Lost In Us

by Layla Hagen

  "Please let go of me, James."

  "I can make you happy. Let me show you how happy I can make you," he pleads.

  Oh, he can make me happy. He can make me happy like no one else. But he can also make me miserable like no one else. That I know. That's why I need to run. To leave now. Where his words can't reach me, where his eyes can't pierce me. But he's holding me as firm as ever and I know he won't let go unless I hurt him. Really hurt him. So I tell him exactly what Lara told him.

  "No you can't." It rips me apart to say the next words, because there's nothing crueler I could say to him. "You'll make me miserable. You'll make my life a living hell. In fact, you have outdone yourself. In the short time you've known me, you already managed to make my life a living hell."

  His arms release me. His eyes widen. Not with shock, but with pain. And I can't stand looking into them knowing that I caused it. I walk past him, out of the room. I risk a little glance over my shoulder when I'm by the elevator. He hasn't followed. Of course he hasn't.

  I don't look in Daniel's direction at all as I walk to the front door, but I feel his gaze on me and I automatically raise my hand to my cheeks, thinking of wiping away the tears that are surely pouring in streams. I don't find any tears. Not one.

  How can it be? How can there be no tears when my heart is shattering, bit by bit, memory after memory? Doesn't the pain want to come out? A terrifying thought strikes me. What if it will never come out? What if it will stay inside me forever, until it dismantles my heart and wrecks my soul?

  I leave the building and get to the car without one tear. But as I slide inside, a tiny drop finds its way down my cheek. And then another one. I close my eyes, and lean back on the headrest, welcoming them. The liquid proof of my pain.

  I was wrong. So, so wrong. Two broken souls do not make a whole one. Two broken souls cannot heal one another. They will devour, shatter each other until there's nothing left of either of them.

  I felt whole for a while though. When he held me in his arms and murmured in my ear. When he guided me through the clouds and the rivers of chocolate. I press my palms on my eyes, trying to shake them off. The memories. The bad ones and the good ones—especially the good ones. They're the most shattering ones. They cling to my heart with iron hooks, making every breath, every sob an agony.

  I open my eyes after some time, after the tears have dried up and my breath has evened. I need to leave this place, because the burning sensation in my chest and behind my eyelids tells me it's not long before a new wave of tears will come. And I don't want to be here when it does. Just as I start the engine, I catch something in the distance in the rearview mirror, far up in the blue sky, and for a moment I'm sure my mind is playing tricks on me, because I was just thinking of that day. A parachute. My heart skips a beat when I realize there is only one person under the parachute.

  I don't know why, but the sight of that one skydiver makes me feel lighter, as if I'm up there, among the clouds as well.

  I can learn to fly on my own.

  I can learn to laugh on my own.

  Some other day. Some other time. Because as I leave his place behind, all I manage to do is fall apart again. The place where he touched and kissed me. The place where I cried and I laughed with him. Where we traveled in fantasy worlds and created our own, sweeter and richer than all the others. The place where I tasted the heavens and forgot my nightmares.

  Where I fell in love with him.

  Only one thing keeps me from completely shattering after my encounter with James.

  My old strategy: exhausting myself.

  I exhaust myself to the point where I am so drained, I can't even think about him—or rather, his absence. During the day. The nights are an entirely different matter. Dreams invade my mind when it's most defenseless, leaving me drenched in sweat. Tears swell up in my eyes seconds after I wake up as I realize that none of the things in my dreams will ever be more than dreams again. I won't feel the touch of his lips on mine again, or hear him say my name in my ear in a low, urgent whisper.

  But I never give myself time to wallow in my tears. I couldn't even if I wanted to. Three developments took care of that.

  One: I was offered three interviews the day after I left James. Two of them were at banks in San Francisco last week. One was at a bank in New York yesterday. Preparing for the interviews, not to mention fretting over them every waking moment, kept me busy.

