Sloth

by James, Ella

  Fuck fuck fuck...

  “I’m calling to request a preliminary evaluation. Our records indicate you might be a match for someone on our roster. Would you be willing to undergo basic testing in the next few days, understanding we may make additional requests pending results?”

  I let my breath out. “That’s why you called?”

  “We’re on an expedited timeline, so we’re asking that you act on this as soon as possible.”

  I nod slowly, letting this sink in. It’s been years since I heard from them. I never thought I would again. Not unless... I shake my head. “Sure... that’s fine. No problem. If I am a match, I would... go through this again?” Would it be to the same person? My pulse races.

  “If you are a match, you would be called upon again. I see here in your records that you’ve done this before.” There’s a brief pause, in which I try to breathe. Then she says, “Are there any other questions, Cleo? We’re so glad that you’re a part of Be The Match.”

  I inhale deeply. Exhale. Let my two-ton question tumble forth. “Can you tell me anything about Robert?”

  “Robert?” she echoes.

  “You don’t know the name of my last match?” My tone is sharper than I intended, but I find I don’t care.

  I hear a brief pause, followed by loud typing. “What information are you requesting, Miss Whatley? I’m limited by—there are rules in place to—”

  “How is he?” I whisper.

  I hear a delicate clearing of her throat. “It looks like... mmhmm. I can see your chart is marked with blue—which means you’ve been flagged based on your file from last time.”

  My stomach hollows out. “Are you saying that I’m being called again as a match for R.—Robert, I mean? Could I be matched with him again?”

  Silence fills the line. “What’s the last report you received on Robert D., Miss Whatley?”

  I clamp my teeth down on my tongue. “I haven’t gotten one. Not since a while back. That’s why I’m asking. It’s been really bugging me, the silence from him.”

  A heavy sigh comes through my phone. My throat tightens. My stomach heaves, and I just know. I can feel the bad news coming like a train. “Cleo. I’m so sorry to inform you, your last match is listed as deceased.”

  “Deceased?” The word makes no sense. Less than no sense.

  “I’m sorry that you didn’t know. We don’t want to discourage—”

  Her voice sounds like it’s underwater. I hang up the phone.

  Eight forty-three PM, my phone says.

  I sit down on the rug. I wait for tears, but they don’t come. My face feels like a slab of wood. My heart thumps painfully.

  I check Kellan’s bedroom first, peeling the blanket away from the wall so I can examine the hidden door. As I dash downstairs, I wonder why I’ve never asked what’s in there. I wonder why I didn’t tell him about the girl I saw today.

  But I already know the answer: because I didn’t want to rock the boat. Despite the strong connection I feel to him—a connection that seems to grow stronger every minute—the boat with Kellan feels unsteady. Probably because he runs so hot and cold. My mom has always been that way: happy when she’s on a two-day off shift from the factory; quiet and withdrawn on work days. I grew up trying to make her happy, trying to help keep our struggling household steady. It’s why I got good grades. To avoid rocking the boat. I do the same thing now as I press my lips together to hold in a sob, despite the awful ripping sensation in my chest. I want to fall onto the floor and wail.

  Instead, when I get downstairs, I stalk through the living room and kitchen, then the formal dining room, the half-bath, and the library, which I’ve only ever peeked at through a half-cracked door till now.

  I can’t find Kellan. I can’t sit down. I swallow repeatedly as I get Helen more diced chicken, re-fill Truman’s water bowl, and rearrange the pillows on the couch.

  I pace the living room, peek out the back door, the house’s front door, and then dash back upstairs. I give the rumpled bed a glance—I imagine Kellan and me, intertwined tightly enough to extinguish the awful ache behind my breastbone—before I change into a black cotton sundress, pull a gray sweater on over it, and slide my feet into black flip-flops. Then I step out onto the balcony.

  The pine trees are a dark mass. I aim my gaze above them, looking frantically for Leo.

  I drank a shot of Snow Queen for you 8/7 also. Maybe in an alternate reality, we were drinking them together.

  Just as hot tears start to come, something pale near the ground attracts my gaze: a smoke cloud. I know without question that it’s Kellan.

