The Contradiction of Solitude (23 page)

“Not friends and not dating. Then why is he in here, talking to you, every single time you work?”

I picked up the pile of books and walked away. I heard her grumbling under her breath.

She hated me. Really, really hated me.

I went to the second floor of the bookshop and looked out the window, across the street toward George’s Custom Shop. I knew he was in there. He had gone to work when I did. Three hours past when he was supposed to be there.

He had fretted and worried over being late. I had silenced him easily enough.

“Layna.” I didn’t jump at the unexpected arrival. Even though I was instantly on guard.

“Can I help you find something?” I asked, still looking out the window. I could see her reflection in the glass. She was standing close behind me. Too close. But I wouldn’t move.

“No I’m not looking for something. I’m looking to get rid of something,” Margie spat and I smirked. She was so predictable. So mundane.

She wore her jealously like a neon sign. Simple to read. Easy. Just like her.

“We’re not in the market for used books,” I said, being purposefully obtuse.

Margie grabbed my arm. Thick fingers digging into infuriated skin. I breathed out heavily through my nose.

And I thought about the blood.

“Look at me you spiteful cunt,” she hissed, and I pulled my arm away. Not a yank. Not desperate to be free of her. Just a gentle tug out of her grip.

I didn’t rise to her bait. I didn’t respond to her barb. I continued to look out the window.

Toward Elian…

“Ever since you started sniffing around, Elian hasn’t been right. He’s different!”

“And that’s bad because…?” I asked quietly, amused by her rising ire.

“Because it’s not
him!
The Elian I know wouldn’t get into a fight at his friend’s house over some piece of ass! He’s laid back. Funny. A great guy to be around! But you’ve changed him! Now he’s quiet and angry and won’t talk to anyone! What are you doing to him? You must have a golden snatch by the way he pants after you.” She was trying to hurt me. But she wasn’t.

I felt
good.

“You think you know him? Why?” I finally turned to face Margie. Her cheeks were flushed, her fists were clenched. I wondered if she’d try to hit me. I hoped she did.

“Because you had sex a few times? Because he put his cock inside you?” I let my tongue roll over the words. Tasting them before I struck.

I took a step toward her, giving her a calm, placid smile. I knew that unsettled Margie. She shuffled backwards. “You’re a crazy fucking bitch,” she hissed at me.

“And you’re a deluded little girl that no one loves and will never love. I’ve known women like you my entire life. And as hard as you try to snatch and grab onto a man, you will never be able to hold onto him. Because he will always see you for who you are. Scared. Pathetic.” I looked her in the eye. “
Disgusting.”
I ran my tongue over my lips relishing in the pain I would inflict.

Margie had gone white. I thought she might vomit.

“You don’t know anything about me,” she protested but barely.

“Don’t I?”

I shrugged and turned back to the window, giving her my back. Giving her nothing.

I collected secrets like I collected stories.

They each had their uses.

“Don’t approach me. Ever again. If you see me in public, walk the other way. If I hear my name on your lips, you will rue the day.” Even. Unconcerned. Honest.

“You fucking bitch.”

I looked over my shoulder. “And don’t touch him ever again. I’ll know if you do.”

Margie was shaking. She wanted to hit me. So much. But she wouldn’t. Not now.

Not ever.

She left without another word. I had never considered Margie from George’s Custom Shop a threat.

And I didn’t now.

I put my hand flat against the glass, my nose touching the pane as I thought about Elian, in his studio, bent over the guitar he was so carefully constructing with labored, exhausted hands.

I smiled.

“D
ude, I’m really sorry about what happened—” Tate began to say the moment I walked into the studio.

“Don’t, all right?” I didn’t want to get into it again.

I had a brief instance after leaving Tate’s with Layna where I wondered if I had reacted too hastily. If I had created drama where there shouldn’t have been any.

I had been on edge from the time we had arrived until the second we left. I felt as though I had been holding my breath, waiting until it was okay to breathe again. Layna hadn’t wanted to be there. I knew that.

She didn’t fit into that world I had created with these friends who weren’t real. What had I been thinking in asking her to go?

