Frayed Page 10

  Standing outside Lydia’s apartment, I examine the numbers on the door. The gold coating on the 3 is beginning to chip around the curves revealing a darkened matte gray underneath. I rub my finger along the edges feeling the transition between smooth and rough.

  I give my head a soft shake and raise my fist to the door. Here goes nothing.

  Before I have a chance to knock, I hear a voice on the other side of the door. It’s muffled at first but becomes clearer for a bit before fading out again. It’s Lydia and from the way it sounds, she’s pacing as she speaks—her voice rising as she nears the door and becoming more faint as she moves away.

  I look down the hallway. There’s no one in sight and no sound coming from any of the other apartments on this floor. I lean forward and press my ear to Lydia’s door. I’m not proud of invading her privacy like this, but she sounds upset and I need to hear what’s happening so I can decide what to do next.

  She’s speaking in a clipped tone. I can’t hear anyone else so whomever she’s speaking to must be on the phone.

  “How did you get this number?”

  “Cut the crap, Gabe. I know you don’t care about me. You never have.”

  She’s quiet for a beat. Whoever Gabe is, he’s probably trying to convince her that he does care. I hope to hell that whatever he’s selling, she’s not buying.

  “Okay, let me stop you right there.” My lips curve into a grin. Atta girl.

  “There was a time when words like that were all it would take to make me wet for you.”

  Slow gulp. Breathe, Owen.

  “That all died the day I caught you with Shannon. But you already know that because we’ve already had this conversation. Multiple times. You know, for someone so smart, you’re not very bright.”

  With each word she spits out into the phone, I can feel the armor I had built up around my heart begin to crumble. She doesn’t realize it, but as she tells Gabe to go fuck himself, she’s telling me to, well…

  “Listen, Gabe. I’m going to say this one more time and then I’m going to hang up the phone and never speak to you again. Your words have no power over me anymore. I don’t love you and I’m never coming back. Home for me is wherever you aren’t. Goodbye.”

  I push against the door a little more, but I can’t hear anything else.

  Looking down at the overstuffed bag of bagels and cream cheese, it no longer feels like the right time to barge in on Lydia and force her to talk about her feelings. It doesn’t sound like that worked out too well for Gabe.

  I decide to head back down to my apartment and send her a text. I’ll make up some story about a Sunday deal at the bagel shop and ask her to come help me eat them. That way she can decide if she’s up for seeing me or not. The last thing I want to do is make her feel uncomfortable.

  I start to turn to face the elevator when the door to Lydia’s apartment bursts open. Her face is flushed and her heavy breathing is erratic. Her eyes are wild and boring holes into me. Without warning, she reaches out and grabs me by the shirt, hauling me into her apartment. The bag of bagels slips from my grasp and falls to the floor. She spins me around and swiftly kicks the front door closed. And then her lips are on mine. Her hands are in my hair. Her hips grind into me. A soft moan escapes her lips.

  It takes me a moment to register what’s happening, and then I’m all in.

  22

  We’re a frenzy of touching and kissing, and we barely come up for air. Somewhere deep inside of me I know that Lydia is hurting, and if I were a gentleman, I would stop this before it goes too far. But I can’t find the willpower, and I’ve never been much of a gentleman.

  Suddenly Lydia breaks our kiss and jolts away as though she’s been bitten. And if I’m honest, she might’ve been. She’s panting wildly and her lips are plump and bruised. Her hand moves up to her mouth and touches the spot where I just was, and I wonder if she can still feel me there the way that I can still feel her. Her fingers obscure her face, but I swear I see a hint of a smile.

  “W-W-What are you doing here?” she stutters as she tries to find her voice.

  What am I doing here? Where am I? Who am I? I feel disoriented. I can barely remember my own name.

  The bagels! The bag is no longer in my hand and I’m momentarily confused. I must’ve dropped it when Lydia grabbed me. My eyes scan the floor and land on the closed door. Without saying a word, I walk over and turn the knob opening the door a few inches. There, in the hallway, is the bag of bagels and cream cheese. I reach down and scoop it up.

