The Contradiction of Solitude(52)

Amelia looked shocked. Her eyes filled with tears. She wiped them away. Smearing them on her fingertips. Crushing them dead.

“Fine, I will! He’s promised me a new life! A better one! He’s going to make me a star!” she screeched, and I just wanted her to stop.

Ring around a rosy…

We weren’t children anymore. Our pockets weren’t full of posies.

“Don’t talk about her,” I warned. Meaning it. I hated the sound of Layna’s name on his lips.

“That’s what I’m saying, dude. You’re—weird—about her. I’ve never seen you like this before. And I’ve known you for a long time.”

No he hadn’t. He hadn’t known me nearly long enough.

“You don’t know me at all, Tate,” I said, being the most honest I had ever been with him.

Tate looked stricken. Like he didn’t know what to say. I should feel bad. I should feel horrible. And I knew the guilt would come.

It always did. I felt it for a thousand different things. Some more deserving than others.

And I didn’t want to hurt the people I had called friends.

“I’m his daughter. He’s my father. We are one and the same.” Layna’s eyes, sad and resigned.

Father. Daughter. The same.

They weren’t. I knew that. I could see how much she didn’t want that to be true.

The star. Burning in my mind. The last time that I saw Amelia.

The first time that I saw Layna.

“Elian? Are you listening?”

“Huh?” I blinked. Back to the present. Back to the now.

“I asked if you wanted to come over to watch the game tonight. Just the gang. I think it would be good for you,” Tate dropped the cigar on the ground. It smoked and charred.

“He’s my father, Elian.”

“You don’t know what the hell is good for me. Don’t pretend to,” I snarled. Suddenly angry.

I couldn’t deal.

I couldn’t handle any of this.

I needed to run.

To her.

Tate held his hands up. Backing off instantly. I knew in that moment that our friendship was over. This was his last entreaty. His last effort made.

I felt the pinch of regret. Small. But there all the same.

My head hummed, and my heart was full.

Of other things.

I walked away.

Away from Elian Beyer.

Towards Elian James.





“Her name was Amelia. Amelia James.”

“James?” I asked. I wondered.

I already knew.

“That’s her last name. My last name.”

Elian worked at his bottom lip with his teeth. They were cracked open. Painful. Stretched too thin.

He was a wreck. An emotional catastrophe. The laid back, easygoing man I met at Denny’s was gone.

His mask had finally broken.

Slivers and jagged edges.

He was only the truth.

The bitter, bitter truth.

It was good to see.

Inside I sang.

“Your last name isn’t Beyer,” I stated. I didn’t ask. I didn’t have to.

I knew.

Elian had his hand wrapped around my wrist. He didn’t pull me closer. He didn’t kiss or cuddle. But his iron grip never weakened. He held me as though I were going to run.

Or he was.

As if I’d let him.

Being at Elian’s house by the quarry had become something akin to sanctuary. The solitude was at times unbearable.

At others it was euphoric.

The contradiction.

The sun was setting and night had begun its descent. Elian didn’t turn on any lights. We sat on his couch in the gloom. The silent, silent world holding its breath and waiting.

Waiting.

“My name was never Elian Beyer. He was an invention. One I created because I couldn’t stomach the person tied to a past. I was trying really hard to forget him.” His confession was expected.

“You trust me with your name.” I was quiet. Oh so quiet.

Elian, his green eyes no longer dancing, but hooded and dark, stared at me with the burning of a man half gone.

“I’m not sure I should,” he said, breathlessly. Honestly.

“I’m not sure you should either.” Just as breathlessly. Just as honestly.

Elian’s finger dug into my skin. Clawing. Restraining. “I want to trust you, Layna. I want you to take everything. But what will you do when I give it to you?” He looked confused. Crazed. Almost out of control. His light brown hair stuck out on all sides as though he had been running his fingers through it mercilessly.

He hadn’t been sleeping. I knew this for fact.

Since our talk that night I had smashed the window, we had been sharing a bed. We fell asleep together. We woke up together. Hands holding, locked tight. Never letting go.

Trapping each other in our confining arms.

And he tossed and turned. Often sitting up until the early hours of the morning. He chased his ghosts while I slept soundly, peacefully embracing mine.

I closed the space between us. I brought my wrist, trapped between his fingers, to my chest so that I cradled both of our hands. “I’ll take what you give me and I’ll tuck it in here. Inside. I promise, Elian.”

My promises meant nothing. They were only words. Words easily cracked.