Frayed

by Layne Deemer

  A thoughtful expression fills her face. “You seem to know your way around this town pretty well. Did you grow up here?”

  It’s a simple question, yet the answer is complicated and long. I’d rather save it for another day. Still, I can’t leave her hanging so I offer up a quick response with a follow-up question to take the focus off of me.

  “I’m from the East Coast, but I’ve lived here for a few years. What about you? You’ve never tried this soup before today, so I know you’re not from around here.” I give her a sly smile letting her know that I’ve been paying attention.

  “You guessed right. I’m not from here. Not in the slightest, actually. I grew up in a little town just outside of Spokane, Washington.”

  “You’re a long way from home. What brought you to Minnesota?”

  She gets a wistful look in her eyes, and a slow glorious smile spreads across her face.

  “I have a wandering soul. And there’s no point in trying to fight who you are, you know? Besides, home is wherever I am at the moment. Right now, here with you and this incredible soup, is the closest I’ve felt to home in years.”

  She managed to put my exact thoughts into words, and her bluntness stuns me. The desire, the yearning, it’s more than I can take.

  In my distracted state, I ask the next question without thinking it through. “Do you still have family in Washington?”

  It sounds harmless, but I know better. It’s one of those subjects that we’ve become so accustomed to bringing up in casual conversation when really, we should be more hesitant. She never mentioned family, and the little she did say made it sound as though she hasn’t felt at home in a long time.

  I watch as her entire body language morphs in front of my eyes. Her hands find each other first and she begins ringing her fingers, twisting and turning in a frenzy. Her jaw moves back and forth in a nervous manner and her golden eyes look off to the left past my shoulder. Everything about her in this moment tells me I’ve asked the wrong question. I’m not even sure if she’ll answer, but she gives her throat a slight clearing and starts to speak.

  “Um, yeah, they still live there.” Her voice, which was filled with a lighthearted playfulness before, is now barely above a whisper.

  I catch myself leaning toward her. There’s a story here and I desperately want to hear it, but it’s too soon. I know that. We’re still in the fragile early stages of our friendship and, just like a leafless tree branch in the winter, if I apply too much pressure, it’ll snap.

  “So what’s the verdict? Think you’ll be back here next week for Wild Rice Day?” I’m trying to lighten the mood and I hold my breath in anticipation.

  “Wild Rice Day? Is that the official title?” she asks with amusement. Her head tilts and a loose wave falls in front of her face. It takes everything inside me not to reach over and tuck it behind her ear.

  The casual atmosphere has returned, and the grin on my face is triumphant. “It is now.”

  “Well, in that case, I wouldn’t miss it.” She sways in her seat, a lazy half smile on her face.

  We let our attention fall back to our lunch, a comfortable quiet settling between us. This is the second time we’ve had lunch together and already we’re like an old married couple, able to enjoy each other’s company without feeling the need to fill the silence with mindless conversation.

  I open my mouth to share my thought with her—minus the comparison to a married couple—when her phone starts blaring from the pocket of her sweater, startling us both.

  She reaches for it and as soon as her eyes fall on the screen, her entire demeanor changes. Where her posture was once soft and relaxed, it’s now tense and somber. Her eyebrows are drawn into a severe V. She’s closed up tight.

  She declines the call and looks up, almost surprised to see me sitting across from her.

  She fumbles for words. “S-Sorry, I, uh, need to step out and make a call. Thanks for lunch. You were right, the soup was delicious.” She plasters on a fake smile.

  Reaching across the table, she takes my hand in hers and gives it a shake goodbye. The action would seem so formal and impersonal if not for the warmth I feel flush over me when her skin touches mine. And then she stands and moves away from the table, floating through the lunch crowd and out the door.

  I’m left alone with two half-eaten bowls of soup wondering what the hell just happened.

  I searched for Lydia after she left so abruptly, but I never found her.

  I overheard Number 14 telling another co-inspector that 15 was feeling sick and she hoped she didn’t spread her germs all over the socks she was inspecting.

