The Contradiction of Solitude (10 page)

“Probably,” Tate grinned, grabbing his crotch in an adolescent gesture. He was annoying me. I wanted him to leave. The possessive girl, Margie, sneered in what I assumed was meant to be an act of intimidation. I flicked my eyes over each of them, regarding them briefly and then moving on.

Elian gave me a sideways look, seeming uncomfortable by his friends’ antics. He covered it well with a jovial grin. I loved that smile. It was dishonest.

It was the most truthful thing about him.

“Uh, I’ll catch up with you guys later,” Elian announced, clearing his throat. I covered my mouth with my hand, not wanting to show the world my own smile that was anything but a lie.

“Oh, I get it, you want to hang with the hot Denny’s chick. I know when we’re not wanted. Come on, Margie.” Tate laughed, and I watched the girl with bright red hair, knowing she hated me. It was on her face and in her eyes.

I dropped my hand from my mouth and did nothing to hide my upturned lips. I even showed a little teeth. Just for her.

She was angry and jealous and a dozen other unfortunate emotions because she wanted what was already
mine
. I felt the echoes of pity for her. It wasn’t her fault that she gave her heart to a man who could never take care of it.

“I thought we were going to get some barbeque, Elian. It’s your favorite,” Margie said, her voice pleading. I hated how easily she bared her soul to him. She should have more self-respect.

Elian clenched his jaw and I wanted to touch the skin that covered hard bone.

“I’ll get some later, no worries.” He was so dismissive and Margie with the red hair knew that. Finally she got the point and turned on her heel, stomping off like a child.

Tate rolled his eyes. “What crawled up her snatch?”

“Dude, seriously,” Elian growled, clearly not amused with his friend’s language. Tate finally got the point and gave us a hearty wave before he and Stan headed off in the direction Margie had just gone.

“Sorry about them,” Elian apologized, his voice low and quiet and meant for me alone.

I lifted my shoulders in a careless shrug. It didn’t matter.
They
didn’t matter. Because he was the only reason I was there in the first place.

Elian pulled at a loose string at the hem of his T-shirt. He dressed like he hadn’t done laundry in a while. His jeans were stained and his shirt faded and threadbare. His brown work boots were scuffed, the laces tucked into the sides. He reminded me of a little boy running wild, regardless of the danger up ahead.

“This isn’t your type of scene,” he commented, shifting my focus from his shoes to his face.

“You’re right. This isn’t normally my scene at all,” I admitted, leaning into him just slightly.

Elian snapped his fingers together. “I knew it!” As though he had just made a monumental discovery. These were tiny, inconsequential pieces that I gave away without effort. Safe. Painless.

“So why are you here?” he asked, pushing his hair off his forehead. I stared at him for a moment, taking in all the parts of him. His green eyes, the first thing that I had really noticed about him. His light brown hair that fell in a haphazard disarray across his forehead.

The scars, thin and shiny, crisscrossing along the length of his neck. They were brutal and violent. And when Elian was nervous, he rubbed his fingers over the slightly raised skin as though trying to wipe them away. I wondered about the scars. I wondered about his false smiles.

I wondered about Elian Beyer and his many, many secrets.

The air felt hot. Constricting. It squeezed and pressed uncomfortably against thirsty skin. Brecken Forest had been experiencing an unseasonable drought. There hadn’t been any rain in over two months. The flowers were dying. The leaves were falling before they were ready. The earth looked parched. Desperate.

The brown blades of once green grass were sharp beneath my palm. Dry and brittle, breaking off under my fingers. Once alive but now dead and dusted.

“To see you of course,” I told him honestly, wondering how he’d take the words I had just handed him.

Elian swallowed audibly and there was a hint of blush on his cheeks. I knew that Elian wasn’t the blushing sort. He had unknowingly handed me all of the control.

“Is that okay?” I asked, dropping my hand onto the blanket so that it lay between us, only inches from his leg. I bent my fingers, scrunching them, and then laying them flat. Restless things itching to move and touch.

Elian gave me a small smile but didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

We sat together listening to the musicians play loud, obnoxious music. The vibrations of the bass shook my bones and I wished it would stop. People stood in front of us, obstructing our view of the band.

“Do you want to move closer? So we can see the stage?” Elian asked, craning his neck to try to see. I knew that his group of friends, including the territorial Margie, were nearby watching us.

“Okay,” I agreed, getting to my feet. Elian looked surprised again. His preconceived ideas of me were amusing. I would enjoy shattering them. And upholding them.

