Frayed

by Layne Deemer

  He takes a book off the pile at his feet. The cover features a blue dragon breathing turquoise fire, and the title has telltale words like wings and myth. He holds it out in front of him and looks me in the eyes. “I’m gonna tell you something and just listen for a second. People read this shit because it’s an escape from their dull lives. Hell, they read all of this crap for that reason.” He gestures around the store. “But they read this fantasy garbage for the smut, and don’t try and tell me there’s any other reason for it.” He wags a stubby finger at me for emphasis.

  I roll my eyes. “Oh, come on, not every one of those fantasy books has sex in them.”

  He pauses with his hand resting on the spine of the wing/myth dragon book that he was shelving and sighs. “Anything worth anything has sex in it, Owen.” He flips open the book to reveal a few questionable scenes between a fairy/dragonfly hybrid and a “strapping, virile” man, but I pay no attention to the sordid details. I’ve already found the advice I was looking for. I can always count on Rudy to sum up life in a few harsh, but true words.

  I really like being around Lydia. But up until this point, our relationship has been purely platonic. If I want it to have any staying power; to be worth investing in, then it’s time to inject a little romance into it. And what better time than when we’re sitting in close proximity on a couch in her apartment without any interruptions?

  I know what I have to do.

  I turn to leave the bookstore and shout a “Thanks, Rudy!” over my shoulder. I’m leaping over piles of books and weaving throughout the shelves like I’m in the last few meters of a race. And in a roundabout way, I am. If I don’t make a move soon, I could run out of time. Lydia and I have grown close, but there’s something missing. I’m not sure what I want exactly, but I am certain what I don’t want. I’m not content with being her pal, and that’s the category I’m in at the moment.

  As I reach out to grasp the handle of the door, I hear Rudy yell out, “Thanks for coming and thanks for leaving, kid!” He really doesn’t mince words. Smiling, I turn the knob and push past any doubts still left in my head.

  Lydia may have broken the moment a few weeks ago, but I don’t think it’s because she didn’t want it to happen. I’ve caught her staring at me when she thinks I don’t notice. She looks at my face like she’s trying to memorize every mole, every line. If she wanted to remain friends, she wouldn’t look at me like I’m something to be devoured.

  20

  I’m standing outside Lydia’s door with a jar of restaurant style salsa in one hand and a bag of tortilla chips in the other. I’m fifteen minutes early, but I couldn’t pace around my apartment any longer without risking a well-earned pouncing from Uncle George. He has no tolerance for restlessness. In human form, my uncle used to tell me, “If you want to do something, do it. If you don’t, then don’t. But never waste time in the in between. Nothing happens, good or bad, if you’re standing still.”

  Holding the bag of chips in my teeth, I raise my fist preparing to knock, but just as my knuckles make contact with the door, it flies open forcing me to lose my footing and stumble inside directly into Lydia. The tortilla chips fall to the floor, and my outstretched hand makes contact with her shoulder just above her right breast as hers rests on the side of my neck. We laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation, and I should probably move out of her personal space, but I don’t. I leave my hand where it is and she does the same and suddenly, we aren’t laughing anymore.

  Lydia has a ficus tree strewn with Christmas lights in a white ceramic pot just inside the door of her apartment. The twinkling of the lights catches the gold flecks in her eyes, making them sparkle as she stares back at me. I can hear her breath catch in her throat and see her pulse beat on the side of her neck. Our bodies are impossibly close.

  I remember Rudy’s advice and just as I’m about to lean in, she breaks our contact. Removing her hand from the side of my neck, she bends over to retrieve the bag of chips from the floor. When she stands, a look of resignation in her eyes has replaced the lust that was only just there. “I believe you dropped these,” she says with a shy smile.

  My hand that was resting on her only a moment ago is still awkwardly balanced in front of me. I use it to scratch at an imaginary itch above my ear as I hold up the jar of salsa in my other hand.

  I wish I could say I said something much more debonair and romantic. Something that added to the sexual tension in the air, making it impossible for us to avoid our feelings any longer. But sadly, I pick that moment to talk about salsa.

