The Lonely (9 page)

His
fingers brush along my belly, making a trail of heat and nerves. We've been
kissing like we're fifteen for weeks. I pull away and shake my head. He
whispers, "I just want to touch you." His lips call to me. I lean in
and kiss him again. My head spins from the kisses. Somehow, I end up on top of
him. His hands are dragging up and down my back, under my shirt. I sit up and
push him away. I climb off backwards. It's almost like a crab would walk, but
faster and twitchy. He knows I need a minute.

This
time is different though. I need more than that. I grab my shoes and cell phone
and run. I grip the cloth backs of my shoes and leave.

The
hallway of the penthouse feels like the one in the Shining. It's never ending
and I expect ghosts to be there. I push the button for the elevator in a series
of taps, like I'm sending it Morse code and telling it to hurry up.

I
hear the door, followed by his voice, "Emalyn. Come back. It's okay.
You're safe, Em."

Tears
flood my eyes, they never leave though. Instead, they make the tiny
kaleidoscopes to fix everything I see. I turn and run down the hall to the
stairs when he starts walking toward me. The cold air in the stairwell is
refreshing. I make it halfway down before I stop. He hasn’t opened the door. He
knows it feels like he's chasing me. I need the minute. I take a deep breath.

I
whisper into the silence of the hallway, "The world is tiny. It's a small
place where I have the control. I'm grateful. I'm grateful." I pull the
hand sani from my pocket and wash my hands and lips. It stings a bit on my
delicate, overly-loved lips, but the smell is divine. It's caramel apple. I
almost feel like Shell with her lipgloss, smelling so pretty. I put my shoes on
the stairs and sit on them. My socks touching the stairs are freaking me out.
"I'm grateful for being such a weirdo." I smile. At least I can worry
about the dirty socks I have to throw out and not the boy waiting for me in the
building somewhere.

The
pounding of my heart and the sweat on my palms start to diminish. The walls of
the room back off. Things have color again. It's a stairwell, so there isn't
much color, but enough to remind me that I am grateful I can see. I take deep
breaths and stand up. I slip on my runners and finish going down the stairs.
I'm alone on the stairs. I'm grateful for being alone.

When
I push the latch on the door, he's standing in the foyer. His pants are still
undone, I blush and remember it was my fingers that had done that. He chest
stretches his t-shirt. I focus on that and not the pity and excuses he has
flashing in his eyes. He's making them up for me. The poor orphan who the nuns
beat. If he only knew the truth. He wouldn’t make excuses. He would walk away.
I don’t know the truth of it all. I hear the echo of the gunshot still and know
it's bad enough, that even my brain won't let me see.

I'm
frozen in the doorway. The door to freedom and the outside, isn’t far from
where I'm standing. I take a step towards him, and not the door at all.

"Want
to take a walk?" He whispers when he sees the choice I've made. I've
chosen not to run. This time.

I
nod. He grabs a sweater from the chair behind him and pulls it on. He tosses me
a hoodie. It smells like him. I like the smell now. I grip it in my fingers.
"Why?" I ask.

I
can hear the smile in his voice when he speaks, "I needed to see you. I
needed to make sure you were okay."

I
shake my head, still frozen, still gripping the hoodie, "Why are you
putting up with me?"

"I
like a challenge." He does up his pants.

I
smile, but I don’t want to pull on the hoodie. I don’t want there to be a
second that I am not able to see him. It's the same reason I sit at the very
back of the class and I don't sleep when I'm scared and alone. It takes over
when I'm scared. He takes a step back. He sits in the armchair against the
wall. He knows sometimes I need space. If he gives me space, I'll usually calm
down.

He
looks relaxed. I force my hands to work. I force the hoodie over my head. I
lift my gaze to meet his. He grins. His hazel eyes scare me. I can see the
thoughts he's thinking inside of them. He's worried.

I
walk to the exit. I hear him get off the chair. His steps are long, so when I
push on the exit door and step out into the cold air he's behind me. Boston in
the fall is cold. It's November and the air is chilly. I'm not used to it. The
warmth of him behind me is reassuring just as much as it's alarming.

He
takes my arm and loops it around his. He doesn’t apologize anymore. He knows it
isn’t him. It's me. It's my reaction.

"Tea?"
He asks and it feels like we move on and pretend we are normal.

I
laugh and shake my head, "I hate tea. It tastes disgusting."

He
stops and spins me to look at him, "Earl Grey?"

I
nod, "Sick." He's snapping back from my head case nuttiness faster
than I am.

"Orange
Pekoe?"

I
wrinkle my nose, "Blech. Worse."

He
shakes his head, "Em, that’s a travesty." The way he says travesty is
funny. As if my not liking tea is comparable to the travesties of war and
famine.

"Ice
cream?" I say.

He
nods, "I know a place."

I
grip onto him for a minute and then pass him the hand sani. He chuckles and
squirts. "How does Michelle do it? My hands are so dry I barely take
it."

I
laugh, "She wears nighttime moisturizer in a glove." I shudder at the
thought of the creamy hands and wash myself and the container again.

I
can't help but wonder if he notices the way I wash him off everything the same
way I do Shell. We walk for a long time until we come to a place called Emack
and Bolio's. He opens the door and puts his hand on my lower back. I'm a fan of
that kind of touch. Even through the hoodie, that’s three or four sizes too
big, I can feel the heat of his hand. It makes me shiver, in a good way.

"Be
right back." I say and walk to the bathroom. I send a message when I am
alone in a stall.

'At
Bolio and Emack's. Ice cream.'

'Thank
you for messaging me. Get the S'Moreo. Divine. Try paying for a meal too. No
one likes a girl who doesn’t pay for anything'

I
gasp,
'I don’t have money. I have your money. So technically you're still
paying and technically I'm not.'

