The Contradiction of Solitude(38)

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 f*ck 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 f*ck 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 f*ck 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.