Sloth

by James, Ella

  “His number?” I lift my head out of my hands as my eyelids try to shut. Yes, Lyon was thirty-three.

  I nod, and she watches the screen. Lyon lines up in his tight-end position, and my chest fills up with nails.

  “That’s your brother?” she asks.

  I nod.

  “Is he younger or older than you?” she asks gently.

  “Twins,” I murmur. The word feels foreign on my tongue.

  “Did something happen to him?”

  I swallow, even though my throat is dry. I bury my head in both my hands. “He died.”

  * * *

  Cleo

  I watch the phantom Kellan on the screen. It’s strange because he has blond hair, like the Kellan sitting with me on the couch, so as he circles around my dark-haired Kellan with a giant cooler, my senses tell me that he’s Kellan. He’s got the same beautiful body, the same gorgeous blue eyes. But when he laughs, his face is different. He has dimples when he smiles, and Kellan only gets them when he frowns.

  My dark Kellan darts away and starts to circle blond-haired Lyon. Lyon whirls around with him. When Kellan feints, his brother anticipates it in advance. He dumps the cooler full of ice in the exact right spot to drench Kellan.

  Kellan jolts out from under the icy water and tackles his brother. Behind them, fans are filing out of the stadium. Other players join in, and as the brothers brawl on the football field, someone brings another cooler and dumps it on them both.

  “Fuck you!” Kellan roars.

  Lyon is laughing—laughing with his blond head thrown back. Laughing like a Kellan angel.

  I can see where Kellan gets his darkness. It’s the balance to his brother’s light.

  Someone starts to throw ice cubes, and the twins disappear into a mass of jerseys. I hear one final whoot from one of them, but it’s impossible to discern which. My Kellan was younger, freer, despite his black hair. As if in answer, Lyon flits in front of the screen, smiling gloriously for the camera.

  He shakes his wet head, sending drops of water flying at the lens.

  “And that’s all we have tonight, from Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum. Keep it cool, and we’ll see you next week,” the announcer says as the camera pans out.

  I shift my gaze to Kellan. He’s just staring. I can see no feeling on his face.

  “When did it happen?” I whisper.

  “September 18. 2011.”

  I nod slowly. “That date is coming up.” I look at his hands, sitting listless in his lap, and I wonder about his fight at the bar. It was January 2011—just a few months after this game was filmed. Was his brother there that night? I didn’t read anything about his brother in the papers. Was Lyon as talented as Kellan? Were they both untamed boys, privileged athletes living outside the lines? Were they using drugs?

  “It must be on your mind.”

  I touch his thigh with just my fingertips, even though it makes me nervous—the act of reaching out and touching him when he’s in so much pain. I don’t want to hurt him more. Instead, he doesn’t move at all. His body is like a statue. After a moment, he leans his head against the back of the couch.

  He closes his eyes, and I stare down at my helpless hand on his jeans. My heart pounds with the need to comfort him somehow, but my mind is painfully blank. I feel a burst of panic as I watch the even rise-fall of his chest. I hope he didn’t fall asleep. Not before I get a chance to comfort him.

  “I’m sorry,” he says raggedly. “I never take this shit.”

  “Please—don’t be sorry.” I have a memory of a letter I got from “R.” once, where he replied to a note I’d sent about going to see Olive’s grave. He told me I should take Xanax before bed after I went. Tomorrow—well, today—I’m going to Olive’s grave again. Maybe I’ll take a page from “R.” and Kellan’s book. “You should never feel bad about doing something that will ease your pain. Everyone deserves a break.”

  I raise my hand and ease it behind his head, dropping down to rub his nape gently. His skin is soft and very warm. His eyes lift up to mine.

  “Can you not... rub like that?” He rasps. “I’m sorry.” He drops his forehead into his hand.

  “Of course. You want me to give you some space?” I start to move my arm, still hovering over his shoulders. He grabs my hand and tugs it down, settling my arm firmly around his back.

  I scoot closer to him. My hip touches his as I tighten my grip on his back, hoping that the weight of it will make him feel less alone—the way he did for me at Mama McCalister’s.

