The Unrequited

by Saffron A Kent

  I purse my lips at Thomas and the crinkles around his eyes deepen, as he chews on another piece of croissant. To Nicky, I say, “Tell him, Nicky. Tell him he’s a judgmental moron.”

  Nicky abandons my finger and stares at my hat. He coos at it while chewing on his fist. God, he’s so adorable. I almost can’t look at him.

  “Do you want this Russian hat by any chance, little man?” I offer it to him and he grabs at it, and then promptly goes on to drool on it. “See? He loves it so much he wants to eat it.” I throw Thomas a pitying glance. “It’s okay, not everyone can be cool.”

  “Don’t get too excited. He’s at a stage where everything looks like food and drool-worthy.” He whips out a tissue from his pocket, removes the hat from Nicky’s mouth, and wipes off his drool. I take this tiny moment to study him and his expert movements.

  “Is this your way of not giving up?” Thomas asks, pointing to the open book I’d completely forgotten about.

  Shyness stabs my cheeks again and I lower my eyes. “Maybe.”

  “Show me what you’ve written so far”

  I jerk my gaze up at him. “No—not that I’ve written anything. I can’t write. I don’t know how. Isn’t that what the problem is?”

  He shakes his head and snaps my notebook shut, making Nicky chuckle. Thanks for the support, buddy. “Now, I’m only going to say this once, so you better listen.”

  His professor-y voice makes me raise my hand as if we are in a classroom.

  “What?”

  “That’s exactly what you said in class,” I say, thinking about the time he blew his lid when people talked about their favorite writers. I lower my voice and imitate him, “I’m only gonna say this once…”

  Nicky chortles again and I beam with pleasure.

  “Do you want the advice or not?”

  I nod enthusiastically.

  “These books are no help to you unless you actually write something. They can’t teach you to write. They can only teach you to polish what you’ve written.” Sighing, he looks around, then settles his eyes on his coffee mug.

  “Wrap your hands around the coffee mug and close your eyes,” he tells me.

  Confused, I don’t do either of those things and he shakes his head at me. He leans forward, careful of Nicky, and drapes his big, thick fingers over my hands, bringing them to the mug.

  My breath hitches at the very first contact between us. His rough, bumpy hands over my tiny, pale ones, it’s…it’s jarring. It’s what I imagine touching a lightning rod feels like. Electric. Humming. Bubbling with energy.

  “Layla, you with me?” Thomas asks, and I gulp, jerking out a nod. “Close your eyes.”

  I do, because I’ve got no other option but to obey. He holds the functions of my body hostage with his touch, and my eyelids fall shut at his voice.

  I become awake, hypersensitive. I can hear the rasp of his breaths, punctuated by Nicky’s gurgles. I feel the sun on my face even though we’re sitting inside and the morning is grey. I want to shift in my chair, rub my thighs together. I want to ask him to increase the pressure of his grip so the feel of his skin is tattooed onto mine.

  “Tell me how the coffee mug feels.”

  Can you taste sound? I don’t know, but I can taste his voice in this moment. It’s viscous and thick and sweet. “I-I… Well, it’s hot.” But not as hot as your hands.

  “What else?”

  Under his palm, I move my fingers, feeling the rough contours of the coffee mug. It’s yellow in color with a brown ridged sleeve. “It’s rough, scratchy.” But the roughness of your hands feels so much better.

  “And?”

  I try to feel more and come in contact with something metallic. I bend my digit and touch something smooth with the knuckle. It’s the wedding band, cool against his patent heat, icy cold. The rhythm of my breathing changes—or maybe it’s his altered breaths, choppy and broken.

  Feeling the wrongness of it, I snap my finger straight and away, taking refuge in the sensations of our skin rubbing together. “It feels like…like sunshine, like just by touching it I’m —I’m awake and alert and I don’t know…just, alive.” And I’m not talking about the stupid coffee mug.

  Thomas removes his hand and I’m forced to open my eyes. There’s color on his cheeks, not quite red, but something similar that brightens up his flesh. It flips something in my chest.

