3. Chapter 3- Lenora
My tooth has his cavity.
That’s the part I can’t get past. Not the fact that it fell out. Not the fact that there was almost no blood. Not even the new tooth already pushing through the hole in my gums. It’s the tiny silver filling embedded in the molar sitting beside my bathroom sink.
August has the same one.
I saw it when he laughed.
His head tipped back slightly, his mouth opened, and the light caught silver near the back of his jaw. I noticed because apparently my brain likes collecting completely useless information about terrifying men.
Except now his filling is sitting in my sink.
I lean closer. “No.”
I pick up the tooth. The root is intact. Long and wet.
There should’ve been blood.
Pain.
Something.
Instead, my mouth feels...good.
I run my tongue over the empty space and something sharp scratches it.
I grab my phone and turn on the flashlight.
Opening my mouth the mirror reflects something white breaking through my gum.
“No. No, no, no.”
I touch it.
It’s hard just like I suspected.
A tooth. Another fucking tooth growing where the old one fell out.
My phone vibrates.
August:
Don’t touch anything else. I’m coming down.
I laugh because what else am I supposed to do?
I type back.
Me:
No.
Three dots.
August:
Lenora.
Me:
Stay upstairs.
August:
Open the door.
I stare at the message. Then at my bathroom door. My apartment is locked. Chain on. Deadbolted.
Good.
I need five fucking minutes where August isn’t standing in front of me saying cryptic shit and looking at me like he’s already attended my funeral.
My phone vibrates again.
August:
Please.
That word bothers me.
Everything about August is hard and controlled. Even when he bleeds, he acts inconvenienced by it.
But “please” keeps appearing like there’s something underneath all that control clawing to get out and I hate that I want to know what it is. I hate that I want to know him.
Which is insane. I just met him today.
Except apparently I didn’t.
I set the phone down and the tooth rolls slightly when I bump the counter.
My stomach twists.
I grab a hand towel and pick it up without touching it again.
I should throw it away.
Instead, I put it in the medicine cabinet because apparently I’m keeping body parts now.
Maybe August is contagious.
I close the cabinet and my reflection waits for me.
I look different. Not enough that anyone else would notice but I do.
My jaw looks sharper. My cheeks are slightly more hollow.
I turn my face.
Maybe I’m imagining it.
I haven’t eaten. I’m exhausted and terrified.
All perfectly reasonable explanations for why I look like shit.
Except I don’t look like shit.
That’s the problem.
I look...beautiful. Not makeup beautiful. Not good-lighting beautiful.
Unnaturally fucking perfect.
My pores are almost invisible. The tiny scar beneath my eyebrow is gone. The faint line between my brows has disappeared. Even the dark circles beneath my eyes are lighter.
I look younger.
Newer.
I look like someone erased me and started again.
My eyes move toward my neck to the place I peeled upstairs. It’s smooth now.
No redness. No wound.
Nothing.
I touch it and the sensation hits instantly.
My breath catches.
A warm pulse travels down my spine causing me to moan.
I snatch my hand away.
“Jesus.”
August told me not to touch it.
That pisses me off more than it should.
Because he was right.
I want to touch it again.
More than that.
I want to find another edge.
The thought enters my mind so naturally that I almost don’t recognize how fucked up it is. I want to peel.
My fingers twitch.
I curl them into fists. “No.”
A knock sounds from the front door making me jump.
“Lenora.”
August.
I stay in the bathroom.
“Go away.” I shout.
“Open the door.”
“No.”
“I need to see the tooth.”
“You’ve seen teeth before.”
“Not yours.”
I look at the medicine cabinet. “How do you know it’s mine?”
Silence.
Interesting.
I walk into the living room. “August?”
His voice comes through the door. “Because mine is loose.”
My stomach drops.
I stop. “What?”
“Upper left molar.”
My tongue finds the empty space in my mouth. Upper left.
I close my eyes.
Shit.
“Open the door.”
“No.”
“Lenora.”
“Tell me what’s happening.”
“I will.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’ll tell you what I can.”
“No. You’re going to tell me everything.”
Silence.
“Then I’m not opening it.”
I hear him exhale. “Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Fine.”
I wait. “Start talking.”
“Through the door?”
“Seems safest.”
“Probably.”
I hate him.
I think.
“What is happening to me?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. “Your body is changing.”
“Fantastic. I gathered that when I shed my fucking leg.”
“It’s replacing itself.”
“With what?”
Silence.
I already know. I don’t want him to say it.
“August.”
“Me.”
The word slides beneath the door.
Quiet.
Impossible.
I stare at the wood separating us.
“That’s not possible.”
“I know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I’ve had a long time to realize how impossible it is.”
My arms wrap around my stomach. “Why you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why do you have pieces of me?”
“Because I kept them.”
“Why?”
Silence.
“August.”
“Because they’re all I have left when you’re gone.”
Something in my chest pulls hard and I don’t like it.
“Where do I go?”
“You don’t.”
“What does that mean?”