  We sit like that a while, and I lean my head against his shoulder. A moment after I move, he does—raising his head to look at me with haunted eyes. “I need you again,” he whispers. “Now, please.”

  I nod, and he lifts me in his arms. He cradles my body to his chest, my forehead on his shoulder as he slowly climbs the stairs. I’m expecting slow sex on the bed, so he shocks me by lowering me belly-first onto the hall runner, yanking off my pants, and coming down heavy over me. He fingers me until I’m gasping, then he fucks me without flair.

  Just a pounding doggy style, until his warmth jets inside me and I clench around him. We groan in unison, splitting open the dark silence.

  He braces himself there atop me for only a moment. Then he scoops me up, sets me on my feet, and smacks my ass so hard it echoes. I yelp and whirl around to face him. I find Kellan sharp-edged and somber.

  “Go to your bedroom,” he orders. “Lie on your back, in the middle of the mattress. Wait for me.”

  I nod quickly, and he walks through the door into his bedroom. He shuts it behind him. I can’t quite say why, but I feel the urge to follow him inside. I count to thirty, then walk to his door on weak legs and turn the knob. I push the door open slowly, hoping he won’t notice me peek in. When it’s open just an inch, I align my right eye with the crack.

  I find a large room stuffed with sleek, mahogany antiques, fluffy armchairs, a massive corner bookshelf, and—a wall rug? Yep, the right wall of the room is covered with what looks, to my untrained eyes, like a rug. And what’s weird: it’s swaying, as if Kellan smacked it as he walked by.

  I have a flashback from a Nancy Drew I read when I was little, where there was a hidden trap door behind a wall-hanging. Obviously that’s ridiculous, but even so, I can’t contain my curiosity—and that part of me, deviant Cleo who likes her ass spanked till it burns, wants to see what punishment he’ll inflict if he finds I followed him.

  I slink into the room like a spider, one leg first, one arm, and then a full step brings me onto his soft, Oriental rug.

  I stand there listening, and when I don’t hear him, I walk past his bed and a cozy armchair, where a book rests. I put my hand against the rug hanging from a long rod up near the ceiling, and press down until I feel the firmness of the wall behind it.

  I slide my hands down, holding my breath against the dust that is probably swimming all around my face. Then I commit to my insanity and lift it up so I can look behind it. I’m strangely unsurprised to see a door there. It’s sleek wood—almost the same color of the mahogany bedroom set—and on its left side is a fancy, brass doorknob.

  As I lower my cheek gently to the door, I already know that I will hear him on the other side—and so again, I’m not surprised. Kellan, breathing heavily. The cadence of his gasping is so fast, I have the sick fear that he’s with another girl.

  I don’t dare move. When he roars his pain out, my heart forgets its rhythm. Kellan...

  I stand there with my fist poised at the hard slab of the door, until I hear the sound of water running. Then I rush back to my windowed room.

  I lie there in the morning sun for two hours before I close the curtains and the canopy and burrow into the duvet. I’ll have to leave here in a few hours, and if I’m going to drive to Albany, I need to get some sleep.

  THIRTEEN

  Kellan

  I hang up my cell phone just as Cleo steps into the kitchen. Her eyes are guarded: pleasantly neutral. It’s the benign look on
her face that gives her away. It’s not a real expression, it’s a dummy one. Probably because she’s not sure where she stands with me—and with the dawning of her sister’s birthday, she might be too tired to think it through.

  Her gaze feels warm on my face, and I can feel the tug of her concern before she shifts her green eyes over to the island and the bar stool she’s adopted as her own. I admire her getup as she hoists herself onto the stool. She’s got her wavy hair tucked into a messy bun at the top of her head, and she’s wearing magenta leggings and a flowing, tie-dyed shirt. I squint to make out her stud earrings, but I can’t from where I’m standing, between the refrigerator and the sink.

  I’m embarrassed, so it’s tough to meet her eyes—but I can be tough when a situation calls for it.

