What does requited love look like? I want to see it.
I take the right turn and follow the couple.
________________
It’s cold, so fucking cold. Also, dark—super dark, and the Victorian lamps flanking the street don’t do shit to light up my path.
But none of that deters me from taking a harried pace. I’m walking down Albert Street, heading toward Brighton Avenue where the university park entrance is. Sleep is hard to come by, especially after Kara mentioned writing about my unrequited love.
Once upon a time, six-year-old Caleb Whitmore smiled at five-year-old Layla Robinson. She didn’t know it then, but that was the day she fell in love with him. Over the years, she tried to get his attention without success. Then one night, in her desperate, desperate attempt to stop Caleb from going off to Harvard, she kind of, sort of…raped him a little bit. She’s not entirely sure. Caleb went off to college one month earlier than he was supposed to and Layla was stuck acting up. The end.
Two years later I’m here, walking the streets, feeling ashamed of my love, ashamed of having ever fallen for my stepbrother and then driving him away.
For the record, Caleb Whitmore isn’t even my stepsibling anymore. My mom divorced his dad a few years ago, but I think some stigmas never go away—like, you don’t sleep with your best friend’s ex-boyfriend, and you don’t date your friend’s brother. Caleb will always be my stepbrother because we kind of grew up together.
I don’t even have memories of the time before him. I can’t remember the house I lived in before I lived with him, except that it had a rooftop garden. I can’t remember the friends I had before he came along. I can’t even remember my own dad before his dad came into the picture.
All I remember is one day when I was five, Mom said we were leaving, and that I was going to get a brother. Then the dark days followed where I cried because I hated the idea of a sibling.
And then a burst of sunlight: a tiny six-year-old boy holding the rings on a velvet cushion, standing next to me. I remember thinking I was taller than him in my frilly, itchy dress, flowers in my hand. I remember thinking that I liked his blond hair and green eyes as opposed to my black hair and weird violet eyes. Together, we watched our parents get married, and together, we grimaced when they kissed each other on the lips.
It was beautiful, with white lilies and the smell of cake everywhere.
Now, I make my way toward the solitude. Slipping and stumbling on the transparent patches of ice, I enter the park. The cold wind curls around my body, making me shiver, but I keep going, my booted feet trudging through the snow. I’m looking for a particular spot that I like to frequent during the nights when I can’t sleep, which happens often.
Unrequited love and insomnia are longtime friends of mine. They might even be siblings—evil and uncaring with sticky fingers.
Frustrated, I stomp and slip, falling against the scratchy bark of a tree. Even through the thick layer of my fur coat, I feel the sting.
“Motherfucking…” I mutter, rubbing the burn on my arm. My eyes water with the pain, both physical and emotional. I hate this. I hate crying. I wipe my tears with frozen fingers and try to control my choppy breaths.
“It’s fine. It’s totally fine,” I whisper to myself. “I’m gonna be fine.” My words stumble over each other, but at least I’m not crying now.
Then I hear a sound. Footsteps on the iced ground. A wooden creak. Fear has me hiding against the tree, but curiosity has me peeking out.
A tall man dressed in all black—black hoodie and black sweatpants—is sitting on the bench, my bench, under my tree with the network of empty branches.
That’s my spot, asshole, I want to say, but I’m mute. Terrified. Who is he? What’s he doing here at this time of night? People sleep at night! I’m an exception though; I’m heartbroken.
He sits on the edge, head bent and covered by the hood, staring at the ground. Slowly, he slides back, sprawls, and tilts his face up. His hood falls away, revealing a mass of black hair illuminated by the yellow light of the lamp. It’s long and wavy, almost sailing past the nape of his neck and touching his shoulders. He watches the sky and I do the same. We watch the moon, the fat clouds. I smell snow in the air.
I decide the sky isn’t interesting enough. So, I watch him.
He is breathing hard, his broad chest puffing up and down. I notice a thick drop of sweat making its way down his strained throat, over the sharp bump of his Adam’s apple. Maybe he’s been running?
