Bodies Are Disgusting (10 page)

"I'm not going to kill my roommate because
your hallucination tells you that he's wanting to bone an elder
terror. Fuck you and good night." You shut the lid of your laptop
and shove it to the far corner of your bed. The cold feeling in
your stomach and the sensation that you might be able to hear your
housemate's heartbeat if you try hard enough haven't gone
away.

The beat of your own heart is so heavy in your
chest that you can't stand it any longer. Feeling disgusted, you
roll off your bed and slip downstairs to the living room. The TV
remote is exactly where you left it, and it takes no effort to find
a channel playing mindless infomercials at this hour.

After the sun rises, when you hear Simon
rattling around in the bathroom, you creep back up to your room and
climb into your bed to make it seem like you'd always been there.
Like you'd actually slept. He shuffles past your door, grunts a
hazy "mornin'" at you when he sees that it's cracked, and returns
to his room.

Your laptop is where you left it, the fan
whirring softly and the power light blinking to indicate that it
still had battery life. After a few moments of staring, you pull it
back into your lap and open it.

The chat window with SilentHarper is still
open, but SilentHarper himself is listed as offline. When you check
your inbox, you find an email, neatly formatted with proper
indentation and impeccably spelled. The sender's name is Gavin
Michaels.

"Douglas," it reads, "I'm very sorry about
last night. I was tired. A little drunk. Alena sometimes whispers
things that sound very reasonable at the time, but are, in
hindsight, horrible ideas. I think she's getting to me. But
chatting with you helped me ground myself. If you ever want to
talk, and I mean REALLY talk, I've attached my contact information.
Any time, day or night. Like I said, I don't sleep anymore.
Regards, Gavin (AKA SilentHarper17)"

* * *

Simon sits perched on the edge of the kitchen
counter next to the microwave when you finally decide to make your
way downstairs. He balances a plate of toaster pastry on one knee
while he struggles to open a jar of raspberry jam. Feigning
bleariness, you rub absently at one eye as you walk in. "Mornin',"
you grunt.

He doesn't look up. "Morning. Watch your step,
I just mopped." His knuckles are white where he grips the jar lid.
"Fuck! Did they use a goddamn pneumatic drill to put this lid on?
Christ."

You ignore his outburst. "Why'd you mop? We
weren't due for a kitchen deep clean for another week,
dude."

"Gonna have company this evening," Simon
hisses through gritted teeth. The lid of the jar comes free with a
pop. "Got a date."

Bile rises in your throat, a combination of
memories of the last time you saw Lucien and the words SilentHarper
(or rather, Gavin now) had left on your screen. "When's Luke coming
over?" you ask. A part of you hopes against hope that he'll correct
you, tell you that you've got the wrong name, but your stomach
churns because you're certain that you don't.

Simon has the good grace to look sheepish. "Is
it that obvious? Hah. Yeah, guess it is. He'll be over around seven
to pick me up. We're going to a movie, but I figured I'd have the
place half-clean just in case. You work tonight?"

"Nah. JD says tonight's gonna be thin, so
he'll just run it himself. Same with tomorrow." You lean against
the door frame and scowl, trying not to feel nauseated. "Listen, I
don't know if you should be jumping into this thing with Luke. You
told me you wanted my opinion of him before you took me to meet
him, and now I'm giving it to you: I think he's a
creep."

Simon rolls his eyes. "Don't think I don't see
how you're trying to throw my own words back in my face, asshole,"
he says. "There's a key difference here, though: you're totally
wrong about Luke, and I was totally right about Amanda. She's no
good for you and you've gotta just let her go."

You bristle, both at the jab at Amanda and the
way he dismisses your warning so casually. "She's my
friend
," you say. As if you haven't had this argument
before. As if it would change his mind. "If we're going to play
this game, I'm not convinced Luke isn't an axe-murderer looking to
add another notch in his handle, and I don't think you should be
alone with him." Arms crossed over your chest, your face bunches up
in a scowl.

