My hand cups her head, the strands of that caramel-and-vanilla hair winding around my fingertips like ribbons. “It’s not your fault,” I tell her for the third time. I could tell her that ten times a day for the rest of her life and she may never believe me.
I can’t imagine the guilt she’s pinned on herself. I wouldn’t want to.
My dad is right.
Yeah, I’ll say that twice because it’s so freaking surreal. My dad is right. Lennon from Maine with Serious Issues Who Sews has issues. Pretty serious ones.
I don’t know how long we stay that way, but I hold her until her body stops shaking, until the horrible sobs stop retching through her, until her breathing slows and stills, and then, even though it’s the last thing I want to do, I let her go.
“You okay?”
She wipes at moisture that lingers on her face with the edge of her sleeve. “As okay as I ever am. Sorry,” she says, looking down at her feet.
“For what?”
“For having an absolute meltdown.”
“Don’t feel sorry for feeling things.”
Her brows knit together. “What?”
“I mean apologize if you step on someone’s foot, not for having a heart, a soul that bleeds.”
She just stares, so I continue. “I realize we’ve only met recently,” I tell her. “And I’m a lot of things, including hard to get to know, but that’s because I’m real and I don’t show that part of myself to many people.” I point to my face. “Rarely goes too well for me, so I can appreciate what just happened for the raw and unfiltered moment that it was.”
As I speak, I realize how full of shit I am. I appreciate it, but it scares the hell out of me. Raw moments lead to more feelings and that’s an area where I have little to no experience. But Lennon from Maine with Serious Issues Who Sews and Is Broken is broken. Just. Like. Me.
“Thanks,” she says under her breath.
I touch her arm. “You okay?”
She nods, swiping at her eyes, which are now both black as the night sky, rimmed in makeup that is most definitely not the waterproof kind. “Want to work on the project?”
I smile. “Sure. I love distractions from the elephant in the room.”
“Me too.” She picks up her notebook with shaky hands and offers it to me.
Her handwriting looks like some font used in fancy script. I look up at her. “I thought I had nice handwriting. Yours is unreal.”
The words Romeo and Juliet: Act One, Scene One are written in elegant script across the top of the page, followed by a CliffsNotes version of the first act. “Simple,” I say. “Benvolio texts Romeo. Tells him about the stuff that went down with the Capulets, with Tybalt and whatnot. Romeo replies with a broken-heart emoji and rants about Rosaline and his unrequited love for her ethereal beauty. Act one. Scene one. Finished.”
Lennon from Maine with Serious Issues Who Sews and Is Broken is grinning. A huge, wide smile stretched right across her face. She looks moderately absurd with the dark-angel-eye thing she’s got going on, but she’s cute as hell.
“You’re hilarious,” she says.
Now I’m the one smiling. “Well, I mean, that’s pretty much it, right? Romeo is a slut. He’s all into Rosaline until he sees Juliet. Then he gets tunnel vision. That’s why it’s about passion, not love.”
“It is about love,” she argues. “He loves Juliet so fiercely that he would die for her.” She takes the book back and holds it to her chest, and her eyes close for a moment. She’s trying to savor the hope of a love that grand.
“No one should be that consumed by another person that they’d want to die for them. That’s messed up. Tragic.”
“It’s tragic, but it’s also a little romantic.”
“There’s nothing romantic in basing your whole identity on someone else,” I say. “But for the sake of the project, let’s agree to disagree, shall we, Davis? Because aside from your gross misunderstanding of Romeo and Juliet, you’re sort of cool.”
She laughs, shakes her head, and opens her notebook again, placing pen to paper. “Fine. Agree to disagree, then. Ready for act one, scene two?”
“Hit me,” I say.
We get to act 1, scene 5. There are no more emotional meltdowns. This is both good and bad, because I don’t want her feeling sad, but when she was, it gave me an excuse to be close to her. I’d enjoyed that so much, I forgot I wasn’t wearing my hoodie.
