The Contradiction of Solitude (3 page)

Words mattered. When spoken they couldn’t be taken back. So it was important to make them count. Each and every time.

“Okay then, thanks again. I’ll see you tomorrow,” Diana said finally and left me to the store.

I could hear the floorboards above my head creaking and groaning as people walked amongst the stacks. Customers lounged on the overstuffed chairs in the corners, reading a book and drinking their overpriced lattes. They looked deep in thought, a finger to their chin as though a copy of Stephen Hawking’s
A Brief History of Time
made them that much smarter than the rest of us.

I didn’t judge. I was a keen observer of people. I knew that the guy in the corner with his hipster beard and lip ring yelled at his girlfriend when she didn’t text him back right away. He was a condescending bully that hid it under pseudo-intelligence.

I knew that the woman trying to be discreet as she read the sex scenes in the erotica books stepped out on her husband. She met an older man upstairs in a private reading room three times a week.

These random people with their random lives hid nothing from a woman like me. Bloated on secrets. Bingeing on lies.

They were all the same.

I pulled out my notebook with the clean, green cover. Pristine as the day I had bought it. I paused briefly, reading the stories scribbled on the pages.

Her name is Fiona. She lives her life on the edge of a blade. Running, running, running. From the people who want to keep her. To trap her. She searches for things she will never have.

I quickly turned the page. Those stories had their time and place. The Lion and the Rose Bookshop was not it.

But there were other words that I could write. Words that were safe out in the open.

Wings flutter madly,

Up, up, up.

Delicate legs tangled,

Taste and touch divine.

Happy.

Found.

Home.

One day is all he’s given.

Twisted and writhing,

It’s over.

Decimated and dying—

It’s gone.

Ruined before it had the chance,

To live.

“Are you a writer?” I glanced up, annoyed at the intrusion.

I didn’t bother to answer.

Words were precious. This man with dyed black hair and trendy glasses didn’t deserve them.

I noticed that he wore his carefully scuffed Converse sneakers untied and that bothered me.

You couldn’t trust a person who couldn’t make the commitment to tie their shoes before they left the house.

“I’m Trevor,” he said, and I shrugged, uninterested.

Go away…

He had no purpose for me. I had found it in a pair of dancing green eyes.

I closed my notebook, smoothing my hand down the green cover, and slid it under the counter, out of sight. Away from ugly blue eyes that shouldn’t be looking at me at all.

I stared back at Trevor, giving him nothing.

Nothing…

I made him uncomfortable. I knew the look on his face well. His flirty smirk disappeared and was soon replaced with confused embarrassment.

“What’s wrong with you? Can’t you speak?” he asked a little angrily.

I crossed my arms over the counter and leaned in a fraction. I could smile but I didn’t. I wouldn’t give him that.

Smile, Layna, then people will love you.

Trevor relaxed a bit. I lulled him with my body language. My eyes that met his. I angled towards him, tilting my head. Long hair brushing his hand. His pupils dilated. His breathing became shallow.

He lusted.

He wanted.

It was so easy to
deceive
, to
pretend
, to
lie,
behind the perfect mask of a smile. The slight movement of a hand. The falsehood of tears.

“I can speak, Trevor. But I usually wait until there’s someone worth talking to,” I replied. My voice wasn’t cold or angry. It was blandly neutral. I was only stating fact.

Trevor’s mortification was apparent and I heard him mutter “bitch” under his breath before walking out of the bookstore.

Bitch.

Was I a bitch for only telling him the truth? For not sparing a stranger’s feelings?

Maybe.

But I didn’t want people to
love
me.

I was beyond love.

Smile, Layna, then people will love you.

My mother’s advice had made me hate her. As though the opinions of others should matter more than my own.

I spent my life alone. My social skills nonexistent after years of denying myself true interaction. Nurture as opposed to nature.

Or so I hoped.

Or so I feared.

I was alone…

Until I found someone worth the effort.

Then I would hand over just the tiniest, most important pieces of me. Just enough to make it count.

It was survival at its finest.

“I’
m getting fucking sick of Denny’s, man. You know there are other places to eat, right?” my buddy Tate complained, pushing his pancakes around on his plate.

I had been coming to Denny’s almost every day for years. It was a strange sort of ritual that I couldn’t break.

“Then stop coming with me,” I told him, rolling my eyes.

