No One Here Is Lonely

by Sarah Everett

  This night, Lacey and I had come home after spending the day at the mall. Mrs. Murdoch’s gray Toyota pulled into the driveway a few minutes after we arrived, and she recruited help from Lacey, Oliver and me to unload groceries from the back of her car. In between those trips from the car into the house, our hands full of brown bags with green apples and toilet paper and frozen waffles, something happened and it caused Lacey to explode. I would find out later that it involved Lacey’s father having purchased tickets for him and Lacey to attend some hipster music festival in LA, the fall equivalent of Coachella, as a late birthday present to Lacey. But the weekend was in the middle of the school year and Mrs. Murdoch didn’t think she should go.

  “You just don’t trust me,” Lacey bellowed to her across the kitchen, and Mrs. Murdoch answered, “I trust you plenty. I just don’t think the timing works.”

  “So when works better for you?” Lacey hissed. “Never? After the ice caps melt?”

  “Lacey,” her mother said, thumbs on her temples. “You’re giving me a headache. Can you lower your voice?”

  “Why can’t I ever express myself without being told to calm down or you’re giving me a headache or I don’t have time for this? You don’t care what I think. It’s always about proving that you’re in control.”

  Those were the magic words. I had come to know them well over the past eleven years, or rather, the past six years since the Murdochs had divorced.

  This is about control.

  You just want to control me.

  You just want me to be your little puppet.

  And they were off to the races.

  Mrs. Murdoch lost her patience then and was yelling back at Lacey, accusing her of being disrespectful, of trying to rile her up by choosing her dad whenever she could, and Lacey was yelling back more of the above.

  All you want is to be able to control everyone, for everyone to do exactly what you say all the time.

  There is nothing more awkward than watching your friends fight with their parents in your presence. For the most part, it was like they forgot you were there, and all the details that were usually hidden from you, like dirty underwear or used tissues, were strewn all over the place, hanging out in the open. The moments when they remembered your presence were even worse.

  Lacey, you’re making this miserable for Eden. I doubt she planned to spend her Friday night watching her friend have a hissy fit.

  Or, Lacey, let’s talk about this later. You’re making Eden uncomfortable.

  Or, Eden was even there when I told you this last time, Mom. Right, Eden?

  And I’d mumble some noncommittal thing or claim not to remember, even if I did, and then try to busy myself pretending to read texts or, in this case, stuff apples into the fruit bowl.

  Thankfully, this time, Oliver was there too, and our eyes would meet periodically as we went on working (Lacey and her mom were face to face in the middle of the kitchen now, mirror images, hands on hips, eyes narrowed, mouths shooting venom). He would roll his eyes every few minutes or make a face, and I’d shoot a small smile back, careful not to get caught mocking the fight.

  Oliver had a million extracurriculars, most involving sports, so he wasn’t always there during these spats, but I was grateful whenever he was.

  Sometimes he would intervene with an incredulous, Really? That’s what this is about? Or, Come on, Lace, just leave it, when his sister had gone too far.

  No matter what they were fighting about, the arguments always ended the same way. One person would suddenly refuse to keep engaging—usually Mrs. Murdoch—and the other would make one last dig—usually Lacey—and then Lacey would look at me, nod in the direction of an exit and skulk off, me following quickly behind. It had happened a few times when I hadn’t been able to follow her, like when we were eating dinner and she stormed off into her room, or when we were shopping with her mom and Lace had disappeared into another aisle, too annoyed to stay. On those occasions, the word awkward took on new meanings. Mrs. Murdoch would sigh and say, Sorry you had to see that, Eden. Or, I bet you never talk to your parents that way, and I’d laugh or try to say something innocuous enough that it wasn’t throwing Lacey under the bus but wasn’t making enemies with her mom either. One time, Lacey’s mom had burst into tears after their fight and hurried upstairs into her room to cry.