  “Do you have a small bowl we can use for this?” My lack of charm is a curse that’s slowly sentencing me to celibacy.

  I’m not sure why Lydia keeps pulling away, but I’m not leaving this apartment until I find out.

  I’ve watched The Breakfast Club at least a dozen times. I can and do recite every line verbatim. I realize I’m balancing a fine line between being incredibly annoying or irresistibly adorable.

  Thankfully, Lydia seems to think I’m the latter and even joins in. We’re reenacting the pot smoking scene and fall into fits of laughter right along with the actors in the movie. I smile at her and shake my head at our ridiculousness. “I guess we’re both neo-maxi-zoom-dweebies.”

  She giggles quietly at my lame attempt at a joke and leans into me, her head relaxing on my arm. I tilt my head and rest my cheek on top of her head. Our movements are so natural and happen organically without any forethought. Her actions mirror mine in a way that makes me certain she’s feeling the same things I am. I can’t be misreading these signals.

  We remain like that as the movie plays on, neither one of us making a move to break the connection.

  We reach the scene where Molly Ringwald takes Aly Sheedy to the bathroom for a makeover when Lydia pulls away from me and stands up in a huff. I pick up the remote from the coffee table and pause the movie.

  She’s moved into the kitchen and I hear cabinet doors slamming followed by the familiar clanging of a metal spoon inside of a ceramic mug. I call out to her, “Is everything okay?”

  She responds with a question. “Do you want some tea?”

  My eyebrows crease as I stand from the sofa and join her in the kitchen. “Sure, I’ll take a cup.”

  She stands at the counter with her back to me. I watch as she selects a gray mug from the open cabinet on her right. The words Visit Lake Tahoe are written across the front in faded green script. She slides a tea bag inside and places the cup onto the marbled tan Formica next to her pale blue mug already steeping with tea.

  Upon first glance, her mug looks plain and unremarkable. But the more I stare at it, the more I notice the opalescent sheen that coats the outside. When the light hits it just right, it appears to be glowing. It reminds me of her eyes—how, at first, they appear to be an ordinary shade of brown. Unless you’re paying close attention, it would be really easy to miss the shimmers of gold and flecks of green that fan out from their chocolate depths. Lydia’s soul is hidden there in plain sight—a fact that’s never been lost on me.

  She hands me my mug of tea and motions to the fridge and countertop. “I’m not sure how you take your tea, but there’s cream in the fridge and sugar in the blue bowl on the counter.” Her soulful eyes are downcast and avoiding.

  “Thanks.” I take the mug from her, and before she can lower her hand, I reach out and hold her fingers with my left hand. The connection feels intimate, and she looks up at me, startled. I don’t let go. Instead, I interlace our fingers and ask her, “What happened just now? Why’d you get up and walk away?”

  She inhales deeply and closes her eyes. Her lips part to let out an exhale as her eyes snap open and find mine. Just when I’ve convinced myself that she’s not going to answer, she proves me wrong. “I’m sorry. I know that was weird. It’s just…” She looks off to the left, her gaze, distant and unreadable, fixes on the wall. “I really hate that scene.”

  At first, relief overwhelms me. I thought she wanted to get away f
rom me, and to hear that it was the movie she wanted to escape is music to my ears. But looking at her now, leaning on the counter looking everywhere, but at me, I can see that her dramatic reaction extends far beyond a five-minute scene in a movie.

  Despite her closed-off body language, I haven’t let go of her hand. I loosen my hold a bit and turn our clasped palms so they’re facing up. Setting my mug on the counter, I move my other hand to rest on top of her upturned one and begin tracing the lines across her palm with my index finger. It’s a simple gesture, yet so personal.

  It’s quiet. I can hear the blood coursing through my ears. The air feels like it’s crackling around us. The hair on my arms and at the back of my neck stands on end. I don’t stop the slow deliberate movements of my finger on her palm as I look up at her. Finding her eyes drinking me in, I swallow the urge to launch myself at her. Taking her right here on the tiled kitchen floor.