  Two: I lost the part-time bookkeeping job I've had since starting college—my only source of income until graduation—because my boss unexpectedly closed down the company, so I started hunting for another job to support myself until I graduate and start a real job.

  Three: disaster struck about one week after Jess's accident in that dump of a bar.

  She received a letter, informing her that she owed six thousand dollars for damages to the bar and had three weeks to pay, or she would be sued. The letter was signed by the owner of the bar. I thought it was a lame attempt at a joke at first, because really, if anyone should sue for damages, it should be Jess. But when the second letter arrived, written in a severe, almost offensive tone, I knew Jess was in serious trouble. A law professor I cornered at Stanford confirmed, upon reading the letters, that the bar owner—unbelievable as it might be—had a strong case, and it would be in Jess's best interest to pay the amount rather than go to court.

  Six thousand dollars.

  Neither Jess nor I had that kind of money, so we… well mostly I, because Jess didn't seem half as worried as she should have been, started brainstorming ways to come up with the money. It didn't take long to realize there was no way we could raise that kind of money by ourselves, especially with my new unemployed status. Even selling Jess's car would only bring in half the amount, at most. The only solution was something I’d never considered before, no matter how broke I was, and something I would have never considered if not for the threat of the lawsuit. Borrowing money. And we only knew two people who could afford to lend that kind of money without as much as a blink.

  James, who I have no intention to see or even speak with again.

  And Parker.

  Who is late. I am waiting for him in front of the bar, tapping my fingers on my cup of steaming hot coffee, which, given the sauna-worthy heat outside and the blinding sun, was a poor choice for a drink. But I came here directly from the airport, and the six-hour flight from New York left me drained.

  Parker arrives within minutes, pulling his car right in front of me. I catch my breath when he slides out of his car. He looks so much like James . . .

  "Sorry I'm late," he says.

  "Don't worry. Thanks a lot for helping us out. I promise you, we’ll pay you back as soon as we graduate and start working." Parker stands by my side, looking at the bar with the same expression of disgust that I am sure is splashed on my own face. The place looks even more run-down in broad daylight. We both look out of place here, Parker in his navy suit, me in my smart black dress.

  "No problem. Just promise me you will not go to places like this again."

  "Yeah well, you wouldn't have caught me dead in this one if it weren't for Jess. And I highly doubt she's learned anything from it."

  Parker purses his lips, looking away. I smile unwillingly. He's been around our place quite a few times since Jess got out of the hospital, helping with one thing or another. I think he feels guilty for not preventing Jess's accident, since he was in the bar when it happened. But Jess is not nearly as charming as her usual self these days. The fact that she has a cast on her injured leg, not to mention postponing her trip to London for her job interview, made her downright insufferable, especially to Parker. I think they had a falling out a few days ago.

  It was a nice of Parker to come here, really. I wanted the check to be delivered in person, paranoid it would get lost in the mail or something. Since Jess doesn't leave the apartment except for her classes, I took the task upon myself. Parker, a gentleman as always, insisted on coming with me so I wouldn't face the
bar owner alone. As if sensing how much I dread going inside, Parker says, "Let's stay here until you drink your coffee." He folds his arms over his chest. "How was your interview?"

  "Excruciating. But it was nice to be in New York." New York is a good place to forget one's thoughts. There is so much noise in that city one can't hear her own thoughts. "I'm not getting my hopes up though. The competition was unbelievable. They interviewed forty people for one spot."

  "Rubbish. You're smart. I think you have an excellent chance."

  I blush at the reassuring nudge he gives my arm. It's unbelievable how much faith he has in me. Just like James. I brush aside the thought of him, clasping the cup tighter in my hands. It's almost empty now.

  "I don't really want to move there, I went mostly to get some interview experience. Fingers crossed that one of the jobs in San Francisco works out."

  Parker grins, but I cannot help feeling ashamed. I sent out almost two hundred job applications, and only scored three interviews. An exceptionally lousy percentage by any standards.