  I had witnessed so many of Lacey and her mom’s outbursts that I should have been used to them, but the truth is that fights are one of those things that are particular to a family. Like hair color or birthday rituals or how many things you put ketchup on. The cadences of an argument, the words you pick, how far you’re willing to go, how long it lasts—all those things are unique, like a family crest or thumbprints or something. The fights Lacey and her mom had were so much more intense than any my family ever had. And while I always knew they’d work things out soon enough, that still didn’t make things any less uncomfortable. The one good thing was that the volatile nature of their relationship made me feel certain that Lacey could relate to how out of place I often felt in my family, made me know I could trust that she’d understand that I said some words in the heat of the moment, and that when things were fine again, those words—those feelings—were void. She wouldn’t judge me.

  That night, though, their fight grew so ugly that it dragged past dinnertime and even I was beginning to get a headache. I followed Lacey up to her room as usual and listened to her vent and stew and curse under her breath while she hate-ate through half a jar of Nutella. She fell asleep still angry, and as I lay on the floor in my sleeping bag beside her bed, listening to the clipped, irritated rhythm of her breathing, I couldn’t fall asleep.

  I wasn’t sure what it was about this fight that was different, but listening to Lacey rag on her mom, listening to her call her mother power hungry and controlling, I felt exhausted. And annoyed. Like, if Lace hadn’t fallen asleep when she had, I’d have lost it, finally, for the first time ever. Just snapped and told her to shut up.

  Enough, I’d have said.

  She said no, you can’t go.

  The last time you went to visit your dad, he forgot you were coming and left you waiting at the airport for more than six hours. Maybe she’s right to be controlling.

  But I didn’t. And I couldn’t.

  Because Lacey and I were allies. We didn’t judge even the worst about each other, and that was what made it work. That was why we had been friends, inseparable, for so many years.

  I felt guilty for wanting to turn on her.

  But I felt irritated that she couldn’t see what was so obvious—that her mother was only looking out for her—and continued to argue it out.

  I was restless and hot.

  After tossing and turning for a bit, I climbed out of my sleeping bag, tiptoed out of Lacey’s bedroom and to the bathroom. On my way back to her room, a few minutes later, I heard some sounds coming from downstairs. The kitchen, I was pretty sure.

  I glanced at Lacey’s room, saw the door was shut and started down the stairs, expecting to find her mother, bleary-eyed and in her robe, unable to sleep too because of the fight.

  But it wasn’t her mother.

  It was Oliver.

  He was standing at a counter, a plate of food in front of him.

  I hesitated, not just because it was nearly one a.m. and he wasn’t who I’d expected to find down there; he was also shirtless, pajama bottoms sitting low on his hips, and it wasn’t the first time I’d seen Oliver without a shirt on—it wasn’t even the first time I’d seen Oliver without a shirt on in the last year—but it was the first time I had seen him shirtless since the words Oliver Murdoch had started to become synonymous with words like hot, sexy and dreamy.

  Before I could sneak out and head back to Lacey’s room, he turned around, and then I could see the blueprint of abs around his midsection, the start of a muscular V on his hips above
the waistband of his pants, and I was suddenly aware of the thin tank top I slept in and the matching micro-shorts that kept me from overheating in the summer.

  “Hey,” he was saying as he noticed me. He was lifting his plate off the counter, holding it to his body in some sort of protective stance, and carrying a glass of milk in his other hand.

  “What are you doing up?” I asked, resolving to not act like a maniac. This was Oliver.

  “Second supper,” he said, and shot me a grin. “Do you have a problem with that?”

  He had two grilled cheese sandwiches, both cut diagonally, on his plate, and he brushed past me and headed into the living room. He’d already finished one sandwich half and started another by the time he settled on the sofa.

  “Wait,” I said. “So that massive thing of lasagna we had was not enough for you?”

  “I ran, like, twelve miles today,” he said, taking another bite. A trail of crumbs lingered, going from the edges of his lips to the bottom of his chin. “Don’t judge. Anyway,” he continued. “I don’t know about you, but I found it hard to concentrate on eating during World War III.”

