Crave

by Jennifer Dawson

  “Tell me the truth, Layla,” he says, his tone dropping an octave. “Do you really want that?”

  Yes, of course. I need to stay safe and he’s not safe. He’s dangerous. He’s already making me forget. I believe this wholeheartedly and I want to say the words, but they stick in my throat and refuse to budge.

  “You don’t,” he continues, so sure his confidence practically reaches through the phone and grabs me. “So be a good girl and stop pretending otherwise.”

  The sound of him calling me a good girl sends a shock wave through me, heating me in a place I thought long dead. I let out an exasperated screech. “Do not call me good girl.”

  He just laughs, obviously enjoying himself.

  Through gritted teeth I spit out, “Can I help you?”

  “Yes,” he says, his amusement clear as day over the line. “Tell me what you did today.”

  “Why?” I ask, instantly suspicious.

  “Because I want to know how you spent your Sunday.”

  My stomach takes a wild jump. This is too normal of a discussion. Too innocuous. I’d be more comfortable if he’d talk dirty to me. I can’t pretend this is impersonal if he asks me about my day. “What does it matter?”

  “It matters, because I say it does.”

  A spark, one I haven’t felt in a long, long time ignites. I’m not sure what it is, interest, life, or just plain hope. The last thing I want to do is look too deep, because I’m not sure I’ll like the answer.

  I bite the inside of my lip.

  “Layla,” he says, his tone losing all traces of amusement. “It’s a simple question and I expect a simple answer.”

  I remain silent. Why can’t he just stay in the box I put him?

  It’s subtle, this interplay between us, but he’s once again backed me into a corner. I recognize this is my fault for making a big deal out of the question in the first place, but now that I have, I’m stuck. If I answer, I give in. If he lets me slide, he gives in.

  He waits.

  I wait.

  The desire to give him what he wants fills me like an ever-expanding balloon. I grow tight with the need to burst. I close my eyes, breathing into the phone. If I answer, I instinctively know all bets are off. Acknowledging without words my rules no longer matter. That I’m in this, and he has power over me.

  Finally, I hear a sigh and my lids snap open. Did he break?

  “Are you going to tell me or not?” He doesn’t sound happy.

  My heart starts to pound and I lower my head. I can’t do it. I can’t give in. This time it’s not stubbornness, it’s because I want it so bad. Michael makes me remember what it is like to live. And I’m afraid.

  Since I started going to the club I’ve never had a problem walking away. If a guy wouldn’t do what I wanted, I didn’t look back, just moved on until I found someone who would. Having real control over me, having a say, that’s reserved for John. And only John.

  That I want, more than anything, to open my mouth and speak the answer Michael is waiting for is why I must say nothing.

  “Goodbye, Layla.”

  His words startle me, although they shouldn’t have. A needy, desperate panic speeds through me, and I immediately want to take it all back, but it’s too late.

  He’s already gone.

  When the dial tone rings in my ear, I finally put down the phone only to realize tears are streaming down my face. I’ve broken my rules for him, I’ve come for him, and now I’ve wept for him.

  But it’s done, and I don’t have to worry any longer.

  Tomorrow, I’ll be relieved, but tonight, I cry.

  I was wrong. I’m not relieved. In fact, I’m more lost than ever.

  My breath steams the air and I shiver in the cold. It’s autumn and the weather holds the first hints of winter. The sky is gray with a heavy cloud cover and everything has turned from the lush colors of fall to a bleak and dull monotone.

  Appropriate, considering I’m standing over John’s grave.

  The last time I was here was two months ago with his mom. We celebrated his thirty-second birthday together. The flowers have changed since I was here last. Dead brown, gold, and red Gerbera daisies, replaced the white roses we’d brought. John’s mom has been here. It reminds me I need to call Mary, my mother-in-law-to-be, and invite her for lunch. After, we’ll visit this cemetery and have our own private mourning ritual where we can talk about him without judgment.

  I suck in a deep breath and let the cold do its work, numbing me. This wasn’t how I’d intended to spend my lunch hour, but I feel so far away from John. So alone, and I need him. Need to remember how easy it was between us. How right.

