Frayed

by Layne Deemer

I know she’s awake. I can hear the change in her breathing pattern and I sense her eyes on me. I could open mine and I will, but for now, I’m content to just lie here and let the events of last night unfold in my mind.

  Lydia and I agreed to let our emotions take the wheel, but if I’m honest, I always assumed that plan would go out the window as soon as she found out what I had done. I almost didn’t tell her. I’ve been living under the radar for so long, it would’ve been really easy to keep the facade going. But for some reason that I can’t quite put my finger on, I didn’t want to hide with her. Maybe my subconscious knew she could handle it. In fact, considering the way she responded, I think my confession pushed her emotions over the edge.

  I blink open my eyes and find hers, curious and golden green, staring back at me. There’s a second or two of unknown where time freezes, and I can’t help but worry that she’s feeling regret over everything that happened between us. But as quickly as that moment happens, it’s gone, replaced by a larger-than-life smile on her beautiful face.

  “Good morning, sleepy head. How do you feel?” she asks without a hint of shyness in her voice.

  I grin wickedly. “I’m a little sore and a lot happy.”

  She chuckles. “Hungry?” There’s an unmistakable gleam in her eyes.

  I reach over and gather her up. Positioning myself over top of her, I half whisper, half growl, “Famished.”

  After the morning we just had, I think it’s safe to say Lydia doesn’t regret a thing. I have to admit, I wouldn’t mind waking up that way every day.

  Sitting on my futon, I watch as she moves around my kitchen as though it’s her own. I pause at the thought and let it stew for a moment, shocked that it doesn’t scare me at all. In fact, I kind of like the idea. As if sensing my gaze, she turns and flashes me a smile before turning back to the stove.

  She places two plates on the counter and tips the frying pan piling each one with scrambled eggs. Handing me a mug of coffee with a hopeful look in her eyes she confesses, “It’s not an Americano, but it’s strong and black so I hope that works!”

  “It’s perfect, and breakfast looks delicious. Or should I call it dessert?” I wink at her.

  She blushes crimson and swats at my arm. “Um, I’m pretty sure we had our dessert first, Owen.”

  Now it’s my turn to blush.

  We sit in amicable silence eating our eggs and drinking our coffee, pausing a few times to smile at each other. I can’t remember the last time I felt so comfortable around another human being. I could get used to this.

  I help her with the dishes when her phone chimes with an incoming text message. She dries off her hands and weaves through the maze of clothing still strewn about in the living room. After this morning’s activities, we didn’t bother putting much on. I pulled on a pair of boxers and she chose underwear and her T-shirt.

  She finds her phone where she left it, in the back pocket of her jeans. When she looks at the screen, I watch the carefree attitude of the morning suddenly vanish from her face, and in its place, she wears a mix of concern and what looks like fear. I’m overcome with the need to know who keeps sending her upsetting messages. Whoever it is, they seem to wield a lot of power over her.

  I wonder if it’s that Gabe asshole from the other day. I need to know more about him, but I don’t want her to know I was eavesdropping, so I’ll have to figure out a way to direct our conversation. After opening up about my past, maybe Lydia will feel more inclined to tell me about her own.

  “Is everything okay?” She startles at my question and looks up at me as though she hadn’t realized I was here.

  “I’m sorry, Owen. I, um, I need to head home for a bit.” Her response is guarded, but she quickly steels herself and plasters on a somewhat cheerful-looking smile.

  I see straight through the mask she’s wearing, but decide not to pressure her. “Sure, no problem. Will I see you again later?”

  She looks at me thoughtfully. “I think that’s inevitable, don’t you?”

  One by one, she glides her long legs into skinny jeans and fastens them at her waist. Sliding her sandals onto bare feet, she reaches for her keys and makes her way over to me until we’re standing toe to toe.

  Leaving a chaste kiss on my lips, she turns and walks to the door. Just before closing it, she looks back at me over her shoulder and obliterates me with her words. “This was fun! I’ll see you soon.” And then she’s gone.

