Frayed

by Layne Deemer

  I’m sitting so still, afraid to move for fear that I might make a sound that muffles any sound she might make. The thought strikes me as comical, and I smile. Just yesterday I was hoping for a quiet tenant in the apartment above me and now I’m wishing for noise of any kind. A tiny crumb of who she might be. So far, I haven’t even been given the gift of a creaky floorboard.

  George’s soft meows break me out of my gaze. “I know what you’re thinking, Uncle G. Feelings are a sign of weakness. That’s true in most cases, but this is different. I’m not sure how yet, but I know it is.”

  Listen to me. It’s just over forty-eight hours since I first encountered her, and I’m already making adjustments to my beliefs. I’ve been living my life according to a strict set of absolutes. The largest and most important of those has been the absence of feelings. The last time I allowed myself to become overwhelmed by my emotions, I made a decision that changed the entire course of my life. I’m here in this apartment, in this city, with this mundane job all as a direct result of giving in to my sentiments. But it feels markedly different this time around, and I think it’s because I am in charge of how and what I do next. No one else is making decisions for me. I haven’t given myself over to anything. And I don’t intend to.

  The melodic sounds of a guitar flutter down from the loft above me. The strumming is quiet and delicate, but I can still make out the familiar chords of “Angela” by The Lumineers. Her voice comes next and it’s the most perfect sound I’ve ever heard. She sings of leaving town, driving off and constantly running just to find where she belongs. When she hits the chorus, I swipe at a tear I didn’t realize had fallen. Home at last. That’s exactly how this feels.

  I need to know this girl. I have to fight off the overwhelming urge to go to her apartment and knock on the door. What would I say? “Hello, I’m Owen and I’m obsessed. What’s your name?” No way. Our next face-to-face needs to be more organic than that. Maybe I could arrange a chance encounter on the elevator, or even better—maybe we could both happen to be exiting the building at the same time on our way into work. We could stroll side by side and catch up like the old friends I’m sure we are. Small talk is beneath us. Of that, I’m certain.

  I’m jolted out of my reverie by my cell phone barking like a dog. My brother’s ringtone is so obnoxious and perfectly suited to him. A barking dog is annoying and something you wish would stop just as soon as it starts. That’s Andrew Hansen in a nutshell. My older brother isn’t a bad guy, and at times, he’s almost tolerable. But he is better than you, he’s seen more and done more with his life than you, and he’s not afraid to let you know. He is his biggest fan.

  I look down at the phone in my hands and inhale as much air as I can muster before exhaling and sliding the bar to accept the call. “Andrew. What’s up?”

  “Owie! How’s my little brother juggling his career, fatherhood, and his incredibly hot wife? Oh, wait a minute, that’s me! Ha! Just kidding, buddy. But seriously, how are you doing out there? It’s got to be lonely. I would lose my mind without Amy and our sweet little Vanessa.”

  I have no doubt he would. He’s incapable of spending any real time with just himself. I have this theory that Andrew has never had a single thought that doesn’t revolve around the different ways that he can impress people. He lives for accolades and the attention that comes with it.

  “I’m fine, Andrew. Why are you calling?”

  “Oh, come on, can’t a guy just call to check up on his baby brother?”

  Not Andrew. He’s either calling to gloat or to ask for a favor, or, if I’m lucky, both.

  “Well, I appreciate that, Andrew. And, as you can hear by my voice, I’m still here. I’m alive. Your brotherly duties have been fulfilled. It’s been great talking with you, but—”

  “Hey, Owen, before you hang up, I was just wondering. Um, do you still have Pop Pop’s rifle from WWII? It’s just, uh, some guys here at the office were shooting the shit—ha, that’s funny!—anyway, they were talking about all of their guns and ammo like guys talk about their dicks. You should’ve heard them, man. So, you know I had to top that shit and tell them all about Pop Pop’s gun and how many of those fucking Nazis he took out with it. It got me thinking, since you aren’t doing anything with it, maybe I could hang on to it. You know, just until you’re more established somewhere.”

  He’s unbelievable.