'We
aren’t having this conversation again'

'Whatever'

He
doesn’t bite. He's gone.

I
grab toilet paper for the door handle and head to where he's ordering. He
smiles at me. Not as hard as the girl behind the counter smiles at him.
"What kind of ice cream do you like?" He asks.

I
don't look at the girl, "S'Moreo."

He
turns and grins, "Can you scrape the top layer of the S'Moreo off and get
her two scoops of the stuff closer to the bottom." He looks back at me,
"Fudge sauce?"

I
nod. He looks back, "Fudge sauce as well please. I'm going to get the
Almond Coconut Bar, also with fudge sauce please."

She
flutters her eyelashes, "Two scoops?"

He
nods, "Please."

He
hands her money and points to the small table in the corner. I sit and wonder
if my face is covered in shock.

He
frowns, "What?"

I
shake my head, "Nothing. So, Almond Coconut Bar?" I inner sigh at my
question and the amount of interest I placed in it. I ask stupid questions when
I get uncomfortable. The ice cream place is new.

He
grins, "Love almonds and coconut." He makes a face, "S'Moreo?
What are you ten-years old?"

I
laugh and look down, "A friend recommended it." I look back up at
him, "You ordered my ice cream the way I would have ordered it?"

He
looks confused, "It's not hard to guess. I watched you make a sandwich at
my house. The mayonnaise was brand-new and you opened it, took off the sealed
protector cover and then took the entire top layer of it off. You pulled the
meat out of the fridge and saw the seal was broken. I watched you. You put it
back and cooked bacon for the sandwich instead."

I
bite my lip and process it, "You watch me a lot." I wonder what else
he's seen. It gets bad some days. I hope he hasn’t seen those moments.

He
nods, "I do. I like you. You won't give me your cell phone number because
you say you don’t ever use it. But you text Michelle a million times a day and
tell her everything you're doing. You won't sleep at my house and never let me
drive you home. You kiss me like you're trying to kill me, but back off and
won't let me touch you. You always run when you've let me get just a little bit
further with you."

I
feel sick and panicked until he finishes his thought.

"You
have me completely enchanted and bewildered and mixed up. I can't eat or sleep
without wondering what you're doing. I watch you like a stalker would." He
puts a hand out, "I am not a stalker for the record." I laugh. He
runs his hands through his hair, "But I'm addicted to you. I get excited
every time we move just a bit further. I know something happened to you and
your life has been weird and horrid in a lot of ways. I just want to be the
good thing in it. I want to protect you and make you feel safe."

My
face is on fire. The girl delivers the sundaes, but I stare forward and think
about what he's said. He wants to be the good thing. He wants to be in my life.
I haven’t run him off. He sees it and still wants me.

Instead
of focusing on the cute boy, my OCD catches a glimpse of the ice cream girl's
gloved hands. I forget what he said and feel better about my ice cream. My
natural defense is a well-oiled machine. It shuts down anything that makes me
think.

She
plunks them down and leaves.

I
look at him and am speechless. His eyes search mine. When I offer up nothing,
he leans in and mutters,
 
"The
service here is shit but the ice cream is yummy." I can see he's upset by
the lack of response. I know I would be if it were he not saying anything. I
honestly have nothing I can share back.

I
twirl the spoon in the ice cream and fudge sauce. "Thank you." I say
after a minute.

"For
what?"

I
look at him and want so badly to say the million things I'm thinking, "For
the sundae." I sigh.

He
smirks, "You're welcome." I close my eyes and take a bite. The flavor
coats my tongue. It's an escape. It always was. Once a month we would get ice
cream. Always the huge tub of the cheap stuff, but it was ice cream and I was a
kid.

I
decide to give him what I can. It's not much but if he knew the significance he
would be excited. "The first memory I have is ice cream." My voice is
small compared to the sound of the music in the restaurant, and the few other
people talking.

"Really?
I think mine is my father taking me to the zoo." He bounces back so
quickly.

I
nod, "I was seven. I had been at the orphanage for a while, but I don’t
remember anything, before the ice cream. I just remember being walked to a
table. The nun was pinching my arm. I had done something bad. I don’t remember
what. I sat down and there it was, a white bowl filled with bright pink ice
cream. The nun took it and walked away. I sat there, devastated obviously. I
could hear the clanking and clinking of everyone else's spoons against the
porcelain bowls, as they scraped and spooned and ate. I could almost taste the
cold ice cream. I knew what it was. I wasn’t allowed any though. It was the
last time I misbehaved. I made up my mind then, I would be the perfect child. I
would do what they wanted. I wanted the ice cream so badly. There was a girl
named Susan. She was perfect, always the best child. I watched her. I wanted to
be her. So I did everything she did from that day on. So the next month, when
we got ice cream, I got a huge bowl. More than the other kids. It wasn’t pink.
It was chocolate."

I
have never shared a memory with another person. Except Dr. Bradley but somehow
she seems to know my memories better than I do.

He
takes a bite and smoothes his mouth over the spoonful, leaving a mound behind.
"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard I think."

I
shrug, "It wasn’t sad though. It was motivating. It was like what your
uncle's friend said. It was a baby step out of my comfort zone."

His
eyes light up, "You should try to sleep at my house. Tonight." His
lips play with a grin. He's trying to cheer me up.

But
I panic. I drop my spoon in the bowl. It's instant discomfort and an increase
in my heart rate.

He
puts a hand out, "Slow down. Just stop and think. It's nothing more than
sleeping. Nothing."

I
shake my head, "No."

"Come
back and watch a movie? Just snuggle?"

I
laugh nervously. My heart is still thumping wildly. I nod, "Okay. Just a
movie." I remind myself he is the cure to the lonely and chances are it's
going to be a long night at my place if I go home. Michelle will leave and go
be with Stuart.