"Yeah, sure," he says after a moment. "Anyway,
you mind tackling the bathroom this afternoon? I got a quick shift
down at the bookstore, so I probably won't be able to get to
it."

A handful of conflicting responses jump to
mind. Your first instinct is to tell him to fuck off, followed by
begging him not to do this. Neither of them seem helpful or likely
to change the situation. Instead, you sigh. "Just promise me you'll
be careful," you say. "Don't do anything stupid, don't let him
corner you alone, nothing like that."

"All right,
Mom
," he replies, drawing
out the last vowel sound to emphasize his reluctance to agree.
"I'll be home by midnight and I
swear
I will call you if
anything happens, all right?"

Knowing that it's the best you're going to get
for now, you sigh and push yourself away from the door frame.
"Yeah. Okay. I'm gonna go get dressed. Probably going to go grab
lunch somewhere, maybe meet up with Amanda. You want anything, or
are you good with your jam-and-strudel sandwich?"

Simon shakes his head, turning his attention
back to the snack in his lap. He reaches into the drawer just below
him and pulls out a butter knife, which he uses to spread the jam
on one of the toaster strudels. "I'm good, man. Breakfast of
motherfucking champions." He mushes the other toaster strudel
against the first and licks the escaping jam off his
thumb.

"Gross," you say, and then head back to your
room before you have to witness him devour his cloyingly sweet
pseudo-sandwich. Instead, you get dressed. You eschew your binder
and piercings, and pull on a comfortable pair of jeans and two
different sweaters over a threadbare band t-shirt. That done, you
grab your phone and the keys to your rental and make your way back
downstairs.

Without a clear goal in mind, you end up
sitting behind the wheel, tapping listlessly at your phone's
screen. You could ask Amanda out for lunch. Barring any deadlines,
she'd probably go, and then follow you home and keep you company
while you clean. You could rent a movie; you'd make popcorn over at
her place. She has a gas range and keeps a stash of the kind you
pop over a fire.

It's easier to just tap in her number (you've
had it memorized practically since you first met) than it is to
scroll down to the entry for "Ebonlee, Amanda" in your contact
list. The fingers of your right hand drum against the steering
wheel absently while you wait for her to pick up, the silver band
catching sunlight every so often and scattering it across the
dashboard.

After three rings, you hear a muzzy,
"Hullo?"

Your heart catches in your throat, but you
manage to swallow it down. The last time you'd heard her voice so
ragged, you'd spent all night exploring the finer points of
cunnilingus with her. "Hey, 'Manda, it's Doug. I was just thinking,
now that I'm ambulatory, maybe I could pay you back for the food
you brought me when I got outta the hospital?"

There are a few muffled rustling sounds on the
other end of the phone, followed by a low, "Shit. S'it really
almost eleven?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Dammit," she hisses. "Listen, I'll call you
back." The phone beeps once in your ear when the connection
drops.

You don't wait for her to call back. After a
moment's consideration, you put Gavin's number in your phone and
shoot him a text so he has yours, then dump the phone in the
cup-holder under the radio. You decide to just take a
drive.

* * *

Two hours, a voicemail from Amanda with a time
and a place, and three texts from Gavin ("You need to stop him;"
"Tell your friend not to do this;" "Stop him when you get home")
later, you've pulled into the parking lot of an upscale pub on
Amanda's end of town. The walls are covered in pseudo-Irish
paraphernalia, and the beer menu is larger than the food menu, but
the prices of everything almost make you wince.

Amanda slides into the seat across from you,
shoving her handbag, coat, and scarf in the corner of the booth
next to her. Her hair is less curly and more frazzled, and she has
bags under her eyes so large that you'd wonder if she's ever slept
a wink in her life if you hadn't obviously just woken her up with
your phone call. And yet, with her cheeks reddened from walking in
the cold, you still think she's the most beautiful woman you've
ever seen.

