All the Lonely People

by Jen Marie Hawkins

  Henry moves slowly down the line and inspects them one by one. “You really are great at capturing light,” he says. “Have I told you that before?”

  I grin at him through the dim red haze of the room. “You might have mentioned it.”

  The picture of him on the steps is my favorite. But I don’t want to lurk around that one too long and give myself away. As I inspect the others, I notice a trend. In each group we photographed, for every three people looking directly at the camera, there’s at least one who’s looking away. Isolated. Alone. I wonder aloud to Henry why that is.

  He glances sideways at me. Our elbows touch. “The short answer is that it’s difficult to get people to do things in unison at precisely the same millisecond.”

  “And the long answer?” I don’t move my arm, even though we’re standing very close. To an unnecessary degree, even.

  “The long answer is that we’re all on different wavelengths for much of the time. Which is lonely business. If you start paying attention, you can spot it in people, but it’s easier to pick out in photos.”

  I move down to the last photo hanging on the line.

  “What about this one?” I point to the one he took of us on the bus. We’re both looking directly at the camera. “Which person in this photo is lonely?”

  The song changes to I Want You (She’s so Heavy).

  His throat moves as he swallows. He glances at the photo, and then back at me. “I think you already know it’s both.”

  The way he lowers his voice to say it rattles me.

  I clear my throat. “Well, that’s grim.”

  “Is it, though?” He turns his body to face me. “I think it’s the thing that connects people. It’s what makes us find comfort in each other.”

  A palpable tension invades our airspace. I am acutely aware of every breath I take.

  The song drags its mouth over our ears.

  I twirl the end of my hair in a figure eight between my fingers. His eyes follow the movement. Behind him, the usually violet aura has shifted. To lavender, then amethyst, and now—just around the edges—it’s red.

  It could be the red lighting of the room, but…

  “I think it’s why you kissed me.” The words are barely audible over the electric guitar riffs swimming through the room, but I hear it loud and clear. I guess I was wrong about our unspoken agreement never to mention this. I exhale a shaky breath and roll my eyes.

  “You say that like you didn’t kiss me ba—”

  “I did kiss you back,” he interrupts, stepping closer to me. “I never claimed I didn’t. That’s my point.”

  For once, I’m speechless. My thumping heart does all the talking. We’re very still. Deadlocked. Inches apart. I could kiss him right here, right now if he’d just meet me in the middle. But I don’t move even a fraction of an inch, a mental chorus of don’t do it holding me back. I don’t want to be wrong about his cues again.

  “But it was a mistake.” No matter how hard I try to punctuate with a period, it still sounds like a question mark.

  “It’s just that there’s a lot you don’t know.”

  I recoil. “About kissing?”

  He laughs then: a hearty, chest-deep rumble. “No, no. The kissing was…” His eyes trace an invisible line from my lashes to my lips. “The kissing was lovely. I mean there’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

  What an eager student I would be, though, in the classroom of Henry.

  “And you have a boyfriend,” he adds.

  “Yeah.” I peel my gaze away, wishing I could tell him I broke up with Dylan.

  But I don’t. For two reasons.

  1. The red notes of his aura—brilliant vermillion—are multiplying by the minute (and denote romantic interest), and

  2. We are in extremely close proximity. In a darkroom. With this sexy song playing like some kind of get-naked-and-make-bad-choices anthem. And I’m off my meds, so. Not a good combination.

  When I look back up at him, the red halo in his aura has spilled over the violet.

  This should make me feel happy. But instead, it makes me anxious. There’s always the possibility that I’m wrong. That the darkroom lights are fooling me. That my own emotions are fooling me. That we’re on different wavelengths and I’m too clueless to see it.

  I won’t take the risk of another first move. He’s going to have do it this time.

  But we stand stock still for such a long time, it becomes clear he isn’t going to.

  “I think I need to take a break from this.” I pick up my phone and silence the music. And then slip out of the darkroom.

  He doesn’t stop me.

  Chapter 44

  : All Things Must Pass :

  READING MY MORNING text messages gives me an anxiety jolt stronger than coffee.

  My bottom lip splits under my teeth. I absentmindedly stroke Felix’s head with one hand as I scroll through my phone with the other, tasting the metallic tang of blood. I cross and then uncross my legs, scooting against a display of records at the front of the store.

  The only person who could’ve told her any of this is Dylan. I’ve never met the vindictive side of him but somehow always knew it was there. Does he get to keep my friends in this break up? I exhale in a whoosh. Mad at Patrick for coming in between my two best friends. Mad at Dylan for telling Lexie things I should’ve told her myself. Mad at Maddie for asking me to keep a secret and then selling me out. Mad at Lexie for not loving her sister when some people don’t get to ever experience the love between siblings. Mad at Henry for having such a kissable, out-of-reach mouth. But most of all, mad at Pop. For dying and putting me in all those other situations to begin with.

  “Something wrong?”

  I look up. Henry eagle-eyes me from his perch behind the register.

  “Yeah. Lots of drama going on back at home.”

  The front door opens, sweeping in a roar of street noise. I climb to my feet and join Henry behind the service counter. A group of customers enters the store and files into the classic rock section. Felix trots away to the stairs and curls into his favorite spot on the landing.

