41. PAIGE
FORTY-ONE
PAIGE
Ellis was right.
There was nothing like seeing the lights go out in someone’s eyes. Eyes you knew better than your own.
I pushed too far.
I was sure he had no desire to watch the despicable eleven minutes on the flash drive, but I thought bringing forth its existence would somehow get him to see —understand— that I’ve never blamed him. I’ve shamefully watched the eleven minutes myself a couple of times—in my darkest hours.
Gram always said, “I don’t think the darkest hours are always bad—some are just ominous. But the unknown has its own discovery. And wandering around in the dark means you’re searching. Moving. As long as you keep going . . .”
The memory of her words bring me back to now. Going, I think. More specifically, driving.
I don’t think running away is what Gram had in mind when she was encouraging me to keep going— but I had to go.
And I’m not “running away,” I remind myself. Technically , I did tell them I was going to go back to Gram’s—and that’s where I’m going. Driving.
I turn the music up a bit, releasing a breath.
Truthfully, I have every intention of following up with the men of my past, but I . . . pushed too hard.
And now I have to give Linc some space. Just . . . some time to recover. Not forever, I remind myself.
I clear my throat in an attempt to shove the thought away, then flick on my windshield wiper as a light sprinkling of rain falls from the early morning clouds.
I turn up the music—some Slipknot song is playing—but I’m not paying attention. I just need something to drown out the constant fucking replay that’s been thrumming through me since it all happened a few hours ago.
It’s all still so vivid—so raw—I feel like I can nearly reach out and touch the memory. Like it’s just on the other side of the windshield with the rain . . .
At the mention of the flash drive, the first thing I noticed was Linc’s eyes. His blinking pattern. It wasn’t excessive or even rapid, but it seemed . . . pointed, somehow?
Then suddenly, an anguished roar tore out of him—the noise was so deep and rough that I felt it in my own chest as he choked out an unintelligible noise.
The wide space of the house felt bigger all of the sudden, as I saw his eyes turn nearly black —unrecognizable.
The snarl on his face sent a chill through my bones—even his stance became a taller, more looming presence, and I felt my heart cowering.
But I locked my knees, trying to push the shake from my voice as I said, “Linc,” quietly, trying to get him back. Come back. I begged for it silently, I begged him with my eyes, but the big tattooed man—the boy who wouldn’t even arm-wrestle me in first grade because he didn’t want to hurt me—was staring at me with endless, unhinged . . . confusion.
I put some distance between us, rushing toward the kitchen.
I wasn’t afraid of him. I wasn’t. But Linc wasn’t present, and I had no idea how to get him back.
I could tell he was disoriented because his steps were uneven. His face looked ready for murder, and his muscles were all contracting, but his coordination was sluggish.
His eyes were so far away, so dark.
Suddenly, Ellis barrelled in from his hallway and immediately took notice of my wide eyes, my tense stance. It was all the hesitation needed for Linc to grab him, and shove him into the wall, his hands fisting Ellis’s shirt.
Ellis grunted at the impact, his own biceps bulged as he locked a grip around Linc’s wrist. “Grab some ice!” he gritted out through clenched teeth.
I listened, quickly running to the fridge and yanking open the freezer, grabbing as many ice cubes as I could.
Cradling the ice in my hands, I rushed over to them. “Run it along his neck—put one in his fist if you can,” Ellis panted, then barked, “Linc!” trying to get him to snap out of it. He pushed our friend away, trying to make room for me to run the ice anywhere I could. I dropped a few of the cubes, my hands shaking, but after a few fumbles, I managed to push the slippery ice along the back of Linc’s neck—like Ellis said.
Linc hissed, and my fingertips could feel the heat from his skin—the flesh was bright red.
God, Linc. I’m so sorry.
The right side of the car dips, and I gasp as the cabin rattles and my eyes dart down to Cheeto—in her to-go container on the passenger’s seat. And she is pissed.
Join the club.
We pass the canals, but the lingering memory of last night keeps my muscles tightened. My mind fucking racing.
And that’s why I had to leave. I’m too hungry for answers right now. Since the moment I ran into him a few nights ago —since I found out the real reason he left— I’ve been counting on our longstanding connection to help repair us. But the problem is, I think our connection —the reemergence of me—is only making this guilt he’s carrying around that much more painful. Overwhelming.
I’m a trigger. To him. The boy I’m slowly dying without.
And I’m sure Shakespeare would just have a fucking field day with this—but what the fuck?
I mean, Ellis said it himself, Linc hadn’t had an episode like this in years—and it’s no coincidence that it happened now. When I brought up the thing I wasn’t supposed to bring up.
Fuck me. And look at that! It ended exactly the way Ellis warned me it would. A disaster.
One that broke my heart to see . . .
The ice seemed to help.