  Why did he tell me he never smokes? What’s the point in lying, I wonder as I trek down to the river. I want him to feel like he can tell the truth with me. So I can tell the truth with him. Raw pain slices my heart as I wonder if I’m being foolish, letting myself feel this way.

  No choice.

  I have no damn choice, I’m finding.

  It feels dangerous. So dangerous, especially tonight.

  Oh God...

  I cross the lawn with long strides, my flip-flops sinking into warm, damp grass. Please be okay, I find myself chanting.

  With this loss sitting heavy in me, the night air seems to vibrate. I can’t see in the growing darkness. Unease is a small hand knocking on my chest.

  I find Kellan leaning against one of the thicker pines, his bare feet planted in the muddy riverbank. The fingers of his right hand cradle a blunt. Truman sits beside him on his haunches, stiff-backed, as if he’s trying to make his wayward owner more respectable.

  I stand a few feet from them, waiting for Kellan to look over at me. When he doesn’t, I press my trembling lips together and wait until I can’t wait anymore. I murmur, “Hey.”

  His gaze glides to mine, and I feel cold in my soft dress and flip flops. The sweater I’ve got on doesn’t shield me from the river breeze. The air slaps at me, seeping into my chest.

  I fold my arms under my breasts and try to read his face. It’s so... still. At the moment I need connection more than ever, Kellan gives me no clues to his mood. When he shifts his eyes back to the water, I look him over frantically.

  The guy before me doesn’t look a thing like the Kellan Walsh I met in the student center. He’s wearing that same charcoal t-shirt from last night and what I think are black jeans. His soft blond hair is sticking up, like he’s been running his hands through it. His handsome face, so kind at times, so open in quiet moments, has its doors closed.

  I feel a sharp ache in my chest when I think of his arm around me at Olive’s grave. The way he looked holding the mug of spiked hot chocolate... was that yesterday? God, I feel as if we’re in some kind of time warp. Again, the sensation that I’ve known him for a long time. That I know him well. And now, the bitter truth that I need him.

  I need something...

  The sound of my exhale is louder than the rushing river, but he doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t want to look at me. I may not be a Kellan expert yet, but I can feel his withdrawal—his isolation.

  It makes me desperate. I want to grab onto his shoulders and just... bite him. I could bite him hard enough to taste his blood. I want to throw him down and ride his cock. I want to sob into his chest.

  I fold my wants away and level him with an impassive look. “I thought you didn’t smoke,” I say softly.

  “I don’t.”

  I wait a moment for his gaze to brush my face. I need the softness of his gaze, the touch of his interest. But his attention is mired in the river.

  “Well you do,” I say. I chew my lip.

  “Sometimes...”

  I want to grab his thick forearm and pull him close in that proprietary manner he uses with me. But the thought of it burns—because I don’t feel like I can. Kellan calls the shots with us, and that’s a shame, because he’s stormy. Changeable. Sometimes I feel like I’m getting close, and then he flits away. Like now.

  “When you go to sleep that night, be sure you’ve had s
ome alcohol or even Xanax. If that’s not your scene, fall asleep... I don’t know. Reading. Or doing something else.”

  Kellan leans his head against the tree’s trunk and slowly brings the blunt up to his lips. I watch the cherry flare as his chest expands; he holds the smoke in his lungs. A second later, his shoulders slacken, and a thick cloud pours out his mouth.

  He takes another drag, then turns quickly to me.

  He doesn’t cup my mouth or take my shoulders in his hands. He wraps an arm around me, pressing my breasts against the hardness of his chest—and then his lips close over mine.

  For a second I forget what I’m supposed to do. His mouth is closed so tightly over mine, I inhale instinctively, to ward off the sensation of being suffocated.

  Stinging smoke fills my lungs, and Kellan’s mouth lifts off mine. I gulp fresh, damp air. I brace myself for the removal of his arms, but instead, he holds me tight. He wraps an arm under my backside, so my feet come off the ground. He’s holding me to his chest.

  He leans his back against the tree. I feel a tremor flicker through him. Then he buries his face in the crook of my neck.