Without looking down, the dark man reaches back to get something from his pocket—a cigarette. He shifts, brings his face down, and I see his features. They are a system of angles and sharp, defined lines. His high cheekbones slant into a strong, stubbled jaw. Sweat dots his forehead and he wipes it off with his arm, stretching the fabric of his hoodie over his heaving chest.
Any moment, I expect him to light the cigarette and take in a drag. I realize I’m dying to watch him smoke, to see the tendrils of smoky warmth slip away into the winter air.
But he…doesn’t.
He simply stares at it. Wedged between two of his fingers, the cigarette remains still, an object of his perusal. He frowns at it, like he is fascinated. Like he hates it. Like he can’t imagine why a blunt stick of cancer is holding his attention.
Then he throws it away.
He reaches back again and gets out another cigarette. The same routine follows. Staring. Frowning. My anticipation of seeing what he does next.
This time he sighs, his chest shuddering up and down as he produces a lighter from his pocket. He throws the stick in his mouth and lights it up with a flick of his finger. He takes a drag and then lets the smoke seep out. His eyes fall shut at the ecstasy of that first pull. He might’ve even groaned. I would have.
Watching him fight his impulse to smoke was exhausting. I feel both sad and happy that he gave in. I wonder what I would’ve done in the same situation. Kara’s face comes to mind, her saying I need to work on restraining myself.
I know the smoke coming out of his mouth is virgin, not a drop of marijuana in there, but I want it in my mouth too. I so want it.
Abruptly, he stops and shoots up from his seat, pocketing the lighter. This guy is tall, maybe 6’3” or something. I have to crane my neck to look at him even though I’m standing far away. He skips on his feet, takes one last drag, flicks the cigarette on the ground, crushes it, pulls the hoodie over, and takes off jogging.
I come unglued from the tree, run to the bench, and look in the direction where he vanished -- nothing but darkness and frosty air. I might as well have conjured him up, like a child makes up an imaginary friend to feel less lonely. Sighing, I sit where he sat. The place is cold as ever, as if he never sat there.
My exhaustion is taking its toll and I close my eyes. I breathe in the lingering smell of cigarette and maybe even something chocolatey. I curl up on the bench, my cheek pressing into the cold wood. I hate winter, but I can’t fall asleep in my warm bed. It’s one of those ironies people laugh about.
Drifting into sleep, I pray that the color of the stranger’s eyes isn’t green.
I live in a tower.
It’s the tallest building around the area of PenBrook University, where I’ve been banished to go to school. I’m on the top floor in a two-bedroom apartment overlooking the university park. In fact, I can see the entire campus from my balcony—the umbrella of trees, red rooftops of squatting houses, spiked buildings. I like to sit up on my balcony and throw water balloons at people down on the street. When they look up, outraged, I duck behind the stone railing, but in those five seconds, I feel acknowledged. They knew someone was up there, throwing things at them. I like that.
The lower floors will be rented out in a few months, but currently I’m the only person living in this posh, luxurious, tower-like building. Henry Cox, my current stepdad, is the owner, hence the early access. My mom thought living in a dorm would make me more susceptible to drugs and alcohol. As if I can
’t score here if I want to.
Since my heart is lonely today, I decide to go to the bookstore and get the books on my course list. Might as well since classes begin tomorrow.
I throw on some sweatpants and a large hoodie, then cover myself up with my favorite purple fur coat, a scarf, and a hat. My dark hair falls around my face for extra protection from the cold.
Ten minutes later, I’m at the campus bookstore, pulling up the list of books on my phone. One by one, I collect the required texts in the nook of my arm. I’m sad that it took only a few minutes and now I’ll have to go back to my tower.
Then I get an idea. I walk toward the literature section of the store. Rows and rows of books with beautiful calligraphy surround me in shoulder-height wooden bookshelves. There’s a smell here that I can get used to, warm and sharp. Heaven must smell like this.