  We might have burned up the sheets, but our relationship had been easy. Nothing like the volatile, chaotic storm of emotions I experience with Michael.

  How it was with John, that’s the way it’s supposed to be. Roller coasters are only fun when you know you’re safe, and only John can give me that. Michael is like taking a ride on the X-flight without a lap harness.

  A hot tear slips down my cold cheek as I stare at John’s name scrolled across his gray tombstone with blurry vision. The word Beloved is under the dates of his life and death. When he died he wasn’t a husband, but we were so close to the wedding he was no longer just a son. In the end Mary and I decided on that one simple word. It encompasses all that he was to us. The date of his death mocks me. It’s so final and absolute. No amount of wishing or longing will ever bring him back.

  His life is over, all because of a stupid, selfish mistake I made. By all rights I should be lying next to him. That was the plan; the knife had been at my throat. My attacker had already made a nick, taunting me, as his friends held me down. John lay dead, sprawled across the concrete. Once the worst was over they were quick to finish the job. The first trickle of blood had run down my neck, and I’d been prepared to welcome death.

  Only fate had saved me.

  The first swell of panic threatens to engulf me. Consume me in its fiery, insistent fear. I recognize the signs now, the rush of adrenaline, the too fast beat of my heart, the crushing of my lungs, but knowing stops nothing. Unsteady, I take deep, huge gulps of air, bracing my hand on John’s grave as I start to hyperventilate.

  I’m going to die.

  I’m right there, back in that alley with a knife at my throat and I’m going to die. I shake my head, willing the images that bombard me to abate, focusing on John’s name etched in stone.

  But it doesn’t work.

  I’m there.

  I can smell the stale cigarettes on their breaths.

  Hear the tear of fabric as they shred my blouse.

  A scream wells in my throat, coming out as a strangled sob.

  I close my eyes and see…Michael. His image slices through my panic and shakes me from the memory. Reality rushes back like a freight train and I’m once again standing in the cemetery with the gray, cold sky above me. I’m breathing fast. Too fast. I’m lightheaded and my vision swims. I force myself to slow down so I don’t pass out. In my head, I chant the calming mantra Dr. Sorenson has given me to help manage my attacks.

  My free hand covers my face as I weep. I’ve cried entire rivers and I wonder if I’ll ever run dry. When my heart rate finally begins to calm, John’s grave comes back into focus. Residual anxiety still courses through my veins, my body not quite caught up to the fact that I’m not in danger, but I’m once again grounded to the earth instead of lost in that nightmare.

  A persistent thought I don’t want to acknowledge niggles at me, growing stronger and more insistent until I’m forced to recognize it.

  Michael’s face brought me back.

  Not John and his memory. In that moment of pure hell I wanted Michael, not John.

  I scrub away my tears.

  How could I think such a thing? I blame the way Michael held me at the club. The feel of his arms wrapped around me is fresh. When, even on my best day, I’m starting to forget the way John felt.

  B
ut still, that’s no excuse. I’m standing over his grave, for god’s sake.

  It’s the worst kind of betrayal.

  I begin cleaning the fallen leaves scattered over the dull grass, pulling up the abandoned flowers, and wishing I had fresh ones.

  I don’t even know Michael. How could I think of him? I don’t know him. I will never know him. He’s gone. I made sure of it. I’ve pushed him away and guys like him don’t come back. I’ve succeeded. I wait for that protected, numb feeling I’ve kept wrapped around me like a second skin this past year, but it doesn’t come, instead the tears rise once again.

  Furious, I brush them away, my fingers cold against the hot tracks on my cheeks. Then, my stride angry, I turn and walk briskly to a trashcan. I toss the dead foliage away, and return to start the process all over again. Focusing on John, and not the card tucked into my bedside table, with Michael’s numbers. Trying not to remember how many times I’ve run my finger over the strong, black script, or how I memorized the numbers without meaning too.

  He’s gone…and someday soon I’ll forget.

