Frayed

by Layne Deemer

  The laid-back mood of earlier is long gone and in its place is a dreadful awkwardness that has me scrambling. I want nothing more than to get us back to where we were before we were so rudely interrupted. But I have no idea what to say or do. My mind has gone blank. Sarah used to say that I could make anyone feel relaxed, but I guess I’m out of practice.

  Lydia looks at her wrist in the spot where a watch might live and then turns to me. “I’m sorry, Owen, but I think the day has started to catch up with me.” She yawns for emphasis. “I’m pretty tired. I think I’m gonna head back and get some rest. Please stay and enjoy the music.”

  I stare at the gold flecks of her eyes as they catch rays from the setting sun. As if I would just let her walk away. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay a little longer? I like to lie on my back and look up at the sky while I’m listening. It’s the best way to unwind. Want to try it?” I lie flat on my back to demonstrate the point.

  I’m afraid to look over at her. She’s probably halfway back to the apartment by now.

  I feel the blanket shift beneath my arm and slowly turn my head. Lydia is lying beside me. Her eyes find mine and that moment we found ourselves in earlier comes rushing back with the force of a ten-ton truck. But just as quickly as she lies down, she sits right back up. Her eyes frantically search the ground around her, taking inventory of her surroundings and making sure she hasn’t forgotten anything.

  But she has forgotten something. The most important thing. In her rush to curb the feelings swirling between us, she’s forgotten how to live.

  She keeps her eyes downcast and picks at a blade of grass. Moving it between her thumb and index finger, she tells me a lie she disguises as truth. “I’m just exhausted. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  Feeling the magnitude of defeat on my shoulders, I give her a nod.

  We stand in silence and fold the blanket in a synchronized dance. I can’t understand how we can be so completely in sync and yet so monumentally disjointed.

  Our walk home is nothing like the one we took to get here. We wade through a thick haze of thoughts and things left unsaid. It all feels so unfinished.

  When we’re inside the apartment lobby, she turns to face me. “Thank you again for taking me tonight. Maybe next time I won’t be so lame and can hang longer.” She attempts to lighten the mood, but it falls short.

  I can feel the apprehension building as she looks between me and the elevator. I spare her the agony of having to endure more awkward silence. “Sure thing. I’m just going to check my box and see if I have any mail,” I say as I gesture to the wall of metal mailboxes with my thumb. “Rest well. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Good night, Owen.” She stands there for a second like she’s trying to decide what to do next. And then, she gives in. Leaning her slender body into mine, she gives me a chaste kiss on the cheek.

  My eyes involuntarily close at the action and when I open them, I catch a glimpse of her standing inside the elevator. Her eyes lock with mine, cementing me in place until the doors slide closed and break the spell.

  I don’t know what to make of this evening. Moments replay in my head like a highlight reel and leave me feeling drained. Maybe I could use some rest, as well.

  Inside the protective confines of my apartment, I mill about in trance-like movements.

  Scratch the cat’s left ear. Drink a glass of water. Turn off the kitchen light. Change into sweatpants.

  When I reach the bathroom door, an odd feeling overwhelms me. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it’s enough to snap me out of my fog and put me on high alert. Turning the bathroom light on, my gaze roams over every inch of the small space. Nothing seems out of place. My eyes fall on the shower curtain sealing up the bathtub and possibly concealing an ax murderer. Keeping my eyes fixed on the curtain, I blindly reach around the countertop until my hand makes contact with my straight razor. Stretching my hand in front of me, I grip the curtain and hold the razor overhead ready for combat. With a quick intake of breath, I pull the curtain open to reveal—

  Nothing.

  Sliding the razor back on the counter, I bend at the waist and grab the sides of my knees. I exhale a shaky breath and laugh at myself. Get a grip, Owen.

  Standing up, I rub my hands over my face and steal a glance at myself in the mirror. My skin is flushed from the near heart attack I just gave myself. “Don’t lose control. Remember why you’re here.”