  “I’d be happy to loan it to you, Andrew, if I knew where it was.” It’s in a green metal box on the top shelf of my linen closet underneath my extra bed sheets. “Most of my things from home are still in boxes in my storage unit back in Connecticut. Maybe the next time I visit, we can take a drive over there and find it.”

  “That’s not quite the answer I was hoping for, man, but I get it. Your life is kind of in disarray at the moment. It makes sense that you would lose track of an heirloom so easily.”

  “Yeah, well, it was good to hear from you. Take c—”

  “What is it, V? Do you want to say hi to your uncle Owen? Just a second. Let me hold the phone to your ear.”

  Oh please, she’s four months old.

  I love my niece, but until she can hold at least a five-minute conversation, don’t put her on the phone and expect me to jump for joy. I utter a few words, “What’s that you said, Vanessa? You tried carrots today, huh? And how did that work out for you?” just in case Andrew is listening. Who am I kidding? Of course, he’s listening. After all, Vanessa is another trophy on his shelf, and as usual, he’s waving it in my face.

  “Okay, Vanessa, Uncle Owen has to go bye-bye now. Tell your Dad I’ll talk to him late—”

  “Isn’t she just the best? She’s growing so fast, man. You should really think about getting yourself out there. It’s almost been three years. Don’t you think it’s time?”

  “Well, you’ve given me lots to think about, but I really should get going. I’ve got a lot to do today. Take care, Andrew.”

  I don’t wait around for another reply. This back and forth could go on all day, and I was over it the minute I answered his call.

  I toss my phone on the cushion and stare up at the ceiling. It’s silent again. The music must have stopped while I was on the phone. Well, congratulations, Andrew. You managed to steal the spotlight yet again.

  9

  There is no shortage of memes about Mondays. Cats are lying across keyboards, business men are launching themselves off cliffs, polar bears are face-down on glaciers. The overall theme here is “Mondays suck.” I’ve never understood this idea. Mondays are the start of my work week and inspecting is the only real time that I feel content. Replace the word Monday with Saturday or Sunday and those are memes that I could get behind.

  And this Monday is a day I’m particularly happy to see.

  I spent my entire weekend listening to the stillness and hoping for a modicum of sound above me—a chair scraping on the floorboards, the muffled sounds of a television, or the blissful strumming of guitar strings. I barely left my apartment. Choosing, instead, to lie on my futon and stare up in wonder, imagining what her daily activities might consist of. To my great disappointment, my new neighbor is like a monk who’s taken a vow of silence. She gave nothing of her routine away.

  Not for lack of trying, I never managed to bump into her. When I wasn’t lost in thought staring at the crack in my ceiling, I was hovering. I hovered in front of the elevator; I hovered in the lobby; I hovered by the mailboxes. I even hovered just outside the building by the front door. If she left her apartment at all that weekend, she somehow managed to sneak by me. I would be impressed by her stealth if I wasn’t so frustrated by it.

  At one point on Sunday, I was feeling particularly desperate and decided to go knock on her door. I made it all the way up to her floor and walked right to her door…and kept on walking. At the end of the hallway, I turned around, took a deep breath, and strode back over to her apartment. And ambled right past it again. This game of back and forth went on for the better part of a half hour bef
ore I determined that I had no real intention of ever stopping. I told myself it would be more authentic if she were leaving her apartment at the moment I was walking by, but I have no idea what I would’ve said to her if she had. What reason could I give for marching back and forth on a floor that wasn’t even mine? Feeling like the giant fool that I was, I stuck my tail between my legs and rode the elevator back to my floor.

  Waking up this morning, I feel a new sense of resolve. This day will be different. Maybe we’ll ride the elevator together. It’ll stop at my floor, and I’ll act surprised when I see her inside. The right side of her mouth will curve up in that adorable shy smile of hers. Maybe we’ll even share a small laugh at the coincidences that keep bringing us together. I’ll introduce myself, and I’ll use my actual name. She’ll tell me her name, and I’ll immediately commit it to memory. We’ll get lost in conversation, and the whole time we’ll feel an undeniable pull that we can’t ignore. We are going to be the greatest couple the world has ever known.