“And have you sit by yourself like the sad sack that you are? I can’t have that on my conscience,” Tate laughed, shoving the food into his mouth. He was so full of shit. He just wanted the free meal.

“Shut up and eat your food,” I muttered, laughing. I dipped a seasoned fry into the ranch dressing, completely submerging it. Then I took my spoon and fished it out, slurping the contents into my mouth.

“That is really fucking foul, dude,” Tate muttered and I ignored him.

“Well, I’ve got shit to do today. I have two new pieces to lacquer and a speaker to re-wire. And if I eat any more of this crap, I’m going to throw up,” Tate said, sopping up the last of his syrup with a piece of toast. For a guy that hated the food so much, he was sure doing a good job of putting it away.

“Do you boys need anything else?” Nancy the waitress asked. She stood close to my elbow and I gave her a polite smile. She beamed back at me, moving in a bit closer. Tate snorted and made a crude gesture with his hand and mouth while looking at our server. Again, I ignored him.

“No, we’re good, Nancy. Thanks,” I said. She dropped her hand onto my arm and gave it a squeeze. Always touching. Tate snorted again. It didn’t make me uncomfortable. It made me sad. For her. For a woman who could only find joy in groping the young customers.

“You in the market for some old lady strange?” Tate snickered.

“You’re a dick.” I shook my head.

“I’m a HUGE dick,” he chortled, grabbing at his junk, though thankfully it was underneath the table.

“Dude, this is a family restaurant,” I groaned, looking around.

“Stop being such a pussy.” Tate started to put on his coat. “I’ve got to get back. You comin’?”

“Nah, I’m still eating. I can pay for yours. Head out if you want.” I had a mountain of stuff to do back at the studio but I wasn’t feeling in a rush to leave. Never in a rush. I liked to take my time.

“Really? That’s cool of you. I’ll getcha back another time,” Tate said, getting to his feet.

Then I was alone.

And awkwardly sitting by myself. I looked at my food. Concentrating. I didn’t want to look lonely. But that’s exactly what I was.

Lonely.

Alone.

Always.

I stuffed a fry in my mouth and then started constructing elaborate structures out of the fried potatoes on my plate.

Piling. Stacking. Making things out of nothing. It’s what I did best.

“Is that Stonehenge?”

The voice startled me and I may have flinched a little. I’m not sure why.

I looked up and froze.

Literally and completely froze. Paralyzed. Immobilized. Suspended in motion.

Because she was gorgeous in all the ways that you would expect a girl to be. Her hair was long and dark. Her lips plump and looked as though they tasted like my downfall. Her skin was pale and unblemished except for the freckles dusting her nose.

I knew those freckles were deceiving. She wore innocence like a badge. To be noticed. To cajole unsuspecting souls into easy submission. Those freckles could lure a man into false confidence, thinking her meek and malleable.

But her eyes gave her away.

Dark and wide and bottomless. Coal black. They were sad and devoid of light. But I knew there was a soul inside there somewhere.

Or at least I hoped so.

She had a beat up copy of
Swann’s Way
tucked under her arm, and I instantly recognized her. It was the girl from last weekend.

I had noticed her right away. It was impossible not to pay attention to someone that looked like that. She had watched me even as I pretended not to watch her. I had dug her voyeur act. It was flattering.

I was not a Casanova by any stretch of the imagination but I loved women. And they loved me. It was a reciprocal arrangement built on mutual pleasure and satisfaction. My relationships ended amicably. Effortlessly. Simply. It was done in a respectful manner for all parties involved. I didn’t want to hurt anyone, because I wasn’t in the habit of being
hurt.
I wouldn’t allow it. My partners knew it. There were no expectations.

I didn’t do drama. Or unnecessary tension. Life was too short to be mired in wasteful emotions.

And I had noticed
her.
The girl with the coal black eyes who had never said a word.

I had briefly wondered if she was a mute.

Though apparently not.

“Huh?” I asked lamely.

She arched an eyebrow and nodded her head toward my plate. I looked down and realized I had indeed built a sad little Stonehenge out of my fries.

“Looks like it,” I chuckled. I tried not to stare at her but it was really hard. She was that pretty.

She stood there beside my table with an odd expression on her face. She stared at my seasoned fries like they were a hell of a lot more interesting than I was.