  I drink up the last drops of coffee and, wanting to postpone the moment when we have to go inside, pull out my phone to check my emails. I’m excited to discover a new email from one of my computer science classes professor. In my desperation to find any kind of student job, I made use of my computer science minor for the first time ever. One of my professors mentioned in a class that he needed a student to help him on a project, and I jumped at the opportunity. He tells me in this email that I am to come to his office on Friday so he can give me more details and I can start working right away. Excellent.

  "Let's go inside, shall we?" Parker says, checking his watch.

  "Sure. Are you going back to the office afterward?" I ask, and immediately regret it. Since he works with James, I never ask about his work because I don't want to give him the opportunity to bring up James. Like Jess, Parker didn't have any qualms in offering his opinion on our breakup. Both of them firmly believe James and I belong together.

  I don't. And neither does James. He hasn't made one single attempt to contact me in all this time.

  "No, I'm not going back to the office today. I have to attend a charity event tonight for the company." He frowns, as if concentrating on something. "I still need to find someone to come with me. I didn't have time and you can't go to these things alone. Are you free tonight?"

  "Yeah. But… James will be there."

  Parker shakes his head. "He won't. He asked me to go because he's not in the mood."

  "I'll think about it. I'm kind of tired after the trip to New York," I say, biting the inside of my cheek. I'd like nothing better than to crash in my bed and sleep as soon as I get home, though it's early afternoon. But I owe Parker. Turning him down doesn't feel right.

  He holds the bar door open and I step inside first. I wrinkle my nose at the protruding smell of alcohol and smoke. The bar has been closed for weeks, but I suppose the smell clings to the walls. I quickly walk downstairs, willing to finish this as soon as possible, with Parker hot on my heels. Even with the poor lighting, I can see that the place is in shambles. Behind the bar is a man in his fifties, bald and sweating, with a protruding belly. The owner. He looks just like I imagined him when we talked on the phone. He watches Parker and me with small, watery eyes.

  "Hi. I'm Serena McLewis. And this is Parker—"

  "You're late." The man cuts me off.

  "The due date is not for another two days," I say, my heart in my throat.

  The man smiles, revealing all of his yellowed teeth. The sight makes me want to puke. "What I meant was… it's already taken care of."

  "What's taken care of?" Parker asks, the bewilderment in his voice mirroring my own.

  "The six thousand dollars," the man says greedily. "I already got it."

  I just stare at him, waiting for an explanation. When he doesn't offer it, I pull myself straighter and ask, "From whom?"

  "That guy who keeps showing up on magazine covers. James Cohen."

  "I'm not sure this is a good idea," Parker says wearily, looking at my clenched fists when he pulls over in front of their office building. I made him drive here after we stormed out of the bar.

  "James had no right to pay that. How did he even find out about it?" I ask, my voice shaking with anger. Not one phone call, or message from him. And now this.

  "I didn't tell him." Parker raises his hands from the wheel in defense. "I can come up with you," he offers.

  "It's really not necessary. I want to talk to him on my own about this. Besides, I don't want you two to get in a fight on my account."

  "We wouldn't."

  "I'll be fine Parker, really," I say, getting out.

  "Okay. Call me when you decide if you want to go to the event tonight with me. Don't give him a hard time, okay?" Parker calls after me. "I’m sure he just wanted to help."

  "I’m sure he did," I say through gritted teeth.

  I slam the car door and walk inside the building, heading with determined strides to the receptionist.

  "On which floor for James Cohen's office?" I ask the twenty-something blonde.

  She looks at me from head to foot with a sympathetic expression I don't get until she speaks. "You're here for the interview?"

  "Yes," I say at once, glad I don't have to come up with an excuse.

  "Twentieth floor. I'll call and tell them you're coming up."

  "Thanks." I swirl on my heels and run toward the six elevators on the other side.

  "Good luck," she calls after me just as I slip into one of them. It's so crowded that the doors close half an inch away from my nose. By the time I step out, I'm completely out of breath.