  Lydia isn’t sick. Not really, anyway. Although, her face did look pale when her phone rang at lunch. Whoever called her has her rattled—enough to make her leave work early. I feel a surge of anger. We’ve only just met, but the urge to protect her is strong. It feels like second nature. I can’t recall the last time I felt so inclined to care about another person.

  I have a full sorting bin in front of me, but try as I might, I can’t seem to concentrate. I’ve been inspecting the same sock for the last ten minutes. Maybe I’m coming down with the same illness Lydia has. In the nearly three years that I’ve worked here, I have only taken one sick day, and that’s because I couldn’t go more than twenty minutes without vomiting. I shudder at the memory. Thank you, Pedro’s Taco Truck.

  I gather up the loose socks on my desk and plop them back into the sorting bin at my feet. Tomorrow’s another day. I give the room a quick scan for Mr. Shelton, but I don’t see him. And it doesn’t matter, anyway. I’m such a model employee, leaving early one afternoon won’t even be a blip on anyone’s radar.

  Bursting through the double doors of the building, I set out to find Lydia. She may not be ready to share her secrets with me just yet, but if I can help take her mind off of them, I need to try.

  16

  Sometimes when I’m walking on a crowded sidewalk like the one I’m on now, I can’t tell the past from the present. The sky above me is swarming with big, puffy clouds—the kind that make you want to find the nearest park, lie down on the grass, and play a game of “what do you see?” The air smells sweet like a summer storm just passed through. There’s a small cobalt bird sitting on the stop sign at the corner. I don’t turn my head, but I know if I do, I’ll find Sarah walking along beside me. I feel her arm brush against mine as we navigate our way through the surge of undergraduates hustling to their dorm rooms in search of a reprieve from the tortures of the lecture hall.

  Sarah doesn’t have any classes on Wednesdays, but she still comes to meet me after my Organic Chemistry class. Every week at 10:35 on the dot, she’s there just outside the lab door. She’s a creature of habit; always true to her word. A planner to a fault.

  Sarah’s life is completely mapped out. She has notebooks filled with lists, dreams, and goals. Every night before going to bed, she scans the current list and checks off the things she’s accomplished. It’s as if her entire life could be summed up by check marks on a piece of paper.

  We met in our freshman year of high school and within a week, my name began making an appearance in those notebooks. I was a goal and then I was checked off.

  I stumble on a raised seam of sidewalk and reach out to brace myself. My hand falls onto the shoulder of a middle-aged man in a business suit in front of me. He turns and bristles at the contact. I mutter a small half-hearted apology. When I regain my balance, I look up and find myself on Jefferson Street. I stop in my tracks and move off to the side to make room for the bevy of people milling about. I scan the buildings around me and feel disoriented. I lost myself in my memories again. I chide myself for being so careless. The past could swallow me up whole if I let it. I need to be more aware.

  I’m almost at our apartment building when I see Lydia. She’s found a small bench just outside our building. She has her legs tucked underneath her and is staring intently at her lap. As I close the gap between us, I can see she’s holding her phon
e, her gaze fixed on the black screen. It’s as if she’s willing it to ring.

  I’m within a foot of her now. “You know they say a watched phone never rings.”

  She looks up at me with glassy eyes. Recognition clears the haze, and she offers me a small smile.

  “I’m so sorry I ran out of lunch like that. I just, uh, got an unexpected call.” She holds her phone in front of her.

  “Everything okay?”

  She studies my face, and I can tell she’s weighing her response. “Have you ever felt like everything was falling into place? And just when you start to feel comfortable, something happens. Ghosts from your past reach out and grab you by the shoulders, shaking the solace out of you. Reminding you that nothing good can last.”

  I’m overwhelmed by the gravity of what she’s just confessed. She could very well have been speaking about me. I need to sit down. I slide onto the bench beside her.

  “I know exactly what you mean.”

  She looks relieved. “I thought you might.”