  Lacey and their mom’s fight.

  “Yeah, I know,” I said, coming around to the sofa he was sitting on and climbing on too, on the other end. I wasn’t sure what made it feel significant that of all the seats in the living room, I’d chosen to sit on the same one he was on, but he watched me as I did, as I folded my legs underneath me.

  “Want some?” he asked, holding out his plate, and the two diagonal halves of grilled cheese that remained. I wasn’t hungry, exactly, but with the hot cheese melting between the slices and Oliver’s loud, appreciative chewing, it was tempting.

  “Come on,” he said, pushing the plate toward me even more, so it touched my knee. “Lace is asleep, right? So the coast is clear.”

  “Fine. Thank you,” I said, and took one of the halves. He took the other and set his empty plate on the ottoman, where his long legs were outstretched.

  It was only after I took my first bite—and it was so good, thank God I’d said yes—that his words sunk in.

  Swallowing so I wasn’t speaking with my mouth full, I narrowed my eyes at him. “What do you mean, the coast is clear?”

  I saw him rescue the remote from the space between the arm of the couch beside him and a cushion, then he pointed it at the TV to turn it on.

  Oliver shrugged in response as the screen blared to life, but then he looked at me, giving me his am-I-annoying-you smile. The answer was yes, he was annoying me, especially when he said, “Just that you don’t have to worry that Lace will see you fraternizing with the enemy.”

  Fraternizing with the enemy.

  I could have pretended not to know what he meant, but I did. “You weren’t even part of the argument,” I said. “She’s mad at your mom.”

  “Right,” Oliver said. “But she’s not thrilled with me, which means you shouldn’t be either.”

  My blood was starting to feel as warm as what was left of the cheese in my sandwich. “Are you serious? Just because we’re best friends doesn’t mean I’m some sort of clone.” This implication had been there in some of his words to me in the past. It had been in Mia’s words to me, my mom’s on occasion. And it got right under my skin.

  Oliver shrugged. “Guess it’s hard to tell,” he said, still taunting. Shirtless or not, he was exactly the same boy who made six-year-old Lace and me cry by smashing a grasshopper underneath his foot instead of taking it outside like he was supposed to.

  “Quit being a jerk, Oliver,” I said. “I’m totally different from Lacey. You should know better than anyone what it feels like for people to assume you’re not.”

  At that, his expression sobered, his face flushed a little. They were twins, grouped together so much that no matter how much they might love each other, it still had to be aggravating to feel like their identities were intertwined. “I guess you’re right. Sorry,” he said quietly, and I could tell he meant it.

  Sitting across the couch from Oliver, I could easily see the things that had skyrocketed his popularity in recent times. His dark brown hair, which had been too long for years, often falling into his face uncontrollably when he was younger, was now much shorter, tamer. It looked like it might feel soft between my fingers.

  There was also, when he wasn’t teasing or being an idiot, this sincerity in his eyes. This steadfastness about how he looked at you that made you want to keep his gaze for as long as you could.

  He was looking at the television now, channel surfing.

  “Ooh, leave it on this one,” I said when he paused on a film I recognized, a party scene in a basement with a bunch of eighties preteens.

  “Ugh, I was hoping you wouldn’t say that,” Oliver said, but he left it on, dropped the remote in his lap and watched quietly for the next few minutes.

  I leaned back on the couch, reciting a few lines I knew as the actors said them.

  “Lacey and I have watched this more than ten times,” I said. “No joke.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Oliver said, shooting me a playfully condescending look. He went on to list a few of the movies he’d seen more than ten times. They were all, unsurprisingly, of the action/superhero/zombie variety, which I had enjoyed many times myself.

  Still, I interrupted him to ask, “Do you enjoy being predictable?”

  Given the perfect entry to my impassioned rant, I was unstoppable. It was also one a.m. and I had just had a perfect grilled cheese sandwich. Oliver was wise enough to sit back, one eyebrow quirked while I began.