It helped bring some level of awareness back, because I could visibly see Linc’s grip loosen on Ellis.
Ellis nodded, his own muscles releasing a bit as I continued to run some ice over Linc’s neck, I dragged a cube to the collar line of the gray T-shirt he was wearing.
When the ice melted, I used the cool touch of my hands on his neck. I wasn’t able to get any ice into his clenched fists, but his hands slowly released Ellis entirely.
Linc stood and stared at Ellis for long seconds—maybe even minutes—his eyes blinking almost like he was trying to get rid of a flash in his vision.
“It’s okay, man. It’s okay,” Ellis said, quietly.
Slowly—so fucking slowly—I could see the green and brown flooding back into Linc’s eyes. The flush on his neck and chest dissipated, but the color immediately rushed up to his cheeks.
He swallowed hard and his chin slowly turned to me.
“Oh my God,” he croaked.
“Linc—” Ellis said.
“Oh my God, fuck—” Linc’s hoarse voice ripped through my chest, his eyes wide.
“Hey,” I said, quickly. “It’s okay. Nothing—” I stopped, realizing I was saying this phrase for the second time today. “Nothing bad happened.”
Bad had already happened.
Linc’s breathing was still ragged, his hazel eyes were extra green—a sign of discomfort, I had noticed when we were kids.
I cleared my throat and slid my hand down his arm. He hadn’t noticed I was still touching him, but the movement shifted his eyes.
I could feel him still shaking, still partially stuck wherever he just was—but he was trying so hard to shake it off—to seem okay. I recognized that feeling instantly. And it crushed me more.
Stopping at a red light, my foot hits the brake harder than I mean to.
Throwing a soccer-mom-arm over Cheeto’s container, I skid to a stop. My fingers immediately dig through my hair, pushing back the unruly blue waves as I glance around.
Main Street.
It’s early, and there aren't many people out, but my eyes peek about halfway down the block—seeing someone putting the sandwich board out front of Queenie’s.
I could work there again . . .
The paychecks were nothing compared to The Window, but . . . maybe as a side hustle?
I shake my head. Too close to before.
It’s already going to be . . . rough, staying at Gram’s.
Our house.
And I’ll still have to break my lease at the Hollywood apartment. But in my hasty exit from the Game Cube in the mountain, my body decided here first.
Drop off my stuff. Spend some time there. See if I can even make it the night —make it through the door— before I throw away my tuna can in the city.
That’s my plan. If I can . . . handle being back home for a night or two, when I’m ready to get the rest of my shit out of the Hollywood apartment, I’ll call the boys.
Just a breather, I tell myself again.
Fuck. Why does it feel like I’m trying to convince myself?
“Leaving was the right thing to do,” I whine out loud.
The heavy weight of . . . everything sat between us.
But movement slowed. Ellis clapped Linc’s shoulder gently, his chin lowering, trying to meet Linc’s eyes.
I think Ellis asked him something, but the sound was garbled as a new flutter of awareness found me.
This trauma was different from mine. The awful experience we shared seemed to have manifested differently for both of us.
I know mine had taken on different forms throughout the years, but never anything like this.
At first, you could see mine. In my hollow eyes, my defeated, broken posture, my wrists . . .
It was obvious. But like anything else—with practice—I learned to hide those things. For Gram. And for me too, probably.
But the time and space between us had been given all the fear from a single experience, and sculpted itself into a mountain determined to crumble down on top of us.
Bury us.
Which was exactly what would happen if I stayed.
The avalanche of my need to deconstruct what happened to us—to understand what happened to him— was too deep.
It was clear in the following hour Linc spent agonizing over the episode. He sat on the couch, and I sat next to him while I explained what happened, keeping my hand on his knee the whole time.
And he held my hand. His grip tightened and loosened.
“I’m so sorry, Pip,” he said over and over again. Same to Ellis. And each apology felt like another twist in my chest.
But really, no one got hurt—so, in the grand scheme of things, it could have been so much worse.
Worse was what would happen if I stayed and continued to poke and prod for information, for answers, he wasn’t ready to give me.
Ellis watched with sad eyes as his friend blinked with devastation—the adrenaline crash—and I could feel the exhaustion in my own body.
Linc fell asleep.
And it’s right when the ship started to sink on the TV.
It always sinks . . .
Just as I have the thought, my heart nearly capsizes . . . I pull onto our street.
So far so good . . .
I mean, the whole, being alert while driving thing seems to be a hard-fucking-pass, but at least I made it to our road.
And I can’t be sure if it’s my delirium, or the unfolding of last night still lingering in my mind—but the old beach shanty doesn’t seem as daunting.
I’m still scared. Nervous.
The idea of walking through the house still sounds terrifying, but . . . the thought of being in my old room . . . well, it doesn’t sound bad.