  I consider her response and remember the first note she hid for me.

  You are not invisible. I see you.

  Has she seen through my bullshit all along? Am I that transparent? She couldn’t know the details, but maybe she’s felt that we were connected somehow, like kindred spirits.

  Tentatively, I reach over and take her hand. She’s startled, at first, but makes no move to pull away. “Lydia, you and I, we’re on the run from life. We think we’ve made the perfect getaway and settled into a new normal. But the thing is, the past always finds a way to catch up with you. Life is a sneaky bastard.”

  She stares into my eyes as though I’ve just cracked some mysterious code and solved an impossible puzzle.

  “That’s it right there, isn’t it, Owen?”

  “That’s what?” I cock my head and try to read her expression.

  “The meaning of life. It always finds a way to catch up with you, and when it does, it turns you upside down and drops you right on your head.” She smiles as she says this, but I think it’s just a ruse. She thinks she has it all figured out, but it doesn’t bring her joy.

  “Let’s hope there’s more to it than that,” I say with a smile. “The meaning of life isn’t just a game of cat and mouse, but I do agree that it’s part of it.”

  She sits in stillness letting my words wash over her. I give her a few minutes before I prod her for more information.

  “So that phone call you got at Nigel’s today, was that a ghost from your past?”

  She nods but offers no other explanation. Still, I feel like she’s given me more than I expected. Just like me, she’s haunted by her past—a past that has found her despite her best efforts to hide. I can relate to that. More than she knows.

  She clears her throat and the intense air around us. “So, what brings you here in the middle of a workday?” She gives me a little grin. She’s only known me a few days and already she knows skipping work is out of character for me.

  I lift my shoulders in a shrug. “It’s too nice of a day to stay inside and examine socks. I decided to cut out early and was just stopping by my apartment to change before heading back out.” I motion to the building in front of us.

  Her eyes widen. “Wait. You live here?” She points at the front door to our apartment building.

  “Yep.” I nod and try my best to squelch the excitement building in the pit of my stomach. I’ve been anticipating this moment ever since I learned that Lydia moved into the apartment above me.

  “I live here, too! What apartment are you in?” A look of pure shock has settled into the features of her face, but just below the surface, I swear I detect something else. Something resembling joy.

  “I’m in 209.” I wait for it. The surprise when she realizes I’m right below her. She doesn’t disappoint.

  “You’re in 209? I’m in 309! You’re right below me!” As she says that, her face morphs from surprise to unease. “How thin are the walls here?”

  I mirror her shock with my own, feigning the emotion with the skill of a master performer. “That was you playing the guitar? Wow! You’re really good! How long have you been playing?”

  Her face flushes a pale shade of pink and she brings her hand, the one I was holding, up to partially conceal her face. “I didn’t realize anyone could hear me.”

  “You have nothing to be embarrassed about. Very little sound travels through the floorboards, and what little I could hear, I really enjoyed.” Before I can stop myself, I wink at her.

  It only serves to make her cheeks turn a full crimson. “Music helps me relax.”

  An idea blooms in my chest. “Well, in that case, you have to join me.”

  She furrows her brow in confusion. “Join you where?”

  “Evans Park has free live music every Wednesday night. After I change my clothes, I was going to grab some food and a blanket. If we head over there early, we can get a good spot on the lawn. It gets pretty crowded.”

  She doesn’t hesitate. “That sounds perfect, actually. Meet you in the lobby in fifteen?”

  Standing, I give her a smile. “It’s a date.”

  17

  Date.

  I can’t believe I used that word. If it concerned Lydia at all, her face certainly didn’t show it. Still, I feel like we’ve made some headway this afternoon, and the last thing I want to do is scare her off.

  Changing my clothes at lightning speed, I’m downstairs in just under ten minutes. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to be in the lobby when the elevator doors open and Lydia walks out.

  I don’t have to wait long.

