Gail had the decency to look ashamed of her behavior. She held out her hand. “I’m Gail. I’ve known Elian since he moved here. I’m Tate’s…whatever…nice to meet you.”
I didn’t take her hand. I let her hold it out in front of her, hovering, empty. Her mouth pursed, her expression souring.
“Okay then. There’s nachos and beer in the kitchen. You guys are the last ones to arrive, so I’m not sure how much stuff is left.” Margie whispered something in Gail’s ear and they both looked at me. I stared back.
Elian fidgeted beside me. “Uh, okay. Thanks. I think we’ll see what beer is left.” He pulled me away, out of the room. Into a semblance of quiet.
“She doesn’t mean to be a bitch, Layna. But she’s Margie’s friend,” he said by way of explanation. Embarrassed. Mortified. Wanting me to pretend just like he does.
“I’m thirsty. Let’s get something to drink,” I said, ignoring his efforts to talk about what had just happened with the insignificant Gail, Tate’s whatever.
“Do you want a beer?” Elian asked, opening the refrigerator. Cheese and tortilla chips were strewn across the counter tops. The floor was sticky underneath my shoes.
“Water, please,” I said, looking around.
“It’s not normally this bad. But Tate’s parents’ are out of town, so he won’t bother to clean until right before they come home,” Elian explained. Always explaining.
I took the glass he offered and sipped. Elian popped the top off a bottle and took a long, nervous gulp. He was beginning to think that bringing me here wasn’t such a good idea. He knew I could see what he was.
Who he was.
He hadn’t thought this through.
“Do you want to go watch the match? I can introduce you to the rest of the guys. They’re not as bad as Margie and Gail.”
I took another drink. Considering.
“Okay,” I agreed. I wanted to see more.
Elian took my free hand and led me back to the living room. No one looked up as we entered.
“Can you make some room for us, Tate?” Elian asked. His voice tight. Tense.
Tate patted the cushion beside him. “Your hot Denny’s chick can sit right here next to me. You can go fuck yourself.” His laugh was grating. Too loud.
I didn’t take the offered seat.
Tate’s smile dropped and he moved over. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Sure, have a seat guys.” More polite this time. Elian gave my hand a tug and pulled me down next to him on the disgusting couch. Elian next to Tate.
“Is this the chick that’s had you MIA for the last couple of weeks?” a guy wearing a faded blue baseball cap and missing front teeth asked. I recognized him from the concert in the park. Stan. I drank more of my water, watching Elian as he put on a mask for these people he called friends.
“Her name is Layna Whitaker. Use it fuck face.” Again the smiles. No real venom. Who was this man?
Elian slung his arm around my shoulder and I pulled away. He looked hurt. Confused.
But then he was smiling again. Easy and comfortable. “This ugly fuck is Stan Biggers. I’m pretty sure you met him at the concert.” I nodded. “He and Nathan right there, work at George’s studio with Tate, Margie, and me.”
“Oh,” I responded, turning to the television. A man’s lip split open, blood on the mat.
Blood everywhere…
“Are you okay being here?” Elian whispered in my ear.
I turned to look at him, our noses an inch a part. Our eyes met and clung. Holding on. And there he was.
Elian.
The man I knew.
“Are you?” I asked.
He blinked in surprise at my question.
“None of that shit during the match,” the man named Nathan yelled, throwing a pillow at Elian.
“Damn, E, I can see why you’ve been hiding her away, she’s fucking hot,” Stan sneered, scratching his crotch. Hate. Hate. Despise.
Tate’s guffaws were too much. He smacked Elian on the back of the head.
Then I saw it.
Their Elian went hiding. Gone.
He picked up the pillow and threw it back at Stan, hard. Violent. It hit Stan in the face, knocking his glasses onto the floor, his beer slipping out of his hand. Stan hadn’t expected that sort of response from the Elian he knew.