Fragile Ground

by Louisa Keller

  They sit there silently for a long time. When Olivier finally opens his eyes he sees that Auriel is crying silently, hot tears streaming down his cheeks. He wonders how Auriel gets comfort, if he should say something or give him space. In the end Auriel makes the decision for himself, getting up from the hammock and turning to look down at Olivier.

  “Thank you,” he murmurs.

  “I...” Olivier is trembling slightly, a whole host of feelings swarming him. At the heart of it all, he feels an indefinable sense of wrongness. But he knows logically that he’s doing the right thing here.

  And then Auriel turns Olivier’s world upside down once again. “I don’t think I can be here for a while. I’m going to spend some time out of town, figure things out. Are you going to be okay until Hattie gets home if I leave now?”

  It feels as if Olivier has been gutted. He wants desperately to say, no, stay with me, don’t go. But he knows that’s not fair, so he nods instead. “I’ll be fine. Will…will you be okay?”

  Auriel is already turning away, ready to head inside. “I don’t know,” he says quietly. And then, “I’ll let you know when I get where I’m going.”

  7

  Auriel

  Auriel doesn’t notice what he’s packing. He just throws some clothes and toiletries and his medication into his hiking backpack and then sits on his bed, staring at his phone. He has always hated technology, and there are dozens of unread text messages—not to mention a few unopened voicemails—taunting him. He takes a deep breath and scrolls through until he finds Stella’s most recent text.

  >> STELLA: Got wasted with H and O last night, sounds like you might be having a rough day

  >> STELLA: Call me if you need anything, I’m free all weekend

  What the hell, thinks Auriel. He hits the call button and listens as the phone rings once, twice, three times. Then Stella picks up and says, “hey, what’s up?”

  Auriel swallows thickly. He has to try twice to get the words out. “I think…Stella, I think I’m having a crisis.”

  He can hear her moving around as she answers, as though she’s gathering her keys and is already on the way to come get him. “Tell me where you are.”

  “I’m at the house. I…shit, I’m sorry, can you come—”

  “I’m getting in the car now. Stay there, okay? It’ll be like fifteen minutes.”

  “Okay,” he says dully.

  “Do you want me to stay on the phone with you while I drive?” she asks.

  Auriel has a sudden, horrible vision of Stella, distracted and crashing her car while she’s trying to get to him. “No,” he says. “I’ll just…I’ll just see you soon.”

  “You will,” she confirms. “Hang in there buddy, I’m on my way.”

  The minutes crawl by, each one slow and dreadful. Auriel stays in the guest room until Stella texts him that she’s out front, and then he heads down the hall, through the living room, and out the front door. He is terrified that he will have to face Olivier on his way out, but Olivier is nowhere to be seen. Auriel counts that as a small miracle and practically dives in Stella’s passenger seat.

  “Where to?” she asks, her voice calm. She’s always been good in an emergency, and she has ample experience coaxing Auriel through bouts of panic.

  “I don’t know, God—can you pull over up there, maybe?” He wants to be out of sight of the house before he loses it, but he knows it will only be a matter of seconds until that happens. His vision is starting to tunnel, going dark and warped at the edges, and his breathing is speeding up. “Fuck, fuck fuck fuck.”

  He is vaguely aware that the car has stopped moving, but now he’s fully engulfed in dark, frantic despair. Time seems to bottleneck, clogging before it leaks out slowly. There is a roar in his ears and he can’t figure out where it’s coming from. Every sense feels simultaneously heightened and dulled. He can tell that Stella’s speaking to him, but he is unable to parse out her words.

  “I’m…” he tries to say something, but the sentence doesn’t manage to build any momentum.

  I’m okay, he thinks. It’s what he should say to Stella. It’s a lie, but it feels important to say it anyway.

  “I’m…” He’s gasping for breath now.

  All at once, Stella’s voice reaches him. “…going to be okay, you just need to breathe. Come on Auriel, breathe in through your nose. One, two, three, good. Now out through your mouth, one, two, three, four. Again…”

  “I’m okay,” he manages to spit out.

