“I’m guessing you don’t since I’m pretty sure you would have gone after them last night,” I tell her.
Her face reddens with rage. “Whatever.” She storms for the door and I follow her out into the hall, staying at her heels, making sure she doesn’t try to make a run for the front door. She slams the bathroom door in my face and I sit down on the couch to wait for her.
I’m trying not to panic about what the future holds, but I can’t help it. Excluding the fact that I’m taking a big step with another girl besides London, I’m actually going to have to live with her, too, and I could barely stand living with Micha. I like my personal space and if I don’t get enough of it, I start to feel like I’m caged in. I mean, I like Lila and everything, but I’m not even sure if I’ve seen the real her yet, just the drugged-up illusion of her. Drugs are like that. They make someone a different person. With me, I was calmer on the inside, so on the outside I had an easier time talking to people. Lila’s always seemed happy enough, except for the last few weeks. What if she turns into a completely different person and I end up not liking her? I’ve enjoyed all the time we spent together, the bantering, even the sexual tension, the inappropriate touching, and I’ll even admit it, despite the fact of how it ended, that night on her bed made me feel things I never knew existed. But what if that’s all gone after this.
Chapter Eight
Lila
I’m a bitch. I’ve been snapping at Ethan and saying mean things even though he helped me out when he didn’t have to. He let me move in with him, and even went as far as helping me pack up my apartment. But I can’t help it. It’s like there is this foul thing living inside me, this famished monster that wants nothing more than to be fed, and Ethan is getting in the way of the feast, only giving me broken pieces of pills, and he’s giving them to me less frequently each day. I haven’t felt this shitty since my mom and her driver picked me up from boarding school after the incident. She wasn’t there to rescue me, though, like I hoped. She was there to talk some sense into me.
“Well, I have to say that I’m very disappointed in you,” she’d said, staring out the tinted window as we drove through the city, the tall buildings shadowing the streets and the car. “Although, I’m not surprised.” She angled her head to the side to look at me and slipped her sunglasses onto the top of her head. “As much as I hate to admit it, I expected nothing less of you.”
The indignity and mortification of what happened at school still burned inside me and yet I still couldn’t control my tongue. “And why’s that, mother?”
“Watch your tone,” she snapped. “Just because your father isn’t here doesn’t mean you can disrespect me.”
“Why? You let my father.” I was sitting on the opposite side of the backseat, looking at her with such animosity for making me come to the city and the school. If I’d been in California then maybe I would have made better decisions. I wouldn’t have felt so lonely and therefore wouldn’t have gone looking for something to fill the emptiness inside me. I would have never met him and never have done things, disgusting, unimaginable things that I’ll forever regret.
Her eyes snapped wide and before I had time to register what she was doing, she slapped me hard across the cheek. Heat and pain ignited across my face and inside my heart, too. But I didn’t cry. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of crying in front of her.
I cupped my cheek with my head hung low so she couldn’t see the hurt in my eyes. “You’re acting like this was entirely my fault, but I didn’t even know what I was doing. I didn’t understand… I didn’t…” I shook my head, discouraged at myself, but still able to will myself to sit up straight. “It really hurts.”
“Hurting and crying over something a guy did to you is pathetic, Lila Summers,” she said and I had to resist an eye roll because she was seriously one to talk about being pathetic. “And it is your fault. You made the decision to be with him, even though you knew he was older, and now we have to deal with the consequences.”
“We?” I questioned.
“Yes, we,” she said in a calm voice as she tugged off her leather gloves. “Everything you do is done to this family. Your father has family here—you know that. You have cousins and some of his business colleagues’ kids go to the school. How do you think I found out about this to begin with?” She tossed her gloves onto the seat, then reached for her purse. She took out a prescription bottle and read the label. “And the outburst in the middle of class… you’re making us look like we’ve raised some kind of lunatic.”
I’d balled my fists. “The other kids are tormenting me, though. Those stupid Precious Bells told the entire school, and now everyone keeps saying what a little slut I am and how I threw myself on Se…” I trailed off, unable to utter his name. “A-And I haven’t been sleeping very well… I’ve been having nightmares about waking up underneath… underneath him.” I summoned a deep breath, wishing she’d hug me or something, or try to make me feel a little better. She used to give me hugs when I was little, but then my father got a mistress and she got her pills and wine. When she was taking them, which was almost always, they became the most important things to her, and everything else, including me, didn’t seem to matter.
She stared at me with a little bit of sympathy as she twisted the cap off the pills. “Take one of these a day until you’re feeling better.” She grabbed my hand and dumped a pill into my palm.
“What is it?” I held the tiny white pill warily.
“It’s something that’s going to make this all better,” she insisted, screwing the cap back on. “For everyone. You, me, and your father.”
I knew it was wrong, yet she was watching me expectantly, and all I really wanted to do was make the heavy, humiliating, filthy, self-loathing pain vanish, so I tipped my head back and swallowed the pill.
“Good girl,” my mom said like I was a dog who had just done the correct trick and had been rewarded with a treat. She handed me the bottle and then pulled her sunglasses back over her eyes and crossed her legs. “And if you run out, let me know and I’ll get you more.”
