5. LINC
FIVE
LINC
My toes wiggle on the smooth wood below my bare feet, searching for some kind of roughness —a bite. But there’s some kind of sealant on the wood. It’s bumpy, but I can’t feel any grooves or knots under my arches or toes.
The sliding glass door opens and closes as I hear Ellis say, “Hey,” from behind me, and my body jerks—feeling like it quite literally lands back into place.
Through a series of blinks, I shake my head, glancing down at the penny I’m mindlessly flipping through my fingers. I blink a couple more times.
I’m at the house. On the porch.
Just as another moment passes, I snap the penny up, but quickly snatch it back, out of the air, then shove it into my pocket with the other few coins.
Ellis chuckles, and I breathe a laugh too, mostly to seem present—but I still feel spacey as fuck.
Peeking up into the early evening gray sky, I can’t help but think it looks a bit darker than when I first came out here.
How long have I been out here?
My mind is always a bit of a flight risk, but add in the fact I didn’t get back from Venice until almost three last night, tossed and turned till five, only to get a whopping hour of actual sleep.
My internal clock woke me back up at six, and it’s made for a strange, delirious day—majority of which has been stuck in my fucking head.
Or floating in outer space.
Did I really lose the whole day to standing and staring?
Ellis clears his throat, then mutters, “Looks like rain,” as he comes up beside me, leaning his forearms over the bannister.
Still feeling a bit . . . far, I clear my throat, mumbling. “P-People are gonna be pissed.”
He snorts a laugh with a nod. “LA is the crankiest of bitches when it rains.”
I huff with a nod. Digging my hand into my back pocket, I fish out my cigarettes, lighting one as I keep my gaze outward. Through the thick, foggy air, I’m only able to make out bits and pieces of the sprawling landscape.
The house Ellis bought is part of a private gated community, nestled deep in the Santa Monica mountains. On a clear day, it’s 100 percent the million-dollar view he paid for. Literally.
Lush greenery surrounds a winding, paved road up the mountain. Past that, you can usually see a valley with some neighboring towns. And on really clear days, you can even see the faint skyline of the city.
The house itself isn’t huge, but it’s more than enough space with three bedrooms and four bathrooms. Ellis bought it as his first investment, and four years ago—after my year away at the spa as he refers to it—he offered up one of his spare rooms.
“ The spa ” is actually a place called Lending Lanterns. It’s a mental health facility in Santa Barbara. And the only reason I can afford his spare room is because he gives me a steep friends-and-family discount.
Only two drags into my cigarette, he says, “Question,” like it isn’t a question at all. “Why are there like . . . six radio-actively-large lemons on the counter?”
Ah, fuck.
I never took them into my room last night like I meant to. You know, like a normal person does when they “visit” their ex-girlfriend’s vacant house in the middle of the night to have panic attacks, throw mugs, and steal citrus fruits.
Totally fucking normal.
“I mean, they’re massive,” he says. “Kinda like the monster lemons from Darlene’s tree . . .”
Motherfucker.
He knows. Of course he knows.
I avoided him yesterday—which makes me the shittiest friend ever, given everything he’s done for me. But it would have pushed me over the edge. The risk of remembering was too high.
And he already knows I suck.
But I think he wanted some space too. He knew that backyard as well as I did. That house.
Them.
I feel his heavy sigh in my own chest. After a few seconds, he mumbles, “Is anyone living there?” It’s a question, but there’s this foreboding tone that makes it sound like he already knows the answer. My gaze finally pulls over to him and I see his green eyes, muted from the darkening sky. Another beat passes before he peeks over at me, waiting for an answer .
Or confirmation.
He’s asking if she’s living there.
My weight shifts, taking another drag as I shamefully dip my chin, giving my head a small shake.
Silence holds the moment, but in it, I can nearly hear the unspoken conversation between us. The one that happens nearly every time Paige even gets indirectly referenced . . .
He’d tell me to call her. I’d remind him of why I can’t, and his mouth would harden into a tight line, undoubtedly fighting back an obnoxious flood of frustration and exhaustion as the words would eventually just . . . evaporate.
Cue my self-loathing, which would lead to more dumb decisions.
So, we don’t.
It used to be worse. I’ve channeled a lot of my bullshit—which is a lot like folding your clothes and organizing them into drawers, only to end up with a massive pile on the floor by the end of the day.
“ And therapy is where you pick it all up and put it away again. Fun. ”
I groan at the thought of my least favorite therapist’s words. The one who focused on my exposure therapy at the facility.
Truthfully, I can’t be certain if he was my least favorite therapist or if it was because the therapy itself was a mild form of torture.