  I tell myself it’s just his high making him needy, but his grip on me is firm. His breath beneath my ear is warm and real. I can feel his heart pound.

  He sets me down a moment later, and he doesn’t look down at me.

  Just when disappointment spreads through me, he shifts his night-gray eyes to mine. His lips curve up: a little smile; sad little smile.

  “Let’s go inside... so I can hold you for a while.”

  “That sounds good.” I blink back tears.

  Kellan takes my hand and shuts his eyes before we start to walk. I wonder why he seems so sad—if he can sense my loss. I worry that his uncle took a turn, or that the girl called him, but that doesn’t seem likely—because his hand is threaded through mine. His fingers stroke mine, easing something taut inside me.

  “Your hand is warm,” I whisper as a lightning bug drifts over us. Beyond the blinking yellow light, I find the crouching lion, Leo.

  “Your hand feels good.” His voice is low and rough.

  I run my eyes over Kellan’s messy hair, his tired face... and this time he looks back at me. One corner of his mouth tucks up.

  “You’re good to me,” he murmurs, heavy-lidded.

  “You’re good,” I say back. Oh, please be good...

  I want to throw my arms around his neck and cry. He seems to sense my building grief. His big hand squeezes mine at the moment my heart races, spurred by pain. It’s perfection. I feel weak and warm. Strangely satiated, despite the darkness that hangs over us. I don’t notice Kellan’s stopped walking until I feel the tug of his hand. I look back and find his mouth stretched open.

  I know what I’ll see before I turn back toward the house. It’s in the ether: hurt. Kellan’s sweetness hid it from me, but it was always on its way.

  “Why are you sad? I’m afraid I know the answer, and that brings me to my instructions.”

  It’s her—the girl from the garage. Standing next to her on Kellan’s back porch is his healthy-looking Uncle Pace.

  I see the color drain from Kellan’s cheeks even in the dark. In the faint moonlight, his skin looks alabaster.

  His voice is static. “Go inside, Cleo.”

  My throat closes. I push against the pressure. “Why?”

  “Trust me. I’ll explain this later. I just need a few minutes.”

  “What?” I look from our joined hands to the duo on the porch. They look solemn. Maybe even angry. “You’ll explain what later? Who’s that girl?”

  “She’s no one.” He shakes his head.

  “No she isn’t. She knocked on the car window. In Atlanta.” I drop his hand as my pulse quickens. “Who is she? Just tell me now.”

  His eyes widen, and I know. I don’t know exactly what this is, but I know enough to see that he’s deceived me. His uncle isn’t hurt. Why did we go to Atlanta in the middle of the night? To meet this girl? Who is she to him?

  “Why are you lying to me?”

  “Cleo—please.” His tone sounds desperate. “You have to go inside. I need to talk to Pace alone.” He actually pushes on my shoulder as the two of them descend the stairs, their eyes on Kellan.

  The girl rushes forward to greet him, and I dart past his uncle, feeling sick. My heart is beating so hard, I can’t even make it upstairs once I get inside. I stand at his sink, filled with those stupid shake-stained glasses, holding my stomach and looking at the dark window in front of it.

  Through the glass panes, I hear low voices.

  I wait to get my breath again. For the pressure on my chest to lessen. When I realize it’s not going to, I run up the stairs and down the long hall to the windowed room, where I start frantically gathering my things. I hug my canvases to my chest, strap my bags on my shoulders, and step back into the hall.

  If he wants to tell me the truth, he can call me. I’m not sticking around to hear that Kellan fucked me over. That I’m the only one who’s fallen—into my emotions. I’m not sticking around to find out that girl is his ex or something. I can’t handle that tonight. I can’t.

  That’s when I notice his bedroom door open. I’m not sure what drives me to go in at this moment: curiosity that’s been gnawing for too long and needs to be appeased, or some kind of masochistic urge to tempt his anger and up the ante of this shitty night. Either way, I step inside.

