The Contradiction of Solitude(39)

“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 f*cking 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 f*ck 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 f*cking 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.





“You want to go for a drive, sweetheart?”

He smelled like spearmint. And tobacco. My favorite smells in the whole, wide world.

“Yes, Daddy!” I squealed and jumped into his open arms. He hadn’t been away on a fishing trip in over six months. It had been nice having him home. I loved his attention. I knew he liked being with me more than Matty.

Matty cried a lot. He was a whiner. Mommy was always telling my brother that superheroes don’t cry. That would just make him cry harder.

Sometimes when she wasn’t looking, I’d pinch him on the arm. Then he’d scream. I liked that better than the crying.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

Daddy didn’t answer me. That was okay. Sometimes he was quiet, and I knew he was thinking. I didn’t bother him when he was thinking. Mommy would get upset when he didn’t talk to her. Matty would throw things to get his attention.

But not me. I knew that the things in his head were more important.

“You’re the only one that will ever understand, Lay,” Daddy would always tell me. He was right. I understood. I thought about things too. Lots of things.

Awful things.

Things that made Mommy mad when I told her.

“Don’t you dare say those horrible things in this house ever again! Your brother might hear you! And don’t you go to school and say them either. They stay inside your head. Where they belong.”

She didn’t like my stories. I would whisper them to myself when I was alone. I liked to say them at night. In the dark. When the monsters were under the bed ready to eat me.

Daddy loaded me up in the car. I buckled the seat belt. I hated sitting in the booster seat but Mommy said I was still too young to get rid of it.

I was eight years old and in the third grade. I was way past needing a booster seat.

Daddy took it out of his car. He agreed with me.

“Where are we going, Daddy? Will we be gone long?” I asked. Mommy and Matty were at the store. I didn’t know if Daddy left them a note.

“I’m not sure, Lay. Let’s make a new star story. What do you say?”

I kicked my legs up and down in excitement.

A new story!

“Please, Daddy! I want to find a new star!”

Daddy looked at me in the rearview mirror. His eyes, the only thing I could ever remember about him looking back at me. Coal black. A monster’s eyes.

My monster.

“I’ll get a star just for you, Layna.”

Just for you.



I noticed things about Elian.

He was focused. Driven. Fixated and obsessed.

He spent countless hours toiling over his craft. His guitars. Cutting and sanding wood. Carefully putting the pieces together. Lining them up and making sure they were perfect.

He handled them lovingly. They were important to him. His great passion.

He made guitars but would never play them.

I knew he was a musician. I could tell by the way his fingers drummed along to the beat of a song as we drove in his car. I heard the melodies he hummed when he thought I wasn’t listening.

But when I suggested he play the guitar I had purchased, the one he had made, he refused.

Then he became angry. Livid. He slammed the lid of the case shut and shoved the instrument back to where I kept it behind the couch. Out of sight. Far, far away.