  Standing in front of the entrance, I have the perfect view. I hear the familiar ding of the arriving elevator and hold my breath in anticipation as the doors slide open to reveal the girl I can’t seem to stop thinking about. She’s changed into a pair of slim jeans that end just above her ankle. The black shoulder-baring top she’s wearing clings in all the right places, and a delicate rose gold necklace with a simple L charm hangs from her neck. Her hair cascades down her back in loose waves and her lips are tinted a pale pink. She’s stunning.

  “Wow, Owen! You clean up well.” She gives me an appraising once-over and playfully knocks my shoulder with her right fist.

  “You, too. I mean, you look amaz—uh—great.” I stifle a groan. Really smooth, Owen.

  She smiles warmly. “So, where to, my fearless leader?”

  “Well, Santino’s is right on the other side of the park. I thought we might grab a slice and then find a spot on the grass. That is, if that’s okay with you? You do like pizza, right?”

  She looks at me like I’ve just sprouted a second head. “Owen, are you serious right now? I could eat pizza all day every day.” Giving me a sly smile, she adds, “As long as there are mushrooms on it, of course.”

  “Mushrooms, huh? I can work with that. Shall we?” I offer her my bent elbow, continuing our lighthearted flirtation.

  She threads her hand through and links arms with me. We stay that way. Strolling down the street toward the park. The mood is light, and we fill the air with little anecdotes about ourselves.

  I tell her that I’ve never met a cheesecake I didn’t like. She informs me she doesn’t trust anything that contains raw fish. I make a mental note to never take her out for sushi. I learn that she’s never owned a pair of high heels. If something isn’t comfortable, she wants no part of it. We laugh as I share a story about the one and only time I tried on skinny jeans for men and nearly had to call for help from the fitting room when I found myself trapped in them. She tells me she can picture the whole scene and quickly blushes at her admission. Her confession has me grateful I’m not wearing skinny jeans at the moment or else we’d both be feeling embarrassed.

  We grab our pizza, mushrooms for her and pepperoni for me, and make our way over to the park band shell. Lydia selects a spot on the lawn about fifteen feet from the center of the stage. We settle onto the blanket I spread out and resume our
banter. Our conversation is easy and fluid. She tells me about life back in Washington—a funny story about her geometry teacher who somehow got his hand stuck in a jar of mayonnaise, a crazy tale about an insane chihuahua that lived in the house next door and once chewed its way through an exterior door. It’s surface talk. But even though there’s no real substance to anything she’s telling me, I still feel us growing closer with every laugh, every smile, every wink she throws my way.

  I’m telling her about the time my dad locked his keys in the trunk of our old Dodge Spirit when she reaches out and touches the corner of my mouth. She slowly drags her index finger down my chin while never taking her eyes off mine. She smiles slowly, seductively, and raises her finger to show me a small piece of oregano that she just wiped off of my lip. She sucks in the left corner of her own lip and I find it almost impossible to control the urge deep within me.

  Why am I holding back? What am I afraid of? In this moment, staring at her full pink lips, nothing comes to mind. I hold her gaze and slowly start to lean in. Maybe I’m imagining things, but it looks like she’s drifting my way. She wants this, too. Closing the gap between us, I douse my inhibitions with cold water as I fan the flames of the need I feel for her growing within me. We’re impossibly close, our lips mere inches from each other. This is happening. We are happening.

  In a cruel turn of events, the city council president picks that very time to take the stage and thank everyone for coming. After a painful ten-minute monologue asking for donations to “keep the arts in the city alive,” he exits stage right and this evening’s entertainment, a local Top 40 cover band, begins their set.

  I glance over at Lydia and find that she’s retreated to the far corner of the blanket. Her legs are bent and her chin is resting on her knees. She chews on the right corner of her lip and keeps her eyes fixed on the stage. Her fingers absentmindedly tap out a rhythm on the leg of her jeans, but I don’t think she hears any music. She’s lost in her own thoughts, and I can’t tell if she’s feeling regret for what almost happened between us or that we were interrupted.