The Contradiction of Solitude (21 page)

“Would you be willing to hang out with my friends tonight?” Elian asked. We were dressed and having coffee in my kitchen. I never had people in my home. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it.

But Elian conformed to the space around him. Fitting in unobtrusively.

His question, however, irritated me.

“With your friends?” I asked, handing him a spoon to stir his drink. The sun was finally starting to go down. I felt as though it had been in the sky for far too long. I felt more relaxed once the light dimmed.

Elian laughed a little, sounding strained. “Yeah, my friends. Tate’s having a few people over to watch the UFC match on pay-per-view. I just thought it might be nice. You know, because we’re…uh…well, you’re my…”

I let him flounder. I didn’t define the role he was trying to place on me.

I refused.

“Anyway, I just thought you could get to know them. They’re decent enough guys.” He stirred his coffee, the spoon clanging against the side of the mug.

“Are they?” I asked.

He stopped stirring and put the spoon on the table, sticky, brown liquid pooling on the surface.

I gritted my teeth.

“Yes, they are,” he said firmly. He seemed flustered. Thinking about my question. Letting it ruminate.

“Okay,” I agreed.

He looked happy. Relieved.

I wasn’t either of those things.

Not now.

Maybe later.

Tate still lived with his parents, who happened to be out of town. The first thing I noticed as we walked into the small bungalow was the smell of stale cigarettes and nachos.

The sounds of yelling from somewhere within had me slowing my steps and taking my time.

No need to rush forward.

I wasn’t there by choice.

Elian had gone home to shower and change, leaving me alone for only forty-five minutes. I barely had time to register he was gone by the time he had come back.

He was happy. So happy. He wanted to show off his pretty new girl to his ill begotten friends.

His pretty new girl wanted nothing to do with ill begotten friends.

She wanted Dancing Green Eyes, joyful and full, all to herself.

The house was small and unloved. Falling apart and to the brim with neglect.

More shouting.

Laughter.

Noise.

I wanted to leave.

Elian’s grip on my hand was so tight it hurt. I gripped his just as painfully. He didn’t mind. He was holding my hand. He was ready to present me to the only people in his life.

The people that he had chosen to let into his make believe world.

I was curious about this Elian he had given them.

Because I knew it wasn’t the real one.

The one from Diamond Creek, Pennsylvania.

So while I would rather take him away from all of this, to keep him with me always, I’d bide my time. So I could see the show he chose to perform.

“Elian! My man! You made it! The match has already started!” The person I knew as Tate, waved from a threadbare couch in the center of a cluttered living room. Tacky curtains and nicotine-stained walls did little mask the smell of decay that hung in the air.

The 50-inch television blared at an ear splitting volume. The room felt packed with heaving, sweaty male bodies, hollering at men bleeding on the screen.

“Hey guys!” Elian yelled over the din. A simultaneous lifting of hands was the only indication that he was heard.

“They get really into their UFC,” he yelled into my ear. I heard him. I always heard him. He didn’t need to yell.

“Elian!” A squeal. A flurry of hands and lips. Two girls wrapped uncovered arms around his neck and pressed him close. Away from me. Pulling. Pulling. Away.

I narrowed my eyes as I watched Margie and a girl I didn’t recognize hug and kiss the man who I had come there with.

Mine.

Elian moved back to my side instantly. Like a good boy, he took my hand once again. I rewarded him with a smile. I knew how much he loved them.

“Girls, this is Layna. My girlfriend,” Elian announced, proud of himself. So sure. So confident. Easy grins and charming words.

This was
their
Elian Beyer.

Both women looked at me. Margie’s expression one of contempt. The other woman wore a look of interest.

“A new girl huh? That was quick,” the unrecognizable woman laughed, poking Margie in the side and giving her a pointed look. I didn’t like her.

I thought of my fingers in her eyes, gouging, pulling. Blood on the floor. Skin in tattered clumps in my hands. She wouldn’t laugh then. The only noise would be her screams.

“Gail, shut up, all right? Don’t make this awkward for Layna.” Elian’s threat was all words and no guts. He was smiles and teasing. He was easygoing and not hard enough.

Gail had the decency to look ashamed of her behavior. She held out her hand. “I’m Gail. I’ve known Elian since he moved here. I’m Tate’s…whatever…nice to meet you.”

I didn’t take her hand. I let her hold it out in front of her, hovering, empty. Her mouth pursed, her expression souring.

“Okay then. There’s nachos and beer in the kitchen. You guys are the last ones to arrive, so I’m not sure how much stuff is left.” Margie whispered something in Gail’s ear and they both looked at me. I stared back.