Time passes too quickly. Reminds me of waiting in a massive line in an amusement park for the best ride. You know it will rock your world, but it’s over in a flash. It’s like that.
She closes her notebook, sticking all four of her pens in her back pocket. “I should go.” Looking down, she brushes stray hairs behind her ear and stares at her feet before her gaze swings up again. “I think we’re going to do well on this,” she says.
“Me too.”
She looks like she’s thinking about walking, but she pauses. “Sorry if it was weird or anything like that.”
“It was weird, Lennon. Weird is beautiful.”
She says nothing, but she holds my gaze long enough for my gut to somersault. She’s leaving, taking the first real feelings I’ve had in a long time with her in her tap-happy little hands. She finally speaks. “I guess I’ll see you on Monday.”
“Let me get out of the tree house first. It’s dark.”
I use my phone as a flashlight for her to see where she’s putting her feet. Her notebook is tucked into the band of her jeans again, sticking out from the small of her back. When she says good-bye, I turn and rake my hands through my hair. What am I getting myself into?
I sneak into the house, hoping I see no one. For an introverted guy, I’ve had a dose of real moments long enough to buy me a solid two weeks of avoiding human interaction. My wish is granted, and I make it to my room without Macy or my mom knowing I’m back inside.
I shower and change into my pajamas. The lights are off. It’s pitch-black, but I still make my way to the window without tripping over anything. Her room is dark, too, but only for a moment. The light switch turns on. I wait for it to flicker, but it doesn’t.
She enters the room, pauses, and gazes into the mirror before her face drops in horror. She holds something out in front of her, which I realize is her phone the same second mine buzzes.
You could have told me I looked like a raccoon that fell victim to the undead and then rose to walk again amidst a terrible zombie apocalypse.
I smile. That’s a lot of self-loathing in one text message Lennon. You look fine.
The reply pops up on my screen in a flash. I LOOK like a zombie raccoon. I’m going to wash my face.
Good night Lennon.
Good night Kyler. Sleep well.
Never do but thanks for the sentiment. Oh and Lennon?
Yeah?
Thanks for not giving me an epileptic seizure with the light switch tonight. That’s solid.
Thanks for making jokes about my worst secret.
It’s what I live for. ;)
Glad I give you a reason to live. Good night.
Good night.
I’d probably wait to see if she has anything else to say, but she sets her phone down, so when she heads into her bathroom, I climb into bed and put on a TV show. I’m about halfway through when my phone chimes again, and I nearly fall out of bed trying to get it.
Kyler?
Yeah?
I don’t really sleep much either.
United Insomniacs. Could be a band name. Think about it.
LOL
Will you ever show me your lyrics?
Maybe.
Maybe?
Better than no right?
Yeah I guess that’s better.
Then maybe.
Good night Kyler.
Good night Lennon. Think about the band. Could be rad. Could have potential.
I’ll think about it. United Insomniacs.
Exactly. Our slogan could be “Sleep is for the weak.”
&nbs
p; Something possesses me to stand. I get up and head to the window a second time. Hers is wide open, revealing her bed. She’s stretched across it, on her side, facing the window. The phone sticks out from under the covers, closer to where her face rests on a pillow.
She’s got the biggest smile I’ve ever seen.
My phone lights up.
I can see the band merch in my head! Now I should go to sleep and dream about becoming a rock star.
You’ve learned nothing, I type back. Sleep is for the weak.
Or those with doctor’s appointments in the morning.
Good night Lennon. For real this time.
She sends me an emoji of the moon while I watch her face being illuminated by the real thing.
FACT: SOMETHING INSIDE OF ME IS CHANGING.…
THOUGHT: MAYBE THAT’S NOT A BAD THING.
EVERY SO OFTEN, SOMETHING HAPPENS that’s so surreal, something inside of you changes. Closeness with a stranger becomes a sacrificial moment where, in a blink, in a breath, you lose a piece of yourself to them. Forever altered, an exchange of damaged, spliced shards of soul. Maybe when that happens, time isn’t a true reflection of the connection you share. Like, it doesn’t matter how long you’ve known them; you find yourself breaking for someone who has never seen all the moving parts that make you tick.
