He lets the paper float down to the ground where it lands next to his boots. Fucking boots. I have no idea why I am so obsessed with them—and his hands.
“Is there a purpose to this visit?”
I focus on his face. “Yes.”
“And what exactly is it?”
I stare at the slant of his jaw. The stubble over his face has grown thicker over the course of the day. It casts a shadow that contrasts with the brightness of his eyes. Twin blue flames. There’s so much anger in them—anger, irritation, frustration.
I should be wary of him. I should want to stay away. But I don’t.
Thomas Abrams is a wounded animal. It’s a wound of the heart, bleeding and gaping. It makes him snap out and snarl.
I want to…lick him like I did his words. I want to kiss him.
Holy shit!
My broken heart wants to kiss him better. Stupid, idiot heart.
Swallowing, I lick my lips, studying the curve of his. I want to suck on those angry lips, vacuum his plump mouth between my mouth, my teeth, until the anger drains away and only his fire remains.
I breathe out misty breaths. They thicken the air. Under my gaze, the pulse on his neck jumps rhythmically, like my heart. I want to suck on that patch of skin too, soothe it. I want to suck the pain away from his heart.
Oh God, I’m crazy. I’ve lost my mind.
My mouth is dry even though I’m slippery between my legs. A wrong and dirty sort of quickening rises in my stomach.
“I have to go.” I pant like a fool and lift my eyes up to his. His gaze is searing. It burns through my flimsy cover. The tic in his jaw is violent in conjunction with his flared nostrils. He’s ready to kill, the wounded animal.
I gulp and back away. My registration slip crinkles beneath my boots, sounding like a gunshot in the silent but charged room.
“Writing is not for everyone, Miss Robinson,” Thomas says when I’m almost at the door. “It takes a certain depth of soul, a certain sort of sensitivity, if you will. Not very many people possess that. It’s good to know when to give up.”
I don’t know if he’s taunting me or telling the truth, and I don’t have the energy to find out. My lust has made me stupid, more stupid than I normally am.
“Thanks for the advice, Professor.” I turn to look at him. “But depth is misleading from the surface. Sometimes taking a plunge is the only way to find out if the water is too deep or just deep enough.”
We stare at each other. I don’t know what he sees when he looks at me. When I look at him, though, all I see is someone brokenhearted. I see him trying to catch his wife as she slips. I see him following her, like I did with Caleb.
I wrote that poem for you.
Thomas locks his jaw in a clench and walks back to his chair. The legs squeak as he sits down and his hands get busy sifting through the papers.
I turn around too, facing the door. Right next to the Tiffany lamp I was planning to throw at him lies a black, sleek book. In my anger, I hadn’t noticed it before. It’s the same book from the bookstore—A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments by Roland Barthes—though this copy is old and frayed.
As I step out of his room, I stick my hand out and swipe the book. I cradle it to my chest and walk away.
________________
Sitting in bed with Lana’s voice blasting through my headphones, I open the first page of the stolen book. It holds a message in curly handwriting.
To Thomas. Hope you enjoy reading this piece of literature (again) that no sane person can understand. Love, Hadley.
I run my fingers over the smudged ink while picturing scenarios in my head. I weave a story in which Hadley and Thomas have been dating for a year now, and it’s his birthday. Hadley gifts him his favorite book, a book he’s read countless times before. He’s surprised, happy, and he kisses her like she is his greatest gift. Gentle, tender kisses. Kisses worthy of a queen—not the kind I want and probably deserve, filthy and rough and messy and wet.
With a sigh, I focus on the pages that have been yellowed, flipping through them. Every once in a while, I stop when I see a passage underlined or a word scribbled. Agony. Fire. Passion. Loneliness. Destroyed. Crumble. Burn. Sleepless.
The letters are straight and clear, severe, like Thomas, but there is an extra swirl in his esses, making them playful, somewhat soft. I want to keep touching them, want to lick them.
Then all at once, my heart stops beating.
Unrequited.