“Lenora...”
“No. You said I don’t die. You said I don’t go anywhere. So what happens to me?”
The hallway is silent.
Then… “You finish.”
I stare at the door. “Finish what?”
“The molt.”
“And?”
His answer is so quiet I almost miss it. “And I don’t.”
My stomach sinks.
I place my hands on the door. “What happens to you?”
“You already saw it.”
The memory. His chest opening. His ribs beneath my skin.
I swallow. “That wasn’t real.”
“It was.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Memories don’t work like that.”
“Ours do.”
“Ours?”
Silence.
I put my forehead against the door. “How many times have we done this?”
“Eight.”
The number makes my stomach turn. Eight lives. Eight versions of me. Eight versions of him?
“Do you come back too?”
“No.”
I frown. “What?”
“I’m always me.”
I lift my head from the door.
“How old are you?”
“Don’t.”
“How old?”
“Older than I should be.”
“August.”
“One hundred and seventy-four.”
I laugh. Nothing about this is funny. Still, I laugh. “You’re fucking insane.”
“Yes.”
“You’re telling me you were born in eighteen fifty-two?”
“June tenth.”
“Of course you know the fucking date.”
“I was there.”
Despite myself, another laugh slips out.
His does too. Quietly.
On the other side of the door there it is again. That feeling. Not attraction. Something deeper. Something worse.
Familiarity.
The sound of August laughing makes my chest ache.
My mind doesn’t know why but my body does.
I hate that.
I slide down the door until I’m sitting on the floor.
For a moment neither of us says anything.
Then I hear movement.
He sits down on the other side.
I can tell by the soft thump against the door. We’re sitting back-to-back with an inch of wood between us. It feels strangely intimate. I should move but I don’t.
“What was my first name?”
He doesn’t answer.
“You said I’ve had different names.”
“Yes.”
“What was the first?”
A pause.
“Lenora.”
I look down. “Why?”
“Because that was your name.”
“You said sometimes they were different.”
“They were.”
“But the first was Lenora?”
“Yes.”
“And now?”
“Lenora again.”
“Coincidence?”
“No.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
I close my eyes. “What did I look like?”
“Which time?”
“The first.”
His breathing changes.
“August?”
“Dark hair.”
I touch mine. “Like now?”
“Longer.”
“Eyes?”
“Brown.”
“Mine are green.”
“I know.”
“Was I pretty?”
He goes quiet.
I smile despite myself. “That’s a dangerous pause.”
“You were beautiful.”
Something warm moves through me. “More beautiful than me?”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Compete with yourself.”
A laugh escapes me. “I need to know if 1897 Lenora was a bitch.”
“Absolutely.”
I grin. “Good.”
“You threw a wineglass at my head once.”
“Did you deserve it?”
“Absolutely.”
I laugh.
He laughs too.
And suddenly this isn’t funny. Because I can see it. Not a memory. An image my brain builds from his words. Another woman. Another me. Standing in some old house. Long dark hair. A glass in my hand. August ducking. Us laughing afterward. Maybe kissing.
Maybe…
I stop. “What were we?”
The laughter disappears.
I already asked him upstairs.
He called us a mistake but I don’t believe him anymore.
“August.”
“Don’t.”
“Were we married?”
“No.”
“Lovers?”
Silence.
“That’s a yes.”
“Lenora.”
“Did I love you?”
The other side of the door goes completely still.
I wait. “August?”
“Don’t ask me that.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t need the answer.”
“Maybe I do.”
“No.”
“Why?”
His voice hardens. “Because the more you remember, the faster this happens.”
I look toward the bathroom. Toward the tooth. “And remembering you causes it?”
“No.”
“What does?”
Silence.
I lean my head against the door. “August.”
He says nothing.
“What makes me molt?”
Nothing.
“Touching you?”
“No.”
“Being near you?”
“No.”
“Sex?”
His breath catches. Interesting.
“Have we had sex during this before?”
“Lenora.”
“We have.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“Does sex cause it?”
“It accelerates it.”
My stomach flips.
I don’t know why. I absolutely do know why. I remember being pressed against him upstairs. His arm around my waist. His mouth inches from my neck. My body reacted to him before I understood why. “What causes it?”
“Go to bed.”
“Fuck you.”
“Not advisable.”
My mouth falls open. “Did you just...”
“Goodnight, Lenora.”
“August.”
He stands.
I hear it and panic hits me.
Sudden and violent.
“Wait.”
He stops.
I don’t understand why I said it. I don’t want him here. I don’t trust him. I should be calling the police. Instead, the thought of him walking away makes something inside me hurt.
“Don’t go.” The words are barely audible.
Silence.
Then August sits back down.
My eyes burn. What the fuck is wrong with me?
“Why did you stay?” I ask.
“Because you asked.”
“No. All these years.”
He doesn’t answer.
“You said you hide from me. You move. Change names. Why not disappear completely?”
“I tried.”
“And?”
“You always find me.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then why keep trying?”