“Then why do you keep staring at the snow?” I shrug, and she dips her head in acceptance of my non-answer. “How about you try writing something about what you felt when Caleb left? About the way you acted up?”
Caleb.
I’m jolted at the mention of his name. It’s not an outward jolt, more a tremor on the inside, like when you hear a sudden loud sound in a quiet apartment and you know it’s nothing, but your body tenses nonetheless.
I don’t think I’ve heard his name spoken out loud since I moved here six months ago. It sounds so exotic in Kara’s voice. On my tongue, his name sounds loud, shrill, wrong somehow. I shouldn’t be saying it, but hey, I’ve got no impulse control, so I say it anyway.
I hate her for bringing him up. I hate that she’s going there in a roundabout way.
“I didn’t act up. I just…got drunk…every now and then.” I clear my throat, pushing my anger away when all I want to do is storm out of here.
“I know, and then every now and then, you went shoplifting, crashed your mom’s parties, and got behind the wheel.”
Should therapists be judgy like this? I don’t think so. And why are we talking about these things, all of a sudden? Mostly, we stick to neutral topics like school and my teachers, and when things get a little personal, I evade and make jokes.
This one time when she tried talking about the days leading up to Caleb’s departure, I took my top halfway off and showed her my newly acquired belly button ring, and maybe even the underside of my bra-less boobs.
“I didn’t kill anyone, did I?” I say, referring to her earlier comment about drinking and driving. “Besides, they took away my license, so the people of Connecticut are safe from the terror that is me. Why are we talking about this?”
“Because I think you can channel all of your emotions into something good, something constructive. Maybe you’ll end up liking it. Maybe you’ll end up liking college.” She lowers her voice then. “Layla, I know you hate college. You hate seeing me every week. You hate being here, but I think you should give it a chance. Do something new. Make new friends.”
I want to say I do have friends—I do, they are just not visible to the naked eye—but I don’t, because what’s the point of lying when she knows everything anyway?
“Fine.”
Kara looks at the clock on the wall to her right. “Tell me you’ll think about it, really think about it. The semester starts in a couple days so you’ve got a week to think about the courses, okay?”
I spring up from my seat and gather my winter gear. “Okay.”
“Good.”
It takes me a couple of minutes to get ready to go out in the snow. I snap my white gloves on and pull down the white beanie to cover my ears.
Winter is a cruel bitch. You gotta pile on or you’ll get burned by the stinging wind, and no matter how much I pile on, I’m never warm enough, not even inside the heated buildings. So, I’ve got it all: hat, scarves, gloves, thermal tights, leg warmers, fur boots.
I’m at the door, turning the knob, but something stops me.
“Do you think…he’s doing okay up there? I mean, do you think he misses me?” I don’t know why I ask this question. It simply comes out.
“Yes. I do think he misses you. You guys grew up together, right? I’m sure he misses his best friend.”
Then why doesn’t he call? “Boston is cold,” I blurt out stupidly, my throat feeling scraped. A chill runs through my body at the thought of all that snow up there.
“But I’m sure he’s fine,” she reassures me, with a smile.
“Yeah,” I whisper. I’m sure Harvard is taking good care of their genius.
“You know, Layla, falling in love isn’t bad or wrong or even hard. It’s actually really simple, even if there’s no reciprocation. It’s the falling out that’s hard, but no matter how much you convince yourself otherwise, reciprocation is important. It’s what keeps the love going. Without it, love just dies out, and then it’s up to you. Do you bury it, or do you carry the dead body around? It’s a hard decision to make, but you have to do it.”
I know what she’s saying: move on, forget him, don’t think about him—but how can you forget a love of thirteen years? How can you forget the endless nights of wanting, needing, dreaming? I love you. That’s all I ever wanted to hear. How can I let go of that?
With a jerky nod, I walk out of her room. Outside the building, the air is cold and dry. It hurts to breathe. My heart is still fluttering with residual anxiety when I take my phone out, and stare at the last picture I have of him. He’s smiling in it. His green, green eyes are shining and his plump, kissable lips are stretched wide. It’s fucking beautiful. I don’t think I can ever delete it. Not in this lifetime.
I put the phone away when I see a couple. They are up ahead of me on the cobblestone pathway, and they are wrapped around each other. The girl is cold, her cheeks red, and the guy is rubbing his hands over hers, trying to warm her up. They are smiling goofy smiles, reminding me of a smile from long ago.
Caleb as the ring bearer and me as the flower girl. Caleb stopping in his confident but boyish stride to take my small hand in his, me looking up at him with a frown. Oh, how I hated him in that moment. Caleb flashing his adorable smile and me returning it, despite the frown, despite the strange surroundings, despite the fact that my mom was marrying his dad. I hated getting a new brother. I hated moving across town to a new house with no rooftop garden.
At the fork, the couple takes a right turn and I’m supposed to go left, but I don’t want to go left. I want to go where they’re going. I want to bask in their happiness for a while. I want to see reciprocation.
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.
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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.
Chapter Two
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 valle
ys, 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.
Medicine Man Page 36