  “You seem very upset over a movie. What’s really going on, Lydia?” I lock her into place with my gaze and keep our hands intertwined, my index finger still making lazy circles on her palm.

  I watch her nostrils flare and follow the bobbing of her throat. I can feel a slight tug in my hand. She’s trying to sever the contact, but I ignore her movements. I won’t let her avoid my question or placate me with a generic response.

  Her eyes narrow slightly and her brows turn down like she’s weighing the words she’s about to say.

  “I hate the idea that in order to be loved and adored, you have to make yourself perfect first. If you ask me, that character was far more interesting when she was turning dandruff into snow than when she pushed her bangs off of her face with a pink headband and wore more ‘appealing’ clothing.” She uses her free hand to make air quotes. I open my mouth to respond, but she isn’t finished with her soliloquy.

  “And who’s to say what’s perfect, anyway? You could spend your whole life trying to make yourself into something that you’re not just to feel accepted by the very people who are supposed to love you unconditionally. It’s ridiculous, really, the whole notion of perfection. If something is perfect, it isn’t real. Maybe I don’t want to straighten the waves in my hair. Maybe becoming a musician isn’t a waste of time. And maybe I’m allowed to have an original thought and not be a puppet that needs to be controlled! I can be whoever the fuck I want to be, and I don’t need to prove my worth to anyone—including you!” She snatches her hand back and forces it into her hair while taking in huge gasps of air. Her hands scrub the front of her face and when she opens her eyes, she looks surprised to see me standing there.

  “Oh my God, Owen. I can’t believe I just said all of that! You must think I’m insane.”

  Taking two steps, I close the gap between us and pull her into my arms. Soothing her back in small circles with my hand, I place my lips a few inches from her ear and whisper, “Shh. I don’t know who made you feel anything less than amazing, but I really want to punch them in the fucking face right about now.” My confession earns a small chuckle from her.

  She leans back to peer up into my eyes. “I’m sorry I turned our low-key movie night into a psychotic breakdown.” She smiles sadly.

  Cradling her face with my hand, I smooth out the lines on the side of her mouth. “Never apologize for being real. It beats perfection any day.”

  I lean down. My lips find hers and leave a line of soft kisses along the seam of her mouth. My pulse moves lower in my body, and I can’t help myself. My tongue darts out, coaxing her lips open and I steal my first taste of her.

  She’s tentative at first; her tongue meets mine with curiosity. After a few seconds, she abandons any reservations and lets her emotions take over. She returns my kiss with force and matches my fervor with her own. And at that moment, I know for certain that within her, perfection is alive and well.

  21

  Some mornings, you wake up out of habit. There isn’t anything particularly special about the day and with nothing to look forward to, your movements are more of a routine than anything else.

  Today is not that kind of day.

  My night was filled with dreams of Lydia and me engaged in things that almost make me blush. Almost. I woke up five minutes before my alarm feeling refreshed and sated.

  Lydia and I had a huge breakthrough in our relationship last night. She finally opened up to me and let me see a glimpse of the inner turmoil I’ve always sensed was just below the surface. Her momentary display of emotion was only a tiny fissure. I saw just enough to know there is so much more depth to her suffering. We are linked by our own tortured hearts. I felt the pull so strongly, there was nothing left for me to do but kiss her. Our lips joined together in search of the rescue we’ve both been endlessly looking for.

  Despite the protest from the lower half of my body, I didn’t press her for more than a kiss. Lydia needed to feel safe. We’ve come too far for me to ruin things now by behaving like a hormonal teenager. I need to tread lightly and treat her with care.

  And now, standing under the warmth of the cascading water in my shower, my hand moves instinctively to the growing need in my body. The desire to find some relief overwhelms me, but this time, I stop myself. Lydia is worth the wait.

  I shut off the water and reach around the shower curtain for my towel. There isn’t one on the hook, and then I remember tossing it into the wash basket in the closet yesterday. I must’ve forgotten to replace it with a new one. Great. Now I’m sopping wet and without a towel.