And she did. Every time I’d run out, she’d get me a refill. Sometimes when I was visiting at home, she’d share her stash. We’d take the pills and then go shopping or something, the only visible thing inside either or our bodies were the shallow, materialistic, shadows of our true selves.
I’ve been spending a lot of time in Micha’s old room, which is my new temporary room. And a lot of that time I spend staring in the mirror, not in vain or anything, just looking at my reflection and trying to figure out who I am without pills in my system. The blue eyes that stare back at me are not recognizable, too wide and confused, instead of blank like they’ve been for years.
As sobriety starts to seep in with each passing day, I try to figure how I got to this exact moment when it felt like I’d been okay just a few days ago. In four days’ time it feel like a thousand bricks have tumbled down on my chest and are pinning me to the bed. And I wonder if I’ll ever be able to stop them from crushing me.
Ethan
What the hell am I doing?
I’m not looking for a relationship. They’re ugly, raw, brutal, painful, life destroying. They exist only in the hearts of the needy and I don’t need anything from anyone. I’m perfectly content being alone, hiding in the desolate place inside myself. It’s what I need to exist because I don’t think I can handle anything else. Even with London, I made sure to keep as much distance as I could and I’m glad. If I hadn’t, I might have broken apart that morning when I got the news. But instead I felt numb, barely feeling a thing about it, almost like it never happened. And being in that place is a great place to be. It’s quiet and still and peaceful. There’s no yelling inside my head, no commotion, no anxiety. I don’t have to worry about being walked all over by someone, being controlled, or losing myself, or trying to take away the identity of another person, pretending to love them, when really I just want to own them.
Within the loneliness
inside me, I don’t have to worry about turning into someone I don’t want to be, like my mother or my father. I’m just Ethan. And I can live with that. But with Lila… Jesus fucking Christ, I’m turning into a person I barely recognize. A nice guy who cares way too much, who’s breaking his rules and getting involved.
Yep, I’ve become everything I promised I never would be after I lost London.
“Your couch smells like old cheese.” Lila walks into my room with a scowl on her face. It’s the same scowl she’s been wearing for the last four days, ever since I learned about her habitual pill popping habit. “And your fridge has mold in it.”
“Well, at least it runs.” I put my pen away and shut the notebook, toss it on the nightstand, and lean against the headboard. “It could have no power and be growing mold.”
Her forehead creases as her scowl intensifies. Her hair isn’t combed, and she still has on the pair of boxer shorts and the tank top she slept in. “What were you just doing?” She eyes the notebook. “Writing about what a bitch I am?”
I cross my arms and stretch my legs out on the bed in front of me. “Why would I have to write about that when I can tell you in person?”
Her blue eyes turn cold. “You’re an asshole.”
“You know, you’ve said that about twenty times in the last few days and it’s getting really old, especially since most assholes wouldn’t just let you move in with them.”
She shakes her head and huffs with frustration. “It’s time for you to give me another stupid piece of my pill.”
I glance at my watch and then shake my head. “Not yet.”
She lets out a scream through gritted teeth and then flips me off before leaving my room. My head flops back against the headboard and I stare up at the crack in the ceiling. I’m not sure if I’m doing anything right, whether I’m helping her or harming her. She’s so much different, more closed off and stubborn and bitchy. She won’t talk about anything and complains about everything. She’s driving me fucking crazy.
I rub my forehead, cursing the nonstop headache I’ve had for days. Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I need to relieve the stress and there are only two ways for me to do that. Sleep with someone or play the drums. Usually, I’d go with the first, but I’m not feeling it at all.
I get up from the bed, take my shirt off, and sit down on the stool beside my drums, scooping up my drumsticks from off the floor. I reach over to my dresser and grab my iPod from the dock. I select “Gotta Get Away!” by Offspring, put the iPod back in the dock, and crank the volume, wanting to drown out the noise of my thoughts and any more potential Lila drama.
Once the song clicks on, I slam the sticks down on the drums and start pounding to the rhythm with more force than usual. I’m usually considerate of the neighbors, but right now I need to let off some steam. The longer I go, the more into it I get. Midway, I just close my eyes and let myself drown in the music and beat, my skin covered with sweat and my pulse hammering against my chest. I feel myself getting dragged away from my problems and life. For a moment, I’m alone in the apartment, in the world, and all the worries that surround me cease to exist. Then the song ends and I open my eyes and nearly fall off the stool.
Lila is sitting on the edge of my bed, watching me with what looks like a disinterested look, but I think it’s a mask to hide the fact that she’s curious.
“Jesus, Lila.” I try to catch my breath, sweeping my fingers through my sweaty hair. “You scared the shit out of me.”
She crosses her legs and stares at me impassively. For a second I think she’s going to ask me for another pill, maybe even try to bargain with me, something she’s done a lot over the last few days. But instead she says, “How do you think I feel? One minute I’m sitting in a quiet room and then suddenly the whole place is shaking?”