  “Want to talk about it?” He leans forward onto the counter and props his chin in his hand.

  I don’t, but things have been weird between us since that night in the darkroom, so I’m okay with faking normalcy.

  “My two best friends hate each other’s guts now. Over your brother.”

  Henry’s eyebrows shoot skyward. “Seriously?”

  “They’re sisters.”

  His eyes grow wider still. “I’m sure he’s enjoying himself.”

  “I don’t think he is.”

  “Oh please,” says Henry. “Patrick loves being the center of attention. At any cost.”

  “I told him he should leave them both alone, and according to them, he has.”

  “Hmm.” He crosses his arms. “Perhaps he’s miraculously turned into somebody else, then.”

  I give him a look and open my mouth to ask him why he’s so harsh about Patrick, but a lady steps up to the counter to check out.

  “Goodness. It’s so quiet in here,” she says. “Don’t music stores usually play music?”

  Henry points to the listening stations. “You can listen to anything you like as long as it isn’t cellophane-sealed.”

  “Oh, I know, I meant for background noise. Feels like a library.”

  Henry gives her a tight smile as he hands her a receipt. “Have a nice day.”

  “She has a point,” I say as we watch her exit the store. He glances sideways at me. “I wondered the same thing when I first got here.”

  “Mum always said we shouldn’t force our musical tastes on patrons. They should be able to listen to what they like.”

  I shrug. “Maybe they don’t know what’s good.”

  Henry grins.

  “Kind of like you,” I add.

  “What, because I’m not a Beatles superfan, I have no taste?”

  “Other than the offhand c
omment about being more of a Stones kind of guy, you’ve never mentioned what music you like.”

  “Other than the Beatles, neither have you.”

  “Fine, but I asked you first,” I challenge.

  “I never heard a question.”

  I roll my eyes. “Henry, what’s the last song you listened to on purpose?”

  “The eye roll was a nice touch.” He laughs. “Really convinced me of your sincerity.”

  “Fine.” I round the counter to the used section and thumb through a few albums. “I’ll go first.”

  When I find the record I’m searching for, I take it to the listening station adjacent to the cash register. The record swishes as I pull it from its sleeve. I drop the needle onto the vinyl, unplug the headphones, and leave the door open.

  The opening chords from Memory Lane play.

  “This is the last song I listened to before falling asleep last night.”

  He rubs his jaw. “You like Elliott Smith?”

  I shrug. “Sometimes.”

  He nods like he knows exactly what I mean. We listen to the melody, the tortured lyrics, in silent reverence. When the song ends and I lift the needle from the vinyl, Henry finally speaks.

  “Such a shame somebody killed that guy.”

  I squint at him, puzzled. “He killed himself.”

  Henry shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Um, yes. He stabbed himself in the heart.”

  This seems to ruffle him. “I know the story, thanks. But I don’t believe that’s what happened.”

  I point behind me at the stopped record. “Did we listen to the same song? The guy who wrote that song wanted to die.”

  Henry starts to pace behind the counter. “You don’t find the whole thing is suspicious? People don’t stab themselves in the heart.”

  “He talked about killing himself constantly.”

  He rounds the counter, on some kind of mission now, and changes the song to Twilight. It plays for a moment and he sticks a finger up in the air. “This.” He points. “He was working on this album when he died. Why would he be so optimistic if he was thinking of stabbing himself—arguably one of the most painful ways to go?”

  “Is it optimistic, though?” I cross my arms. “I always thought that line meant he’d rather die than lose the things he loves.”

  “Dying means losing those things anyway, though.”

  “Maybe he didn’t see it that way.”

  Henry changes the song again, a little frustrated. “What about this last one?” When we’re halfway through the song, Henry adds, “He’s self-aware. He has willpower.”

  My neck gets hot. I’m defensive for an artist who was dead before I was even born. “I’ve read the articles, Henry. He had no illegal drugs in his system when he died. All prescription ones. Doctors think antidepressants are some kind of magic cure all, but they’re not. So maybe he was murdered. By his prescriptions.”

  Henry stares at me like he’s deciding what to say next. Finally he says, “You think his antidepressants made him do it?”

  I nod. “Maybe he wanted to feel something. Maybe shoving a blade through his chest felt better than walking around numb all the time, either from the heroin or the pharmaceuticals.”

  “He loved heroin, though.” Henry cocks his head to the side. “Referred to it as his friend.”

  I shrug. “Maybe he wasn’t afraid of pain or numbness he thought he could control.”

  “I could see that.” There’s a subtle shift in Henry’s voice. From speculation to a hollow understanding. His throat moves as defeat settles over his face. “That’s how I felt when I took antidepressants. Or didn’t feel, I should say. I felt nothing. But that didn’t make me want to shove a blade into my chest. Twice.”

  The vulnerability of that statement floors me. Maybe that’s what forces me to admit something aloud that I’ve never even admitted to myself.

  “They made me feel that way, too. For a while, death seemed like it would be a relief.”

  His face falls and he goes silent for a moment.

  “Then that wasn’t the right medication for you. Just like it wasn’t for me. But that doesn’t mean all medication is bad, Jo.”