  That night, exhausted, but restless, I’m lying in bed with Michael’s card in my hand, staring at the bold numbers scrawled across the bottom. After a long day of work, and even longer night sitting mindlessly in front of my TV watching reruns of The Walking Dead, I admit my defenses are down.

  I want to call him. It’s like an ache inside. He’s like an itch, deep under the skin I can’t scratch. I need him, just like he predicted. I pick up the phone and dial the first three digits before hanging up.

  And just like he predicted, stubbornness won’t let me.

  I’ve been trying to convince myself he doesn’t want me anymore, that if I called, he wouldn’t welcome it. I don’t quite believe it.

  I blow out an exasperated breath. Unable to stand the crushing silence and mental angst one second longer, I pick up the phone and call Ruby.

  She picks up after the first ring. “Layla, where have you been?” Her voice is irritated and filled with a coldness I haven’t heard since Robby Benson liked me, instead of her, freshman year.

  My brow furrows. “Where I’ve always been, at home.”

  “You don’t even remember, do you?”

  I race through my mind unsure of what I’ve forgotten. The only thing I know is that I didn’t forget her birthday; she’s a Christmas baby. But, otherwise, I’m at a loss. “I’m sorry. What did I do?”

  She tsks. “Friday night. You blew me off. You were supposed to come to The Whisky at nine.”

  Shit. I sit up in bed and put Michael’s card on my bedside table. I completely forgot I’d agreed in my manic desperation to stay away from the club.

  “I’ve left messages for you and you haven’t returned my calls,” she says in a shrill tone.

  My thoughts are so full, my emotions so raw, I’ve been avoiding everyone. Including her. I’m a horrible friend. “Ruby, I’m sorry.”

  She huffs and blows out an angry sigh. “I know how busy you are, holed up in your house like a hermit, and I’ve tried to be patient. We all have, but honestly, Layla, this is getting ridiculous.”

  She’s really mad, and I can’t blame her. My personal tragedies don’t excuse me from poor behavior. “I’m so sorry. Please, tell me how to make it up to you.” Guilt has my hand curling into a fist. What kind of friend am I anymore? What kind of person? I barely remember making the promise that was clearly important to her.

  A long pause falls over the line. “You don’t get it, do you? It’s not about making it up to me. It’s about you rejoining the land of the living.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose and stifle the urge to cry. I wonder if there will come a point where I’m not constantly disappointing people. “I’m a shitty friend.”

  “Yeah, you are.” Ruby’s voice is full of frustration, and she’s not pulling any punches. “But worse, you’re hurting yourself. You have to stop pushing everyone away.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She lets out a loud screech and I can just imagine her throwing up her arms. “I don’t want your stupid sorries. That’s all you ever say anymore. Fuck, every time I talk to you I feel like I’ve kicked a puppy. Scream, tell me you hate me, rage at the world but please…” She trails off and follows with a heavy sigh. “Stop this.”

  My jaw clenches tight and I bite my lower lip. I don’t know what to say, because the only thing that springs to mind is another apology.

  When I don’t speak, she continues, “I want the old Layla back. I miss my friend. The one that fought back. The one that wasn’t afraid all the time.”

  “Don’t you think I want that too?” That’s what everyone wants, that old Layla, but I don’t know how to find her again. She’s a dream now, hovering so far out of reach, I can barely see her anymore.

  “I believe you think you want that,” Ruby said, her voice resigned. “But you’ve just given up. I hate it.”

  I swallow past the lump in my throat. “It’s so much harder than you think, Ruby.”

  “I know,” she says, her tone softening.

  “But that’s just the thing, you don’t know, nobody does.”

  “I’m not saying I understand, or pretend to know what you’ve been through, I know it’s hard but you’ve got to find a way to come through this. You need to fight.”

  “I’m trying. I know it doesn’t seem that way to you, but I am.” Have I though? Other than going to Dr. Sorenson, what had I really done? Michael’s words about how I choose to wallow come back to me. I frown, is he right?