So, that’s good.
God, I’m fucking tired.
I pull into the driveway slowly, my eyes dragging up to the dirty, pale yellow house.
“ This is right, ” I hear in my head.
I’m unsure if I’m telling myself or if it’s Gram, but a warm comfort fills my chest with a deep inhale.
I look down at Cheeto.
Her big gray eyes stare up at me through the small, clear container. “Here goes nothin’.”
Linc’s breathing evened out and Ellis finally stopped the sounds of disaster on the TV screen with the remote, but I almost preferred it.
The silence was painful, it filled with the memories of Linc’s rumbled nonsense.
I shook my head again, and then, slowly, carefully, wiggled my hand out from Linc’s and I swear to God, I felt my heart skip.
Not forever, I reminded myself.
Once my hand was free, I hunched over, elbows on my knees, cradling my face in my hands
I could feel Ellis’s admonishing stare. When I finally peeked through my fingers, I could nearly see the “ I told you so” scolding me with his eyes as he stared down at me.
But then he surprised me when he said, “Did he–uh . . .” he trailed off, his voice barely above a whisper. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
“No!” I whisper-yelled, then lowered my voice further. “Jesus, Ellis—”
“Well, what am I supposed to think?”
“Stop,” I cut him off and flicked my eyes down to Linc, slumped over on the couch, hiding his face.
The sight made me wince, but I was grateful to see he was still sleeping. Resting.
I looked back at Ellis. “You know he would never hurt me,” I said quietly, my jaw clenching. “It was my fault. I brought up shit, I touched him, I—”
Ellis scoffed, rubbing the bridge between his eyes. He looked back over at Linc, then sighed. Another roll of agitation passed through him, but then he seemed to shake it off. “Look, it’s late. Let’s just . . . get some sleep.”
The creak of the door to the mudroom pushing open brings me back to now.
But the heaviness in my chest lifts a bit as I open the back door, then quickly call out, “Hello?”
Why? Who knows? But I left the door unlocked for a fucking year, so any number of things could be in the house.
Raccoons, dead bodies . . . Alive bodies.
It’s also unlikely any of those things will answer me. But the house is quiet. I don’t hear anything through the paper-thin walls leading to the kitchen, and the random array of shit I left on the table is still there.
That’s where Linc’s mug was.
My eyebrows flinch, but I ignore the memories of that day, and instead think about my route. Straight through the kitchen, hard left through the living room, up the stairs, first door on the right.
I must look insane. My duffle bag is strapped over my shoulders, I’m holding a gecko in one hand —in what is essentially a lunchbox— and my pepper spray is clutched in the other hand.
Insanity or not, I take a breath, and then I take off.
I try to keep Cheeto out in front of me in an attempt to not scramble her, but each peripheral image I catch feels like it slices at some deep part of my chest.
The piano. Fuck.
The pictures up the staircase. No, no, no.
I practically tumble into my room, luckily keeping Cheeto up like she’s the football of a winning touchdown.
She looks terrified.
Breathlessly, I tell her, “Sorry,” then spend an absurd amount of time on the floor, panting. Watching Cheeto.
She’s racing around, but I think if I pick her up, it’ll just rattle her more—literally.
My limbs shake as I kick the door closed to release some aggression, growling a bit as my foot makes contact with the door. The loud slam feels almost as satisfying as a kick to the wall.
Almost.
When my breathing evens out a bit, my eyes start to drift around the room, noting it still looks the same.
A mess.
The light blue walls are still riddled with tapestries. I look at the dresser that used to hold pictures on top. I took them away long ago, but staring at the empty shelf right now feels . . . off.
They’re not gone anymore.
I told Gram to get rid of the pictures—of everything except the music box—but I’m sure she didn’t. I’m sure if I looked for them, they’d be hidden somewhere in this house . . .
My eyes fall to my duffle bag, remembering my urge to let her cardigan experience the yard. The lemons.
I can’t bring it to the tree right now because the rest of the house is a haunted graveyard, but maybe it’d like to see my room again.
Take a nap in my bed.
I pick up the heavy bag and drop it on the bed. After I unzip it, I dump everything out on the comforter.
I left in such a hurry that I literally rolled everything up in a ball and threw it in the bag.
I weave my way through the clothing, untangling the big beige sweater, when my eyes absently scan the pile.
Looking . . .
I lift a few flannels and T-shirts, a couple of thongs, but . . .
The longer I search the heap of clothing, the brighter the heat becomes in my chest.
I don’t see them. I’ve held onto them for eight years at this point and . . . I don’t see them.
Something like victory—hope—maybe a new breed of something I’ve never felt blooms deep inside of me.
The well. My deep sacred place.
And I can’t help the dirty smirk that curls my lips.
He is still here.
And he took my fucking underwear.