  I sense it coming: the spiel I’ve been hearing from Dylan and my mom for ages.

  “It’s cowardly,” I say, flexing my jaw. “Trying to control yourself with chemicals. Prescription or otherwise.”

  Henry shakes his head. “Cowardice is knowing you need help, yet refusing it.”

  A chill spreads over me, ceiling to floor. The unspoken statement hangs between us, ugly and obvious. It’s what Pop did. And maybe he’s suggesting that by not taking my meds, it’s what I’m also doing. Tears flare.

  “Not all depression looks the same, Henry.”

  He flexes his jaw. “That’s exactly my point.”

  A shrill ring makes me jump—his phone. I give myself a minute to recover from our conversation while he answers it. I reach under the cash register and slide the stack of photos we developed out and thumb through them on the counter. Most of the folks from Abbey Road came by this week to pick up their prints. Not the older couple, though. I stare at the picture and try to escape from the remnants of our conversation; half rattled, half listening to Henry’s conversation.

  “I can’t leave this week because Dad is gone… yes… he says he has a vendor meeting.” He laughs. “Yes. Allegedly.” He laughs again. “Sure, Saturday night. I’ll be there. Of course. See you then.”

  My ears perk up. When he hangs up, I ask him, “You don’t think George is really at a vendor meeting?”

  “Uh—”

  “Sorry to eavesdrop.”

  “Yeah. Pretty sure he’s seeing the festival organizer. He doesn’t want me to know about it. Thinks I can’t handle him replacing my mother.” As he says this, he steps over to the used records and searches till he finds one. “Now where were we? My turn, yes?” He selects one and walks it to the turntable. A guitar and piano harmony begins to play. We listen together. It Takes A Lot to Know a Man fills the store with its cautiously optimistic melody.

  “Damien Rice?”

  He nods.

  I wonder if he’s trying to send some sort of message with this song choice, but I just keep sorting through the photos on the counter as it plays. He steps over beside me and studies them over my shoulder.

  “This one,” he says, pointing to the picture of the older couple. “The light is perfect.” He stares a while longer. “Only people who spend a lot of time in darkness can truly appreciate light.”

  I try not to read into it too much, but reading into things is one of my specialties.

  “Register for the workshop,” he says.

  I look up at him. “I don’t know if I can make it work.”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t give me that. With a little formal training you’ll be incredible. Stop putting your life on hold.”

  It’s like he’s giving me permission to pursue something I want. Shoving me in the direction I already want to go.

  “Henry?”

  He looks at me. “Hmm?”

  “I appreciate that you don’t treat me like a wilting flower.”

  He nods and fixes his gaze on the picture again. “Why would I? You’re anything but.”

  I pull up my phone browser and fill out the registration form online. A few minutes later, a confirmation appears in my inbox.

  Chapter 45

  : Two of Us :

  WE STEP INTO Blackfriar’s Crow a little after six on Friday night.

  It’s a relative ghost town—only two people sit at the bar. I’d planned to come here alone, but when I told Henry where I was going, he asked if he could tag along. I didn’t have the heart to tell him no. Every night this week, I’ve passed the time playing with a roll of practice film and doing photoshoots with Felix while Henry was off with Sanjay.

  It’s nice that he wants to hang out with me, and not because he’s being forced to do it for w
ork. The whole week has been a careful balancing act of working together and being friendly without crossing lines.

  “What can I get you?” The bartender asks.

  “We’re actually here to see Nigel,” Henry says. At that moment, Nigel exits the kitchen and does a double take when he sees us there.

  “Oh,” he says. “Hello there. So good to see you again.” He smiles, but it’s distant.

  “Hi. You, uh—couple of weeks ago. You said to drop by, but I missed you last time.”

  His forehead scrunches, then relaxes as he remembers. “Of course,” he says, wiping his brow with the back of his forearm. “Come on back.” He heads back through the kitchen doors, a little hurriedly. I’m not sure at first that I’m supposed to follow him, but Henry nudges me forward.

  “Nigel, listen, if it’s not a good time…”

  “Oh, nonsense.” He smiles over his shoulder at me. “Just a little forgetful sometimes is all.”

  We meander through the kitchen, which is a buzz of movement and energy. It’s a stark contrast from the deserted pub. Henry and I follow Nigel around stainless steel tables and through employee conversations as they chop vegetables and prep dough. They follow us with their stares. Nigel leads us into a small windowless room at the back of the building.

  A desk piled high in disorganized paperwork sits directly across from a sofa with pillows and blankets. The space feels like a vacuum. Hollow. Devoid of joy. Once the three of us have stuffed ourselves inside, he gathers up the pillows and blankets, tosses them in the corner, and invites us to sit on the sofa.

  “Sorry, I don’t actually live here, though I know it looks that way. I just sleep here sometimes. Especially since I lost my wife. Don’t much like going home to an empty flat.” He paints on a smile. The first time I noticed Nigel’s aura, it was an unassuming blue. Like the sky. Peaceful. But now it has tones of brown. Muddy. Dirtied up. Guarded. Maybe Henry was right—everyone really is lonely in some way.