her hair so he doesn't have to look at her eyes, viridescent and piercing. Her red locks are changing colours with the jumpy light. "It's a long story."
"I've got all night."
Her breath is warm against his ear. His heart beats faster as his gaze is drawn to hers: and her eyes are glittering with curiosity and the light of the disco.
"Maybe I'll give you the short version," he manages.
She shrugs. "Good enough for me."
Stan looks at her.
His chest tightens. He can't do it. He lets the music go on for eight more counts, a few more steps, a little more time to let him find the words. How much truth to tell is not a question he usually asks himself: normally he's deliberating on some grand fabrication, an improvisation, a fib ambitious enough to outdo his last. But there's something about this girl—this fiery thing who belongs in the open, in the sun, in the trees—that begs honesty. Everything he's been forced to keep in confidence over the past three years, everything his brother would kill him for even thinking about telling, now rests at the tip of his tongue.
Of course he won't tell everything. There's too much at stake. But he'll tell something. And who knows? Perhaps that something will lead to more somethings. Perhaps she'll still end up knowing everything.
For now, she'll just have this.
"I'm from New Jersey," says Stan. "And I'm here to solve a mystery."