The Contradiction of Solitude(11)

Margie flushed a deep red, her mouth flapping open like a fish. “I wasn’t suggesting—” she began. And because I tried to be a nice guy, I gave her hand a quick, comforting squeeze.

“I know, Margie. I just can’t make it tonight. My head will be somewhere else,” I said, tapping my temple for emphasis.

Margie gave Tate a less than friendly glare, though the look she gave me was all female longing.

“Okay, well, if you change your mind, I’ll be there until this jackass pisses me off.” Tate chuckled and held his hands up in mock surrender.

“This jackass is getting loaded. If the night goes as planned, I’ll be passed out in the bathtub by ten.”

“Good to have plans,” I chuckled, shaking my head.

Margie went inside without another word and I kicked Tate in the foot. “Man, give her a break. You really can be a dickhead.”

Tate puffed on his cigar and blew smoke rings in the air. Needing something to do with my twitchy fingers, I fished another cigarette out of my pocket. Tate, knowing I never carried my own lighter, handed me his.

“You were the one that dipped your wick in the co-worker. That’s just stupid, Elian. Weren’t you ever told not to shit where you eat?”

“Your metaphors are really inspiring,” I remarked dryly, my lungs seized with the first drag of polluted air. For a man who smoked almost a pack a day, my body never really acclimated to the vice. My lungs still screamed in protest with every pull.

My body knew there were limits to my fabrications.

I licked my lips, picking at a piece of dry skin at the corner of my mouth.

“You know what I mean. Margie will be hounding you forever now. It was a moron move nailing her. Even if she looks like an instant hard-on.”

I didn’t bother to answer. Margie was a nice enough girl, and I had no doubt we’d enjoy each other’s company again. But I liked to keep things simple and uncomplicated. And if there were a chance for convoluted, I’d have to shut it down cold.

“Are you still heading out of town to see your parents next weekend?” Tate asked, changing the subject.

I nodded.

“That’s a damn shame. I was really hoping you’d hit the lake with me and the guys.”

I dropped my second cigarette on the step and ground it out with my toe. “You know I don’t do crowds, Tate,” I reminded him.

“But this one will be low key. Nothing crazy,” Tate cajoled.

I shook my head. “Can’t. You know I’ve got plans,” I said, giving him the same story once again.

“Yeah, yeah, your parents’ anniversary. I guess that’s a good excuse,” Tate muttered, rolling his eyes.

I smiled, something more akin to a grimace. The lie was so easy to tell. I wondered where the niggling guilt was. Where were the concerns of being found out? None of it was there.

I was an endless void of feeling. The only joy I felt was in creating Elian Beyer—son, brother, friend, lover. Likable and loved, Elian Beyer was whoever I wanted him to be.

The friends that I had made since moving to Brecken Forest three years ago were familiar with tales of my mother, Jane, a successful veterinarian and my dad, Kyle, who had just retired from his corporate gig. They knew about my older brother, Wade, who was married with three kids and my baby sister, Leanne, who was just about to graduate from college.

I had created family get-togethers and holidays spent in front of roaring fires at my parents’ home in upstate New York. I used the excuse of my niece’s christening as the reason I couldn’t work over the weekend last month when instead I stayed at home fighting the ongoing battle against the very real demons I was running from.

Tate, Margie, and George heard about weddings and funerals and birthday parties. Family reunions and Fourth of July barbeques. Happy. Normal. Typical.

And I was happy to share the intimate details of my life with the people I had come to know.

They had no idea that none of it was real.

It was so much easier living in the make believe world I had invented than to allow myself to think too long on the ugly, misbegotten truth.

Because Elian Beyer was a lie.

I ran my tongue over my gums, already jonesing for my next cigarette. Tate was talking. I wasn’t listening. My eyes were trained across the street to the figure moving with an unhurried gait.

She had her head down, staring with determined concentration at the ground. Unconcerned. Aloof. Mesmerizing. There was something appealing in the way it was obvious she didn’t want anyone to look at her.

But it was impossible to ignore a woman like that. It was a crime against nature.

I popped a mint in my mouth and stepped down off the curb. “I’ve got to go see a guy about a thing,” I said absently to Tate before walking out into the road, barely hearing the blast of a horn as someone swerved around me.

I ran my hands through my hair, wishing I had gotten it cut at some point in the last six months. I had let myself go a bit. There was more cushion in my mid-section. My normally toned arms had lost some of their definition. Somewhere between running and putting down roots I had gotten comfortable.

Comfort made eating Ding Dongs for breakfast and beer for dinner a common occurrence. I watched the beautiful girl walking in measured strides down the sidewalk. Following. Shadowing.

I wished I had dressed nicer today. Taken the time to wash my clothes and comb my hair.