  I pull open the vanity drawer in search of my toothpaste. As soon as I see it, time stands still. I can hear my own heart beating, my breath coming out in shallow gasps. My hand is suspended over the drawer in disbelief. My brain finally catches up as I grip the tube of toothpaste, bringing it up in front of my face. Carefully wrapped around my container of Crest is a familiar orange slip of paper.

  My body moves on instinct as I unwind the note from the tube. Placing it on the counter, I smooth out the curves.

  It’s so hard to be near you, but it’s also so easy.

  18

  The morning light streaming through the curtains does little to suppress the insurmountable questions swimming around in my head. I’ve been awake for hours; lying on my back staring at the spot where the wall meets the ceiling trying to figure out how Lydia got inside my apartment. I’ve played and replayed the previous night’s events over and over inside my head and I keep coming up empty-handed. I have to be missing something. It feels like the answer is just out of reach.

  With a groan, I heave my weary body up to sitting and swing my legs over the side of my bed. Maybe a hot shower will help revitalize my dulling senses.

  Under the steamy water, I think back to last night and realize the only time Lydia could’ve entered my apartment to leave the note would’ve been after I left to meet her in the lobby. It wouldn’t give her much time, but it could be done.

  But how did she get inside?

  I’m sure I locked the door before I got in the elevator. I never leave without locking up. Yet try as I might, I can’t quite recall putting the key inside the lock and bolting the door. Is it possible that I forgot? I was moving rather quickly in the hopes that I’d make it to the lobby before her. I must have left the door unlocked. It’s the only logical explanation aside from breaking and entering, and Lydia definitely doesn’t strike me as the type.

  Standing under the steady stream of water, I close my eyes and imagine how it must’ve happened. I grow hard as images of her in my private space begin flooding my mind. Taking myself in my hand, I close my eyes and allow my thoughts to drift.

  With the note tucked safely in her palm, Lydia probably took the stairs to avoid running into me in the hallway. She pauses at the door and waits until she hears the familiar sound of the elevator in motion. Once she knows I’m on my way to the lobby, she floats down the hall toward my apartment door. Maybe she had planned to slide the note under the door, but on a whim, she decides to turn the knob. To her shock and surprise, the door opens and she finds herself peering into my empty apartment. Without thinking, she hurries inside and shuts the door behind her. George is at her feet, purring and winding his way between her legs. Traitor. Someone could be robbing me blind and Uncle G would still be rubbing up against them as they shoved all of my valuables into bags.

  Lydia reaches down and scratches George behind his ears. He purrs his approval. She stands in front of my kitchen counter and surveys the space. She takes in my muted decor, running her hand along the worn edge of the cedar chest in my living room. Her fingers linger on the metal hinges. She knows she should be moving quickly, but she can’t make herself rush this moment. She moves slowly, deliberately down the hallway and sees my bedroom door ajar. Once she’s inside, she can’t help herself. Lydia rubs her palms along the smooth gray fabric of the comforter on my bed and steals a moment to lie down, placing her head on my pillow and letting her mind carry her away with thoughts of me lying in this very spot every night.

  Lost in her daydream, she almost forgets why she’s he
re. The note crinkles in her left hand and brings her back to the present. She needs to find a place to hide it in plain sight so that I’ll discover it later. She rises off the bed and moves to the bathroom. Turning the light on, she stares at the shower curtain as images of me on the other side begin to overwhelm her. Giving her head a shake, she slides open the drawer of the vanity and decides to wrap the orange paper around my toothpaste. Feeling satisfied with her hiding spot, she grins with satisfaction. Closing the drawer and turning off the light, she leaves the room just as she found it.

  Gliding down the hall, she does a pirouette in front of the door before reaching for the knob. She opens the door a sliver and slides out into the hallway. Just before she closes it, she reaches around and turns the lock on the door. She raises her head and takes in my apartment one final time. She inhales deeply taking in all of me before exhaling a bit of herself.