Unlike Caleb, I’m not much of a reader. He’s a great lover of books and art.
With Lana crooning in my ears about “Dark Paradise,” I run my fingers over the edges of the books, trying to decide how best to mess things up. My lonely heart perks up. It flips in my chest, telling me how much it appreciates my efforts to fill this giant, gaping hole.
Don’t mention it.
Then I get to work. I trade books on the G shelf with the ones on the F. I laugh to myself, cackling as I imagine people getting confused. It calls for a little twerking so I move my ass—only a little, mind you—to the sensual beats of the song.
As I turn around, my movements halt. The book in my hand remains suspended in the air and all thoughts vanish from my head.
He is here.
Him.
The dark smoker from last night.
He stands tall and intimidating with a book of his own in his hands. Like last night, he is frowning at the object. Maybe it pissed him off somehow, offended him with its existence. If not for the ferocity of his displeasure, I never would’ve recognized him under the industrial light of the bookstore.
He looks different in the light. More real. More angry. More dangerous.
His dark hair gleams, the strands made of wet, black silk. The night muted their beauty, their fluidity. I was right about his face though.
It is a web of square planes and valleys, sharp and harsh, but regal and proud. Nothing is soft about him except his lips, which are currently pursed. I picture the cigarette sitting in his full, plump mouth.
Then, like last night, he sighs, and the violence in his frown melts a little. He hates the book, but he wants it. I think he hates how much he wants it.
But why? If he wants it so much, he should just take it.
My heart has forgotten its loneliness and is invested in this dark stranger now. I study him from top to bottom. A leather jacket hangs from his forearm. He’s wearing a crisp white shirt and blue jeans and…
Oh my God! He’s wearing a white shirt and blue jeans.
He’s dressed like my favorite song, “Blue Jeans” by Lana Del Rey.
My heart starts to beat faster. Faster. Faster. I need him to look up. I need to see his eyes. I will him to do just that, but he doesn’t get my vibes. I’m just about to go up to him when a girl skips into my vision.
He looks up then. In fact, he whips his eyes up, irritated.
They are blue—a brilliant blue, a fiery blue, like the hottest part of a flame, or like the water that puts out that flame.
“Um, hi,” the girl says as her blonde ponytail swishes across her back.
He doesn’t reply but watches her through his dark, thick lashes.
“I was wondering if you could help me get a few books from over there.” She points to the tall wooden shelf across the room that almost touches the roof. A couple of girls are standing by it. They giggle among themselves when he looks over.
Really? That’s so cliché, hitting on a guy like that at a bookstore.
Well, who am I to judge? I’ve done things like that multiple times with Caleb, playing the damsel in distress just so he’ll come save me.
The girl is waiting for him to say something. He’s been holding his silence for the past few seconds, and I begin to feel embarrassed for her. Silence is the worst response when trying to get someone to notice you.
Then he breaks his tight pose and shrugs. “I’d love to help you, but I forgot my ladder at home today.”
Low and guttural—his voice. It’s a growl, really, and it makes me shiver.
He delivers the line with such dryness that even I’m confused. Don’t they have a ladder here at the store? But then the complete, yet fake, innocence on his face tells me he’s making a joke, and despite the shivery skin, I chuckle quietly.
“They have a ladder here. Look,” the girl says, pointing to the dark brown wooden ladder slanting against the bookcase. Her friends are still staring at the exchange between them.
“I see,” he murmurs, scratching his jaw with his thumb and then drumming his fingers against his biceps.
There are tight lines around his eyes, flashing in and out of existence. He’s trying to control himself yet again. He hated the interruption, and now he’s deciding how to deal with it. It’s all guesswork on my part, but I’m right. I just know it.
“I’m totally scared to climb it in my heels,” the blondie explains.
“You shouldn’t be,” he encourages. “I do it all the time.”
“Do what all the time?”