  30

  I’m lying on my bed flat on my back and tossing a rubber ball up at the ceiling. Each time it makes contact with the plaster above me, I hear that word echo in my ears.

  Smack “Fun.”

  Thud “Fun.”

  Why would she choose that word?

  What we did last night and again this morning was amazing, incredible, mind-blowing, life changing. But fun? That’s not a word I would associate with us. It cheapens what we have—stripping the seriousness from it and turning it into a game. Is that how she sees this? As some sort of game? Earlier this morning I thought we were on the same page, but now I’m not so sure.

  I go through the motions of getting myself ready for the day. I brush my teeth, hop in the shower, and get dressed, all the while replaying this morning’s events over and over in my head. Dissecting them like that frog Sarah tore into in Biology class.

  Sarah.

  With her, I had to analyze everything I said before I said it and again after it left my mouth. I never knew how she’d react to things, and keeping the peace was easier than challenging her.

  But Lydia isn’t Sarah and analyzing her isn’t fair. I sigh in frustration at myself. I have a real chance at happiness here. Not a manufactured life where I have no power and no say, but a genuine relationship between two equals. Now is not the time to start psychoanalyzing everything Lydia says. She got an upsetting text and was clearly distracted. Besides, she wasn’t wrong. Sure, fun is a simple word, but it still works. We weren’t not having fun.

  That’s it. I’m deciding right now to let it go and allow myself to just be present. Let’s face it, I’ve been pursuing Lydia since the day she started working at West, but I never actually thought she’d even consider me. After all, I’m the strange mute guy who never makes eye contact and keeps to himself. I could be a crazy person, for all she knew. I chuckle at the thought.

  But when I stop and think about everything that led us to where we are now, I realize I wasn’t quiet or shy around her for long. She possesses an uncanny ability to pull me out of my self-absorbed shell and rejoin the land of the living. Before I met her, I spent my days in my own head with zombie-like disconnected movements. And now, I find myself thinking about her and what might make her happy. The usual heaviness that I’ve become accustomed to has all but disappeared. In its place, I feel a lightness that I haven’t felt in far too long.

  If Sarah is the disease, then Lydia is the antidote.

  Work is pretty slow for a Monday. Usually, the end of the weekend brings a stockpile of sorting, making the morning pass by in a blur. But today, I’m spending most of my time between bins. If I sort too quickly, I’m left waiting for co-inspectors to catch up and send another bin my way. On days like this, I make excuses to get up out of my cubicle and move around. I take extra trips to the bathroom and visit the water fountain to refill my bottle. I’m perfectly content to sit in my little box when I’m busy sorting, but if there’s nothing to do, I get antsy and my mind wanders.

  I’ve caught myself staring longingly at Lydia’s cubicle more times than I care to count. There’s a part of me that wants to pretend that last little comment she made this morning didn’t happen, but the larger part of me can’t forgive and forget so easily. I tell myself I’m giving her space, but really, it’s me who needs time.

  It’s nearly eleven o’clock and I’ve only sorted through one bin of socks. I’m on my way back to my desk after what feels like my fortieth trip to the bathroom when I see a new container overflowing with tube socks waiting for me. I prac
tically skip over to my cube and hoist the bin up, placing it under my desk.

  With my earbuds in, I select a podcast and get to sorting. Mountains of simple white tube socks decorate the chocolate walnut of my desktop. Stitching seams are examined and tested for durability. Most of the items in this container pass my scrutinizing exam with only a few stragglers landing in the reject bin. Whoever inspected before me was paying close attention to detail, making my job as final QT inspector much easier.

  When I have a test coming up, I don’t just study for it; I cram. I stay up all hours of the night tucked away in a brown leather chair on the second floor of the campus library. I don’t stop to eat. I don’t stop to sleep. I take very few breaks to relieve my bladder and then speed walk back to my spot to continue filling my brain with facts and formulas. For me, memorization is key and I excel at it. I never forget anything if it has value.

