The Contradiction of Solitude Page 7

  I cleared my throat, finding words that he could understand. “It’s not the words that interest me,” I explained but didn’t explain.

  Elian frowned, stopping at the front of the book. The page with the inscription. He looked up at me, thinking he understood now. His face soft and empathetic. To him this was a piece of my puzzle.

  He had no idea.

  He handed the book back to me. “It’s from your dad,” he stated. It wasn’t a question. He knew the answer. He had seen the words that he thought meant something that they didn’t.

  “Yes, it is,” I said.

  “Is he still around? Your dad?” Elian asked. Had we come to this point where we were comfortable in asking these kinds of questions?

  Yes.

  For Elian Beyer, we were approaching an intimate space where we could fall together.

  We were strangers. Searching, searching strangers. Looking for each other.

  It was sad and perfect.

  “No, he isn’t. I don’t know the man that gave me this. He has no place in my life,” I admitted. I covered my mouth to stop the flow of words that came out unbidden.

  Elian was dangerous. He made it easy to give him things I had always kept.

  Elian nodded, sucking me in, holding me close.

  “My dad’s gone too. He died not long after…” His voice trailed off and his jaw tightened. I was fascinated by the minute changes in his appearance as he too found himself sharing things he hadn’t meant to.

  We had quite the effect on each other.

  “He’s gone,” Elian finished, picking up a menu, although I knew he didn’t need it. He’d order the same thing I did.

  We were in tandem. In synch. Symbiotic.

  “Elian!” The waitress named Nancy smiled and beamed. She liked him. A lot of people liked him.

  But they didn’t know him.

  But I would know him. He wanted me to. With every discreet glance and every subtle touch, he pulled me closer.

  I drew him in.

  We were falling…falling…collapsing into each other.

  “Hi Nancy. I’ll have my usual,” he ordered, bestowing a smile to end all smiles. Nancy preened and became a little flustered in the spotlight of his grin.

  She began to walk away, not taking my order. “Excuse me, but I’ll have the same,” I said, stopping her with my short tone.

  Nancy blinked, as if confused, only just now noticing my presence. Her face soured and her mouth turned down. She didn’t like me. Not many did.

  Elian was the chosen exception.

  I smiled. A smile to end all smiles. I gave them rarely. But I gave one to Nancy.

  The bitch.

  “Okay,” Nancy said, turning abruptly.

  Elian was looking at me and I knew he was examining me in a way I often examined others. It was strange being on the receiving end of that sort of inspection. I felt exposed.

  “I want to go somewhere with you,” Elian said, his eyes never leaving my face.

  My empty chest tightened with something that felt like…giddiness?

  “Where?” I asked, my voice a breathy whisper.

  “Where do you want to go?” he volleyed back.

  “Anywhere,” I answered, meaning it.

  Elian nodded as though he understood exactly what I was saying.

  Anywhere.

  Everywhere.

  With you.

  “I’ll pick you up tomorrow night. Seven o’clock. I’ll take you anywhere.”

  I smiled. I couldn’t help it.

  Some things were as easy as breathing.

  But as hard as living.

  I lay there still and rigid, wrapped in warm, perfume scented skin. Soft lips pressed to the hollow of my throat. I could hear the steady, unhurried thump of my heart in my ears.

  Her frantic, shallow breathing was distracting, and I tried to stay in the moment. But my mind wandered to other things.

  “Touch me, Elian,” Margie whispered, her fingers eagerly stroking. My heart and mind were, as always, unaffected. My body however, remembered its function. I wrapped an arm around the naked woman because I knew it’s what she wanted, even if I could never give her what she needed.

  I ran my hand between her legs, closing my eyes as she writhed against me, coming on my fingers after only minutes.

  “Stay with me tonight,” she rasped, and I kept my eyes closed, not answering her.

  She knew better than to ask. I hated her for expecting it. I felt angry. Resentful.

  Annoyed.

  “Please,” she whined. I wrapped my hand around the delicate wrist connected to a hand trying to hold me close. To trap me. To keep me.

  To keep something that will never be hers.

  “Stop,” I growled, wrenching her arm away, wanting to be gone.

  “Elian,” she breathed, relentless. She wanted…always wanted.

  She kissed me again and I felt numb. She took the only thing she could have. My skin. Pliable under needy hands. Impenetrable yet present.

  It’s all she would ever have.

  I let her pull my arms back around her naked body. Holding but not touching.

  I shouldn’t be angry with Margie for being predictable. For being available. I’ve allowed her to get to this point. This place where she thought that I wanted her.

  After all, I had gone home with her after work. I had let her touch me. Kiss me. I said nothing as her words had flown free. Love. Promises. Unfortunate declarations.

  This wasn’t her fault.

  This was my fault.

  This was her fault.

  Margie didn’t know that the man she’d just fucked was a lie dressed in falsehoods. She thought I wanted her. She saw my responding cock as a sign that I was devoted. That I was hers.

  To her, my dishonesty felt like love.

  I continued to lay there, my arms wrapped around her and I waited. That’s all I ever did anymore…waited.