  “Let us help you,” Ruby says. “Let somebody help you.”

  I take a deep breath and run my hand through my hair. I used to be social and outgoing with plenty of friends, but most of them have dropped off over time as I’ve become more and more reclusive. But not Ruby, she’ll stick it out with me until the bitter end. In this way I’m blessed. I need to do better, for her. And for my family. The ones that care about me no matter how I act. “I promise I’ll try. I’m so sorry I forgot, Ruby. Please, I know you don’t want my apologies, but I was wrong. Let me make it up to you.”

  “It’s not about making it up to me.”

  “I know, but I still want to. I’ll do whatever you want. I promise.”

  A long silence ensues and I bite my lip, afraid she’s going to tell me she’s had enough. I wouldn’t blame her, and I realize I care. That I don’t want to be alone anymore. “I want to make it better.”

  She finally lets out a long sigh. “John wouldn’t want this, LayLay.” She uses his nickname for me and I want to throw up. “I know he was yours, but he was my friend too. I knew him, and I promise you, he’d hate that you’ve let this beat you. That you’ve given up.”

  She’s right. He’d hate this. I’m not the girl he fell in love with. I don’t even think he’d like me. I croak out, “I miss him.”

  “I miss him too.”

  “I want him back.” My voice catches as the tears well in my eyes and I admit something to my best friend I’ve never admitted to another living soul. “I’m scared, he’s starting to feel like a dream.”

  She doesn’t speak for a good fifteen seconds and then I hear her blow out a hard breath. “You know, I know how it was between you.”

  I blink, her statement shaking me out of my misery. I’m so startled by the unexpected change of topic, I blurt, “What?”

  She sighs. “I’m not stupid. I know you guys didn’t have a regular sex life.”

  I’d never told anyone. Way back when, I’d talk about sex with my girlfriends, and like most women, shared way too many details, only I’d stick to the semantics and not the intent. “How would you know that?”

  She huffs. “Duh, I was your roommate. Do you know how thin those walls were? You don’t think I heard stuff? I wasn’t trying to listen, but there were a lot of strange noises coming from your room. After a while, I pieced it together.”

  My cheeks heat and I’m not sure why I’m embarrassed. “I never heard
you.”

  She laughs and the tension between us lifts considerably. “Well, I’m not prone to screaming like you are.”

  I. Am. Mortified. How foolish of me that I never considered this before. My only excuse is John made sure I only focused on him, and orgasms. I never thought about the screaming and moaning coming from my room.

  But our prior sex life is hardly relevant. I clear my throat. “Well, I can’t see what that matters now.”

  “It matters,” Ruby continues, her voice strong. “Because you and I both know that John would never allow this. You want to respect his memory, respect that.”

  I suck in my breath; my chest tightening like someone’s squeezing my heart between a fist. She’s right. I’d never thought of it that way before, but she’s right. John wouldn’t have tolerated this.

  I take a deep breath. “I’ll try.”

  “You’d better,” she says, her tone lightening. “Or I’ll come over there and beat your ass myself.”

  I didn’t think it was possible, but I laugh, and the band around my ribs loosens. “It doesn’t quite work like that.”

  “Ah, laughter, that’s a sound I haven’t heard from you in too long.”

  God, I’m so lucky to have her as a friend. I don’t appreciate her enough, but I make a silent vow to change that. “Ruby, I am so sorry I blew you off. Please forgive me.”

  “You’re forgiven. And if you want to make it up to me, Ashley roped me into going to O’Malley’s tomorrow night. It’s league night, and someone told her that’s where every hot guy in the city is. You could come and keep me company while she does her thing.”

  Ashley’s another college friend who hung out in the same crowd as us. A blonde, busty cheerleader type who loves men, and they love her right back.

  Something shifts inside me and the heaviness in my chest lightens. I want to go, not because of obligation, but because I want to see Ruby. To make it right between us. To prove I can do something normal. Even if that means I have to watch Ashley’s shameless flirting in a too-tight, sports-themed, baby-doll tee. I smile. “That sounds horrible.”