“Climb ladders in my heels,” he deadpans and studies something on the floor—her shoes, maybe? “Ah, I can see where you’re having trouble. Pencil heels. You don’t want to mess with those. Dangerous contraptions. People have lost their lives.”
There’s a moment of silence. Then, “You’re kidding, right?”
“No, I never kid about heels.” He rubs his lips together. “Or skirts that make my calves look slimmer. I never kid about them either.”
“What?” the girl screeches.
He draws back, looking affronted. “You don’t think my calves can look slim in a skirt? Are you calling me fat?”
“Wh-What? I’m not… I never…”
“Yes, so I just had a tub of chocolate ice cream, and yes, I promised myself I’d cut down on sugar”—a sharp, dramatic sigh—“but I slipped up. You think just because you’re blonde and pretty you can question a man’s wardrobe choices?” The blue in his eyes is amused, as are the crinkles around them. I press my lips together to stop the snort from bursting out.
“I don’t…I don’t even know what you’re talking about. I just came here asking for help.” The girl is irritated and indignant.
The crinkles around his eyes snap back into tight lines. “Let me tell you a little secret.” He lowers his voice and I find myself inching closer. “I’m not the helping kind.” He tilts his head to point toward her friends. “You should run along and play with people your own age and IQ level.”
Then he throws the book on the shelf, looks at his watch, and strides away, leaving us both stunned. The blondie huffs and heads toward her friends.
So the blue-eyed smoker is a giant asshole. I feel bad for the girl, even though a trapped laugh escapes me.
If that was his show of control, I don’t know what he’ll do if unleashed. I walk to where he was standing and pick up the abandoned book. A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments by Roland Barthes. It looks harmless enough with an unassuming black cover. I wonder why he was mad at this book. I wonder how our conversation would go if we ever talked. I wouldn’t even know what to say to him, except, Hi, I’m Layla, and you remind me of a song.
Hours later, I’m back at home. I’m tired and want to go to sleep. I don’t even want to watch porn, which I would normally do while munching on my Twizzlers. I don’t watch porn to get myself off, no. I don’t even touch myself. I watch it to feel something, a sense of closeness to someone, maybe. I study the naked, writhing bodies, the erotic frown on the girl’s face, the look of focus on the guy’s. I listen to the sounds they make, albeit fake.
I try to understand the
ir dynamic. It looks surreal to me. I try to compare it with the one time I had sex. It was nothing like that. The guy didn’t look at me like he’d die if he didn’t get inside me, and the girl—me—wanted him to get out as soon as he got in.
Well, that’s what you get when you force someone to sleep with you.
________________
First day of the spring semester. I wonder why they call it the spring semester; it’s still January and freakishly cold. The snow is sprawled around like a white nightmare and the wind blows it sideways, slapping our faces with chilled flurries.
Even so, there’s an enthusiasm in the air. New classes, new professors, new love stories.
The street outside my tower is flooded with people carrying book bags and wearing puffed-up multicolored jackets. I’m bombarded with shrieks of laughter and conversations as I walk down the street to Crème and Beans, my favorite coffee shop.
It seems as if it’s become everyone’s favorite overnight because it’s jam-packed this morning. I wait in a long line that stretches to the back of the store.
The line moves slowly, like molasses, and as I take a step forward, I see him. Again. The blue-eyed smoker. He is up ahead at the counter. I can only see his profile—square jaw and untamed hair—as he steps out of the line, fishes his wallet out, and pays for the coffee.
He walks out, clenching a cigarette between his teeth, and lights it up. No hesitation this time. Has he already lost the battle?
My legs move of their own volition and I abandon the line, running after him. Even the blast of the cold wind isn’t enough to deter me from pursuing the dark stranger.
He is eating up the distance, leaving a trail of smoke behind. He is more lunging than walking with his long legs, and I have to speed-walk to keep up. He walks toward McKinley Street where the quad is located, dodging the stream of people easily. I’m not as graceful. I bump and crash into bodies.
The Unrequited Page 2