  Holding the bag out in front of me, I declare, “Breakfast!”

  Lydia lets out a relieved laugh and then her expression abruptly turns serious. “I’m sorry, Owen. I don’t know what came over me. I—”

  I hold my hand out to silence her. “Lydia, if that’s the way you say hello, I can’t wait to say goodbye.”

  Her head tilts back as she laughs.

  She’s still trying to regain her composure as she walks over to her kitchen, wiping away tears of laughter. “Come on, you. Let’s eat.”

  Lydia fought the good fight, but I edged her out of the way, stealing the crown and the coveted title of Champion of Bagels. She managed to eat an impressive three bagels. I, on the other hand, ate five. And I have the stomachache to prove it.

  When it was all said and done, it seems I bought eighteen bagels. We made a mountain out of them on Lydia’s serving plate and then laughed our asses off at the height of it. Lydia said she once ate four bagels in one sitting, and that was all it took. It was game on.

  I’m lying on the floor in front of Lydia’s couch, and she’s sitting on the chair across from me. My left arm is draped over my eyes while my right cradles my poor abused stomach. I turn my head to look at Lydia and find her smirking at me.

  “Something funny over there, 15?” I ask her.

  Her smile widens. “I was just thinking, you may have won the title and all, but I think I may be the real winner here.”

  I furrow my brow in mock annoyance. “And why do you say that?”

  She can hardly contain the laugh that threatens to bubble out when she answers. “Because I can still stand upright.”

  She does have a point.

  “That’s a rather astute assessment. I think I’m going to pay the price for all of that gluten later, but for now, I’m just going to lie here on your floor and ponder the frailty of my own existence.”

  She smiles widely. “Wow, it seems all of that dough and cream cheese has turned you into quite the philosopher, Owen.”

  We’re keeping the mood very light, neither one of us daring to mention the mauling we gave each other earlier.

  She moves to the counter and begins to wrap up all the uneaten bagels. “I think we have breakfast for the next two days! Maybe you should come over tomorrow morning before work and help me eat some of these.” She bites her lip as soon as the words leave her mouth, but she doesn’t take them back. It feels like a tiny victory, and I revel in it.

  Bracing myself on the hardwood floor, I move up to a sitting position. I’m holding onto the coffee table to help myself stand and feeling every bit of the fool that I am. But when I’m finally upright and lumbering over to help Lydia wrap bagels, the blush of her cheeks and the full smile that lights up her entire face makes all of this discomfort worth it.

  I lean on the counter to take some of the pressure off my stomach, and we work in a comfortable silence placing the bagels into individual bags. While we clean up, we steal tentative glances at each other when we think the other isn’t looking. I’ve caught her several times and she’s caught me just as often. A warmth settles over me, and it isn’t from overeating. Standing here in Lydia’s kitchen, I feel like we’re on the verge of something huge—something neither of us saw coming. If we had, maybe we would’ve run from it, but now that we’re here, no one’s running anywhere.

  I feel her eyes on me and I look up to find her studying my face with such intensity, I almost take a step back. She clears her
throat, and I brace for the impact. “Owen, I think we should talk about what happened earlier.”

  23

  I feel a shift in the air. Her doubts wrap around me like a noose, but I refuse to let her over think this.

  “As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing to talk about, Lydia. I never waste time with regret, and I don’t plan on starting now. I know we haven’t known each other all that long, but I get the sense that you and I”—I gesture with my hand between us—“we’re very similar. Every move we make has been well thought out. We overanalyze our actions to death.” I pause, but only for a moment—just long enough to see her head nod ever so slightly in agreement. “So, let’s make a pact, here and now, to be real with each other. I’m attracted to you, and after this morning”—I wink at her and watch her cheeks turn three shades of pink—“I’m pretty certain you feel the same way about me. Why don’t we just marinate in those feelings for a bit instead of searching for words to explain them away?”

  I hold my breath as I wait for her to respond. I had no idea what I was going to say before I opened my mouth, but it’s probably the most sincere thing I’ve ever said.