  “I know you are,” says Stella. “But I need you to keep breathing with me.”

  They sit there, breathing in and out together for several minutes, until the only sound in the car is soft, even breaths. Once Stella is convinced that he won’t start hyperventilating again, she opens the glove compartment and hands him a wad of napkins from the coffee shop. “Sorry I don’t have real tissues,” she says, her tone intentionally calm.

  Auriel reaches up to touch his face and feels hot tear tracks. He’s too wrung out to feel embarrassed yet, but he assumes that will come later. He mops himself up with the rough napkins as Stella pulls back onto the road. They drive aimlessly for a while, and Auriel wonders what he should tell her.

  Olivier broke up with me.

  He doesn’t love me.

  I’m all alone.

  He finally lands on, “want to go to the beach house?”

  “Sounds good. You want some water?” And just like that, they’re driving southward along the interstate, heading for Stella’s family vacation home. Auriel reaches into his bag and pulls out a sedative which he washes down with Stella’s water. It takes about twenty minutes for the first tendrils of sleepiness to wrap themselves around his limbs. His thoughts begin to slow down, dissolving into sluggish sentiments too complicated to really focus on. He doesn’t feel good by any stretch of the imagination, but as he slips into a drug-induced sleep he feels as though he’s shed the panic, leaving it on the road behind them.

  Auriel sleeps through the afternoon and evening, waking long after the sun has set. He finds Stella in the kitchen, drinking box wine and scrolling aimlessly through one of her social media feeds. She looks up when he comes in and immediately says, “feeling better?”

  “I don’t know,” Auriel mutters, sitting down beside her at the rickety kitchen table. The house has been in Stella’s family for generations, and it’s full of odd, charming objects. The clock above the stove is shaped like a crab and is hung slightly off-kilter; the living room boasts a raggedy tie-dyed papasan chair sitting across from two well-worn recliners; there is an alarming amount of nautically-themed knick-knacks taking over most of the flat surfaces in the house. Auriel has always found the mismatched décor enchanting, and tonight he takes comfort in it.

  “Do you want a drink?” Stella asks.

  Auriel shrugs.

  “It’s a yes or no question, A. We’re starting out with an easy one,” says Stella. She keeps looking at him expectantly, so he finally relents.

  “What do you have on tap?”

  “Glad you asked,” says Stella. “I personally recommend the seven dollar pinot gris, straight out of the box. But I also managed to unearth an alarmingly large bottle of Malibu, still three quarters full.”

  Auriel makes a face. “I think I hit my lifetime quota for Malibu when I was in college.”

  “One cheap pinot it is then,” replies Stella, grabbing a large chipped mug emblazoned with the phrase But First, Coffee, and pouring a generous amount of wine into it. She sets the mug down in front of Auriel with a flourish and then walks over to the fridge. “I’m not sure what I have to offer in terms of food, but you should probably eat something.”

  Auriel’s stomach chooses that moment to grumble loudly, and they both laugh. “Looks like I have all the fixings for grilled cheese. Interested?”

  Auriel shrugs. “Sure.”

  “I bet I can even rustle up some tomato soup,” Stella says, digging through a cupboard that is positively bursting
with canned goods. “Bingo! Alright, get ready to flash back to elementary school, kid. This is the epitome of comfort food.”

  They don’t talk while Stella cooks, and Auriel is grateful for a few moments to gather his thoughts. He still feels tired and sluggish from the sedative, and he wonders vaguely if it’s a good idea to add wine into the equation. He can’t quite be bothered to act responsibly at the moment though, so he pushes that thought aside and goes about preparing himself to tell Stella the sordid story of his afternoon.

  “Crusts on or off?” she asks, breaking him from his reverie.

  “Off please,” he says automatically. And then, “can you cut it diagonally?”

  “Duh,” says Stella, “I’m not a heathen.” She places a plate and bowl in front of him before sitting down on the other side of the table.