  He shrugs. “There you have it. A cup of coffee is a pocketful of sunshine for you. Writing isn’t only about technique, though that’s important. It’s not about what you see; it’s about what you feel. You have to go in deeper, turn stones, look where you’d rather not look to be able to write. Ergo, you don’t need these books right now.”

  I put my hands in my lap, covering one with the other—a poor attempt to preserve the heat left by him. “Is that what you do? Look where you’d rather not?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Aren’t you afraid of what you’ll find?”

  I don’t have to wonder what I’ll find when I look inside me—a selfish, crazy girl who fell in the wrong kind of love—so I’d rather not look.

  “Terrified,” he murmurs, answering my question. “Art is painful, Layla. It’s potentially dangerous. Explosive. It takes everything from you, sometimes more than you can afford. It’s a beast, and it’s always starving. You feed it and feed it…until you have nothing left.” He sucks in a breath. “But you don’t mind because you’d rather chase the high of creating something than live in darkness. It’s insanity.”

  It’s the most truthful and the most miserable thing he’s ever said to me. His words lodge somewhere in my cracked heart, breaking it further. I realize he could be talking about love—an insane, hungry beast who takes and takes.

  “Are you going to take that?” Thomas asks after a while.

  “What?”

  Vibrations echo on my thigh, alerting me that my phone is ringing. I take it out of my pocket and almost drop it like I’m holding an icicle in my hand.

  It’s Caleb.

  Caleb, with his green eyes and dirty blond hair, grinning at me through my phone screen.

  I don’t…I don’t understand. I keep staring at it, keep listening to the shrill tune, hoping it will change, hoping Caleb’s face will dissolve, hoping this is a joke.

  It has to be, right? Why would he call me after two years?

  The phone stops ringing and I manage to take a halting breath.

  “Layla.”

  I look at Thomas like I don’t remember him.

  Before I can say something, the phone rings again, buzzing on the table. Without a second thought, I hop up from my seat, gather my things, and throw Thomas a distracted glance.

  “I-I have to go.”

  I run out of the café as if Caleb is here, rather than in fucking Massachusetts, as if Caleb has come to tell me how much he hates me.

  “No.” Emma is shaking her head. “I won’t wear that. I won’t.”

  “Why not?” I look at her in the mirror and then back to the dress in my hands. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “The color. It’s…orange.”

  “Tangerine,” I say for the millionth time. “It’s tangerine.”

  “They’re the same thing.” She puts her hand on her hip and turns to me. “Ugh. I just…don’t know about this.” She walks over to my bed and plops down on the pile of clothes.

  “Do you trust me?” I ask her seriously, and she laughs at my expression.

  I thrust the dress in her face to make her stop and she swats at it. “Just try it, okay? Tangerine is fucking awesome. It’ll look great on you. Trust me.” When she throws me a dubious look, I add, “Dylan’s gonna love it. It’s like you’re wearing…sunshine.”

  My lips curve up in a smile at the word. A cup of coffee is a pocketful of sunshine for you.

  “Wow, aren’t you the poet?” Emma teases.

  “Yeah, I might be.” I pull her up and shove her in the direction of my en suite. “Now, go change.”
>
  She gulps. “What if he doesn’t like me? You know, we’ve been friends for so long, and now, everything is changing. I don’t—”

  “Do you love him?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Yeah.”

  “Then it’s enough. Love is magical. It can do things, things you can’t even imagine.” I smile. “Just have a little faith.”

  “Okay.” Emma returns my smile with one of her own and leaves to change. I cross my fingers and toes, hoping, begging that what I said turns out to be true for her.

  My prayers are interrupted when I hear the depressing buzz of my phone from somewhere on the bed.

  Caleb.

  That’s all I think about as I frantically search for it under the pile of clothes and books and rumpled sheets.

  By the time I manage to find it, I miss the call, but it wasn’t from Caleb. It was my mom. What was I thinking? Of course Caleb wouldn’t call me. Maybe he butt-dialed me earlier or something. We have nothing to say to each other.

  The phone starts up again—my mom.

  “H-Hello,” I say as I try to tamp down my anxious heart. I have a bad feeling about this.

