The air was chilly and Lionel had put his coat around my shoulders. The year was progressing and despite the fact that it always remained summer in Southern California, the nights were slowly getting colder. We leaned against the bumper of the car in the glow of the headlights and ate fries from the local take-out. "You like 'em?"

"Hm?"

"The fries?"

"Oh." I nodded, and he chuckled, and I chuckled along, and I stole some from his portion. We looked out over the vastness of the little village, from the top of a deserted hill, and guessed whose lights were still on, this late.

"See that small, red little spot there?"

Lionel pointed with his arm over my shoulder and I squeezed my eyes shut. I noticed that he was pointing in the direction of my house.

"I bet that's your dad staying up late, smoking cigars!"

I nodded and smiled.

"Could very well be."

A fly buzzed past us, attracted to the pleasantly warm yellowish light of the car. Lionel slapped his hand flat against the surface and missed. The sound shook me awake and made me realize I was exhausted, but I thought it rude to ask if we could go home. I pulled the coat closer around me, wondering how long it would be before I was lying in my lavender-scented bed...
There was nothing special between Lionel and I, except that he had a crush on me the way anyone can have a crush on anyone, and the way any girl finds such credentials somewhat satisfying. The fact that I was going out with him was because it was normal, it was completely acceptable to go out with boys your age and it was normal not to take things so seriously. So why should I share this? For no other reason than to show that I was no different from my peers, that my life just went on despite the turbulence of my heart. I ignored the tides of my emotion and hid them under the sheet of oblivion, or ascribed them to my after all adolescent existence. And I believed that too, to a certain extent, because Lionel was not unattractive and had a pleasantly welcoming attitude. He didn't ask too many questions, was quiet or told old legends or historical battles. He had an innocent love for all that had passed, and I admired that, the way he simplified everything because otherwise he was afraid I wouldn't follow. I enjoyed the moments when we flew over the roads in his convertible, faster than what was allowed, when the silence between us hushed our secrets and the harsh wind spoke for us.

The first time he took me out, I was just sixteen, and we had gone on a walk in the woods. He had nervously taken my hand. We hadn't even been out much since then, but when we did go out, we only did it with each other. I think Lionel had some kind of vain hope - or maybe a naive belief - that we were made for each other, that he would go to the police academy and I would become a nurse, that we would get married when we were twenty and have children and I would be waiting for him every night with a hot plate of food and my warm, only-for-him body. He had never said it, but the naturalness with which he picked me up on random Friday evenings spoke for itself. He had never kissed me, but he would pull the hair out of my eyes or put his hand on my thigh. The first time he took me out, I was just sixteen, and we had been walking in the woods, and he had nervously grabbed my hand. We hadn't even been out much since then, but when we did go out we only did it with each other. I think Lionel had some kind of vain hope - or maybe a naive belief - that we were made for each other, that he would go to the police academy and I would become a nurse, that we would get married when we were twenty and have children and I would be waiting for him every night with a hot plate of food and my warm, just-for-him body. He had never said it, but the naturalness with which he picked me up on random Friday evenings spoke for itself. He had never kissed me, but he would pull the hair out of my eyes or put his hand on my thigh. I never made such an allusion myself, but always let him. Maybe I was leading him on, but I was too selfish to stop, because I enjoyed the normalcy of our togetherness.

Now, however, in the light of all that had changed, I noticed in myself a kind of incipient agitation. Not at what we were doing, but at the defectiveness of our relationship, at how young we were and that we were bound to this eternal dwelling ground. I would never bring that up to him, because it was completely my own experience and to give him the responsibility of solving it would have been wrong. It was therefore the year that I was quieter than ever, creating a certain kind of invisibility around my existence, so that I wouldn't raise any unwanted questions or say the wrong thing. Indeed, the only time I expressed any of my emotions was that Monday afternoon to my older sister. For now, I enjoyed the cool breeze and the naturalness of things. In my heart I could detect a hint of melancholy, knowing that everything would soon pass. It was already November, which meant that it would only be about six months before the school year would be over, and then only two months after I would leave the family nest for good. My parents had almost automatically assumed I would be studying in L.A., but if there was a city I could curse, it would be that rotten place. No, not L.A. But then what? I shook off these thoughts and timidly let Lionel know that I was tired and that the fun was over. Without nagging, he brought me home, and we said goodbye with a semi-uncomfortable hug and soft goodbyes.

Once inside the house, I moved, hands outstretched, in the dark room towards the telephone - I wanted to ask Ronald, the supervisor of the horses, if Holly was all right. When I had gone to see her that afternoon, she looked glum and a bit sickly. It was probably just the change of season that had given her a slight cold. It was already about half past twelve, but knowing the supervisor, he was watching European football in the small room where we stored the saddles. I phoned Neverland's general number but when I was put through to the barn I got a dead line. I dialled the same number again and the assistant kindly promised to try a different route this time. To make myself comfortable, I sat down on one of the stools next to the kitchen island. There was a click which meant that the call was being answered, but the voice I heard was different from what I had expected.

