by R. M. Webb
“Like, I’ve always used you as a buffer between me and the world. I’ve always been able to just sit back and let you do the talking, hide behind you. But I can’t always count on you to protect me. So, will you help me? Make me learn to talk to people?”
Whatever has her distracted is really pulling at her attention because when she responds, she’s clearly only partially concentrating on what she’s saying. “Sure, Zo. That’ll be fine.”
I’ve taken up enough of her time, and irritated her to boot. I say my goodbyes and she gets off the phone, eager to end the call. I pace the confines of the apartment, irritated by the sunlight streaking through the windows. My mood has turned black and the sun is mocking me. If Noah is really the kind of jerk Becca makes him out to be, and I was really that blinded by his attention that I couldn’t see it, then I’ve got to learn how to handle myself in social situations. Because he didn’t feel like a jerk at all. He didn’t strike me as the kind of guy out to hurt me, not in the least. In fact, Becca’s more likely to hurt my feelings than Noah. Ugh. I’m so stupid. Stupid and useless, falling for a guy who’s wearing a mask, who’s hiding their true intentions, working from an agenda.
I prowl through the house, looking for something to distract me. It’s a Saturday morning and who knows when Becca’s coming home. In the space of one phone call, my day’s gone from magical and happy to dark and disappointing. I can’t stay here. I shower, my heart a roiling, boiling mess of lovely images from last night and regret. If only I could wash away all of the memories of my night with Noah. Watch them roll off my body and swirl down the drain.
Unfortunately, nothing swirls away. In fact, it’s like all the energy I’ve been giving the thoughts of Noah as I try to forget them, to recolor them from happy to disheartening, has given them life. I’m drowning in his eyes, our easy conversation, the languid stretch and swish of the tiger’s tail. And those little flashes of contact, bright flares of energy when we touched. They calmed me and settled me. I felt warm. Visible. Safe.
Of course, those pings were all in my head. Probably brought on by my excitement of being around him, being seen and heard and finally feeling like I’d been accepted. Maybe just a side effect of that strange, ‘senses on fire’ thing that happens to me when I’m stressed. I pull at the thought, worry at it like a loose thread on a sweater, tugging and twisting, hoping to break it free.
There’s this … click … in my head. And it echoes through my body and there’s this strange surge of … power. And information. And roaring. There’s roaring. The tiger throwing her head back and baring her teeth. And then, it feels like I’m fire — not on fire, but I’m actually fire — and I’m burning, but it’s wonderful. The warmth is everything I’ve ever needed and it starts in my very center and radiates out from me in this wash of golden, swirling, rushing and roaring. There’s a woompf. This strange noise that speaks of the disappearance of energy, the swallowing of sound.
What the hell was that?
I put my hand to my chest and there’s this tingle running across my skin, electricity tracing the outlines of my body. I pull the hand away and stare at it and I swear there’s this golden flare of light swirling in the palm of my hand, blue streaking out and away and then there’s nothing. It’s gone and it’s just me standing naked in front of my closet, drops of water dripping from the ends of my hair.
I’m shaking. My hand, still suspended in front of me, trembles and feels heavier than anything I’ve ever tried to hold up. I stutter over to my bed on wobbly legs and lower myself, perch on the edge with my elbows on my knees. My eyes want to be closed and my breathing is … hard. Not like I can’t catch my breath, but like I ran for my life and even my lungs are exhausted. I don’t know how long I stay like that, sitting on the edge of my bed, naked and worn out, but when I blink, the ends of my hair are dry.
Great. So now I’m completely unable to handle anything. What was that? A panic attack? I throw on some clothes and check my hair in the mirror. It’s fine. I’m presentable. And even if I wasn’t, I’m invisible so it really doesn’t matter.
Here’s the thing. I’m sure Becca is willing to help me learn to talk to people. I’m sure she’ll take me out and in that no bullshit way she has, she’ll tell me everything I’m doing that’s wrong or weird and we’ll find a way for me to learn to be normal. Or at least more normal. But I don’t know when she’s going to be home and I’m apparently losing my mind here. I’ve got to do something. And that something I’ve decided to do is go out and try to stop being invisible.