  Lydia’s eyes register her surprise. I can tell that what I said caught her off guard, and she’s carefully weighing her response.

  “Okay, Owen.” She says those words like she’s admitting some kind of defeat, probably to herself. I wait for her to say more, but she doesn’t.

  She extends her hand toward me and I take hold of it. She slowly bobs our joined hands up and down, shaking them in agreement. We’ve made a deal to put our feelings first. I don’t know about Lydia, but, for me, that’s huge. It’s too monumental to seal with a simple handshake. I give Lydia’s arm a tug and pull her into my arms. She doesn’t resist, falling into my embrace with such ease it feels like this is where she was always meant to be. I press my nose to the top of her head and inhale the rich scent of cinnamon and clove. She feels like home.

  I fight the urge to roll my eyes at myself. I can’t believe the thoughts I’m having. When did I become such a hopeless romantic?

  I thought I was romantic with Sarah, but I realize now that I was just going through the motions—following the guidelines on how a boyfriend is supposed to act, what’s expected of him, what to say at the appropriate times. It felt like work and it was exhausting. I was always second-guessing myself and watching for signs that I fucked up again—something that apparently, I did quite often.

  Sarah nudged my shoulder. The action was playful, but the sneer on her face told me she meant it as a warning. “Did you hear anything that I just said, Owen?” She said my name like it was a pebble in her shoe. Huffing in annoyance, she continued. “I said, I’m pretty sure Eli Grove was hitting on me in Bio Lab yesterday. Do you have anything to say about that?” She didn’t wait for me to respond. She already knew the answer. “Of course, you don’t. Honestly, Owen, sometimes I wonder if you care about me at all.”

  With Lydia there are no expectations other than to just be myself. I’m not holding my breath waiting for another misstep. I’m just…free.

  After our conversation this morning, Lydia and I decided to spend the rest of our day apart. Well, truth be told, she said she had a few things to take care of. I was just going with the flow—an entirely new concept for me and something that’s going to take some getting used to.

  I’ve been pacing back and forth in my apartment for the last hour, and I’m certain I’m leaving a groove in the wood plank floors. Even though Lydia and I decided to stop leading with our heads and start following our feelings, I can’t quite let go of the desire to analyze what’s happening between us.

  When I showed up at her apartment this morning, she was on the phone with someone named Gabe. I don’t know him, but I already hate him. Lydia was clearly upset by their phone conversation, and I feel the overwhelming urge to find out what he was saying to agitate her? From what I could hear, I’m guessing that Gabe is an ex-boyfriend of Lydia’s who cheated on her. Sounds like a real stand-up guy. If he’s capable of getting so far under her skin, it’s clear that he still holds some control. What power does he wield over her and is it enough for her to forgive him? He clearly wants her back. For her sake—and for mine—I hope she never lets that happen.

  I internally chastise myself. What are you doing, Owen? What happened to not making any connections? Don’t lose yourself here. But it’s all just words, at this point. I’m too far gone to listen to reason, even from my own conscience.

  I feel like I’m falling in love with her, but that’s crazy. We’ve only known each other for a few weeks. Sarah and I met when we were teenagers and I’m not sure if I ever really loved her, at least not in the romantic sense. When I think about her now, I miss the encouraging words she used to toss my way when she could see I was taking myself way too seriously. Or how she often showed up unannounced with food tucked under her arm because she knew I always forgot to eat while studying. What I don’t miss or even think about are the intimate moments we shared. It’s almost as if they never even existed. In my memory, Sarah lives on as someone that I once knew, someone who cared for me in the same way a mother might care for her child or a teacher might guide a student…someone who’s gone. I’m aware that, given the true circumstances of our relationship, that analogy is pretty twisted. Even still, as disturbing as it may sound, it’s also fairly accurate.

  Looking down at my hands, I realize that I’m clutching the hem of my shirt with both fists. My knuckles are strained and white from squeezing so tight. Sarah is never a safe subject for me, even if it’s through a one-sided conversation within the confines of my own head.

