The Contradiction of Solitude(42)

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 f*ck 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 f*cking 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.

The star.

“Elian, you want to get some lunch? We could go somewhere new. There’s that place over on Orchard that’s supposed to have the best wings in town,” Tate offered.