Lost In Us (Lost 1)

When the cab arrives, I throw the backpack on the backseat, and slump next to it, my whole body shaking.

"Stanford," I tell the driver.

He looks at me in the rearview mirror, an eyebrow raised. "It's five o'clock in the morning, Miss."

"I bloody well know the time," I bellow. "Would you like me to draw you a map of the way there?"

The man stiffens in his seat. "No, that's quite all right, I know the way." The car shoots forward the next second, throwing me against the seat. I remain there, holding my knees against my chest, waiting for the tears. Waiting for the poison inside me to slither itself into the darkest corners of me, filling me up, until it will overflow. It's beginning to do so already. Tears dance on my eyelashes and I blink them away, letting them glide down my cheek. I don't bother to wipe them away, or withhold them. While last time I feared that by letting the tears out, they would never stop, now I am certain that if I don't let them out I will explode in a thousand pieces, unable to ever rebuild myself again. Yet as I give in to the pain, succumbing to streams of tears and violent sobs, I wonder if that wouldn't be better. Perhaps then, I couldn't feel the pain anymore.

When I get out of the cab at Stanford, there is no one in sight anywhere. But I knew that, of course. I told the driver to take me directly to Stanford even though it'll be hours before the university opens, because if I went home I would have crashed in my bed, and it would have been much longer than a few days until I got up this time around. With no way to get inside the building, I just sit on the grass outside, leaning against an oak tree. I get out the textbook from my backpack and open it to the chapter we were assigned to read for today. I already went through it a few times, but I start rereading, hoping to distract myself. No chance. My tears blind me, and the swift morning breeze envelops me in James's smell, that clings to my skin like a thick layer of honey—a merciless bearer of the memories of his body on mine. Perhaps I should have gone home, so I could take a shower and scrub the smell off. I know even if I had done that, the memories would still linger. Piercing. Excruciating. How could they not when everything around me, down to the warm California air, reminds me of him? It hits me again, stronger than last time I left James, at the charity event—the desire to run. To be somewhere, anywhere but here. But I'm not a dollar richer than last time, so there's nothing I can do but grit my teeth and stay here. I cling to the hope that when I get home I'll bury myself in one of my fantasy books and get lost in it, seeking refuge. But somehow, I don't think it will work. Since I met James, my reality is too vivid to be able to hide from it in fantasy worlds.

My phone rings, and I think it must be my mum, because no one in California would call me this early. But the number on my screen is from the U.S.

I answer the phone, frowning. "Hi. This is Serena McLewis."

"Hi. Ms. McLewis, this is Andrew Larson."

My stomach gives a jolt, and I spring to my feet. He is one of the guys who interviewed me at the investment bank in New York.

"I hope this is a good time for you to talk," he says.

I barely refrain a snort. I don't know in what world six thirty in the morning is considered anything other than a half-arsed, downright rude time for calling. Granted, it's later in New York, but they could show some consideration. Judging by the intensity of their application process—a two-hour online test, followed by a phone interview, and then five in-person interviews in New York—they have everything but consideration for their applicants. For all I know, this is just another test. Applicants who don't pick up the phone, or sound groggy, are disqualified.

So I do my best to sound cheerful and energetic. "This is perfect."

"I have good news for you, Ms. McLewis. My team would like you to join us full-time starting this summer."

For a moment or so, my mind goes completely blank. Then my mind recovers, instructing me to say thank you, or great, but no words get past my lips. I just stand petrified on the grass, feet wide apart, mouth hanging open, wondering how on earth I got the one job I was least counting on getting. The most competitive one. The highest-paid one. The one that would be a godsend to have on my CV.

Larson sounds much less full of himself when he continues, probably interpreting my silence as a lack of interest. "Now, I have no doubt you have some very attractive offers to consider, but I have to say that working for a Wall Street bank such as ours will be very beneficial to your career, long term."

My next words leave my mouth without me remembering thinking them. "I accept the offer."

"Fantastic," he says, noticeably relieved. "This is the best decision you could make as a new graduate…"

As he starts recounting all the reasons for which my decision is fantastic, I seem to slowly come back to my senses. But instead of panic creeping in, at the realization that I just agreed to move across the country, relief overwhelms me, every muscle in my body suddenly feeling as light as a feather. If I could extend my arms now, I'm positive I could fly by sheer will, even as the deep breath I'm taking fills me with James's smell. And the relief is not due to the reasons Andrew Larson is enumerating. It's because I finally found a way to make the memories fade away quicker: a place where I can rebuild myself.

/> Three thousand miles away.

"You did what?" Jess asks, her mouth hanging open. I didn't think it was possible, but her face grew a few shades redder than it had when I told her a few minutes ago that I broke up with James. "What do you mean you accepted the job offer in New York?" She's sitting on the kitchen counter in our apartment, her good leg and the bandaged one rocking from one side to the other. I look away from her. Well, not her exactly. I dropped the black backpack next to her, and I can't stand the sight of it one second longer. It's enough I had to carry the damn thing around with me all day, a constant reminder of the past weekend. It seared my heart every time it bounced against my back when I wore it, every time I glanced at it.

"Why are you so worked up?" I ask, taking another mouthful of taco. Bless Jess and her love for cooking. I ate nothing but a salad at lunch today, and it's almost eight o'clock in the evening. "You want to move to London."

"I always wanted to go somewhere else, see new places. You didn't."

"Well, now I do. I'm going to fly there in two weeks for a few days, to sign the contract, and also look at apartments." This was an extra bonus Andrew Larson mentioned toward the end of the phone call. A trip to New York paid by the company. Whether this is company policy, or he just wants to make sure I sign the contract fast so I don't change my mind, I don't know. But I gladly took his invitation, because it'll provide me with the escape I need so much. I just wish I could go sooner. This week. Right now, if possible.

Jess squints her eyes. "You're leaving because of James, aren't you?"

I don't answer right away, first swallowing the last bite of taco, trying hard to keep my cool. "A job on Wall Street is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity." My voice comes out surprisingly even.

"Wall Street my ass. You just want—"

"I really don't want to discuss this, Jess," I snap, the effort of withholding my anger proving too exhausting, on top of all the other things I'm trying to withhold. Tears. Sobs.

Jess sits up straight, her eyes wide at the sudden change in my behavior. She stares at me for a few seconds, and maybe she can read the desperation in my eyes, or she remembers my breakdown from last week, but she says something I never thought Jess would say. "Fine."

"Thank you for dinner." I put my plate in the dishwasher.