I have no clue if this is going to work or not or even what it is I think I’m going to do, but I’ve been a broken bird long enough and it’s time I started working on fixing it.
Chapter 6
I don’t know what I expect to happen. Just because I’ve decided to no longer be invisible doesn’t necessarily mean that I’ll be seen. How can I make any changes when I don’t know what it is about me that makes people see through me? I blow air through my mouth — puffing out my cheeks — as I lock the front door behind me. There’s a flash of Noah, his lips on mine, his scent on my skin, but I lock those thoughts away. I don’t want to think about him right now.
I guess the one thing I can work on to make myself more visible is to try to actually have a conversation with someone. You know, push myself out of my comfort zone and all that jazz. So, here’s what I’m going to do. It’s a gorgeous day and I’m going to take full advantage of it by walking down to the coffee shop. I don’t usually drink coffee. Someone as constantly uncomfortable as I am really doesn’t need to pump stimulants into her bloodstream. But coffee shops are super popular so I’m going to go down there, maybe get a cup of tea. Hell! Maybe even coffee! It’s a day for pushing boundaries after all…
Anyway, I’ll get a cup of something to drink and just see what I see. Do some people watching, try to make eye contact and smile, maybe say hello … you know, just the basic human interaction stuff that is so damn hard for me. The coffee shop is only a few blocks away and as I said, it’s gorgeous. Summer sun filtering down, baking the sidewalk and kissing my shoulders. The perfect little breeze cooling the sweat that forms on my skin. As I walk, I keep my eyes up, my chin level. I try to catch the eyes of the people I pass, but they walk by without noticing. Maybe it’s a little ‘small town sweet’ of me to expect people to smile and nod at strangers as if they were old friends. I think of the way big cities are portrayed in the movies, people moving with purpose, eyes glazed, alone in a sea of people … maybe that’s not just for big cities. Maybe that’s for everyone and I’ve just never noticed.
The coffee shop smells of baked goods and caramel and is buzzing with people and conversation. My arms start to snake around my middle and I stop them. There’s no need for me to be all wrapped up. There’s no need to be worried. I’m working on being the new brave me. Zoe Tate. The girl who speaks.
The menu may as well be written in some strange foreign language. I don’t speak ‘coffee’. A few people come in behind me while I’m trying to decipher what to order and just kinda shoulder passed me, like I’m not important, like I’m not worth the same space they are. Like I’m invisible.
What is it about me?
When I make it to the counter, I get a curt nod from a girl with lavender hair and a rhinestone glinting in her nose. There’s a tightness in her lips that makes me feel like I’m interrupting her, like I’m a bother. “What can I getcha?” she asks, looking over my shoulder towards the door.
I actually don’t have a clue, so I order the first thing my eyes hit on when I look back up at the menu. The girl nods her head and swipes my card. She reminds me of a little pixie, with her exotic hair, multiple piercings, and dark eyes lined in even darker liner. The tiger nudges me. Speak. Do what you came here to do. “I like your hair,” I say, fighting a ferocious wave of nerves, flushing crimson from my chest to my hairline.
The girl furrows her brow and meets my eyes, somehow managing to look like my complime
nt was a criticism. “Uhh,” she runs her hand up into her hair, scrunches it, then smooths it back into place. “Thanks.” Did I irritate her? She sounds upset, not flattered.
So far, so good on the whole not weird and invisible thing. Totally nailing it. I inwardly roll my eyes and grab my drink when it’s done and have a seat at an isolated table. In between sips of a very bitter iced coffee I study the people around me. No one looks my way. I’d catch their eyes and smile if they did. But they don’t.
The drink is making me nauseous and I’ve been fighting my ‘super senses on fire’ thing since I sat down. Music just a little too loud, a man crooning over a strumming guitar. The hiss and steam of the espresso machine. A guy with weird, spiky hair fighting sadness to my right. People waving hands and talking with animation, too much caffeine in their system. It’s too much. And I’m making no progress towards my non-invisibility goal, so it’s officially time to leave. I toss my mostly full coffee into the trash on my way out.