  I glance over at the small clock on my bedside table where 7:04 a.m. displays brightly on the screen. Beside the clock sits the folded up orange note I received a few days ago. I’ve been trying to push it out of my mind, but my efforts have been futile. Best-case scenario, my secret admirer is the same girl I’ve been secretly admiring. I smile at the thought, but even though it’s a possibility, it’s also a possibility that someone in my department is playing a misguided practical joke on me. I consider myself for a moment. The image I’ve broadcasted at work is one of avoidance. I dress to blend in; I rarely speak to anyone; and I remain at my desk for most of the workday. If someone were looking for the perfect person to prank, I’d be an easy target.

  “You know, Owen, you’re lucky you met me when you did.” I cup her chin in my hand and brush my thumb along the seam of her mouth. “Oh yeah? And why’s that?” Sarah’s lips press together in a smirk. “Because, sweetie, without me you’re just like everyone else—completely unremarkable. But with me? You shine bright enough to be noticed.”

  I’m standing in my bathroom looking at my reflection in the mirror. I don’t even remember getting dressed, but here I am in my khakis and navy blue polo shirt. I blink away the fog and bring myself back to the present. The clock reads 7:30 a.m. on the dot. I always leave my apartment at this time, and if today is “our” day, I need to stick to my routine. We always seem to find each other when life happens on its own. It’s no wonder I didn’t hear or see her all weekend. I was trying too hard. We can’t be forced.

  I push the down arrow for the elevator and watch as the light above illuminates the third floor. I imagine her stepping on, her skirt falling in ribbons down her legs. She pushes a wave of hair behind her ear. It’s a habit she never notices and I never miss. I hear the motor as the elevator makes its way to my floor. My fingers tap out a nervous rhythm on the leg of my pants. The chime sounds and the doors slide open. Empty. Not a single person is inside.

  Disappointment washes over me. I exhale the breath I didn’t realize I had been holding and shuffle inside. Pressing the G button, I watch as the elevator doors slowly close. Maybe she’s still in the lobby checking her mailbox before she leaves for work. The thought fills me with hope, but I try not to get too carried away. If it’s our time, it will happen. We live in the same apartment building. If not today, soon.

  She’s not in the lobby, but it’s a minor setback that I refuse to dwell on. Mr. James is checking his mailbox. Maybe if I move fast and keep my head down, he won’t see me.

  “Orville! Where you running off to in such a hurry?”

  Shit.

  “Morning, Mr. James. It’s Monday. Back to the grind.” I tap my wrist and motion to the door for emphasis, but he doesn’t get the hint. Or more likely, he ignores it.

  “Well, if you’re trying to catch up with that pretty little thing, you’re too late. She left a half hour ago. Said she was grabbing a coffee before work.”

  She was already here, and I missed her.

  “I’m not sure whom you’re referring to, but I’d better get going. Don’t want to be late!”

  “You should introduce yourself, Orville. You’re a young man and she’s a young lady, after all.” He winks at me.

  I groan internally. The last thing I need is dating advice from a partially deaf octogenarian.

  “Sure thing, Mr. James. Have a good day!”

  Outside the air is warm and a dense mist has settled over the town. On my way to work, I count the cracks in the sidewalk and push all other thoughts aside. I’m losing myself in this girl, much too fast. It’s time to sober up.

  My three-block commute to work passes quickly, and I find myself standing outside the glass double doors of the sizable brick and mortar building that West Apparel calls home. Formerly a flour factory, the four-story corner property was converted twenty-five years ago. Office space, conference rooms, and sorting floors were added. Despite the growing trend of manufacturing overseas, West’s business remains steady—a fact they pride themselves on and remind their employees of regularly.

  She barely enters my thoughts as I climb the stairs to the third floor. The sorting room is bustling this morning. A shipment of sport socks just arrived, and it’s a rush job. This is great news for me. Working on a short deadline means I’ll have little time to get lost in thought. I’ve been driving myself crazy trying to figure out how to casually bump into my new neighbor/coworker. If I want to get to know her, I need to let it happen. Still, that doesn’t stop me from looking over at her cubicle. I can’t see past the gray fabric walls, but I try to imagine her sitting at her desk sorting through socks that will eventually make their way over to me.