  My Organic Chem. final is tomorrow and I’m determined to do well. I lean back into the chair; my shoulders slide against the smooth leather as it emits a slight squeak from the movement. My right foot is propped up on the seat and my textbook balances on my knee. I’m running my index finger along the words and blinking rapidly as the description of the Grignard Reaction starts to blur. A loud throat clearing jolts me upright and sends my book toppling to the floor. I’m grateful for the plushness of the carpet cushioning the fall. Without it, the noise would’ve been extreme as it echoed throughout the cavernous spaced earning me a chorus of “Shhhhh!” from fellow crammers in the library.

  Sarah stands in front of me wearing a smug grin. She’s holding a brown paper bag out in front of her and without even asking, I know what’s inside. She knew I would be here and that I haven’t eaten all day so she stopped at my favorite bakery and picked up a blueberry muffin for me. It isn’t the first time she’s surprised me with food, but it still hits me right in the gut—the kindness of the act. She really does care about me. A warmth settles over me as I reach out and grasp the top of the bag. She doesn’t let go so when I give it a tug, her body glides forward settling on my lap. The smile hasn’t left her face as she stares into my eyes. The atmosphere is ablaze around us. “I thought you might be hungry,” she says as she angles her head and bends toward me.

  “I can’t remember the last time I felt so ravenous.” I lean in and meet her in the middle. A medley of “Shhhhh!” surrounds us, but we ignore it. My textbook still lies open on the floor where it fell, long since forgotten. When Sarah’s around me, everything else falls away. She commands my attention, forcing all of my thoughts to the side while hers take center stage.

  I pull my chin back and turn my head from side to side. I half expect to see rows of bookshelves on either side of me, but I’m not at the library. I’m in the midst of sorting and am shocked to see I’ve made it through most of the bin.

  Plopping the last few socks onto the surface, I reach for one closest to me. Laying the tube sock lengthwise on my desk, I place my hands flat at the center and smooth them outward, checking the shape for wonky edges. When my right hand reaches the toe of the sock, I hear a familiar crinkle. The left corner of my mouth hitches up in a knowing grin. Lydia left me another breadcrumb.

  I take a second to glance around, making sure no one is watching. Once I find that I have privacy, I scoop up the sock and plunge my hand inside. My fingers make contact with the note and I slowly draw it out until I see the bright orange paper that I’ve grown so fond of. Dropping the sock into the “pass” bin, I hold the orange paper, taking in the intricate folds that are almost an art form. Despite having received three of these over the past few weeks, I feel nervous all of a sudden. Taking a deep breath, I unfold the note on an exhale and hold it with shaky hands in front of my face.

  Try not to get too comfortable.

  Any sense of enjoyment that I felt from these messages disappears with one sentence. I sit as still as stone and examine the handwriting. It seems similar, but is it the same? Reaching into my pants pocket, I grasp the other notes. The words from each one stare back up at me:

  You are not invisible. I see you.

  Do you take cream in your coffee?

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

  Comparing them, it’s hard to ignore the similarities. The paper is definitely the same and the intricate way in which they’re folded is identical, as well. They have to be written by the same person. Is it Lydia? And if it is, why does it suddenly feel like she’s trying to warn me?

  31

  I haven’t seen Lydia all day. And I’ve been looking for her—or maybe I should say I’ve been looking out for her. After that ominous note that I found this morning, I’m not sure I’m ready to face her.

  Thinking back on the previous messages that have been left for me, I always assumed they were written by Lydia. After all, they didn’t start showing up until after we met. It’s the most logical explanation. And yet, we’ve never discussed them. I’ve thought about bringing them up numerous times, but it never felt like the right time, and if I’m honest, I kind of liked the mystery. It was this unspoken thing that we shared, but neither one of us ever dared to mention it. It felt like a club and we were the only members.