"Yes, Michael here?"

My heart skipped a beat.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Michael. I think I was disconnected. I meant to call the barn."

"Bethel?"

"Yes, it's Bethel!"

"That's what I thought, it always sounds different on the phone."

"Yeah," I agreed, unsure of what to do next. Michael's breathing sounded clear through the horn, and it was obvious that he had just exerted himself in some way.

"What are you doing, calling the barn at one o'clock in the morning?"

He sounded a little giggly, and I felt myself becoming uncomfortable. Even in such things he had the power to make or break me, to cause me butterflies of insecurity about everything.

"I was just out late, and I wondered how Molly was doing. She seemed a bit off this afternoon."

"Really? Well, I hope she's okay..."

"It's probably nothing! Just seasonal change."

"Hm..."

There was a short silence, during which my mind worked overtime to think of what to say, to find an excuse to either hang up or to keep calling.

"So, what were you doing tonight?" he then spoke, making the latter wish come true. His voice sounded smirkingly with curiosity.

"Are your parents okay with you coming home so late?"

I sighed inwardly at the elderness of his comment, but also found it endearing.

"Well, they're okay with me sleeping over at a strangers house, so, yeah, I reckon they are."

He audibly gasped.

"Bethel, you can't sleep over at strangers houses, that's dangerous!"

"Pft! I meant at Neverland, you fool!"

Heartily his laugh sounded, echoing in what I guessed was the dance studio.

"I'm no stranger."

"What are you, then?"

"Just a friendly neighbour."

"Hm, well you're more-," I corrected myself, "yes, you are a friendly neighbour."

"Exactly," he agreed, rather sassy. He mumbled something I didn't understand, but then returned to the point of my long evening.

"So, you were out?"

"Why do you care so much?" I teased, enjoying the back-and-forth chanter.

"Uhm, well. Because I'm bloody curious!"

I laughed out loud at his bad English accent, slapping my hand in front of my mouth because I didn't want to wake anyone up.

"Wait a minute, lad," I mimicked him, and sat down on the porch, where the phone cord was just long enough for it. The air didn't feel nearly as cold as it had just on the hills. I nestled into a chair and wrapped a blanket over me.

"Hm. What was I doing tonight... well, I was out with a friend. Just hanging out and about. Is your curiosity now pleased?"

He ignored my question, and went on: "with a guy-friend?"

I bit the inside of my cheek, and wondered what was it that drove these questions, but I was not dissatisfied in providing him answers.

"Well, yeah. Does that matter?"

For some strange, and oblivious reason I enjoyed the interrogative dynamic, like he were an authority I had to answer to.

"No," he somewhat defensively answered, as if he himself now wondered why he had asked. He shrugged off that apparent change of heart, with a, "Is he your boyfriend?"
"No. Well, not to me at least."

"Why, he thinks he's your boyfriend?"

"He might as well!"

"Oh, Bethel, no!"

I clutched my stomach in laughter, feeling terrible and joyous at the same time, and I heard Michael join in, even thought it was not at all that funny - but sharing in something felt good. My head took off, my heart nearly taking over. It was hard grounding myself in the middle of the night.

"I don't blame the guy. I don't blame him."

He hiccuped, still occasional gasps slipping through.
Biting my lip I asked him why.

"Cause you're a catch."

It was a simple remark, said without hesitation. I didn't even completely realise the weight of it, and went on to urge him to explain himself, like a child fishing for compliments. I felt the warmth of Lionels beers from out of the boot of his car gently filling my stomach and disarming me.

"Why you're a catch?"

"Yeah."

"I can't say."

"Why not?" My cheeks flushed red.

"Because you're seventeen." He cruelly reminded me. It was a harsh stab of reality he shot me, but rightfully so, and I imaginatively counted the months until I was eighteen, and I wondered if it would change anything. For me, for us.

"Yes, I'm seventeen, and I should go to bed."

I loudly yawned, and it thankfully shifted the mood, with Michael telling me goodnight.

"Wait a minute!" I alarmed him, and he hummed.

"How old are you?"

A loud sigh crackled through the receiver, one of pretended annoyance, and for a moment I wished he were here with me, and I with him.

"Thirty-one."

I whistled, unnecessarily so, for I had known his age all along, bye and bye anyways.

"No, no. It will not do. Goodnight!"

I hung up the phone, leaning back on the chair and stretching so I could reach the horn from outside. Quite satisfied, I placed my head in my arms, smiling in spite of myself. What a curious evening, and I did not yet know it had only just begun!

What was it, between him and I? Something not yet defined, and maybe never would. But I could sense it was there, and I was to call myself a fool if he didn't, too. Despite being seventeen, and despite him being thirty one, and despite everything else.