  “People act like romantic comedies are so unrealistic, completely pointless, blah blah blah,” I said, reciting the words I had said to Lacey many times before, “but all they are are movies with happy endings. Which is exactly what your blow-up-everything movies are too, except that the rom-com version of a happy ending is two people ending up in love, while your movies end with the bad guys in jail, doing time for their crimes.”

  Releasing a held-in breath, I concluded, “They are all literally just movies with happy endings. They are not that different.”

  Oliver was staring at me like he was fighting a smile when I finished.

  “If you even think about laughing,” I warned. He laughed anyway. A warm, full laugh that, thankfully, did not sound condescending.

  “I already said we could watch this,” he said, holding up his hands in surrender. “We can watch it twice if you want.”

  “Good,” I said, turning back to face the TV. I could have sworn I could feel Oliver’s eyes drift over to me every few minutes, and it made my stomach tickle. I grabbed a throw pillow and hugged it to myself, several minutes passing before I was able to pay attention to the movie again.

  “What stuff don’t you agree with Lacey on?” Oliver suddenly asked. I glanced over at him, jarred at being drawn out of the movie after trying so hard to stay in it. His voice was soft and he was watching me while he played with the remote in his hands.

  “I don’t know,” I said, not sure what he wanted me to say. “I mean, I think country music’s pretty great. Or can be.”

  Oliver watched me, expressionless, waiting for me to go on.

  “I think,” I said, “I think she kind of owes your mom an apology.”

  It was the first time I had ever admitted something like this about Lacey, and I expected to feel guiltier than I did, but it was true.

  “What else?” Oliver asked, like he wanted to find out every single way his sister and I were different.

  And even though I was doing most of the talking, maybe because of the early morning or the silent streets outside or even the fact that we were the only ones up in the entire house—it felt a little like we were explorers, unearthing truths too fragile to find in the daylight. Like we were discovering each other.

  How am I different from Lacey? />
  I was thinking this, searching my mind, when we suddenly heard footsteps, lights switching on, and without meaning to, I jumped the slightest bit back on the couch.

  It wasn’t Lacey—it was Mrs. Murdoch—but Oliver had seen my reaction. I was certain of it.

  Whether we admitted it or not, there was something about being on Lacey’s side that meant forfeiting anyone else’s. I knew it. Oliver knew it.

  Mrs. Murdoch must have known it too, because after being surprised to discover us down there, she sat on the couch between us.

  “What are you up to?” she asked.

  “I’m schooling Oliver on romantic comedies,” I said.

  “Noble work,” she said with a laugh, and Oliver groaned while we went on discussing our favorite movies and Mrs. Murdoch told us she’d learned the “Thriller” dance in college. We hadn’t been doing anything wrong when she’d come down. We hadn’t even been thinking about doing anything wrong. But I felt caught, in a weird way, and I think Oliver did too, because there was something daring about sitting together, sharing grilled cheese sandwiches and talking that late at night, and he wasn’t even wearing a shirt.

  Change almost always starts with something tiny, far from the surface. With movement too small to notice or gauge, that travels up and changes something else, until there’s a long chain of altered things and then everything is different.

  This might have been why Mrs. Murdoch shepherded me up the stairs when she was going back to sleep, saying she would hate my parents thinking she let me come over for all-night ragers, and telling Oliver to go to bed too.

  I glanced back at him over my shoulder as we started to go, and I caught him watching us leave. Watching me leave, and to this day I can’t remember which of us ended up looking away first.

  IT’S RAINING ON my way in to work on Monday and I’m running slightly late, but I talk to Will on the drive anyway, mostly muttering about what passes for traffic here in Erinville. He’s still on the line when I arrive at work. When I climb out of my car and start toward the building, I somehow find myself walking in at the same time as Oliver. Maybe it’s the long talk on Friday or the things we told each other or the foot touching, but it’s hard to make eye contact with him, like I need a few more days to get over it or something.