He wiped his hands on his jeans and then held his hand out. I knew he wanted me to take it. To interlace my fingers with his like children skipping down a street. Palm to palm, the heat of him infiltrating my chill.

I knew he expected me to comply in a mindless promise. Skin to skin.

I tucked my hands into the pockets of my pants.

Elian seemed embarrassed. Confused even. His dancing green eyes darkening ever slightly. “Shall we?” I asked, inclining my head toward the stage.

His eyes cleared, and the smile tinged with disingenuous mirth returned. His mask firmly in place.

I was close enough to see the thud of his pulse in his neck.
Tick. Tock. Thud. Thud.
Like a clock. Constant.

I didn’t want to hold his hand but I wanted to touch his skin. Right
there
. Where the tender, vulnerable skin thumped steadily.

“Okay,” Elian said, his hand once again by his side. The hand that had waited for mine. I followed him through the crowd, my feet shadowing his steps.

We stood in the sea of people, listening to music I didn’t like, our arms brushing against each other. He looked down at me, his tall frame towering over me. His head brushing the clouds.

Buzz..…

I reached out, fingers tiptoeing over skin, gliding, sliding until they fit into the curves and planes of his hand. Palm to Palm. Heat to chill.

Elian startled slightly, and I wondered if he could feel how cold I was.
Inside.

Could he tell how hard it was for my heart to beat?

How my clock had stopped a long time ago?

“L
ayna, your paper was delivered to me again,” Mrs. Statham smiled, her swollen, red gums appearing above stained, yellow teeth.

“Thank you. Would you like to come in for some tea?” I asked, confident that my invitation wouldn’t be accepted. Which was the only reason it was given.

“Oh, I can’t. Gettin’ my hair washed and set. It’s Thursday, you know,” she informed me. I knew the old woman’s schedule. Just as she made it a point to know mine. She was an observer in her own, nosy way.

“That’s right. Well another time then,” I said with a smile.

“I’ll bring you some peanut butter crunch cookies later. I’m trying out a new recipe before my granddaughter comes to visit.”

“When is she coming?” I asked.

“In a couple of weeks. She’s about your age. Maybe a little older. How old are you again?” I eyed the older woman speculatively, knowing exactly what she was doing. She had been trying to glean information out of me since I had moved in. She wasn’t in the slightest bit subtle.

“Twenty-four,” I replied, feeling no need to lie. I typically held my truths close to my chest, revealing none. But there was no harm in giving Mrs. Statham what she was looking for.

It didn’t hurt. It didn’t spoil.

I didn’t bleed afterwards.

Mrs. Statham clicked her tongue several times, her eyes wrinkling at the corners. “Danielle is twenty-eight. She’s been working in the city for a few years now. She’s close enough that it shouldn’t take her six months to come see her grandmother, that’s for sure,” Mrs. Statham remarked sternly, already discarding the information I had given her.

Insignificant.

Unimportant.

She had no idea.

“People get busy,” I offered, backing away from the door, knowing the conversation was nearing its inevitable conclusion.

“True, true.” Mrs. Statham peered at me, eyes wanting to see so much. “You don’t leave your poor grandmother to pine after you, do you?”

“I don’t have a grandmother,” I reminded her. She knew the story I had told her. Sprinkled with the reality I had come to know. Some honesty that made it real.

“Oh that’s right. You lost your parents
and
grandparents. I’m sorry about that. It’s a shame that such a beautiful girl like you is all alone in the world,” Mrs. Statham exclaimed without tact. If I were an emotional woman, her words would have wounded.

But there was no pain.

“I have to get ready for work. And you have hair to wash and set, Mrs. Statham,” I reminded her, getting annoyed, wishing she’d leave.

Mrs. Statham clucked her tongue again. “That’s right. I’m going to be late. I’ll come by later.”

I didn’t bother to tell her that I would be at work later. I’d let her come by to find me not at home. Her future disappointment almost made me smile.

“Bye, Mrs. Statham,” I said and closed the door as she turned to leave, more words on her lips that I didn’t want to hear.

I walked into my kitchen and stopped at the dry erase board I had hung on the refrigerator.

I uncapped the marker and jotted down a line:
Sealed lips, closed eyes, dead ears. Easy heart.

I laid the newspaper out on the table and turned on my computer. While I waited for it to boot up, I skimmed the local stories. I made a point to familiarize myself with the goings on in the tiny towns I chose to live in.

Brecken Forest was typical in all the usual ways. The front page was dominated by the minutes from last night’s school board meeting. Pictures of the recent garden show took up most of the second and third page. I looked at the faces of local celebrities. Women and men whose names meant something in this quiet hamlet. Families who had been there for generations.