But instead, I decide to save what I have for him and start making myself at home. I open up his closet to see how much room he has, though it quickly turns into me snooping through his clothes.
His wardrobe is pretty much the same as I’ve seen so far, just more of it. Still, for all his money, you never really see any of it in excess. Maybe a Land Rover is pricey, and this flat sure wasn’t cheap, not in the way it’s so stunningly done up, but Lachlan pretty much lives like everyone else. He’s got a few suits, all obviously tailored to fit his extra broad shoulders, but they aren’t designer labels. His shirts and jeans are mostly from H&M or some shop I don’t recognize. I like that about him, how unpretentious he is.
Since I’m in snooping mode and apparently don’t feel all that guilty about it, I move on to the rest of the room. At first it seems like he keeps everything neat and tidy, but then you realize it’s just that he doesn’t have a lot of stuff.
I move on to the bathroom, out past the hall, the walls painted a vivid blue. I know, I know it’s wrong to creep on people, and it’s especially wrong to want to check out their medicine cabinet. But there are just some things that have me curious. Sometimes it’s the ticks that he has, the ones he probably doesn’t even notice—the clenching of his jaw, the scratching of his arms, that wild widening of his eyes like he’s about to beat down on someone, the little sounds of frustration he makes at any odd time. We all have things like this, but with him…I just want to know more in any way I can.
And to be honest, I want to know more about what I’m getting myself into. I’m just here for three weeks, but I want to know Lachlan as deeply as possible. He seems to have been through so much…but how much more is there? And how deeply do his demons have a hold on him? Are things going to change now that we’re on his turf, or was the Lachlan I saw in San Francisco the one I’m going to get?
I take in a deep breath, nervously peering over my shoulder, as if Lionel is watching and ready to tell on me, and then open the cabinet.
There’s a bar of glycerin soap still in the package. A razor blade, a beard trimmer, one of those old-fashioned looking shaving brushes. Toothbrush, mouthwash, toothpaste. Hydrocortisone cream, anti-bacterial cream, arnica cream. A packet of allergy pills, a packet of muscle relaxers. Ibuprofen. Aspirin.
Then three bottles of prescription pills.
One only has a quarter left in the bottle: Ativan.
I know that one well. It’s for anxiety. That doesn’t surprise me. A lot of people I know are on it, and Lachlan isn’t exactly the calmest dude around. I mean, when he’s intense, he owns it. It nearly takes your breath away.
The second bottle is Percocet. Pain killers. Must be for the tendon injury because the bottle is almost empty.
Then there is Fluoxetine, which I know is Prozac. My mom took hers for a long time, but this bottle has barely been touched. That’s either a good thing or a bad thing. I’ve seen how my mom is on and off the drug, and I’ve heard her complain about how it dulls not just the pain but all the joy in life too. Then again, there were times when she really needed it to get through the day.
I carefully shut the cabinet door, holding my breath, afraid that he’s going to appear in the mirror behind me, like in a thriller movie. But he doesn’t. I’m alone in the bathroom, and Lionel is whining outside the door.
It’s none of my business to ask why he might need anti-depressants, and lord knows that, given his history, or at least what little I know of it, he has more than enough reasons to warrant it. But even so, I’m terribly curious. I want to know and I want to know on his own terms. I want him to trust me enough to open up to me, to let me in and show me around. Show me his fears and the demons on his back. I want to lose myself in his beautiful darkness.