  The food goes down easily, which surprises Auriel. Sometimes he finds food comforting when he’s anxious and depressed, but more often he can’t stomach anything other than tea for days at a time while he works through his turbulent emotions. Rather than looking a gift horse in the mouth, he makes his way through the entire sandwich, tearing off each bite and dunking it in the soup. It isn’t until he’s eaten everything in front of him that he looks up at Stella and sighs deeply.

  “You wanna know what happened?” he asks, his voice shaking slightly. God, he wishes that he could control himself more.

  “Only if you want to tell me,” says Stella. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

  “Right,” says Auriel. “I think I…kind of need to? If you’re up for listening?”

  “Yeah, of course. Hit me.” She’s looking right at him, laser focused, her face open and expectant. Her dirty-blonde hair is escaping from its elastic, and her eyes are impossibly blue even in the dim kitchen. He feels a stab of affection for Stella.

  “I guess I should start by saying that he really seemed to be trying to do the right thing,” Auriel says. He details the entire grisly conversation that took place in the backyard.

  Stella is an active listener, nodding and making encouraging sounds as Auriel stumbles through the story. By the end he can feel tears pricking at his eyes again, and Stella reaches out to grab Auriel’s hand. She squeezes it tightly, letting a moment of silence stretch out between them. When it becomes clear that Auriel isn’t going to start talking again, Stella clears her throat.

  “Do you want my opinion? Or did you just want to share the story with me?”

  “I’m…not sure.” Auriel looks down at their clasped hands and for just a second, he feels brave enough to say, “I guess I’d like your opinion.”

  Truthfully, he’s afraid of what she’s going to say. He imagines Stella criticizing Auriel for his role in the interaction with Olivier; he imagines her telling him that he needs to accept things are really over with Olivier, and he imagines her suggesting that Auriel chase after Olivier, beg him to take Auriel back. Each of those scenarios terrifies Auriel.

  “I’m proud of you,” is what Stella actually says.

  Auriel blinks at her. “What?”

  “I said I’m proud of you,” she says. “You’ve built a life with Olivier, and now he’s telling you that that’s over. And you respected his decision, which is great. But even more impressive, as far as I’m concerned: you took care of yourself afterwards. You made sure that he was safe and then you got yourself the fuck out of dodge, which is exactly what you need.”

  Auriel lets out something that might be a laugh or a sob. “You think?”

  Stella nods. “I absolutely do. You need to lick your wounds or whatever, without him around while you’re doing that. And then, once you’ve got your head on straight, you can go back and figure out where to go from here.”

  “Shit, I haven’t even thought that far forward,” says Auriel. “He’ll probably want to move out—”

  “Hey, slow down,” says Stella. “This is what I’m talking about. You need to regroup before you start worrying about any of that.”

  “Ok,” say Auriel, taking a shuddering breath.

  “So,” continues Stella, “if you feel like you can take a couple days off work, I suggest you just chill here.”

  “Really?” asks Auriel. “Your parents won’t mind?”

  Stella snorts. “My parents will be over the moon. They are always talking about how they wish the beach house got more use, and they love you.”

  “Are you going to stay?” Auriel asks.

  “I can stay until tomorrow evening, but I have to work on Monday. I can come back on Saturday and then we can head back home at the end of next weekend. How do you feel about spending a week by yourself at the beach?”

  Auriel squeezes her hand. “I think it’s just what I need. Thank you so much Stella.”

  “Any time, kid.” She gestures toward his empty mug. “Need a refill?”

  8

  Olivier

  The dreams start the night that Auriel leaves. Olivier has always been a vivid dreamer, often thrashing awake from horrific nightmares, or scrambling to write down the details of a particularly cerebral dream in the journal he keeps in the bedside table. Sex dreams have been a frequent occurrence since puberty, so he’s not exactly shocked when he finds himself inundated with sensual dreams in the days that follow Auriel’s departure. But the content of these particular dreams takes Olivier by surprise.

