The Contradiction of Solitude(43)

I shook my head. “I’m going to Denny’s. I’m meeting Layna.”

Someone made a noise. I looked up, my face suddenly hot.

“Excuse me?” I said steadily. Loudly.

“No one said anything, man,” Stan protested. Nathan was the smart one, he kept his mouth shut.

Margie rolled her eyes and left the room. Tate shook his head and returned to his task. No one said anything else. And I felt it. Them pulling away. The distance increasing.

I was losing them.

I was losing the game I had been playing for a long, long time.

I was ready to be defeated.



“You look tired,” Layna murmured, eating the seasoned fries one at a time.

One. Two. Three.

“I feel tired.” My phone was vibrating in my pocket. It had been going nonstop since I had met Layna thirty minutes ago.

I didn’t need to look at the screen to know who it was.

The calls weren’t reserved for the nighttime anymore. They were coming more and more frequently.

I wondered why she needed to talk to me so badly.

I tapped my fork on the table in a rhythm. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Elian. Stop it.”

I put the fork down and tried to eat. I was having a hard time keeping up my appetite lately.

“Maybe you should go home. Try to get some sleep,” Layna suggested. And I liked that idea. If she came with me.

“Will you come home with me?” I asked her. She looked up through her lashes. Never smiling. I wished she would.

“I have to work later. I can’t.”

I started tapping the fork on the table again. “Can I go to your place? Wait for you to come home?”

Layna reached out and took the fork from my hands and put it beside her utensils. “Eat something. You’re losing weight. You’re not taking care of yourself. Tell me, Elian.”

Tell me, Elian.

I picked up a fry, my favorite, and put it in my mouth. Chewing. Swallowing. Sick.

“You want to go to my apartment?” Layna asked, dipping another fry in her ranch dressing.

“If that’s okay. If not, I’ll go home. I really just want to sleep for a while. You’re right, I’m not getting enough rest.” I couldn’t think. Layna was right, I just needed to sleep.

Layna chewed her fry and looked at me. I felt pinned by coal black eyes.

“Okay. Go to my place. Get some rest. I’ll be home this evening.” I felt relieved. I felt better. I picked up the fries on my plate and put them in my mouth. A handful. Choking as I swallowed.

Full.

From the inside out.



I didn’t like Layna’s apartment. I’m not sure why I had wanted to come there so badly. I could get no sense of Layna Whitaker in these walls. Not in the used furniture or ugly dishes.

I let myself in with the key Layna had given me and I turned on the lights. I was glad that the nosy Mrs. Statham hadn’t rushed me as soon as I had walked into the building.

I kicked off my shoes and walked farther into the apartment. The air smelled like Layna. A scent that was otherwise impossible to describe.

My eyelids felt heavy, and all I wanted was to crash.

I wasn’t sleeping at night. When I had first moved to Half Moon Quarry, the quiet had been exactly what I needed. I felt at home there in a way I hadn’t felt in many, many years.

But in the last month, I’ve felt strangely despondent. I felt restrained. Like the walls were closing in. The whispering specters that plagued me at night were too loud.

I didn’t find comfort in their faceless voices. Now they were my prisoners and I didn’t know how to break out.

My phone buzzed in my pocket again and I pulled it out, seeing the text.

I’m here. Always.

I shut off the phone. Not wanting any more calls. No more texts. I needed to be left alone.

But I couldn’t relax.

Maybe I needed a drink. Some hard liquor should do the trick. I went into Layna’s kitchen and looked in her cabinets. There was no alcohol in the place. I settled on a tea bag and boiling kettle.

I started to root through the drawers, looking for a spoon. Layna was a minimalist. She didn’t do clutter. She didn’t seem to hold onto meaningless items.

So it was with surprise that I opened the drawer closest to the bottom of the cabinets to discover it crammed full. A bulging folder was shoved in, paper peeking out on all sides, not able to hold it all in.

I shouldn’t.

But I did.

I pulled out the folder, forgetting about the kettle that whistled on the stovetop.

“Curiosity killed the cat, Elian,” she warned, and I knew she was mad. She was always mad at me lately. Always angry. Mom said she was just being a teenager. I didn’t know why that mattered.

“Where are you going?” I asked her, not giving up. I wanted to know. She was my big sister. She got to do stuff that I didn’t. I was curious.

Like a cat.

“Mind your own business,” she huffed but then she smiled and ruffled my hair. I pushed her hand away but smiled too. I was too old to be treated like a baby. But I didn’t mind when she did it. She was the only one.

“You’re only twelve, Elian. You don’t understand grown up stuff,” she said and I rolled my eyes.

“You’re not a grown up either, you know. And you’re only four years older than me,” I reminded her.