The word is written next to a passage that has been underlined with thick black lines. It says that the unrequited lover is the one who waits. He waits and waits, and then waits some more. He is the one who drops vital moments of his life, lets them scatter away, lets himself scatter away piece by piece for those three words. I love you. He is desperate and lonely, both by choice and circumstance.
It’s the story of my life packed into a neat, tidy script.
Thomas and I, we share the same story. We might have gotten there differently, but now we share the same fate.
I look at the time: twelve past eleven. I get up, pile on winter clothes, and head out the door. I’m going to the place I went to last night. I’m going to trespass. Again.
________________
I’ve got a confession to make: after seeing Thomas with Hadley at the coffee shop, I watched him…in his house…through the window, at night.
I know it sounds bad. Borderline criminal. Psychotic. Stalkerish. If Thomas ever knew, he’d kill me. If Kara ever found out, she’d shit her pants. So, I’m never going to tell them. I’ll be taking this one to the grave.
Thomas’ address was easy to find. It was on the university portal, under employee directory. I sat on that address for hours until I couldn’t, until the night fell and I wrote that shitty poem with horrible word choices.
I’ve always felt like an outsider, a freak of nature to love someone who’d never love me back, to love my own stepbrother, who for all intents and purposes is considered to be my actual brother by everyone…by my mother.
And now I’ve found someone who’s going through the exact same thing. So, I broke my rule to never stalk again and went to Thomas’ house last night. I watched him through his living room window. He sat on a colorless couch, sprawling, his hair sticking up. He graded papers, pen tightly clutched in his hands, a t-shirt clinging to the valleys of his body, a permanent frown sitting on his forehead. He’d look up every now and then, stare out the window. Thank God for the oversized foliage surrounding his house that kept me hidden. Then he’d stab a grade on the sheet and throw it on the coffee table. Rinse and repeat.
I could feel the frustration taking him over until he tossed the papers aside and began pacing. He’d stop and look behind him—I don’t know at what—and then pace again. It went on for hours, a hypnotizing ritual until he passed out on the couch, sitting up, his head pointed to the ceiling.
Tonight it’s snowing. Thick flakes fall from the sky, burying the sidewalks under small hills of snow. I walk with slow, measured steps, feeling the bite of the cold. The tall campus buildings give way to arched-roof houses, squatting far apart from each other. I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be snooping. It’s crazy, not to mention illegal, but I keep walking.
Up ahead, I see a house, separate from the others. Thomas’ house. The overgrown foliage and un-mowed lawn peppered with heaps of snow make it look abandoned. It’s a house, not a home.
My stomach feels the usual tight pull when Thomas is around, but it’s a false alarm, because Thomas isn’t there. The lights in the living room are out. This is the time to turn back—maybe they aren’t home—but my psychotic heart pushes me forward.
I brave the savage and cold yard and walk around the house. A lone tree towers over the roof, its sharp, naked branches grazing the siding. My eyes home in on the last window. Its light is on, and white curtains flutter with movement.
Slowly, I forge ahead.
I run my terrified gaze around but see no sign
of civilization. The houses are dark; the nearest one seems an ocean away from my position. I reach the window and squat down in hiding.
I hear murmured sounds and it takes me a moment to gather the courage to look up. The drapes are partially drawn, leaving a slice of an opening. I see Thomas clearly. He is standing, giving me his side profile. He is wearing black drawstring pajamas and is bare-chested.
Holy fuck. He’s almost naked.
He is not huge but tall and sleek, each muscle defined and curled. My eyes travel from his cheek down to the tendon of his neck merging into his strong shoulders. The veins on his toned arms flicker as he opens and closes his fist. His wedding band shines against his pants. He’s got an artist’s body: mysterious terrains, moody sheets of muscles that are tightened right now.
The murmurs are hard to place. Words run together. Their voices are low but the strain is unmistakable. I catch something about Nicky, about leaving him alone, about going somewhere for a few days. All of this is in Hadley’s high-pitched, feminine voice. I don’t know what Thomas says to that, but he’s agitated. He plows a hand through his hair, pulling on the contours of his ribs and stomach.