There’s this quiet little park I know of — lots of trees and shade and plenty of people to study. Maybe that should be step one on my non-invisibility plan. Study the way other people interact with strangers. That sounds way safer and less weird than trying to make eye contact and start a conversation with everyone I meet. It doesn’t take me long to get there and I sit under a tall cottonwood and lean back against the trunk, staring up at the branches as they dance in the wind. The sound of the leaves, rustling and gentle, a whispered welcome, makes me smile and I close my eyes.
Apparently, thoughts of Noah were just waiting for me to stop pretending to be something I’m not in order to remind me of all the things I’d like to be. Thoughts and questions and doubts just take over my mental space. Am I really so naive that I can’t tell when I’m being played? The tiger stands and starts to pace, her blue eyes sparkling amongst her golden stripes. Eyes like mine. Eyes like Noah’s. Why does she have blue eyes? Probably because she represents me. My strength. All the things I’d like to be but just can’t quite figure out how to be. She’s that bit of me that wants to stand up and join in. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just weird and she’s got blue eyes because I’m twenty-three and imagine tigers pacing when I’m upset.
If I get real honest, really slow down and listen to my heart, I don’t think Noah’s a bad guy. I don’t believe that he was out to win me as some conquest, only to leave me once he’d won. I’d like to think I had more sense than that. But then why does Becca hate him so much? Why isn’t she happy for me? She’s my best friend and has always been there when I needed her. What am I missing?
There’s all this turmoil roiling and boiling inside me as Becca and Noah fight for space inside my head. I’m tired of it. I don’t like the way it feels. So I just stop worrying about what Becca said and think about Noah. His smile. His laugh. The way it felt to be free of the confines of whatever it is that keeps me silent. Even with Becca, I monitor what I say because she’s certain to point out if I say something even a little bit strange. Noah just made me feel … free. Like the way it feels when you’re finally home. Finally yourself. Finally able to relax and drop all the pretense of being around other people. It was just me. Plain old me with wonderful him. No filters. No worries.
I feel warm and golden and wonderful just thinking about it. The difference between how I feel now, leaning against a tree in the park, alone, wrapped up in my thoughts of Noah, and how I felt in the coffee shop, straining to make connections with people who didn’t want to be connected to me is palpable. I’m better when I’m alone, but I was better still with him. I let my mind wander without guidance and this great well of … what? Power? Strength? Acceptance? I don’t have a name for the feeling. But it starts in my chest and works its way out past the very edges of my body. Is this what meditating feels like? Free and strong and warm? Is that what I’m doing with my thoughts like prayers?
When I open my eyes, I realize I’ve been sitting in a bed of flowers. They’re all around me. All around the tree. Gorgeous and lush and just slightly exotic. How could I have missed them when I sat down? They’re like nothing I’ve ever seen before. I scoot away from the trunk of the tree and sigh in relief. At least I didn’t crush any. Looks like maybe I managed to sit in the one spot they weren’t growing.
I pluck one and bring it to my face, drink in its scent and study its almost iridescent quality. I can’t help but rub my fingers across the petals, careful not to crush them, but delighting in the texture — so soft, like satin and sunshine. They just add to my feeling of peace and relaxation. Does it really matter if I’m not working on being more visible? That I’m not trying to be something I’m not? That I’m not learning how to handle myself in social situations?
I’ll have Becca to help me navigate those dangerous waters.
Except I really won’t. Not forever. Not now, while she’s not here. And, given how different we are, does she have my best interests at heart? I mean, not that she’s malicious or anything, but what’s best for her might not be what’s best for me. What will work for her might not be what works for me. Her insistence that Noah’s no good almost proves that point completely. I’ve never felt as good as I did with him.
So what does that mean? Do I rely on Becca? Do I accept that I’m just a quiet girl who can’t speak and hide behind her until I can’t anymore? Do I trust her thoughts on Noah, accepting that I’m too broken to know any better? Or do I trust my feelings? This blossoming bit of wonderful in my heart that can’t be born of a man set out to hurt me?