  I drip my way into the hall and fling open the door to the linen closet. I grab a towel and wrap it around my waist. Before I close the closet door, a flash of green catches my eye. Without thinking, I reach up and take hold of the green metal box that’s stashed away on the top shelf.

  The box lets out a squeak as I let it plop onto my bed. The latch is rusty with age and takes a bit of finagling, but I manage to slide it up. The lid creaks and groans in complaint. It hasn’t been opened in a few years. The inside is barren apart from Pop Pop’s rifle—sorry, Andrew—and an envelope. My hand hovers above the envelope before grabbing it and spilling the contents out onto the comforter. Sarah’s lists stare back at me. These are just a drop in the bucket compared to the hundreds she made over the years.

  I pick one up and trace the letters with my index finger. Owen & Sarah’s Perfect Life. As if that was something you could plan. Looking at how things turned out, it definitely wasn’t.

  I thought Sarah would be my last. After she was gone, I couldn’t imagine tethering myself to another person. But with Lydia, it’s different. Sarah was so goal oriented; she planned us even before I asked her out on our first date. In a lot of ways, I was an accomplishment to her; something to add to her long list of achievements.

  Lydia doesn’t view life in a series of to-do lists. She lives her life for herself. Sarah sprinted toward perfection; Lydia runs away from it.

  I’m darting around my apartment in choppy disconnected movements; the need to see her like a constant hum in my veins. Every thought I have comes back to her. I catch myself staring up at the ceiling above my futon willing her to make a sound, to give me any inkling of what she might be doing this very moment. Is she staring down at the floor wondering the same about me?

  I take a seat on my futon and close my eyes. I picture Lydia upstairs in her apartment. She has her hair piled high on top of her head and she’s scrubbing her bathtub with frantic ferocity. She’s desperate for a distraction, but she can’t stop thinking about me no matter how hard she tries. It’s a fantasy, but maybe it isn’t. I remember telling Dr. Jamie about my coping mechanisms—the way I escape from life when I feel weighed down by the stress of it all. He had his own theories, but I still prefer mine. When I can’t deal with reality, I go inward. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t.

  I slam my hands down on the kitchen counter and jolt myself back to the present. The dishes in the drying rack rattle in protest. I don’t even remember walking over here. I have to get a hold of myself. All we did w
as share one kiss and I’m completely out of my mind. How will I act if, when, we do much more than that? At this rate, I picture myself methodically marching up the stairs, pushing open the door to the rooftop terrace, and launching myself right off the building.

  I bow my head and take a few calming breaths, but it’s no use. We’re within the same brick and mortar. I’ll never relax knowing that.

  My entire body practically vibrates with thoughts of being near her. If I close my eyes, I can still feel her, my arm wrapped protectively around her while her face rests perfectly in my hand.

  I didn’t realize how much was missing in my life until I met her. I was just going through the motions with my eyes closed so tight. I didn’t want to let anyone in after Sarah. I thought I was content living a life free of emotion, but I know now that I wasn’t. With Lydia, I feel everything.

  I let my eyes drift up to the ceiling. This is ridiculous. I can’t let last night go without acknowledging what’s changed between us. But sending her a text or knocking on the walls doesn’t seem like the right response given the magnitude of what happened. I should just go talk to her. Why do I feel so nervous, all of a sudden?

  I can’t go empty-handed. I need a reason to drop by unannounced. I open the cabinet doors and push cans of tomato soup and chickpeas aside. I’m not really sure what I’m looking for. It’s not like I would ever have muffin mix or a hidden box of donuts stashed away.

  I decide a trip to The Bagel Bar is in order. I’ll grab some food and surprise Lydia with breakfast. I tell myself I’m not procrastinating at all. It would be rude to show up without a concrete reason, that’s all.

  Sunday morning at a bagel shop is like a shopping mall the week before Christmas. Everyone is all glaring eyes and pointy elbows. I don’t know what Lydia likes so I buy one of every flavor they have along with plain, strawberry, and sun-dried tomato cream cheese. Now that I’m on my way to see her, I’m second-guessing my choices. I don’t want to appear too eager or desperate. I inwardly shudder at the thought.