  It’s what I was good at.

  Margie didn’t ask me to stay again. She gripped me tight, her arms trembling in her desperation to keep me close. I never claimed to be a man that stayed. Margie had always understood that.

  Soft kisses on my neck and I continued to lay there. Still. Unmoving.

  Coal Black Eyes watched me from the dark. Knowing. Seeing. She was everywhere.

  My heart lurched and constricted and the numbness slowly disappeared.

  Layna.

  Layna.

  “Where do you want to go?” I had asked her, feeling that exact moment when my life would change.

  “Anywhere,” she said.

  Anywhere.

  Everywhere.

  With you.

  I dug my fingers into the flesh underneath me. Not seeing. Not hearing. Not feeling anything but Layna.

  “Elian!” Margie gasped, not knowing this wasn’t for her.

  I let Margie touch me. I touched her back. I gave. She took. She was in the moment. I was…anywhere.

  When we were done once again, I gave her the time she needed to feel reassured and comforted. I didn’t want her to feel used and abandoned. I should feel guilty for the thoughts in my head while I fucked. Thoughts that didn’t belong to Margie. They didn’t belong to me.

  They belonged to her.

  I had somehow found her in the middle of all this. Not at the beginning where it would have made sense.

  Not at the end where I could have walked away.

  But in the middle.

  Where I would never be able to let her go.

  So I waited.

  I knew the moment Margie fell asleep. Her slightly painful grip on my waist released, ever so slightly. I removed my hand from the still sweaty skin of her back and started the slow, necessary process of moving away from her.

  I carefully packaged Coal Black Eyes into the farthest recesses of my mind. To a place where I could look at them again.

  Later.

  I hurriedly got dressed and picked up my phone and keys from her bedside
table. I scribbled a quick note, letting Margie know that I went home. I didn’t want to be a complete dick.

  As I walked out of Margie’s apartment my phone vibrated in my hand. I looked down at the screen, though I already knew who it was.

  I hit ignore.

  I got in my car, and my phone started to vibrate again. I let it ring a little longer this time before sending it to voice mail.

  I knew this dance well.

  It was my nightly routine.

  I started the car and slowly pulled away from the curb, watching out the corner of my eye as my phone once again lit up. I smiled before reaching over and hitting ignore, one last time.

  The text finally came. My signal that for tonight, this small attempted connection was over.

  I didn’t need to read it. It was the same every time.

  I’m here. Always.

  “Hey, Elian,” Margie called out as I entered the shop the next morning. I gave her a smile. A lifting of my hand in a friendly wave. Giving her just enough but not much.

  “Hey tiger. George has been asking where you were. Late night?” Tate asked, looking up from his workstation in the back studio. He had several pieces of Mahogany on his tabletop ready to be sanded and finished.

  “Nah, nothing like that. Just overslept. You know how it goes,” I told him non-committedly. Unconcerned. Unbothered.

  Tate looked ready to say more but I cut him off. I wasn’t in the mood for ten rounds of evading his adolescent curiosity.

  “What does George want?”

  Tate, easily distracted, returned to his work. “Someone was asking about the star guitar you made. George wanted to talk with you about it.”

  My stomach flipped over and I felt a little nauseous.

  I had agonized over that piece for weeks. Starting and stopping it a dozen times. It was my most impressive instrument to date. I had been extremely reluctant to part with it once it was finished. George had claimed it. Taken it. It didn’t belong to me anymore.

  I had wanted to hurt George. Badly.

  But in the end, I had handed the guitar over and let him hang it on the wall, putting a price tag on my soul.

  None of these people understood what it cost me to make that guitar. They didn’t understand what that star did to me every time I saw it.

  Layna saw it.

  I remembered her reaction at seeing the nautical star on the headstock and I had felt momentarily paralyzed.

  What did she know?

  “I guess I should go find him.” I dropped my phone and bag on my table and walked out into the show room.

  George was straightening the music books in the case and motioned me over.

  “Everything okay? Margie said you were running late. That you were tired.” I bit down on my lip hard enough to draw blood.

  Sharp, tangy copper filled my mouth and I swallowed. I slid my eyes towards Margie, who was helping a customer. Her purposeful innuendo was as obvious as it was pathetic.

  Clearly our relationship, whatever it was, had reached the end of its usefulness.

  “I’m fine,” I told my boss, making a note to talk to Margie later. I had to give myself time to put together the words I would say to let her down without making her hate me. An art I had become adept at over the years.

  George crossed the room, and I followed him to the high-end guitars that lined the far wall. He flicked his fingers in the direction my star guitar. “Someone came in and purchased that guitar this morning. They paid over the asking price, which I thought was odd. But that means you’re getting a hefty commission.” George grinned, thinking his news would make me happy.

  The need to punch him resurfaced with an angry vengeance.

  “You sold it,” I remarked through clenched teeth. My eyes fixed on the carefully carved star. Tattooed on my brain. Branded on my heart.

  Aching. Hurting. Burning.

  I felt the tears. The pain.

  It was all there. Never going away.

  When would it go away?