  Now the message has taken a darker turn and I’m left trying to decipher its meaning. Oddly enough, telling me not to get too comfortable is sort of redundant. I’ve spent the past few years making sure I’ve lived according to a strict code that I created for myself. Becoming complacent is the last thing I want. I didn’t start relaxing here until I met Lydia. For the first time in nearly three years, she made me feel like there might be more to life than this purgatory I sentenced myself to.

  As I turn the orange notes over and over in my mind, it hits me. Maybe these messages are from someone else entirely—someone who’s been watching me from afar and hasn’t yet found the courage to speak to me. And now that my relationship with Lydia has begun to grow, this person isn’t pleased. This last note was a warning. I stifle a gasp as I remember where I found the previous message—wrapped securely around my tube of toothpaste in my apartment.

  This person is bold and doesn’t adhere to boundaries. Now that they’re upset, there’s no telling what they might do.

  I’m suddenly up and out of my seat. My body moves on its own, compelled to find Lydia. I need to make sure she’s okay and figure out a way to protect her from this unseen threat.

  Moving quickly, I round the corner of her cube and find her seated at her desk bobbing her head to the music streaming in her earbuds. She’s humming to herself as she thrusts her left hand into a sock, fingering the seams for holes. I clear my throat a bit more loudly than I intend, and she startles at the sound. Her face fills with surprise, but just as quickly, morphs into a welcoming smile. Pulling the earbuds out, she looks up at me, her eyes searching mine. She must sense the wariness in my expression because she stands, hurriedly pulling the sock from her hand and plunking it onto her desk. She moves toward me with caution and gingerly takes hold of my hands as though I might break if she’s not careful.

  “What happened, Owen? You look like a deer in headlights.”

  She gasps as the words leave her mouth.

  “I-I’m so sorry, Owen. That was a very poor choice of words.”

  At first, her remorse confuses me. It takes me a moment and then I remember. The accident. It always comes back to Sarah. Even in death, she’s like a parasite.

  I shrug off her admission like the insignificance that it is. “Hey, don’t do that to yourself. It’s an expression. That’s all. There’s no need to apologize.”

  Despite my reassurance, she’s not entirely convinced. “It’s more than that, Owen. I need to be more careful with my words. It was incredibly insensitive of me. It won’t happen again.”

  “It’s okay, Lydia. Really.” I release my right hand from her grip and tug on her chin tilting her head up to look at me. For a moment, I forget where we are. I can’t think of anything except how badly I want to kiss
her right now. Her words bring me back to the present.

  “Why did you look so upset when you walked into my cubicle?”

  The notes. I can’t believe I almost forgot about them. It’s that kind of careless behavior that got us here in the first place.

  “I think someone may be watching us.”

  We’re sitting on the floor in my living room; the notes are unfolded and sprawled out on the braided rug beneath us. The bright orange paper stands out like a beacon on the faded blues and greens of the carpet.

  “This whole time, you thought I was the one writing these, yet you never once asked me about them? I’m trying hard to understand why you wouldn’t have mentioned them to me, but it honestly doesn’t make much sense.” Lydia’s careful not to make eye contact with me as she speaks. Her gaze stays fixed on the notes in front of us. I can feel it. They’ve formed a wall between us, separating us.

  The tone of her voice is accusatory. I’ve lost some of her trust and I’m desperate to get it back. “Lydia, listen, I thought it was a secret between us. A fun little game that we shared. I didn’t want to be the one to break the spell. I figured you would mention them when you were ready, so I was giving you time. I know that sounds lame, but it’s the truth.”

  I stare at the top of her head, silently pleading with her to look up.

  She sighs deeply and lifts her head. Our eyes lock, and she blinks slowly as though she’s trying to see through a thick fog.

  “I believe you. But please don’t keep anything like this from me again. I have a pretty strict policy about lying. I know this may not seem like a lie to you, but keeping something from someone you care about is the same as lying.”

  Relief washes over me. “You’re absolutely right. I’m sorry. It will never happen again. It’s complete transparency from here on out.”

  She gives me a half smile and then returns her gaze to the paper strewn on the floor. “Okay, well, now that that’s settled, how should we deal with our little stalker problem?”