"Sorry," she mutters, grabbing one of the
menus and letting it fall open to a random page. "Work's been kind
of crazy. I almost slept through a client's conference call.
Thanks."

"That's not like you," you say. The waiter
brings glasses of water for both of you, which you sip at
gratefully. "You're usually pretty devoted to your clients." It's a
distant echo of an argument, one of the last you had while still a
couple, but you don't realize it until Amanda's gone still across
the table.

"You know what, I'm sorry. I don't think I
should be here." She reaches for her things.

"No, please stay. I didn't mean it like that."
You take a deep breath, but Amanda makes no further motion to
leave. "I just meant that you've got a strong work ethic, so it's
not like you to miss a call like that. That's all."

A lock of hair falls over her right eye, and
she pushes it back behind her ear with a trembling fingers. Her
cheeks are still reddened and blotchy, and her brows are drawn low
as she stares at you. But you can see the suspicion cross and leave
her face like a skittish deer. "Okay."

You pick up your menu, glance over it. "Hey,
wanna split some of these 'Irish nachos?'"

"I guess I'm glad to see the accident didn't
ruin your awful taste in food," Amanda says with a scowl. "It makes
me sick how you can eat whatever you want like it's nothing." Her
eyes skate over the menu in front of her. "Sure. Why the fuck not?
Let's do the nachos and I want a meatloaf sandwich."

"Sounds good," you reply. "So what's new with
you? Last time I saw you, I was kind of tripping balls on
codeine."

Before Amanda responds, the waiter comes back
through and takes your orders and your menus. With nothing left to
hold on to, Amanda starts to fidget with the wrapper of her straw.
It's adorable. She twists it between two fingers, ties it in a
knot, snaps it in half. "Nightmare job. I haven't slept a lot since
your accident." As she talks, she abandons the torn paper and
brings her hands together to fiddle with the plain silver band on
her left index finger, the one from Ori that you'd passed to her.
"I heard..."

Her eyes meet yours, dark and suddenly very
sad. They search your face for something, perhaps some sort of
sign, but you have no idea what. Her fingers still. "Never mind.
How about you? What's new in your life?"

Unsure whether Amanda found what she sought or
not, you shrug. "Not much. After this, I promised I would go home
and clean. Simon's got a date and he doesn't want the place to be
shit-wrecked if he's getting lucky tonight. Though, I kind of think
his date might be homicidal."

The short bark of laughter startles you both,
and Amanda tries to hide her mouth behind the hand with the
gleaming silver ring as if that would somehow make it less obvious
that she was its source. It's followed by a snort. "Hah, sorry.
That–that was mean."

"I'm... not sure I follow here." You cross
your arms over your chest as if to prepare for some sort of body
blow.

Another giggle slips through Amanda's fingers.
She tries to drown it with a gulp of ice water. "Okay, Doug, I
don't know how you haven't noticed this before, but your roommate
is both kind of in love with you and seriously in denial about it,"
she says. Her words are light, but her tone is desolate,
bitter.

"Whoa there, pardner," you say, holding up
both hands in a "slow down" motion. "I don't know if you know this,
but my roommate is pretty fucking gay. You know, like you? Remember
the whole 'sorry, you're not a lady so we can't be together' thing?
Pretty sure Simon knows I'm not a dude."

Amanda's face twists up in an unflattering
sneer. "You sure about that, Doug? Because I can tell you that
every time he saw us, he was trying to kill me with a death glare.
He never thought I was good enough for you, which usually implies
that he thinks he could do better. I bet he doesn't even know we're
both here, or, if he does, he gave you shit before you left." She
notices your flinch and gestures helplessly across the table at you
in response. "See? He hates me but it's not because we can't get
along. He hates me because I have–had what he wants, even if he
can't admit it. He wants you. And I'm willing to bet that whoever
the hell he's bringing home looks kind of like he could be your
long-lost relative."

Silence reels out between the both of you,
Amanda still glaring and you trying in vain to keep your jaw from
hanging open. "Where the actual fuck did that come from?" you
ask.