  “Never waste your tears, Elian. Keep them for when it counts.”

  “Did you hear me?” George barked, annoyed by my lack of attention.

  “What?” I asked, still staring at the star. My guitar. Made from my blood. Now gone forever.

  “Once she picks it up I’ll cut you the check. One thousand clams for you to squander however you see fit. Babes. Blow. Whatever,” George chuckled, clasping me on the shoulder.

  “She?” I asked, strangely lightheaded

  George didn’t hear me. Too busy counting his money.

  “Can you get the case for this pretty thing out of the back? I’ll put it in the storeroom until it’s picked up. Margie has the receipt at the counter.” George continued talking but my head felt full.

  “Yeah, sure,” I said.

  I went back to my workbench and sat down. Tate was busy working. Stan and Nathan were out back having a smoke.

  I stared down at the wood in front of me, knowing I should work. But I couldn’t. I felt as though I had lost something important.

  Something integral.

  I should never have let George keep that guitar. I should have killed him for it.

  Killed him?

  I shook and shuddered at the unwelcome thought.

  What was wrong with me?

  I picked up the Dremel and started to carve and smooth out the design on the body. Long curves. Careful points.

  My mind drifted.

  I ran far and I ran fast. I packed my bags, taking only the necessary things and I got the hell out of there.

  My dad was dead.

  My sister—

  I still couldn’t let my mind wrap around the reality of the world I woke up in. It was horrible. It was scary. I wanted nothing to do with it.

  I doubted my mother would even realize I was gone. She had stopped caring about anything just after Amelia…

  I hitchhiked out of town. I had enough money to catch a bus to Pittsburg. After that, I had no plan. No idea what I was going to do.

  I was a fifteen-year-old kid, living in a state of shock that I had yet to recover from. A shock that was three years old. I was paranoid he’d find me. That he’d take me away just like he had taken my sister. It didn’t matter that he was locked away. I was convinced he’d find a way to get me.

  The star…

  I slept under bridges. I blew old dudes for cash. I didn’t think anything of dirtying my knees if in doing so I had enough money to eat one more meal.

  And every day the voices became louder.

  They screamed at me to go home.

  They screamed at me to run even farther away.

  Until that day came when I cut my own neck. Sliced it. Back and forth. Up and down with a rusty knife.

  The first drops of blood made everything go quiet.

  Blissful solitude.

  Alone.

  It’s how I liked it.

  I stopped working on the guitar and dropped the steel wool. I felt off. But I knew one thing.

  I had to see her.

  I grabbed my smokes and snatched Tate’s lighter off his bench, ignoring his protests.

  I walked out the door and headed across the street. To the place where I knew I could find her.

  I lit my cigarette and blew out smoke. It covered me. I wished it would make me invisible.

  I saw her through the window. She never knew I was there.

  I could watch her and watch her forever.

  There was something powerful about observing Layna without her permission. She held all the cards. But right now, I did.

  I could notice things she didn’t want me to see.

  Like how she curled her lip in disgust at the jerks drinking their coffee and reading Kierkegaard.

  Her face would soften when she’d stare off into space. Listening to the words only she could hear.

  I leaned my forehead against the glass, not caring that everyone saw me.

  Everyone but her.

  I was sic
k. A fucking nut job. I was essentially stalking some woman I was ridiculously attracted to.

  I was losing my ever-loving mind.

  And then she looked up.

  Our eyes met.

  Coal Black.

  And it all made sense.

  We were perfect in our mad sanity.

  I was stuck. Unmoving.

  Lost…

  I’m not sure how it happened. I was upstairs, sorting through the books that had been misplaced by inconsiderate hands. It was quiet, oh so quiet. The whispered conversations muted by bound pages.

  Up here I felt alone. How I liked it. Where I belonged.

  And then there was a rush of air. The prickle of goose bumps along my arm.

  The wafting of tobacco and spearmint filled my nostrils. Murmurs of forgotten voices, pleading and frantic.

  I was there.

  I felt the cold. The leather underneath my hands as I fought with the urge to get out and head towards a house sitting off in the distance.

  Stern warnings given before slammed doors.

  “Stay here, Layna. Don’t move.”

  Hissed through bristled hairs and dry lips. Heart pumping, pumping. Wildly beating.

  I dropped the books in my hands, somewhere else.

  Driving. Driving. Driving.

  Long, dark roads. Cold, frigid air seeping through the cracked window.

  I wanted ice cream. It’s what he promised.

  Then nothing.

  I couldn’t remember.

  I could remember.

  Some but not all.

  Details were missing. Where were they?

  Bits and pieces trickled in. Violent bursts of memory crashed into the walls of my mind.

  Waylon Jennings crooned from the radio. His favorite. It made me smile knowing how he loved music. It played all the time. Just for him.

  I hated Waylon Jennings. I hated music. I hated the strains of voices intertwined with instruments, meant to be an escape.

  It wasn’t an escape. It was a trap. Holding me under.

  Always.

  Gravel under tires. Shadowed lanes covered by trees. The moon was gone. The stars had disappeared.

  Alone.

  “Stay here, Layna.”