  I give her a small smile that seems to lift up only half of my mouth, and I nod at her. “I like your getup there.”

  I step over to the island she’s sitting at and lean my elbows on the countertop beside the stove.

  “Thank you,” she says, twirling one earring. It’s a tiny Hello Kitty.

  “I thought I’d try to wear things she might like,” she says in a voice that’s slightly hoarse with pain, “if she was still here.”

  I don’t even think about it first. I just stretch across the island and hold out my hands. My pulse hammers between my ears as she looks down at them. I’m not sure when’s the last time I left myself so open for another person. She gives me a small, sad smile and threads her fingers through mine.

  I look her over more closely and—shit: her face is definitely sad.

  My mind’s hung up in a dark place too, so I feel like I’m right there with her. It seems almost like kismet—that I wrote out those instructions for visiting the cemetery, and she falls into my life a week before she treks to her hometown for that very reason.

  I rub my thumbs over her small, cool hands and try to overcome the embarrassment I feel, being so close to her after last night. I don’t even remember the ride home from the warehouse. I remember looking down as she rubbed something on my knuckles. How pain clenched in my chest, like a weed overtaking flowers, choking everything out of me but the agony of my losses.

  I know I used Cleo for comfort. I remember how incredible it felt to get lost deep inside her. How smooth her palms were as they swept slowly up my chest. I remember her fingers in my hair, her legs around my waist as we curled together on the couch. And waking up... that way.

  Like I’m so far from the living, nothing warm can touch me. Like there’s a glacier shoved inside my ribs, and I’m not even breathing. No heart beating. Hollow and filled up with cold.

  I know I lost my shit and let her see me looking wrecked and crazy.

  ... And I know she put her arm around me. Tried to rub my neck.

  I remember all of that.

  Afterward, upstairs... I went into the locked room because I had to. I didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t want to make any calls. I don’t want to pull the trigger on my time with Cleo. I can’t yet.

  So I repaired things as much as I could, and by the time I was done, she was asleep—so I slid under the sheets beside her. Her body was so warm, and mine so cold. Even in her sleep, she reached for me. She cradled me. And for the first time in—the first time ever—I started to wonder what I need the most. And how, when I can’t feed this growing hunger for her, I’ll be able to do anything but die.

  I look up at her now, at her sad face, and I feel the vestiges of my own pain fall away as I think of ways to ease hers.

  “How’d you sleep?” I ask—because I want to know if she remembers being joined in bed by me.

  “I slept okay.” She rubs a finger over my scabbed knuckles and frowns down at them. “Did you hit something else?” She pulls her gaze up to my face and strokes her fingertip over my skin. “This little cut is still bleeding.”

  I shrug and draw my hands away. “I’ve got that punching bag...”

  She reaches out for me. “You punched a punching bag? You shouldn’t do that,” she says. I lean back toward her and let her have my hands.

  It feels so good to have her stroke my hand and wrists. I could shut my eyes and give in to her soothing touch. But today, the focus is on her.

  “You want some breakfast?” I ask, gently withdrawing my hands from hers.

  “I want you to let me put another bandage on your knuckles, especially that one that looks so puffy. I’m leaving to go home after that, so I’ll probably just grab a Pop Tart on the road.”

  “Come here,” I beckon with my hand.

  She hesitates a moment, then comes around the counter, and I place a hand on her shoulder. I don’t plan to, but I draw her closer, close enough so I could wrap my arms around her. And I want to. I want to so damn much. But I’m still feeling cold and dead inside, so I just stand there, breathing.

  “Thank you for last night,” I whisper. “You were very kind to me—with not much regard for you and very few questions answered.” I release her shoulder and look at her pretty face. “Do you want to know what happened at the factory?”

  She shrugs. “Only if you want to tell me. It’s okay if you don’t.”

  I owe her. I lean back against the counter and tap my fingers against the granite, trying to think of where to start. How much to say. And if it even matters. I’m surprised to find I want to tell her. When I meet her eyes again, they’re warm; encouraging.