  The room is just the same as last time I was in it. He’s got a big, mahogany bed; a dresser; a recliner; and a trunk. The walls are pale green, bare except two charcoal sailboat sketches, both framed in dark wood. And then there’s the wall to my right, covered mostly by his giant woven rug. I’ve never really looked at it before, except to note its dark colors, but now I spend a moment staring at it—this barrier between Kellan’s bedroom and his secret door. Woven in gray, navy, and deep green, is a bear. It’s on its hind legs. Behind it, at the top right corner of the rug, is a half-moon.

  I walk slowly over to it and run my hands over the fabric. It’s soft, more like a blanket than a rug. I take the fabric in between my fingers and realize it is a blanket.

  I lift the left side of it almost reverently, and stare at the door. It’s clearly meant to be hidden, because the bottom of it isn’t flush with the floor. It can’t be seen unless you know to move the blanket. What’s it here for? To hide Kellan’s stash: whatever amount of marijuana he keeps here at his house? That used to be my default guess, but suddenly I need to know for sure.

  I try the doorknob, but it doesn’t turn. I notice there’s a keyhole to the right of it. A little, old-fashioned keyhole.

  Of course.

  I know I’ll never find the key. I let the side of the blanket fall back down and step over to his bed. I lower my face to the duvet and inhale deeply.

  I let out a long sigh. Tears brim in my eyes: for R. or Kellan? Why, I want to roar. Why do things always go so wrong? I can hear the R. voice in my head—a voice that sounds like Kellan, saying, “Get back to your life. Be glad you’ve got your thong, or your heart, or whatever.”

  I want to scream because it doesn’t happen that way. I can get back to my life, but who’s to say whether I’ve got anything at all? There are no guarantees. There is no fate. No kind or sensible undercurrent dragging us to where we’re meant to be. Through the wall of windows, I hear voices, and I know—I can feel it in my bones—that something bad is going down.

  Tears seep from my eyes. I blink, and there it is: a small gold key. It’s lying on the duvet right in front of me.

  My blood begins to hum. My heart quickens. I think I must be meant to see inside his hidden room. Why else would it be so easy? I dash my tears away and look up at the ceiling.

  Thank you, R.

  I scoop up the key and walk back to the blanket. My hand shakes as I pull it aside. I step fully behind it this time. It melds to my bare shoulders and a shiver skitters through me.

  The key fits flawlessly into the lo
ck, just like I knew it would. I turn the knob and push gently against the cool wood. The door swings open like a portal in a fairy tale. I inhale, step inside, and—what?

  I look around the room: all five square feet of it. I look up and down, and left and right, almost expecting to see a lone toilet. It reminds me of a half-bath... except it’s not. The wall to my right—no more than three feet wide—is a built-in bookshelf. Empty. The wall to my left—equally tiny—is dominated by cabinets and a sink, with a short swatch of black granite countertop.

  I turn toward the cabinets and look them over, ceiling to floor. Clearly, they are the purpose of this small space.

  My fingers flex. Which door do I open first? Should I open them at all?

  I lean over the counter and close my hand around the knob on the right-side cabinet. I pull it open slowly, telling myself I’ll find nothing but a bunch of marijuana.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, and when I open them, my stomach hollows out.

  Instead of seeds or marijuana baggies, I see bottles. Dozens and dozens of prescription bottles: orange, blue, green; tall, short. And scattered amongst them, glass vials; tinctures; gauze; gloves; tourniquets; syringes; filters. I grab a bottle. Oxycodone. Another one: Hydromorphone. I open the cabinet on my left and I feel sick as I behold more of the same.

  This place is a miniature pharmacy, stocked with everything Kellan needs to numb himself to everything—including me.

  I slip quietly out the back door while they talk on the front lawn. Kellan’s back is to his big, brick house, his hands up in the air. Everyone looks sad-faced.

  It’s not hard to evade them. To stay behind the trees, inside the pool of shifting shadows on the lawn. I open my car’s door and dump my things into the backseat. No one knows I’m here until I slam it shut.

  As I sink into the driver’s seat, I hear footfall. Voices lift in unison, tossed up toward the moon—and Leo. I don’t give a fuck. I can’t right now. I peel away so fast, I hit my head on the ceiling.

  When I look in my rear view, I see Kellan’s shadow—shoulders slumped, head down.