Yesterday was one of those moments. As I go through my morning routine, which hasn’t changed at all for the last two and a half years, an eerie sense of calm settles over me.
It’s as though Kyler’s laid-back attitude has transferred to me. I entertain the notion of me getting his personality and him getting mine in that strange moment we shared. If there were any truth to that, God help him. I’d win the mental lottery in comparison to the fate he’d find.
I floss my teeth and brush for five minutes and I’m done. According to my watch, I am also early. Jacob is cocooned in a blanket sound asleep on the couch, so I tiptoe past him and into the kitchen. When I peer around the corner, my dad is sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, toast, and a pile of papers in front of him while Claire is perched on a barstool at the island, eating oatmeal that looks more like wood chips.
“I’m not sure what that charge on my card is for,” Claire says. “Could be a mistake.”
Dad looks up from the papers, his reading glasses slip to the base of his nose. “Sweetie, I’m not sure how two thousand dollars at Orchid is a mistake. Did you and Mel have spa day? Things have been hectic around here—perhaps you forgot.”
Claire points two fingers to my dad before she turns them around and points to her eyes. “Joshua, look at me. I’d remember, busy or not, if I spent two thousand dollars at the spa. I’m not sure how you think something of that magnitude can slip someone’s mind.”
Dad’s brow furrows. “Well, one of us needs to call and get it sorted.”
“I’ll do that today,” Claire replies. She spoons oatmeal in her mouth again, so I clear my throat. She smiles when she sees me. “Mornin’, Lennon.”
“Morning.”
“You’re up early.”
“Doctor’s appointment, remember?” I direct my question to my dad, who is still in his pajama bottoms.
“How could I forget?”
* * *
Dr. Linderman’s office is mellow first thing Saturday morning. The blinds are open, and sunlight filters through the windows and cast shadows on the floor. The receptionist, rather than entering data into a machine or answering a phone, is lost in a book with a male torso on the cover. The only sound in the place is the occasional gulp of air bubbles in the water cooler and the ticktock of the clock that I’ve been watching with eagle eyes.
The second hand on it shifts, marking the hour at the exact moment the door to his office swings open. I have no idea if that’s coincidence or if he planned it that way, but I appreciate the punctuality.
Dr. Linderman has a takeout coffee cup in his hand. He’s in jeans and a lightweight gray sweater, and he’s got skate shoes on his feet. His glasses have different frames, a vibrant cobalt blue. I wasn’t entirely convinced the first time, but this time I’m certain I like him.
He resembles an older college friend more than a doctor. Especially when he smiles. “Lennon, how are you this fine morning?”
“I’m alive,” I say. “So that’s a plus.”
“Definite plus to be on the right side of the dirt,” he says. “Wanna go for a walk?”
I laugh. “What?”
“A walk,” he says. “I realize it’s not quite the same view as the Arctic tundra in all its glory, but it’s nice just the same. There’s a park about ten minutes down the road.”
I stare, dumbfounded for the second time this morning. “Like leave the office?”
The corners of his mouth pull skyward in amusement. “Well, I suppose we could walk circles in here, but Stacy is trying to read and I don’t like this place much. It’s pretentious.”
The receptionist, who I now know is Stacy, looks up from her book and smiles. Somehow that gives me validation that his request is not all that unusual.
I stand, brushing my fingertips over my thighs. “Yeah, okay.”
I follow him outside and down a large block of winding, smooth concrete. As we walk, Dr. Linderman tells me as much as he appreciates my homesickness for Maine, he’s lived here his entire life, so he has little to compare it to. As the park comes into view, he gestures toward it. “See for yourself,” he says. “Los Angeles isn’t all that bad.”
The path we started on expands into huge cobblestoned walkways surrounded by plant life that branches out in all directions from a large fountain of a cherub.