  “Layla. How are you?”

  Even though her tone is distracted, I can’t stop the pleasure of hearing from her. Her voice is soft and always manages to stay at the same decibel, but her face changes when she is angry, becomes even more beautiful—painfully beautiful. It’s hard to look at her. “I’m great. How-how are you?”

  “Good. Good. I wanted to talk to you about Henry’s party.”

  “Right. Sure. I remember. It’s next week. Don’t worry, I’m not gonna be there.”

  I made a mess at her Valentine’s party last year; I was drunk and high, and I vomited all over the Cupid ice sculpture. It was in the papers. Mom was so embarrassed that she decided to banish me. Since then, I’ve barely been to the city or her parties.

  “Yes. That’s very thoughtful of you, but I just wanted to remind you anyway. It’s imperative that you not come.”

  “Okay. I won’t be there. Pinkie promise.” I flop down on my back, my toes grazing the floor. How pathetic is it that your own mother calls you to remind you about your non-invitation?

  “It’s not a joke, Layla. This party is especially important, and I don’t want anything to ruin it.”

  Meaning: I don’t want you to ruin it.

  “Care to share?” I ask, curling a strand of my hair.

  “Pardon me?”

  My mom would never say excuse me or sorry. That’s too common and uncultured for her. Pardon me, on the other hand, is a sign of being ladylike, which I am not, by the way.

  “About the party. What’s so important about it? It’s just Henry’s birthday.”

  “It’s not important.”

  “But you just said it’s important.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Frowning, I sit up. “Mom, why are you being weird?”

  “Layla.” She sighs again.

  “Mom, just tell me, or I might decide to show up after all.”

  Instant fear. I can almost hear her gasping. Oh, the horror of her crazy daughter showing up to ruin everything. I’m like the plague.

  I hear the tinkle of her bracelets through the phone. She changes hands when she is uncomfortable. “Caleb has agreed to attend.”

  Cold seeps into my bones, starting up in my ears, traveling down the side of my neck, pervading my entire body. I can fucking feel it moving. “C-Caleb?”

  “Yes. He responded to my invitation.”

  Even though Caleb doesn’t have anything to do with Henry, my mom insists on having him around for every occasion. Caleb is the son she never had.

  “Okay,” I mumble.

  “And I don’t want to spook him.” I clutch the phone harder as she continues. “Because I want him to move back to the city. His place is here, working for his father’s company. I want things to go as planned.”

  My eyes scrunch closed. “Sure. Yeah. It’s better if I’m not there.” The pressure increases and tears threaten to fill the shuttered confines of the sockets.

  “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

  “Yeah.”

  There’s silence after that, long and stretched. I don’t know why we’re holding on to the connection, why we’re listening each other breathe. Maybe Mom wants to add something. Maybe I’m afraid to be alone after she hangs up.

  I’m still thinking about the maybes when Mom speaks up. “Okay then. Call me if you need anything.”

  That’s what she always says at the end of a conversation. “Yeah. I will.”

  I won’t. I never do.

  A click and she is gone. My tears lose the battle and fall down my cheeks, a river of guilt and sadness, maybe even anger. I’m not sure. I fall back on the bed and curl into a fetal position with the phone tucked beneath my cheek. Sobs rack my body—guttural, animalistic sounds I don’t recognize, never thought I could even make. I never thought my chameleon heart could break this much. I’ve never felt so alone in my entire life.

  So unloved. Such a freak of nature.

  I feel a soft hand on my shoulder. “Layla,” Emma says softly, glowing in the tangerine dress. “Layla, what happened? What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

  Through hot tears, I look at her. She is a stranger to me. We hardly know anything about each other. She doesn’t know how rotten I am, the things I have done. Her concern for me is unwarranted. If she knew, she wouldn’t be here, consoling me, looking distressed on my behalf.

  If I were stronger, a better person, I’d turn her away. I wouldn’t grab on to her blind kindness, but I’m not a good person. Haven’t I proved that already?