  “Pace is a first cousin of my father, Robert. My father is... a powerful man—in many ways. Most people feel beholden to him. They do everything he asks. My father and I have been estranged for several years. Since Lyon’s death,” I manage in a steady voice. “But Robert can’t accept that. Everything has to be... according to his wishes. So right now, he’s trying to put pressure on me. He had Pace drive here—even though Pace is an employee of mine, he doesn’t work for my father—He had Pace drive to Georgia with an empty van. To prove a point.”

  Her eyes widen. “He drove here from—where again?”

  “From California,” I tell her.

  “He drove that far with nothing?”

  I nod.

  “Did Manning know about it?”

  I’m surprised she was watching closely enough to see Manning was batting for Pace’s team back at the warehouse.

  “He didn’t know, but Pace told Manning some bullshit, and the two of them tried to get me to... yield to my father’s wishes. On something important. Something that’s not their business, either one of them.” I inhale; exhale. Robert is dead to me. I want to tell Cleo why. How I blame him for Lyon’s death. But one look at her sympathetic face and I know this day should be all about her. Even mentioning this right now... it’s selfish.

  “I’m so sorry that happened,” she says.

  I nod. “I know you are.” I let a breath out, releasing that subject, and look back up at her. “I appreciate it, Cleo. Now let’s get some food and water packed.”

  “Um... what?”

  “I’m driving you. Don’t protest. I know it’s hard to do this shit alone, and I want to go. Anyway, you don’t have a car here.”

  “Oh, I guess I don’t.”

  I start opening cabinets. “What do you want?”

  I open the liquor cabinet, and her eyes widen. “Oh my God, is that Snow Queen vodka?”

  I can’t resist a smile. “It’s my favorite. Have you had it?”

  “I love it. This is really weird... but can we take some with us?”

  I give her a gentle smirk. “Only if you tell me why.”

  She smiles a little, and I can’t tell if it’s sad. “My friend came up with some instructions for me once, for visiting the cemetery. One of the things was having some Snow Queen with me.”

  “You should,” I say, trying to ignore the sharp twist in my gut. “Your friend sounds like a smart dude.”

  She frowns. “How did you know it’s a dude?”

  “You said ‘he.’”

  “Oh.” She nods. “Yeah. I haven’t h
eard from him in a while. I’m actually really worried about him.”

  All the air in my lungs dissipates, and I feel the color drain from my face. I draw a deep breath, taking care to look away from her. “What makes you worried?” I ask as I get the Snow Queen down and set it on the counter.

  “He’s got a weird situation. Kind of... risky.” I wait for her to tell me what she means by that, but Cleo just runs her palm over her upswept hair. “I found out he has a P.O. box in a city like an hour from here, which is totally crazy. It’s just across the Alabama line, in this little town called Eufaula. I was thinking of stopping by on my way back up to Chattahoochee, to see if anyone around has seen him.” She rolls her eyes. “I have stalker tendencies—I know.”

  I smile a little at how ruffled she seems, even as I feel a yawning ache behind my sternum.

  “We can do that. We can do anything you want,” I lie. I keep my business P.O. box across state lines for security reasons, and there is no way we’re going by there.

  I stretch my arm out and rub my palm over the coil of her bun. Cleo stands perfectly still, her eyes level with my throat as I just... touch her. My hand lingers there, barely brushing the soft nest of her hair. Because I need to touch her. Because now that I know who she is, I feel a fucking tug toward her, as if a rope is tied around me and she’s got the business end.

  Cleo’s hand touches my throat. “What’s this?”

  My muscles tighten. “What?” I trail my hand down by her ear, hoping to distract her—but she leans closer.

  “You’ve got this little scar... right here.” Her finger rubs gently over the base of my neck, just atop the thick throb of my jugular. “It looks exactly like a little white Sharpie line.” She strokes me there again, and I suck in a deep breath.

  “Oops, I’m sorry. Does that bother you?”

  I shake my head. I guess I held my breath while she was touching me. I press my lips together for what I hope looks like a normal smirk. “You want to hear that story?”