All the roiling and boiling and turmoil is back and my senses are all lit up and there’s a firestorm of worry in my heart. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to act. The one person I’d normally try to talk to about this is off limits because she’s only going to see things her way and that means Noah’s bad and she’s right. If I can’t trust my own thoughts and feelings, and I can’t trust her thoughts and feelings, who can I trust?
It’s so frustrating. I’ve never in my life had any reason to doubt Becca, but now that doubt is like a stranger creeping through my heart, all black clothes and ski masks and slinking through the shadows. It feels awful. I’m lost and I don’t know how to navigate these waters. Frustration joins hands with anger and glares at me. The tiger curls up and lays down, tail thumping the floor. There’s darkness creeping into me, like fog rolling in off the sea, great billowing clouds spilling all over itself as it devours what’s in front of it. It feels purple and black like a bruise.
It’s not really my thing to focus on the bad stuff, to hang on to anger and frustration. I close my eyes and push air through my open mouth, but it’s like a tidal wave of bad feelings is crashing around in my head. I’m not just frustrated because Becca doesn’t like Noah and I don’t know why, I’m frustrated because I doubt my judgement of the guy. I’m frustrated because he’s gorgeous and sweet and so far outside of my league and I’m tired of being broken and silent. I’m tired of whatever it is that keeps my words trapped in my head. Whatever it is that’s wrong in me, whatever part of me is damaged for no good reason, whatever flaw that keeps me from knowing what to say or understanding basic human interactions, I hate that part. I can’t stand being trapped in here. I want out.
I want to laugh with people. I want to toss my head and hurl witty comebacks at friends. Hell, I want friends. I’m tired of being the way I am. I’m tired of feeling like the sole occupant of my world. I’ve got Becca, but she just tries to make me act like her, to mold me into her version of normal. I want someone to look at me and love me for who I am, not despite who I am.
I want someone to look at me the way Noah looked at me, talk to me the way Noah talked to me.
I open my eyes. I feel heavy and worn and I’m not used to feeling like this. And I kinda feel guilty for all the awful things I just thought about Becca. She means the absolute best. It’s not her fault that I’m so weird. She’s just trying to help.
Alright, Zoe. Time to calm down. Time to stop being dramatic an
d just deal with the cards I’ve been dealt. I bring the flower to my nose, intending to smell it one last time before tucking it into my hair behind my ear. The petals are all wilted — brown and crunchy around the edges. There’s a big dark spot on one of the petals, a spot like a fingerprint but dark like a bruise. What happened? Did I crush it?
I drop the flower on the ground. For some reason, it makes me really uncomfortable. Like I’m all itchy and twitchy and just really want to go home. I don’t know why, but that dried up flower feels like a threat, like dark clouds far off on the horizon, heralding a storm full of wind and fury, of lightning and hail, a storm destined to leave a path of destruction in its wake.
Chapter 7
The next week passes in a blur of go to work and come home. I don’t leave the apartment and find myself wishing I had a cat for company. Thoughts of Noah chase thoughts of Becca and I dream of tigers and snakes and dragons and flowers all wilted and bruised.
Becca will be home today and I’m excited and dreading it all at the same time. I may have gone a little crazy in the weeks that she’s been gone and I may have gone extra special crazy in the last week, spinning thoughts in my head with nowhere to put them but my heart. It’s like my insides are tender and while I’m so ready for company, I’m not at all ready to hear all the things that Becca will say I’m doing wrong. I really just want a soft spot to lay my head.
When her keys jingle in the lock, I’m curled up on the couch, reading a book on my phone. I swipe the app closed and launch myself at the door, ready to grab a bag and be of some use. The door swings open and there’s Becca, my best friend, absolutely adorable in her designer outfit and looping curls. Her jeans hang down over her high heels and she’s juggling way too many suitcases for someone so small.
“Oh, thank everything that can be thanked! It’s soooo good to be home.” Becca hands over the bag that was about to fall off her shoulder and I grab one of the suitcases she’s been dragging behind her. We shuffle into the apartment and she lets everything fall and rubs her shoulders. “My God it’s clean in here. What exactly have you been doing while I’ve been gone?”