“It’s beautiful.” I don’t know if it’s due to Claire and her kindness, or Kyler and the way he seems to understand me more than anyone ever has, but suddenly Los Angeles isn’t so bad, and standing here in this park, surrounded by scenery that resembles a postcard, it’s hard not to see the beauty all around me.
Dr. Linderman’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “How has the first week been? Still longing for frostbite?”
I surprise myself by shaking my head. “It would seem ungrateful to be somewhere like this and wish to be anywhere else.”
“It gets your seal of approval, then?”
I nod. “Yeah. Definitely. I mean, I’d still rather be at home in Maine with my mom, but that isn’t happening.”
“How’s the OCD been since you moved?”
I glare at him, and he holds his hands up, coffee still clutched in the left one. “I’m asking because a traumatic event often spikes behavior in—well—most mental illnesses.”
“Well, if you already know the answer, why do you need to ask?”
He wants to hear me say it. Clever Dr. Linderman. Gets me out of the office only to attempt to make me slice open my figurative veins and bleed for him.
What he doesn’t know is that I’m embalmed. My soul, each fiber of my being was spilled out in Kyler’s tree house yesterday. The entire endeavor has left me almost too exhausted to let the good doctor pull my trigger. Besides, this morning has been decent so far.
“What’s the worst thing you’ve had to do since you’ve been here?”
“Get into cars,” I say. “No question. Hands down.”
“What happens?”
I know he’s getting to know me. He’s charging a lot of money for it, too, but I wish he’d stop firing questions.
“I’m afraid getting into a car means someone will die because of me.”
We both know it’s as ridiculous as it sounds and that’s one of the killer parts about OCD. I’m aware that it’s absurd to think the things I do. They’re ludicrous, and the chances of any of them happening are pretty much zero. I know this without an ounce of doubt or any question in my mind, yet that doesn’t stop the thought, and it doesn’t stop my brain from believing that thought to be true. Over and over again. It’s as if I’m painfully and constantly aware of the fact that I am insane.
He says not
hing, just sips his coffee and nods. I offer nothing else, having grown accustomed to silence. That’s what happens when you live in your head. Dr. Linderman, it seems, is not down with silence, because he doesn’t stay quiet for long.
It’s a shame.
“How’s school?”
“Decent.”
“Make any friends yet?”
“A couple.”
“Nice,” he says. “Everyone needs a good friend they can be honest with. It’s a great place to start when your life is uprooted.”
I think about Kyler. Yesterday was the start of something…I’m just not sure what.
“CAGE ME UP AND KILL ME, SAVE ME FROM THE PAST,
THIS HOLLOW IS A DEATH IN ME, LET’S MAKE EACH MOMENT LAST.”
Fire to Dust, Life-Defining Moments EP, “Solitary Confinement”
I NEVER SLEEP FOR LONG, and when I do, it’s never well, so even on Saturday, I’m awake before sunrise. I prefer it this way because there is a certain kind of beauty in darkness. I check for a text from Lennon, but there’s nothing. Disappointed, I nurse a cup of coffee, eat two bowls of cereal, and watch Netflix for two hours before I go to work.
Earlier in the week, my father brought home an obscene mass of paperwork and deposited it in the garage. My former practice space now looks as if it belongs to some criminal investigation show. I assume it’s research for a case; what I can’t decide on is why he put it in there. There is a sophisticated and empty pool house. A whole damned apartment, which I proposed to use for my practice space, but no, I was banished to this place. My father didn’t want us wrecking the pool house. Then, instead of putting his papers inside an unoccupied building, he buried my band equipment beneath his crates.
It’s a safety hazard. If I don’t move it, there is a good chance someone will get hurt, so that’s how I spend my morning. Hauling box after box from the garage to the pool house. I’m looking at the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, a few boxes shy of being finished, when I turn to see Macy standing in front of me, one hand on her hip, the other clutching the twisted paper stick of a lollipop, her mouth shut around it.
All Our Broken Pieces Page 10