  It’s almost as if there’s an imaginary string weaving us together. At work, at home, on a park bench, at the market; we’re connected everywhere we turn.

  I stop by the supply room to grab a refill of eval forms. When I turn to make my way back to my desk, I see the doors opening out of the corner of my eye.

  In those cheesy romantic comedies my mom always insisted on watching, dramatic entrances always happen in slow motion with music scoring the scene that’s intended to heighten your emotions and make you acutely aware of the importance of what you’re seeing. That didn’t happen here, but it may as well have. When she enters the room, I feel everything stop. Did conversation on the floor just convert to hushed whispers or have I imagined that? She’s opted for form-fitting jeans over wearing a skirt today, and she’s paired them with gray ankle boots and a flowy yellow top. Her hair is held back with a scarf that ties underneath and flows down her neck partially obscured by the blond waves that fall down her back. She’s holding onto the coffee she stopped for on her way into work. Mr. James was right about that little morsel of information.

  The sunset over the ocean on my family’s trip to Rhode Island when I was eleven years old—that’s the last time I’ve seen something so beautiful, so remarkable that I vowed to never forget it. Today, in the middle of this crowded sorting room, this girl in front of me is more breathtaking than a thousand sunsets.

  Sensing my eyes on her, she turns her head and our eyes lock. Throughout those few seconds, a million thoughts transpire inside my head: I should introduce myself. I should charm her with my amazing wit. I should make her laugh with a funny little anecdote. I should say something. But I don’t.

  Instead, I offer a small smile and slight nod and make my way back to my cubicle. I imagine there’s a stripe down my back that’s as yellow as the shirt she’s wearing.

  10

  Inspecting sport socks isn’t much different from examining tube socks. The ones in my bin are the ankle-length gray variety with a neon green strip of stitching at the toe. It’s tedious work that might drive others insane, and I suppose that’s exactly what happened to Number 8. But it won’t happen to me.

  Today Ira Glass is talking into my ears about decisions people made that seemed like a good idea at the time, but naturally went horribly wrong. It’s pretty a
stounding to me how people can make a decision based on very little and just sink their heart and soul into it. I don’t operate that way. Before I make any concrete decisions, I examine the issue from all angles, get to know its likes and dislikes, ask it what its ideal Sunday afternoon looks like. I enter into nothing lightly.

  Before I made the decision to move here to Minnesota, I thought about the kind of job I wanted…no…needed. My life before was full of plans and expectations. Moving forward, I longed for the opposite. I wanted something with no expectations; a job that I could do all day every day and never feel pressure. But most importantly, I yearned for a life with no attachments, one that would be just as easy to walk away from as it was to begin. A quick search on ZipRecruiter led me to discover this position. Before it showed up on my screen, I didn’t even know this type of work existed. I imagined my days would be spent bored out of my mind. That, coupled with the distance it would put between me and my current situation, sold me. I’ve never doubted my decision once. But that type of scenario doesn’t make for an interesting podcast.

  I’m still here sitting at my desk examining stitches, but part of my brain is turned off or maybe it’s tuned in, just to a different station. My thoughts wander, and I often find myself caught up in the stories they weave. I might be here in body, but in my mind, I’m somewhere far away. I could be back in Connecticut filing paperwork at my dad’s dental practice or standing in the kitchen with my mom as she tries to simultaneously bake cookies, unload the dishwasher, and give me advice on the best shoes to wear to a job interview. Or maybe I’m with Sarah, reliving an old memory or reinventing it.

  She runs her fingers through her chestnut hair and holds it at the nape of her neck. “What do you think, Owen? Keep it long or cut it short?” She’s eyeing me with an intensity that tells me that even though it sounds like she’s asking for my opinion, there is a correct answer to her question. “Whatever you decide is fine with me. You’ll look beautiful either way.” That feels like a safe response, but judging by the flaring of her nostrils and the heat behind her eyes, I’m not so sure. She groans audibly. “Can’t you ever, just for once, give me an honest answer instead of some cookie-cutter, sappy, pseudo-romantic bullshit?” Looks like I answered wrong.