Looking at him like this, his body on display, made of hard muscles, he seems unbreakable. Oh, how stupid to think that.
He is breakable, more fragile than even his wife, Hadley. She can break him into pieces, mangle him, leave him ruined if she wants. No one can save him.
But we want to. We just want to kiss him. One kiss.
As if my one kiss will magically cure his wounded heart. As if he’ll even want to kiss someone like me. Besides, this isn’t what I’m supposed to be thinking about. I’m not here to perv over him. I’m here to…see him, without his usual bullshit. I’m here to see someone else like me.
A flash of yellow—a nightgown?—passes through until it disappears. The murmurs stop. The silence is thick and dark.
Thomas faces away from the window, giving me a glimpse of his back. It’s tight and strained. What were they talking about?
He shifts his stance and picks up an empty vase, his fingers fisting around its sleek neck. He raises his arm, getting ready to throw it in anger. I am already cringing at the impending crash, but at the last moment, he sets the vase down and walks out, following her.
Always following her.
It’s Saturday and I’m sitting at Crème and Beans. My table is slouched under the myriad of books I picked up from the bookstore last week.
I’ve got another confession to make. No, it’s not something horrendous or criminal like stalking or peeping through the window. Here it is: I bought some books on poetry after Thomas told me to give up on it. They are supposed to teach you how to be a poet, things like technique and form and syllables and types of verses. It’s all very intimidating and foreign-looking.
I’m so engrossed in the debate regarding the importance of blank space in a poem—it is as important as the words themselves, apparently—that I’m caught off guard at the strong waft of chocolate and something spicy.
My fingers heat up and I find Thomas peering down at me. He’s got a mug of coffee and a pastry bag in his hand, and the most devastating thing is the baby strapped to his chest, facing out. Nicky is kicking his legs and nibbling on his fist as he looks around the room. Thomas’ hand is splayed on his tummy in a protective gesture.
Dear God, this man is sexy.
Thomas is staring down at my book and I try to slide it toward me, inch by inch. But he puts his coffee and pastry aside, bends with Nicky still secure, and drags it back to the center of the table.
Smirking, he pins me with his gaze. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” I grumble, and try to tug the book away from his hold, but his hand is like a rock. “Let it go.”
He does and I jerk back in my chair with the force, earning a soft chuckle from Thomas. He takes a seat then. I can’t look away from the expert way he’s holding Nicky, safe and secure against his chest.
His chest that I saw naked last night.
Don’t think about it.
But my shameless heart doesn’t listen and I’m bombarded with flashes of my adventure. I press my lips together. If I’m not careful, I’ll end up blurting it all out. Thomas can never find out what I saw. Never.
He sips his coffee and fishes the pastry out of the bag—chocolate croissant.
“Is that your go-to food?” I ask, thinking about his delicious smell.
“Pretty much, yeah. And in case you were wondering…” He takes a bite of it. “I don’t share chocolate.”
I watch him chew, the smooth movements of his jaw and the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. It’s mundane, something he does multiple times every day, and that makes this common occurrence so uncommon for me. It’s a peek into his daily activities.
As if I haven’t gotten enough peeks. Disgusted, I lower my gaze.
Thomas goes ahead and picks up the book, reading the title, effectively hiding his face. “Coming of Age as a Poet.”
I’m doubly ashamed now. I don’t want him to see how I’m struggling, how deep his words from the other day cut me. “Can I have it back? I’m working.”
I tug it free from his grip and he lets me, revealing his playful gaze. “But you just said you’re doing nothing.”
I roll my eyes at his childish statement. “I lied, okay.”
“Lying’s a very bad habit, Miss Robinson,” he informs me, his voice anything but childish now. “It might land you in trouble.”
“I think I can handle a little trouble, Professor Abrams.”