It was for a small group of us that had issues with . . . physical contact. And something about sucker-punching one of the guards —upon arrival— for tapping my shoulder, got me an immediate seat.
Or so I’m told. I don’t know. That whole time is . . .
Fuzzy.
But therapists love to remind me that our mental well-being can’t be controlled —just tamed. Managed.
And last night was the first time in . . .
Running my teeth along my bottom lip, I try to remember the last time I’d allowed myself to act out on a bad idea . . .
My chest lifts when I realize, I can’t. And fuck me if that isn’t a pathetic victory. That enough time has passed between my breakdowns, and I can’t easily recall the last time it happened.
My free hand sinks into my pocket and fiddles with the change, as my toes wiggle again.
Ellis’s audible yawn manages to fully bring me back —Goddammit. I’m so fucking spacey.
He crosses behind me to walk over to one of the four Adirondack chairs on the porch, plopping down in one, as another sigh pushes past his lips.
I see now that he’s already in sweats and a T-shirt, beer in hand. In an attempt to side step any more talk about yesterday —last night— I ask him, “How’d it go today?”
His mouth tilts as he rustles a hand through his sandy blond hair. “Good. Should be all set. Becca says she’ll make the deposits then bring the money during her monthly visits. But I might still do it when I can. Any excuse to go out there and see the family sometimes, ya know?”
My mouth ticks up, taking another drag as a warm hum spreads through my chest.
Ellis released his first documentary, The 5, a few months ago, and now he’s getting ready to send it off for festival consideration.
A double entendre, The 5 is about a family of five people who are houseless —a term they have asked to be used, not homeless— as their home is in a small covering under the 5 freeway. Their family’s story is multigenerational and layered through some really compelling interviews—footage that addresses the shortage of affordable housing in LA.
He did a fucking great job. And given that the family he worked with has been living on the streets for decades, they don’t feel comfortable managing money or dealing with banks. So Ellis entrusted the task to a social worker and their finance team to make sure it’s taken care of.
But I know he’ll miss working with them.
Ellis Casper may have been born to one of the wealthiest men in the country—maybe even the world—but he has a big fuckin’ heart. Even if it comes with a lot of opinions.
A quality he’s had since the day I met him.
Just a few days after I met her.
Ellis swipes the thought away when he says, “Oh, the lawyers sent me a bunch of shit for the copyright. You sure you don’t want any sort of credit for the poster shot? I mean, it’s a category at some festivals.”
I shake my head immediately. It’s his picture.
I mean, yes, it’s a still shot that I fucked around with from one of my dailies. But I took the still with his narrative in mind.
It was my first attempt with mixed media photo editing, but luckily, I had three years to figure it out. And the transformation from the original to the finished movie poster is fucking cool.
It started out just as a shot of the family under the bridge. Then I was able to place photos I took of certain city landmarks —some might argue excessive, unnecessary, and costly landmarks— and I blended them into the family’s skin. I was able to play with some transparency filters so you could still see their facial features, and I texturized the shit out of the photos of the landmarks so they were all gritty—which was the vibe Ellis wanted.
He smiles. “Well, thanks, man. It’s fucking awesome.”
A tightness bunches in my chest—a knot of warmth and itchiness. The gratitude, the praise.
I don’t deserve it.
Not this guy.
I work to swallow, taking my last drag.
Ellis says, “Oh, Desmond called me earlier. Said he wants to come over and grill out tomorrow. You good with that?”
I nod, unevenly, as I smash my cigarette into the ashtray—a little harder than necessary.
I don’t know why the mention of Ellis’s dad stopping by always . . . I don’t know—makes me stand up a little straighter.
It’s an asinine response, seeing as Desmond’s never been anything but kind to me. And like his son, he seems to have a soft spot for lost causes.
Ellis stands, looking down at his phone. He chews his bottom lip. “I’ve gotta take this. But do you wanna watch an episode of Lost after?”
My mouth twitches at the corner, stuttering, “S-Sounds good, man.”
With a nod, he walks toward the sliding door, I hear him answer his call as he steps back inside the house, and my chin lifts back out to the mountain range.
In the time we’ve been out here, the cloudy day has become dusty twilight—the moon invisible through the fog.
A familiar ache buried inside me starts to stir in the deepest part of my chest—so much so that I clear my throat, and give my head a shake.
Don’t.
Night has become something I crave and dread in equal measure. A nocturnal ache awakens as the things I channel and put away taunt the edges of my mind, skipping the perimeter of my awareness.
Like a monster under the bed, I think.
Waiting. Lurking. Hiding in the shadows.
I huff. Sounds like me.