I clutch on to the drumsticks, rotating them in my palms, gripping them so forcefully the wood rubs coarsely at the skin. “Sorry, but I had to do it, otherwise I would have done something really stupid.”
She elevates her eyebrows. “Like what?”
“Like leave the house.”
“Good, I wish you would have.” She pauses contemplatively. “Wait, why would you leave the house if you didn’t play?”
“Because I needed to let off some steam.” I wipe some sweat off my forehead with my arm. “And it was either this or go get laid.”
I catch the faintest flicked of annoyance in her neutral expression. “You should have gone with the getting laid. It works a lot better.” Her tone is clipped and she’s breathing stridently, working hard to keep the oxygen flowing.
I study her, really missing the smiling Lila I first met a year and a half ago, the one who I thought was my complete opposite, but now I’m reconsidering this idea. In fact, the more I get to know her, the more she does kind of remind me of London, erratic and full of secrets. I thought I knew Lila but I guess I was wrong and I’m not really sure what to do with it or how I feel about it yet. “How do you know? Have you ever played before?”
“You know I haven’t.”
“How do I know anything that you can’t and can do? Because I’m learning pretty quickly that those little heart-to-hearts we had for the last year weren’t real.”
“They were too,” she says, looking hurt, and I relax at the sight of emotion in her face, even if it is sadness because at least it’s something. “Everything I told you was true. I just didn’t tell you everything, which I’m sure you did with me, too.”
I don’t bother trying to deny it. Sure, she knows stuff, like how my parents were and are, but she doesn’t know about my fear of being with someone because I’ll turn out like them or about what happened to London. “All right, fair enough.”
We sit in silence for a little bit and she’s either staring at my drumsticks, which are on my lap, or my dick.
Finally, she asks, “Is it really therapeutic?”
I wipe the sweat off my arm with my hand. “Is what therapeutic?”
She catches my gaze and she looks helplessly lost for the first time since I met her. “Banging on the drums. You said it was good for letting off steam.”
“It’s even better than punching a bag.” I collect the drumsticks from my lap. “Do you… do you want to try?”
She leans back, shaking her head, like she’s afraid of them—or me. “I don’t know how to play. You know that.”
“No, I don’t know that since I never got around to asking you.” I inch back in the stool. “But I can help you if you want. It might help with your”—I press my lips together, trying not to grin—“bitchiness.”
I wait for her to get all riled up, but instead she stands up with confidence and weaves around the drums toward me and I can’t help but think, Now there’s my Lila. But I quickly shake the thought away because she’s not my Lila. She’s my friend.
“And how are you going to show me?” she wonders, eyeing the sticks in my hand.
A thousand dirty comments run through my mind, but I bite them back and scoot away just a little bit more, making room for her, and then pat the spot on the stool that’s in front of me. “Sit down.”
Her eyes sweep the small space, and then biting her lip she tucks locks of her messy blonde hair behind her ears and tentatively squeezes between my knees and the drums. She drops down in the seat and I realize just how bad of an idea this is as her ass presses against my cock. I try to keep my dirty thoughts to a bare minimum as I reach an arm around each of her sides and hand her the drumsticks.
“What song do I get to play?” she asks as I slant to the side to grab the iPod. “One of your crazy rock songs?” She sounds amused and it makes me smile.
“Not too crazy.” I select “1979” by Smashing Pumpkins, then quickly place the iPod into the dock, press my chest against Lila’s back, and wrap a hand around each of hers so that my fingers are folded around her wrists.
“You’re sweaty,” she remarks. “It’s gross.”
“Well, you haven’t taken
a shower in, like, four days. Imagine how you smell,” I retort, but she actually smells good—fruity, like watermelon. I swiftly sweep her hair to the side and lean over her shoulder, resting my chin on it so I can see what I’m doing. The song starts playing and before I know it the drum section is starting.
“We missed the intro,” Lila says, stating the obvious. “And this song is really fast anyway. I can’t keep up with this.”
“Never say can’t.” I lift her arms in the air. She’s still holding the sticks and my fingertips are pressing against her hammering pulse. She’s nervous, which surprises me. I expected her to be more subdued, because that’s how she usually is. But then again, this is a whole different Lila, one without drugs in her system. “You ready?” I ask her and I have to momentarily shut my eyes when she shudders against the feel of my breath against her shoulder.
She nods and I open my eyes. “I’m ready,” she calls out over the music.
I take a deep breath, feeling uneasy. Thankfully I know it will clear as soon as I start playing. The song is reaching the chorus, the perfect time to jump in and start playing. We wait and we wait, breathing in and out until it feels like we’re going to combust, and then finally the song approaches the perfect moment. Gripping her wrists, I bring her hands down to the drums. I hear her laugh as the sticks hit and don’t quite match the beat. It’s a little harder to play like this, but I make it work, because playing well isn’t the point. Playing from the heart is and letting her tune out her thoughts with something else other than the overwhelming desire I know she’s still feeling.
She continues to laugh, a few times trying to take over on her own. It sounds terrible, nail-scratching, ear-clawing terrible, but it’s making her happy and relaxed, completely out of her own head, and honestly I feel the same way.
Lila
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