The Lonely (4 page)

I
nod, "I'm starving. I don’t care. I feel like an idiot but whatever."

"Me
too." We are still holding hands. It's weird for me to hold hands with
anyone. After my panic attack it's nice. More than nice. He's like a hero. I
feel rescued. The right way. Like he is a prince and not a dictator. My knight
in shining armor. He cured the lonely.

"We
ate and talked and ate some more. He eats a ton like me, so that’s good. I
didn’t look like a pig." I'm nattering. It’s a first.

Shell
rolls her eyes, as she applies my toenail polish, "I don’t know how you
eat that much and don't get fat."

"Sprints.
But yeah, we ate and talked. He is so sweet. He never tried to kiss me or tried
to touch me, except the hand and that was after he did the sani. I super liked
him." I'm gushing.

She
scowls up at me, "One date and you're in love? I told you to have dinner.
You girls are all the same. You hold out and the first boy you let in you love
him. You need to test drive this shit and date a few others. This is too
fast." Her tone is edgy. It hurts a little.

"It
was just dinner." I'm getting angry.

"Are
you going out with him again?"

I
feel my face tightening, "No. I don’t know. He doesn’t have my number.
You're the one who made me go. Why are you being a whore about me liking him?
You know how big of a deal this is to me? He saw the lonely and he
stayed."

Seeing
the look on my face, she lightens hers. "Sorry. Oh my god, I am being a
bitch. Sorry dude. I'm so happy for you. This is a huge step. I'm just so
annoyed with your Uncle Daddy Dude. He called like a hundred times when we were
out. He was pissed Stuart was on his own time. It was like eight at night. Like
come on. You know?"

I
nod, "Sorry." I'm still mad.

She
laughs and blows her dark hair out of her tanned face, "No. It's not your
fault. I should have known better than to fall for your Uncle Daddy's
driver."

 
I laugh too. "He isn’t my Uncle
Daddy."

She
makes air quotation marks, "Your benefactor."

It
makes me feel weird when we talk about him. I don’t like it either. I wish I
had a mom and a dad and a normal life. I wish my clothes and hair smelled like
food and not bleach and anxiety. She hurts me and she doesn’t know it. It's not
her hurting me though. It's me reacting. So I keep my face pleasant. Until I
feel it start. The room wobbles a bit and the polish bottles almost duplicate
in numbers. They surround me. Each one has been touched. I swallow, looking at
them all.

"I
see you." She says, but doesn’t look at me.

"No,
you don’t." I whisper.

"Just
do it." She says it like it's nothing.

I
reach over and grab the wipes and the polish remover and all the little polish
bottles she's touched. I feel sick wiping her off of everything that’s hers. I
feel sicker that she's okay with it.

She
changes the subject back to my dinner, "So, he saved you and then bought
you a dinner at an OCD restaurant. This guy is the real deal of sweet and
romantic. He never even tried anything?"

I'm
almost disappointed when I say it, "No."

"Wish
he had?" Her glossy lips turn up into a grin.

I
grin, "No." I don’t sound convincing.

She
laughs, "Stuart tried. Oh my god that man is hot. No shirt and it's like
wow. Wow. So beautiful."

"He's
a ninja."

She
arches an eyebrow and then looks back down at her work, "For real?"

I
look at my toes and beam, "Thanks. Yeah, for real. He's like a badass
ninja. He told me he was anyway. I mean he could be lying. But I think he kinda
looks like a ninja, ya know?" I flick her, "And not because he's from
Wichita, crazy-ass, racist woman."

She
sticks her tongue out, "Are Japanese people even ninjas?"

I
furrow my brow, "He told you, he's not Japanese. He's from Kansas."

She
wrinkles her nose in a cute sort of way, "I know. Have you heard him talk
all twangy? It's so hot. I love him."

I
shake my head and lie back on my bed, waiting for my toes to dry. "You're
a dork."

"I'm
a horny dork, Em. I needs me some ninja loving. You mind if I go get it on? You
promise you'll be okay?"

I
look at the ceiling and laugh, "Yeah. I got Netflix today for the Xbox
that you called a need and not a want. I'll watch that." My stomach hurts
as soon as she says it, but I can't expect her to spend her entire year locked
in here with me.

She
jumps up and runs out the door, "Love you smoochie."

My
phone vibrates. I sigh, and pick it up.

"Hi."
I answer.

"You
don’t go to restaurants with boys you don’t clear with me first." His tone
is harsher than normal. Not so quiet.

"I
didn’t. You knew what I was doing."

His
voice echoes a bit, "Don't play games with me. You won't win. You
specifically told me you were going to a chicken place and never went
there."

I
swallow, "I'm sorry. I should have called and told you we were changing
places. I just…well…I had an attack and had to leave the first place."

His
voice softens, "Are you okay?"

I
don’t know why I feel so able to talk to him. Maybe because I never see him.
"No. I had it right in front of him. It was humiliating."

"I'll
call the doc. She'll want to see you."

I
hate that. I hate that he goes for the doc. He never wants to talk to me. Even
when I let him in and give him something, he shuts me down. He pushes me away.

"Whatever."
I say.

"Don't
say that. It's rude."

I
don’t say anything.

He
clears his throat, "If you're going to date and Stuart is dating the ever
lovely Miss Monkton, then the rules are changing. You will not date on the same
evening."

I
frown, "What if we have a date the same night?"

"Then
he cancels his. You will remain in the dorms if he and Miss Monkton are out.
Are we clear?"

"Yup."

"Yup,
is piss poor English. Goodnight, sweet dreams."

He
has never said that before. He was shitty like he always is, but he's never
said sweet dreams before. He hangs up like always and I just stare at the
phone.