  I sit up, turn on my side, and hug her like a child. Emma is surprised, but she puts her arm around me anyway. I tuck my face in her neck. It’s unfamiliar. It smells of watermelon, sweet and comforting.

  She pats my back. “Hey, what’s wrong? What happened?”

  “N-Nothing.” I clutch her harder. I need the connection. I need to know I’m not repulsive, like my own mother thinks.

  We stay like this for a few minutes before I move away, embarrassed. “I’m sorry for pouncing on you.”

  “It’s okay. I don’t mind. What happened?”

  I can’t tell her. I can’t. She’ll hate me and then she’ll leave.

  “It’s nothing.” I sniff, smiling awkwardly. Then I swing my legs down and jump to my feet, clapping. “Let’s get you all ready for your date.”

  Emma looks at me like I’m crazy.

  ________________

  I’m contained in a bubble, thick as glass. I can barely hear and see through it. It feels like I’ve traveled back in time and I’m going through the same cold numbness I felt when Caleb left. I’d drench that numbness with Grey Goose or pot or creating chaos in the world. My favorite was drunk driving. People would look at me with accusing eyes, would honk at me, and I’d laugh. It soothed something inside me, being accused. I was a bad person, and people needed to know that.

  Being good sucks, by the way. I need the drugging fumes of pot to forget Caleb’s out-of-the-blue call. Why the fuck did he call me? Maybe to un-invite me to the party like my mom did. It’s all for the best, really. I don’t care about the party, nor do I want to see Caleb. I never want to see him again, if I can help it. How would I even face him? What would I say?

  Everything is fine. So why do I feel like crying?

  I don’t even realize class is over until I hear the screech of chairs shifting across the cement floor. People are murmuring and packing up their bags, ready to leave.

  Emma puts her hand on my shoulders. “Hey, you ready to go?”

  “Yeah. Yes. Let me pack up.”

  I’ve just put my notebook in my backpack and picked up my winter gear when I hear my name called.

  “Miss Robinson, I’d like to see you after class.”

  I gulp as I hear Thomas use his formal, curt voice. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to confront him tod
ay. I tell Emma to go ahead without me and she leaves with Dylan. The class is almost empty as I shuffle to Thomas’ desk, leaving my belongings behind.

  He watches me with open fascination, his arms folded across his chest. I glance up at him and catalog the separate parts of his appearance. Maroon shirt paired with black jeans. Wild hair. Glinting eyes. Sleek lines of his jaw. Thumb grazing his lower lip in soft caresses. I want to both keep looking at him and escape from his masculine beauty. It’s too soothing and too overwhelming for my senses.

  This is the second time he’s stopped me after class. The first time he told me I had a crush on him, which turned out to be true. I wonder what he’ll say now.

  “How did you like the class today, Miss Robinson?”

  Busted. I wasn’t paying attention—he knows it, I know it, but still I keep up the charade. “Great, as usual.”

  “Is that right?”

  I nod, keeping my gaze on the desk.

  “Remember what I said, Layla?” His powerful, rich voice creates a buzz inside my body. “Lying might land you in trouble.”

  I lift up my eyes to look at him. The buzz escalates into a restless trembling and words slip out of my mouth in a thick whisper. “I’m not afraid of a little trouble.”

  His thumb arcs in a long sweep across his lip, before he straightens his arms and thrusts them in his pockets. The silence between us has a certain drama to it. Thomas is preparing to unveil something. My pulse is pounding.

  “Who’s Caleb?”

  My breath tangles up in my throat and all I can do is gasp. It’s both quiet and loud, a breeze and a gust.

  How does he know that name?

  The name of the boy I love in Thomas’ low, thick voice sounds wrong. Caleb is so gentle, so soft. His name needs to be spoken quietly, with reverence. He is nothing like Thomas—or me, for that matter.

  Thomas frowns when I don’t say anything. “Did he do something to you?”

  “What?” The idea is so insane that I can only stand there and mutter useless words.

  “The guy who called you yesterday,” he explains. “Did he do something to you? Did he hurt you in some way?”

  I shake my head once, still reeling from the fact that Thomas knows anything about Caleb. “It’s none of your business.”