  My left hand crashes into the tile of the shower as I find my release. My body convulses and my breathing becomes ragged as I spill out, my contents mixing with the water below and swirling down the drain.

  Her name is on my lips as I slide into my khakis and fasten the buttons on my shirt. I pick up the pillow from my bed and press it against my face, inhaling deeply. The scent of cinnamon is subtle but still lingers.

  Her presence in this apartment, bold and uninvited, is much like her existence in my life. I wasn’t looking for any of this, but now that she’s here, I can’t ignore how I feel. She’s sending me mixed signals, but she doesn’t mean to. She wasn’t searching for this, either. But sometimes, when you aren’t looking for something, it’s exactly when it finds you.

  Lydia’s in the lobby lingering in front of her open mailbox. Her hand reaches inside the opening searching for imaginary letters as she makes subtle turns of her head like she’s looking for someone; like she’s looking for me.

  I took the stairs today and from the window on the door, I have the perfect view of her. She hasn’t spotted me yet.

  Adjusting the features on my face, I wear a mask of humility. If I make myself seem less confident, more demure, she may feel more relaxed and maybe let her guard down. I step onto the oak planks in the lobby and she sees me almost instantly. The casual smile that spreads across her face tells me I was right.

  The look on her face is an invitation and I waste no time responding. I give her a small smile as I move across the space between us. Breaking the silence, I say, “A word of advice? If you happen to find one of Mr. James’s Medicare statements in there, just slide it under his door. That is unless you have at least twenty minutes to kill, then, by all means, knock.” I give her a knowing grin, and she responds with a chuckle. There. Any tension that may have been left over from last night has been effectively eradicated. Well done, Owen.

  “Were you planning on stopping for coffee on your way into work this morning?” I ask her. There’s a question hidden within that question, and I wait for her answer with my heart beating in my throat.

  “Mm-hmm.” She nods. “How about you? Could you use a caffeine boost?”

  It’s almost too easy!

  Trying not to sound too eager, I answer, “Always.” Maybe I could’ve chosen a more casual word, but she seems unaffected by it. Actually, she looks pleased even though she tries to hide it.

  Just like last night, I offer her my bent elbow, but this time it’s laced with a promise. If she takes a chance on me, I’ll never let go. She hesitates, but only for a second before she links arms with me.

  19

  Over the past few weeks, Lydia and I have fallen into a comfortable symmetry. We meet in the lobby each morning, grab a coffee before work, and walk the few blocks to West Apparel. Every afternoon, we walk home together, and on Fridays, we stop at the market for some crowd-free shopping. Our weekends are a little more casual, but we still manage to connect every day. Even if we don’t see each other, we send texts or, my favorite, Morse code with our fists—mine on the ceiling and hers on the floor.

  Lydia’s notes have been quiet lately, and I find myself missing them—the spontaneity of it all. I hope she hasn’t given up the habit completely.

  I haven’t attempted to kiss her again since that night in the park, but I plan to try again soon. My lonely showers aren’t cutting it anymore.

  It’s Saturday, and we’ve made loose plans to order some takeout and watch The Breakfast Club in her apartment tonight. This is the first time Lydia’s invited me over, and it feels like a big night for us.

  I’m practically vibrating with nervous energy. My fingers dance along the kitchen countertop as I try to decide what to do with myself. I hear my phone ringing from the bedroom and race to retrieve it. I hope Lydia isn’t calling to change our plans or worse—cancel them. Just the thought has me sprinting at full speed. I trace the sound to a pile of clothing on the chair in the corner of my bedroom. I toss aside the clothes until I find my phone. I don’t even look at the call screen as I swipe my finger across the front to answer.

  “HHH-ello?” I’m out of breath from running through my apartment and my voice comes out as an exhale.

  “Owen? You sound funny. Are you okay?”

  It isn’t Lydia’s voice on the other end. Looks like my mom has decided to check in on me again. Perfect. I never took the time to assign a special ringtone to her and now it’s biting me in the ass.