Elian fidgeted beside me. “Uh, okay. Thanks. I think we’ll see what beer is left.” He pulled me away, out of the room. Into a semblance of quiet.

“She doesn’t mean to be a bitch, Layna. But she’s Margie’s friend,” he said by way of explanation. Embarrassed. Mortified. Wanting me to pretend just like he does.

“I’m thirsty. Let’s get something to drink,” I said, ignoring his efforts to talk about what had just happened with the insignificant Gail, Tate’s
whatever.

“Do you want a beer?” Elian asked, opening the refrigerator. Cheese and tortilla chips were strewn across the counter tops. The floor was sticky underneath my shoes.

“Water, please,” I said, looking around.

“It’s not normally this bad. But Tate’s parents’ are out of town, so he won’t bother to clean until right before they come home,” Elian explained. Always explaining.

I took the glass he offered and sipped. Elian popped the top off a bottle and took a long, nervous gulp. He was beginning to think that bringing me here wasn’t such a good idea. He knew I could see what he was.

Who
he was.

He hadn’t thought this through.

“Do you want to go watch the match? I can introduce you to the rest of the guys. They’re not as bad as Margie and Gail.”

I took another drink. Considering.

“Okay,” I agreed. I wanted to see more.

Elian took my free hand and led me back to the living room. No one looked up as we entered.

“Can you make some room for us, Tate?” Elian asked. His voice tight. Tense.

Tate patted the cushion beside him. “Your hot Denny’s chick can sit right here next to me. You can go fuck yourself.” His laugh was grating. Too loud.

I didn’t take the offered seat.

Tate’s smile dropped and he moved over. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Sure, have a seat guys.” More polite this time. Elian gave my hand a tug and pulled me down next to him on the disgusting couch. Elian next to Tate.

“Is this the chick that’s had you MIA for the last couple of weeks?” a guy wearing a faded blue baseball cap and missing front teeth asked. I recognized him from the concert in the park. Stan. I drank more of my water, watching Elian as he put on a mask for these people he called friends.

“Her name is Layna Whitaker. Use it fuck face.” Again the smiles. No real venom. Who was this man?

Elian slung his arm around my shoulder and I pulled away. He looked hurt. Confused.

But then he was smiling again. Easy and comfortable. “This ugly fuck is Stan Biggers. I’m pretty sure you met him at the concert.” I nodded. “He and Nathan right there, work at George’s studio with Tate, Margie, and me.”

“Oh,” I responded, turning to the television. A man’s lip split open, blood on the mat.

Blood everywhere…

“Are you okay being here?” Elian whispered in my ear.

I turned to look at him, our noses an inch a part. Our eyes met and clung. Holding on. And there he was.

Elian.

The man
I
knew.

“Are
you
?” I asked.

He blinked in surprise at my question.

“None of that shit during the match,” the man named Nathan yelled, throwing a pillow at Elian.

“Damn, E, I can see why you’ve been hiding her away, she’s fucking hot,” Stan sneered, scratching his crotch. Hate. Hate. Despise.

Tate’s guffaws were too much. He smacked Elian on the back of the head.

Then I saw it.

Their Elian went hiding. Gone.

He picked up the pillow and threw it back at Stan, hard. Violent. It hit Stan in the face, knocking his glasses onto the floor, his beer slipping out of his hand. Stan hadn’t expected that sort of response from the Elian
he
knew.

I smiled.

I grinned.

I
anticipated.

“Back the fuck off, Stan.” Elian’s shouting had everyone’s attention. Open mouthed shock mirrored on all the faces.

Not on mine.

Never on mine.

“What the hell? I was just joking around,” Stan growled, picking up his glasses and putting them back on.

Elian got to his feet and leaned down into Stan’s intimidated face. “Don’t you
ever
talk about her like that. I’ll knock the rest of your teeth down your fucking throat!”

“Whoa! Hang on a second—” Tate began, trying to pull Elian back.

Elian turned on his friend and shoved him. Hard.

I put a hand over my mouth in feigned fright. But I wasn’t frightened.

I was
delighted.

“What’s wrong, Elian?” Margie exclaimed, appearing beside him and putting her hand on his arm.

I stopped watching Elian. I turned my attention to the TV screen. The flying fists and the mangled flesh.

I bit on my lip, not listening as Elian stomped all over the man his friends knew him to be.

“Come on, Layna.” Elian pulled on my arm, and I went with him without hesitation.

We left Tate’s house and went back to my apartment.

We closed ourselves up inside. Just the two of us.

Alone.

Where we belonged.