I lean forward, observing it closely, realizing that it could also stand for Ethan and Lila, which makes me hurt only more because I’m thinking about Lila instead of London. What I really want is to not be thinking about anyone. I want silence. Solitude. I want my God damn thoughts to turn off.
Shaking my head, I toss the bracelet aside, out of my line of vision. I need to get out of the house, otherwise I’m going to drift into that place where I get stuck in my own head and pretty much lock myself in a box. My mother always called it being unsociable and a few shrinks referred to it as social anxiety and I call it knowing too much. A couple of shrinks wanted to put me on something for it when I was about fourteen and got super stressed out about the idea of starting high school, not because I was afraid but because it seemed like there were so many people just moving together in herds. All I could think about was the loss of the peace and quiet I’d gained over the summer and all the other stuff I’d rather be doing.
I’ve always loved the quiet, although I’ve never really gotten much of it. When I was growing up, I had my brothers always pounding on me. Then they moved out and I was left with my dad constantly yelling at my mom and sometimes he would even hit her. I tried to interfere and ended up taking a few blows myself, which was fine except both my dad and my mom ended up mad at me. My mom told me that I didn’t need to interfere with things that weren’t my business. I was, like, thirteen and it totally confused me. When I asked her why, she simply said, “Because I love your father more than anything and he’s just going through a rough time in his life.” Just like he was when I was in second grade and he was addicted to pain pills. Sometimes I worry I’m going to turn out like him, that eventually I will end up with someone and this ugly, abusive person will manifest itself inside me.
Eventually my dad stopped hitting my mom—although to this day he walks all over her—but I still saw enough of the ugly, and how easily it was forgotten, that I really question why relationships are so important. Even with London, I didn’t see the importance of us declaring that we were together. We never said “I love you,” even though I think we both felt it. Sometimes I think I still do… maybe… I think so anyway. Shit, I have no idea.
“I really need to get out of here.” I push off my bed, grab my phone and keys, and head out the door. I think about going to a club, but I hate the noise. I consider a bar, which is lower key, but honestly I just want to walk, move forward, stop sitting still.
I take a cab to the strip, order a drink from this building that’s a smaller replica of the Eiffel Tower, and then walk up the crowded sidewalk, shoving my way through the crowd, wishing I was some place else instead. It’s as loud as being in a club, but I’m outdoors so it’s easier to breathe through it. I wander around sipping my drink, watching the neon lights blink. For a while I consider calling Lila and asking her to come meet me, but I’m afraid what will happen if she did. I feel bad for blowing her off, but I’m in one of my need-to-get-laid moods, which is the best way to turn off my thoughts, and with Lila around, I might end up breaking the rules I set with her. Then what? We’d fuck and things would get awkward and all those fun, light talks that we have, and the rescue missions, would get awkward and probably vanish.
Everyone’s all wound up on the sidewalks and in the clubs, talking, chatting, smiling, groping the shit out of each other. While I’m throwing my empty cup away, I spot a few girls in ridiculously short dresses. One’s eyeballing me and I think: Now there’s the distraction I’ve been looking for. I shove any emotions out of me before approaching them. Micha used to do this shit with me all the time, which made it easier.
I pick the brunette in a red leather dress for no other reason than she seems more interested in me than the other two. I flirt and I smile at her and we walk up and down the strip together. She keeps running her fingers up and down my chest and batting her eyelashes.
“We should go back to your place,” she finally shouts over the noise as we reach the heart of the casinos.
I nod, but make sure to play by the rules: always let them know where I stand. “We can do that, but just so you know, I just want to fuck. I’m not looking for a relationship.” I’m blunt, but I have to be. The last thing I want is to be misleading and either hurt someone or have them cling on to me.
She grins up at me as she traces my bottom lip with her pinkie nail. “That’s all I want, too.”
About an hour later I’m screwing her in my apartment and there is no meaning behind it. She’s using me and I’m using her. We’re just two shells of people with body heat that have absolutely no substance to them at the moment other than what we’re searching for—peace and calm. I never find it, though. But that might be because I never allow myself to.
Somewhere I lose track of what she looks like and picture her with short black hair, like London, and the more it continues the more she starts to look like Lila. It’s completely messed up and defeats the purpose of having sex and trying to forget my problems. I don’t want to be thinking of Lila—I don’t want to be thinking of anything. I just want a clear head, and when it’s over I go back to being alone, following my rules so I don’t have to get close to anyone and move on. Let go. Accept the reality that London’s never coming back to me and that she isn’t because I chose to let her walk away.
Once we’re done fucking, she gets up and tells me thanks while getting dressed and thoughts of London drift away as exhaustion overtakes me, yet Lila remains in my head as I wonder what she’s doing right at this moment. I mutter a “you’re welcome” and then she leaves, without giving me her number. I roll over in my bed, feeling alone, yet quietly content on the inside, exactly how I want to be. I glance at the clock and realize it’s only nine o’clock, though. Fuck. What the hell am I supposed to do for the rest of the night?
Shaking my head, I turn over and take my journal out, doing the only thing I can do to pass the time and try not to think about London and the last time I saw her. I can never forget it, how I just walked away from her. I end up writing about the morning when I found out she was gone, even though I promised myself a long time ago to forget about it. But it can’t seem to forget me.
The phone rings. It’s like a song. A very annoying song that has a sullen tune and lyrics full of angst and remorse. I’m not even sure how I know it’s bad news. I just do, and when I answer the phone and hear the sob, I know she’s gone, but not in the way I expected.
She’s gone.
But she’s not.
She’s in between death and life. Lost. Maybe forever. Maybe not. Who knows? No one really seemed to know much, and in the end the real London was gone, her mind always dying, veering closer and closer to death, but right at the last second it fleetingly starts to thrive again before starting the whole process over. She was always half starved, famished, unhealed, yet healed at the same time. It never made sense. None of it did with her.
None of it ever does.
Chapter Three
Lila
I love shopping, probably way too much. Spending money and buying clothes, for whatever reason, fills the void inside my heart. My mom used to drag me along with her all the time while she shopped. She’d go on these outrageous spending sprees every time my father would upset her. Instead of confronting him, she’d buy stuff and then put it all on and make herself look pretty. I remember watching her put new dresses on, shoes, and jewelry, and then she’d stand in front of the mirror and admire herself with a smile on her face.