  I roll my eyes freely since I know she can’t see me. “Hi, Mom. Sorry, I was in the other room and had to rush to get to the phone in time.”

  “Oh, well, I’m glad you made it then!” Her voice has a carefree lilt, but I know it won’t last. It never does when she’s talking to me.

  “So, what can I do for you? Were you calling for a specific reason or—”

  “Can’t a mother call her son just because? It’s been a while since we last talked and I just wanted to see how things were going.”

  Has it been that long? I try to think back to when we last spoke, but I decide not to press the issue. We never talk often enough as far as she’s concerned. Arguing with her is useless.

  “I’m fine, Mom. Nothing’s changed since we’ve talked. Everything is good.”

  “Glad to hear it! Any fun plans for the weekend?” She’s fishing for scraps—anything to help ease the worry she lives with daily because of me.

  “Um, nothing too exciting. I might watch a movie later.” I leave out the part about spending time with Lydia. It might make her happy to hear that I’ve made a friend, but it also might make her worry that I’ll never move back home. And she’d be right about that, but that’s a discussion I don’t feel like having.

  She sighs and I take it for what it is—a warning. My mom has never been good at suppressing emotion. “Oh, Owen, I just don’t understand why you insist on living so far away.”

  “Mom, I don’t know what else you want me to say. It isn’t personal. You know that.”

  “I do. I…well…listen, I talked to Dr. Jamie, and he said he hasn’t been able to reach you.”

  I clutch the phone in my hand and grit my teeth. “Are you serious? Isn’t that against the whole doctor/patient confidentiality thing?”

  “Owen, just do me a favor, the next time he calls, please answer.” The upbeat tone of her voice is gone. She sounds desperate. She sounds defeated.

  I don’t have it in me to kick her when she’s down so I respond the only way I know how. “Okay, Mom. If he calls at a time when I can talk, I’ll answer.”

  “Thank you.” The relief in her voice is palpable.

  “Sure thing. It’s been good talking to you, but I’ve gotta run. Say hi to Dad for me, all right? I’ll talk to you soon.”

  I hang up the phone with a loud groan. It’s only just after ten a.m. and already my mind is working itself into a frenzy. After that conversation, I’m in desperate need of a distraction. I haven’t been to Rudy’s in a while, and I’m long overdue for some no-nonsense, unsolicited advice that isn’t steeped in worry.

  Cracking open the door to
the bookshop, I turn my head to the right, expecting to see Rudy in his familiar spot behind the counter, his eyes transfixed on the screen of his iPad. But his chair is empty and his device is lying unattended on the counter. The place is eerily quiet. The symphony of coughing and gagging that are commonplace at Rudy’s are nonexistent.

  I stop just inside the doorway and strain my ears for any sound at all. I can just barely make out the faint whisper/whistle of an unfamiliar tune—the telltale sign that Rudy is in total concentration. He startles easily so I make my footsteps deliberate as I meander through the bookshelves and piles strewn about. I find Rudy in the Fantasy section, shelving some newly acquired books.

  He turns his head slightly and catches me in his peripheral vision. “Iiii-ya!” he shouts as his body jolts in surprise.

  “Sorry, Rudy. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” I hold my hands out in front of me, offering an apology that he’ll never accept.

  “Jesus Christ, kid! At least clear your throat or something! You scared the shit out of me!” Rudy has such a commanding tone that it almost makes me want to find the nearest chalkboard and write I will not sneak up on Rudy one hundred times.

  I have found that the best thing to do in a situation such as this one is to change the subject. “So, new fantasy books, huh?”

  “I can’t keep the damn things on the shelves these days!” It’s as if the sale of books in his store is a nuisance.

  “Fantasy books are timeless, Rudy. Tolkien and Martin paved the way, and Rowling grabbed the torch and ran with it. Readers devoured those books and were left thirsty for more.”