  On Saturday night, he dreams of kissing. They are in a dark room, limbs tangled and mouths pressed together. Even in the complete darkness, Olivier knows that the man he’s kissing is Auriel. They are both completely naked, skin against skin, and Olivier lets out a wanton moan, throwing his head back. Auriel scratches his nails down Olivier’s back and moves to kiss the base of Olivier’s throat. He maps the soft skin of Olivier’s neck, kissing and biting his way up until he reaches his ear. He whispers, “I love you,” and Olivier wakes in a cold sweat.

  On Sunday night, he dreams that they are swimming together in a hazily moonlit lake. Once again, they are naked, but this time they’re not touching. Auriel takes a deep breath and sinks below the surface of the lake, resurfacing a moment later several feet away. Olivier tries to swim after Auriel, but finds himself unable to move his limbs. He watches helplessly as Auriel sinks down again, reappearing even further from Olivier. “Wait,” says Olivier as Auriel prepares to dive beneath the water again.

  Auriel cocks his head, staring at Olivier, and asks, “Do you want me?”

  “Yes,” breathes Olivier. And then Auriel is back, drawing Olivier into an embrace. Olivier’s limbs come back to life, and he pulls Auriel’s naked body close to his as the moon emerges from behind a cloud and shines down upon them. When Olivier wakes up the next morning, he’s shaking. He reaches for his pipe, packing a bowl with trembling fingers and trying to figure out why he’s so upset. The weed calms his nerves, and lulls him back into a deep, dreamless slumber.

  On Monday night, Olivier stays awake until nearly three in the morning, dreading whatever his subconscious has in store for him. He finally drifts off, unable to stay awake any longer, and falls directly into another dream.

  Olivier is walking through a forest with a dark wool beanie stretched down over his face.

  “Why did you pull this over my eyes?” Olivier asks.

  Auriel is leading him along a path that seems to have been hewn for the sole purpose of this adventure. Their palms are warm against one another, and Olivier squeezes the hand he’s holding, enjoying the sensation of Auriel squeezing back.

  “I didn’t do that,” says Auriel. “You did.”

  “Are we almost there?” Olivier asks.

  “You’ll know when we’re there,” Auriel says cryptically.

  Even with his vision obscured, Olivier feels safe. He walks on, blindly trusting Auriel to guide him safely. After a while, they come to a stream.

  “I need to build a bridge,” Auriel tells Olivier, matter-of-factly, and Olivier doesn’t question it. He hears Auriel moving around, tree branches rustling and the
stream bubbling cheerily.

  Eventually Olivier tires of waiting, and begins to wander around. His foot snags on a root and he pitches forward, letting out a shocked cry. Before he hits the ground, Auriel is there, catching him. The beanie slides off, and Olivier discovers that there is a gorgeous sunset lighting up the sky, streaks of pink and gold slashed across the horizon. In Auriel’s arms, Olivier gazes at the mesmerizing light of a warm summer evening. He moves forward, kissing Auriel, and the dream fades away. When he wakes up, he feels as though he has been punched in the gut. He longs for the feeling of security that he had experienced in Auriel’s arms.

  On Tuesday night, Olivier drinks an entire bottle of wine. Drunk and nauseated, he finds himself on the floor of the master bathroom, retching feebly. It takes a while to expel the entire contents of his stomach, but he gets there eventually. The room is spinning wildly, and he can’t seem to make it stop. For a while he kneels in front of the toilet, his forehead resting on the cool ceramic rim. I doesn’t take long for his equilibrium to betray him, and he slowly slides to the floor, curling into a miserable ball. He doesn’t register the transition from wakefulness to sleep.

  The dream, when it comes, encompasses him completely. He is sitting in an empty theater, smack in the middle of the front row. A blazing spotlight is the only source of light. It’s aimed at a simple metal stool on the stage. Everything outside that beam of light is drenched in inky blackness.

  Auriel emerges from the wings and walks solemnly to the stool. He sits on it primly, one leg crossed over the other, and keeps his eyes fixed on the back wall of the theater as he speaks.

  “Put on my shirt and took it off in the sun walking the path to lunch.

  A dandelion seed floats above the marsh grass with the mosquitos.