He remains silent and drinks his coffee, watching me with speculation. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I want him to leave. I’ve committed so many crimes in the past couple of days that I can’t even look at him without going hot and flushed all over. I bet I resemble a tomato, and I don’t even like tomatoes, especially on a hamburger. I always gave them to Caleb.
He knows. Thomas knows I saw him last night.
“Do I make you nervous, Layla?”
“No,” I scoff—or try to; it comes out all squeaky and high.
“Yeah, I didn’t think so,” he murmurs then takes another sip. “Have you done something?”
“What, no,” I say quickly, playing with the pages of the book. “Look, do you mind leaving? I’m working here.”
“How can you work here? Isn’t it too loud?”
“I like it. It reminds me of home,” I mumble.
“Where did you live, a playground?”
“No. New York.”
He grows serious at my answer, and the crinkles around his eyes disappear as he studies me. Great, more microscopic observation. I should just tell him so this torture is over. Why can’t I be normal and hide things like other people?
Learn to eat your feelings, Layla. Learn it!
“You miss the noise of the city,” he concludes, breaking my inner monologue. I nod with hesitation. Taking another sip of the coffee, he says, “Me too.”
I barely suppress a gasp at his revelation. I’m shocked that he chose to tell me something personal about himself. Now, along with drowning in embarrassment about my nightly actions, I’m thoroughly confused.
“What?” he asks.
“I… You’re so weird.” He arches his eyebrow at me. “No, really. Why are you being so nice to me?”
“I’m always nice.”
“No, you’re not. You hate me. You’re always giving me a death glare, like I’m responsible for, I don’t know, terrorism or global warming or something.”
He chuckles or maybe laughs. It’s a bark of a sound, rusty and awkward but still. I made him do that. Me.
Thomas goes to take a sip of his coffee, but I snatch it away before he can. I’m feeling gutsy now. His weird laugh/chuckle has made me brave. Embarrassment is still there, but like every time we’re close, I become bolder.
Thomas gives me a meaningful look as I take a sip. “What? You know I only steal stuff that gives me a hig
h.” I shrug.
Shaking his head, he looks out the glass wall we’re sitting by. I realize that outside of the Labyrinth, Thomas is much more receptive to me. Outside of class, he’s more playful, relaxed. The man really hates teaching, doesn’t he?
Nicky chooses this moment to gurgle and whip his fists up and down. I’ve been avoiding looking at him. Somehow entertaining sordid thoughts about Thomas and spying on him, and then looking at Nicky’s innocent face feels…wrong.
“Hey, Nicky.” I greet him with a wave of my fingers, and the little man with the black beanie and fat cheeks turns his bright eyes to me. He lunges—as much as he can while still strapped to his daddy’s chest—to grab my finger. Chuckling, I reach out and let him wrap his dimpled fist around it.
“Aren’t you cute?” I blow kisses at him, making him laugh. “I wonder where you get it from.” I widen my eyes at Thomas playfully.
Thomas’ eyes are anything but playful. They are twin peaks of intensity, and they are trained on me. I shift in my chair, craving some sort of friction between my legs.
I want to keep looking, but I bring my focus back to Nicky. He’s playing with my finger happily. “Oh look, you’re wearing purple again. Good boy. You know what I think? I think you and me, we’re soul mates. We should have matching outfits.”
Thomas breaks his silence. “Don’t give him ideas. I don’t want my son to dress up like a clown.”
Affronted, I glare at him. “Are you calling me a clown? What’s wrong with what I wear?”
He pops a bit of the croissant in his mouth. “What’s that on your head?”
My free hand goes up and I take off my hat, ruffling my hair. Waves fall around my face and I push them away. Thomas’ gaze flicks over the loose mass of curls and it has me wondering if something is stuck in there. My hair tends to catch things—dead leaves, snow, twigs.
I feel shy all of a sudden so I glance down and clear my throat. “This is a Russian-style Arctic fur hat.”
“And this is what, Russia?”
The Unrequited Page 9
