That’s not as important as you.
“I have a gym back at the house. Besides, if you hurt yourself, you won’t be able to go anywhere. If you can’t go anywhere, I can’t go anywhere.” He started down the steps, adding over his shoulder, “And as we both know, my self-interest is paramount, always.”
She gave a noncommittal hum in response, then followed him.
They descended in silence, but her breathing sounded steady, and the calm rhythm of her footsteps didn’t falter.
Beside them, his stone wall turned into a wooden fence, then a chain-link one, then an adobe barrier as they passed property after property. Occasional branches impinged on the path from trees swaying in the mountain breeze, and other garden greenery glowed under the motion-sensor lights that flickered to life as they passed beneath. His neighbors’ homes came into view, then disappeared again steps later.
The glittering vista of downtown Hollywood lay at their feet, far below.
He kept his pace slow, allowing her to take her time. “My favorite stretch is called the Saroyan Stairs. One hundred and forty-eight steps. Which sounds like a lot, but—” No spoiling the surprise. “Never mind. You’ll see.”
When they reached the bottom of the first set of stairs, they walked side by side along neighborhood streets to get to the next. Even at their modest speed, he could feel his restlessness easing, stride by stride.
“How far up can you take the stairs?” She sounded a bit breathless as they descended the next steps, but not too winded. “All the way to the Hollywood Sign?”
“Almost,” he told her. “It’s a tough climb, though. Sometimes you have to go down some steps before you can keep going up. Let me know if you ever want to do it.”
She huffed out a half laugh. “For now, I think this midnight jaunt will suffice.”
Then there they were. The Saroyan Stairs.
He halted at their summit, and she joined him. In the semi-darkness, her pallid skin glowed like the moon.
“Oh,” she said, voice hushed. “Oh, my.”
He forced himself to look down at the steps instead of at her.
It was a double set of stairs, divided in the center by built-in granite planters bristling with cheerful, waxy-leaved succulents and puffs of decorative, drought-resistant grasses. And where there weren’t planters, there were small benches.
The design was practical, but beautiful too. A sort of garden oasis amid those unforgiving steps marching up and down the mountainside.
On more nights than he could count, he’d exhausted himself climbing and descending, only to rest on one of those stone slabs and contemplate the undeserved miracle of existing in that moment, in that place, perched high on a mountainside, looking down on the breathtaking sparkle of Hollywood.
The Saroyan Stairs were special. Before leaving for Spain, he hadn’t anticipated sharing his late-night pilgrimages there with anyone. Not even Marcus, much as Alex loved his best friend.
Lauren’s presence wasn’t an intrusion, though. It was a completion.
“This is so lovely.” Her voice ached with joy and … melancholy? “Thank you for bringing me here, Alex.”
I didn’t exactly have a choice, he almost said, but that wasn’t true. Not really. And this wasn’t the right place for lies or sarcasm.
He cleared his throat. “You’re, uh, welcome.”
“Why don’t I take a seat on one of the benches, and you can make a few trips up and down the stairs?” Her smile was so kind and sincere, witnessing it stung. “That way, you can burn off some energy while still keeping me in sight. I want to make sure you can get some sleep once you’re back home.”
With a jerky nod, he waved her toward the nearest bench, a few steps down. Once she was settled, he took off at his normal pace, a near-jog, down those 148 steps and then back up.
Once he’d made one lap, she called out as he passed by, “How old is this stretch?”
“The 1920s,” he answered without breaking stride.
Her voice floated behind him, pursuing him down the stairs. “You’re going so fast. Please be careful, Alex.”
After that, she left him alone, but her gaze rested on his skin like an extra layer of clothing. Another lap, and he tossed his shirt at her feet as he raced past.
It helped, but didn’t entirely fix the issue. The night must be muggier than normal, even as high up as they were.
Maybe forty minutes later, when he’d emptied most of the detritus from his brain, he registered familiar noises.
The hoot of an owl. The chirp of another bird, one he couldn’t identify.