  I linger a bit in front of the elevator, not only to breathe, but to gauge which way I should go. There are too many desks in the room and too many people running around among them. It takes me a few seconds to realize there actually is one separate office too, with a door and everything. I bet I know who that office belongs to. Since no one stops me, or pays any attention to me for that matter, I head straight toward it.

  My hand doesn't hesitate on the handle, but when I step inside, I wish I had hesitated, because I feel completely unprepared. But I guess nothing could have prepared me for this. Being away from his intoxicating presence for three weeks made it easier to bury it under all the pain. But now it's inescapable. The pang in my chest is neither pain nor anger.

  I miss him. A lot.

  I am glad that he isn't looking at me at this moment because his gaze would be too much to take. He's standing in front of his desk, leaning on its edge, immersed in some papers—a CV, I think.

  It's only when I close the door that he becomes aware of the fact that he's not alone in the room. His blue eyes widen slightly, but there's no trace of the shock I expected. Of course not. It reminds me why I'm here. It is what brings the anger back.

  He sets the CV aside, watching me intently. His tone is one notch too cool when he asks, "To what do I owe your visit, Serena?"

  "You know exactly why I'm here."

  He smirks. "I always knew that counting on that moron to keep his mouth shut was a long shot."

  "You had no right to interfere in this, to pay that debt," I bellow. "I had it all sorted out."

  "It certainly didn't look that way." He doesn't unhitch himself from the table, or show any sign of wanting to come closer to me. Thank God. Keeping a cool head is hard enough as it is.

  He's dressed in jeans and a burgundy shirt, and the undone button at the base of his neck brings an inexplicable desire to undo the rest.

  "I-I… don't want to owe you anything," I stutter.

  "You don't. Jess does. Don't worry, Serena. I don't plan to interfere in your life again."

  "Really?" I bite my lip. "You know what I think?"

  "No, but you're welcome to tell me." He picks up the CV again and flips the page as if what I have to say doesn't interest him in the slightest. His indifference does nothing to relieve the pang in my chest. He's done a muc
h better job forgetting his feelings for me.

  Or at least is much better at hiding them than I am.

  I take a deep breath. "You did this on purpose."

  "And what would that purpose be?"

  "To get my attention."

  He looks up and finally unhitches himself from the desk. "So maybe I did. But you are the one who came looking for me, not the other way around."

  "Of course I came." My throat is dry. "I don't shy away from problems, unpleasant as they might be."

  His lips curl in a smile so conceited I briefly consider walking up to him and slapping him. But I stay put, because the odds that I might change my mind on the way and kiss him instead are not low enough. "And we couldn't have had this unpleasant conversation on the phone? Why did you come?"

  His words throw me off a bit. Coming here was my first instinct. From the moment the bar owner uttered his name. I thought it was because of the anger. Now I know better. But how do I keep him from figuring it out, if he hasn't already? I look away from him, fearing that my gaze might give me away.

  "Perhaps you were looking for an excuse to see me," he says.

  There is an edge to his voice despite the coolness in it. It doesn't match the conceited smile.

  "That's not why I came," I say and instantly wish I had stayed silent, because what little my coming here didn't betray, the longing in my words just did.

  He advances toward me and I take a step back, not putting any distance between us because I bump into the door. He puts his palms on the door on both sides, trapping me between his arms. There's no escape now from his piercing gaze or the intoxicating scent of his skin. My will is my only defense.

  "Then why? Why did you come, Serena? Do you miss me?" he asks in an almost pleading tone.

  I can see in his eyes that he hasn't forgiven me for those cruel words I spat at him the last time we saw each other. I haven't forgiven him for what he did either. But none of this seems to matter, because the need for each other is stronger than both of us.

  "Tell me you do," he whispers in my ear, and the urgency in his voice almost crumbles the last of my defenses. Almost. There is still a wisp of determination in a distant part of my mind that his proximity hasn't taken over. I can't show any sign of weakness.