  Releasing my hold, I smooth the ends of my shirt with the palms of my hands. It’s been nearly three years since the accident. I thought I was better equipped to handle things by now, but lately I’ve noticed Sarah entering my thoughts without warning, throwing me off balance and threatening to steal my control. I can feel her seeping into my bloodstream.

  I turn my right hand over and study the underside of my wrist. The blue and purple of my veins stare back at me in a crisscross of tracks just beneath the surface of my skin. She’s inside me like a virus. I can feel her in my pulse, and if I’m not careful, she’ll infect this fragile relationship that’s beginning to take shape. I can’t let that happen.

  24

  Sarah Standish walked the halls of Midvale High School with a purpose that eluded most fifteen-year-olds. While most girls her age concerned themselves with their looks and which hot guy they hoped would ask them out next, Sarah kept her eyes trained forward; never losing her focus.

  She didn’t waste her time with anything that wouldn’t help her get ahead in life. She didn’t waste time, period. She clutched a royal blue spiral-bound notebook to her chest in the same way a mother holds her newborn baby. That notebook never left her grasp.

  If I’m being honest, I barely registered Sarah’s existence at first. She was just a girl who sat in front of me in my second period biology class. She had mid-length auburn hair that curled up at the ends. When I was bored, I liked to pass the time imagining that the flips of her hair were ski jumps. I’d pretend to marvel at the athletes in my mind as they somersaulted off of the tendrils on the back of her head. It sounds horrible to admit, but for the first half of the school year, I didn’t even know her name. I couldn’t describe her face. She sat in front of me for months and was just the girl with ski jumps at the ends of her hair.

  That all changed the day Mr. Corning announced that we’d be pairing off to dissect a frog. Sarah turned around, and I saw her for the first time—really saw her. Her eyes were the most bewitching shade of turquoise. When I looked into them, I lost the ability to speak. After Mr. Corning assigned us to work together, I’m pretty sure I heard her say something when she turned to face me, but I couldn’t tell you what it was. I was adrift in those aquamarine depths, and there was no life raft in sight.

  Sarah cleared her throat. Her eyes focused on m
ine and her right eyebrow lifted in a challenge. She had me pegged right from the start. I wish I could go back to that lab and whisper in my own ear. I’d tell myself to run—run far away and never look back.

  But that’s not our story.

  Life, for me, exists in two absolutes: before Sarah and after Sarah.

  Before Sarah, I was a typical teenage boy spending hours sifting through Myspace, downloading copious amounts of music on LimeWire, and playing Call of Duty well into the middle of the night. I noticed girls, of course I noticed them. But I never had the courage to speak to any of them. Girls were all curves and lips and eyelashes. I was awkward and painfully shy. I figured I would find my voice someday, but in the meantime, I was content to lurk in the background just long enough to bank some masturbation material. Other than my parents’ hope for me to get good grades, there were very little expectations for me.

  Everything changed the day I met Sarah.

  When Mr. Corning announced that we would be dissecting frogs in lab that day, there was a collective groan from most of the girls and a few of the guys, too. Sarah remained quiet, barely containing the excitement building behind her eyes.

  He placed the trays in front of us. The poor once alive frogs were now very much dead and lay sprawled out on their backs. Our frog’s legs were splayed out at unnatural angles; the joints of the hind legs were touching and the forelimbs were raised up in a silent plea. A few of my classmates asked to be excused from the assignment, citing conflicts with their religious beliefs. Others were playing games of rock, paper, scissors to determine which unlucky person would cut into the corpse first. I looked up to find Sarah, scalpel in hand, making an incision into the belly of the frog. Her face was a mix of intensity and anticipation. If she was the slightest bit squeamish, she didn’t let on. I, on the other hand, could feel churning in the pit of my stomach where my body threatened to expel the Cap’n Crunch I ate for breakfast. Ordinarily, a few deep breaths would help to calm my nerves, but the overwhelming scent of formaldehyde made it impossible to inhale.