Shell
doesn’t come home.

I
don’t sleep. I don't sleep much on a regular bases, but the first night in a
new place is always the worst. It's a guarantee that I won't sleep.

It's
what I call the lonely. It creeps up whenever I'm uncomfortable. It freezes me
up. I feel it enter new places with me, like it's in the bag I packed. The
broken bits of whatever it is inside of me, the lack of trust maybe, have never
healed. Nineteen years of life, almost twenty, and I can't get past it. It's
part of who I am.

The
difference between it and the phobias is the lonely is genuine. It's been part
of me always. The phobias were learned over time.

My
phone vibrates, as I'm lost in self-pity. I glance at it,
'Go to sleep.'

I
look at the phone, grinning. He always knows. I look around the room, wondering.
How does he do it? How does he know? Maybe he is Big Brother and I am in 1984.

When
I pick up the phone I can't believe it's three am.

I
text back smirking,
'You first.'

'I
am sleeping.'

I
snort. He is making jokes now? My fingers almost tremble with anticipation and
fear as I text my response,
'What are you dreaming about?'

'You.'

My
heart skips a beat. I have a fantasy. I can't lie. It's a deep dark fantasy
that I never let myself see. It mostly involves him being a Duke or a Baron who
is bent on helping me, but like the Phantom of the Opera. He's troubled and
wants to do anything to be there for me. He wants me.

I
think it's a common dream with orphans. Not to mention we are forced to watch
more nun-themed movies than the average American. Like the Sound of Music.

I
hold the phone and get a wicked grin as I text him back.
'What am I doing?
In your dream?'
He might be a baron
or a duke. He might also be that guy who sleeps with his dead mother in the
motel movie. I shiver and push that thought away.

'Sleeping
and not annoying the living hell out of me.'

My
heart hurts.

'Night.'
is the last message I receive.

I
leave it at that. I turn the phone off even though I'm not supposed. It's one
of his rules. I hate that I have to obey him, even when he's shitty to me. I
hate needing him. I hate that he really is the only chance I have at a real
future. Instead of ending up as a waitress in New Mexico.

I
stare at the ceiling and then try pacing. I watch another movie and then when I
can't keep my eyes open a second longer, I do it. I turn off the TV and close
my eyes.
 
Let myself relax and try,
just try, to sleep. It creeps in and hugs me, wraps me in fears and doubts. I
remain there until the sun comes up, frozen. I'm grateful we arrived a week
early. I can't imagine trying to go to school as exhausted as I am. My eyes are
crusty and my throat is dry, when she bounds through the door with a smile that
is unmistakable.

I'm
grateful to see her. She is my saving grace.

"Oh
my god, Em. He is A-MAZE-ZING." She thumps her back against the door and
sighs. Her red face and dirty grin speak volumes.

My
eyes won't stay open. I mutter, "The lonely." And pass out.

I
wake as the sun is going down.

She
is gone again. I yawn and stretch and turn the phone on. I climb out of bed and
check underneath them both and in the closets. The phone vibrates, undoubtedly,
with the messages he sent me while it was off. He's more than likely pissed I
turned it off. I ignore it and take my things to the showers. I'm taking a tiny
stand for my dignity.

I'm
mid shampoo when the shower curtain is ripped back, making me scream. My eyes
open wide, getting only a flash of Michelle's stressed out face and then close
tight, taking loads of soap in. I cry out from the burning behind my eyelids,
"Shit, Shell. My eyes. They're burning. Ass." I pull the curtain
closed. My face is on fire and my eyes are burning.

"Hurry
up. He's going to come and get you if you don’t answer that phone." She
sounds panicked. "Seriously, Stuart just texted me. Uncle Daddy Weirdo is
pissed. He's fuming."

"You
think he's fuming." I grumble.

I
open my eyes under the water, but nothing is stopping the burning. I blink and
bat them, but it still hurts. I wrench back the curtain and cuss some more
under my breath. I pull on my robe and stomp across the bathroom in my rubber
shower shoes. I leave my shoes next to the door just inside the room, as always
and slip on my bedroom slippers. I am so angry I could spit flames. If I had
the slightest spark, I would have flames shooting from my nostrils. I wish I
did have flames. I could use them to blow torch things and sanitize like the
kosher chefs do on TV.

I
grab the phone off the bed and dial the number.

He
answers in a rage, "YOU EVER TURN THAT DAMN PHONE OFF AGAIN AND I WILL COME
AND GET YOU. NO MATTER WHERE YOU ARE! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?" His voice
sounds so different I hardly recognize him. I wince, dropping the phone. I
don’t cry for other people. I don’t cry unless I'm in pain, horrid amounts of
physical pain. I refuse to allow myself the weakness of the tears forming in my
eyes. I blink them back.

I
shake, looking down. I take a breath and pick up the phone.

He
speaks softly after I hold it to my face for a minute, "I'm sorry. I'm
sorry. I was wrong to shout like that. You scared me. I have to know where you
are." Again his voice is so altered, I almost don’t know it. He is
genuinely sorry. I can hear it. It doesn’t change the fact I am still genuinely
terrified.

I
don’t speak. I cannot.

"I
can hear you breathing. I know you’re upset. Close your eyes. Just like Doctor
Bradley says. Close them and find the peace and gratitude." He tries to
talk soothingly but he can't. He isn’t a soothing person.

"You're
an asshole." I whisper. My eyes pop open when I realize what I've said. He
laughs into the phone.

"Don't
turn it off again, okay?"

"Whatever."

He
sighs, "Come on. Work with me here. It's all for your benefit."

"Whatever."

I'm
angry. I never get angry.

"You
mad?"

"Yup."