She made it so easy to fall apart. To slip through the cracks, looking for truth when all I wanted were the lies.

“What the fuck man? What’s going on with you? Everyone sees it? Why can’t you?” Tate continued talking, and I continued not to listen.

His words didn’t matter.

The mask was slipping.

Elian Beyer was dying.

“Elian, we need to chat about this piece you’ve been working on.” George came in with the air of someone who needed to talk and talk right now.

I didn’t care.

I was thinking about Layna. About seeing her later. I had unknowingly sanded the same strip of wood over and over again for the last twenty minutes. Wood shavings coated my hands, rough and itchy.

I didn’t care.

“Elian. I’m talking to you.” George sounded frustrated. Irritated.

I was making him mad.

I didn’t make people mad. I made people laugh. I made people smile. I made them feel comfortable in the illusion I created.

Who are you, Elian Beyer?

“What, George?” I asked, still sanding.

“You’ve been working on this same guitar for two weeks. You haven’t completed a project in three. I have orders backing up. I need you to pull your thumb out and start being more productive. Which means coming in on time.”

George lectured. He chided. His voice rose so that everyone could hear him. He was making an example. He was trying to embarrass me.

I’ll take care of your star, Elian. It’s safe with me.

The star on her hip matching the star on my back. What did that mean? I felt as though I should be making some sort of connection between the colors on our skin.

Why couldn’t I see it?

Touching her. Being inside her. She swallowed me and kept me there. I couldn’t see anything but Layna.

She was everywhere.

And nowhere.

What was happening to me?

My head felt too heavy. I could hear the voices saying not to trust her. My heart whispering in my ear to hold her close and to never let go.

I hated anything and everything that kept us apart. The minutes in between waking in her arms and falling asleep in her body.

She was stripping me bare and I was exposed.

“Elian, what do you have to say to all that?” George was still talking. I was still sanding the wood. Up and down. Up and down. Shavings on my hands. On the floor.

“Are you okay being here?” I had asked her.

Coal black eyes staring back at me. I couldn’t look away.

“Are you?”

“I don’t really have anything to say.” I kept sanding.

Tate was staring. Margie had come in from the front and glared as though she didn’t like what she saw.

I didn’t care.

I was.

Falling.

A.

Part.

Coming.

Un.

Done.

“If you want to keep your fucking job, smart ass, you’d better do as I say! I want to see that piece finished by the end of the week, Elian! I’m serious! You’re the best luthier I’ve got, but that doesn’t mean you’re not irreplaceable!” George’s spittle flew. I felt it on my face. On my arms.

“Okay,” was all I said. I heard him.

But I wasn’t listening.

I was listening to the words no one else could hear.

Her words.

She was where I wanted to be.

George stormed out of the studio and the room was deathly silent. Not a word was spoken. Not a movement was made. I continued to sand the wood thinking of the stars.

Brands on our skin.

What wasn’t I seeing?

“Stop following me, Elian!” I hated it when she yelled at me. She did it a lot now. When she came back after being gone.

She ran away all the time now. For days. Weeks sometimes.

Mom cried, and Dad would yell.

I tried to stay out of the house. To wait until she came home again.

And she did. Finally.

But now she was leaving again.

I followed her as she walked into town. She fixed her hair and straightened her clothes. She primped as though she were meeting someone.

I hated whoever it was. Whoever she was giving her happiness too.

She used to give it to me.

Her little brother.

Not so little anymore.

Old enough to see there was something wrong with her.

Something she was running away from.

“You’re a coward!” I cried out. I hated her. So much. I was tired of how she twisted her family in knots. I was tired of not knowing where she went or what she did. At one time we shared everything.

There was only four years between us in age. Right now it felt like more.

“Go home!” she yelled. Screamed in my face. And then her face brightened. Her pretty, pretty face.

She had seen him.

The man she had come to meet.

I saw the blue car. And the arm that dangled out of the open window.

The nautical star tattooed on weathered skin.

She ran around to the passenger side door and got inside.

He looked at me.

And then she was gone.

At the time, I hadn’t remembered his face. All I had paid attention to was the star.