He is playing with Layla’s purple Russian hat, chewing on the fur, drooling. It triggers the memories of last night and before I know it, I’m thrown into another dimension. I’m flooded with Layla. I haven’t thought of her or the kiss since Hadley left, but now it’s all I can think about.
A hunger rises in me, a wrong, dirty, angry kind of hunger. It just wants to take and take and take, because I’m tired of feeling like this, like I have no control over my life.
I’m ravenous for Layla. I’m ravenous for the power she gives me. I want to abuse that power, unleash it, use it against her. I want to destroy her like I’m destroyed in this moment. She is too brave for her own good. I want to destroy that bravery, that pure courage.
Maybe Susan is right; maybe I’m not like my father.
My father never thought about anything else besides his wife, and the sudden burning in my bones, the volcanic eruption in my gut has nothing to do with Hadley.
It has everything to do with Layla Robinson.
Emma is with Dylan at the dorms and the school is closed due to the snowstorm. I am home alone and restless. Normally, I wouldn’t care about being stranded alone, but over the past month, I’ve forgotten how to live that way. Emma has spoiled me and now she’s gone.
I hate her.
And I hate Dylan.
And I hate the fucking snow.
I hate everyone and everything.
I’m sitting on the couch. My body feels tight and awkward, like it doesn’t know what to do with itself. I try to remember what I normally do when alone. There’s a half-eaten packet of Twizzlers on the coffee table, and I begin stuffing my face with it.
Okay, what else?
“Aha!” I shout to the empty room then scroll through the music on my phone and put on something by Lana Del Rey. Blue Jeans.
The song reminds me of Thomas—no surprise there. I curl up on the couch and make myself miserable listening to it. Flashes of storage closet bombard me as the song progresses.
The kiss. The orgasm. My confession. The devastation when he left.
I brought it on myself. I never should’ve kissed him in the first place. I never should’ve come apart on his leg. It was wrong on so many levels…even though he seemed to enjoy my moans and desperation.
The song stops and a shrill ring echoes in my apartment. I have half a mind to ignore it, but my fingers clumsily hit accept before I can see who it is.
It’s Caleb, and I’m staring down as the seconds pass on the screen. Slowly, I bring it to my ear and stammer, “H-Hello.”
I should’ve prepared myself for the sharp intake of breath on the other side at the sound of my voice. There’s a rattle in my chest. I feel my ribs shaking as my heart tries to squeeze out and latch on to the phone.
“Hello?” I say when I don’t hear anything else.
“Hey,” he says with a world of hesitation. “I-I wasn’t expecting you to pick up.”
I let his voice—a little scratchy, a lot boyish—wash over me. It’s been two years, two years since I’ve heard it, since he’s spoken to me. I pinch myself and curse at the sting.
“Lay? You there? What’s, uh, what was that?”
It’s hard to speak against the tidal wave of emotions rolling through my throat to my mouth. “Um, I just kinda pinched myself. I’m okay though.”
A shy chuckle. “Okay. Good to know.” He clears his throat. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything, but in my defense, I was hoping you wouldn’t pick up.”
“No. You’re not interrupting anything.” I look around the empty apartment. “It’s a snow day so I’m pretty much free.”
“Ah, yes. I bet it’s coming down hard over there. I hope it stays that way. I know how much you love unexpected holidays.”
Not anymore, I want to say. Now I hate them. I hate being trapped inside the apartment. I hate not being in Thomas’ class.
Caleb doesn’t know me. He has no idea what’s going on in my life. I derive a certain satisfaction from that. “Yeah,” I say instead, and leave it at that.
We fall silent. I listen to his breaths—they’re more like sighs—and I feel like a bitch. I ruined everything between us. Me. What I did was a felony. No apology would make up for it. Even though I called and called, he never picked up.
I shake my head and break the silence. “So, how’s Boston?”
“Good…I hope. I’m back in New York.”
“Yes. For the party.” I lick my lips. “Did you bring me anything?”
“I-I actually—”
“Relax. I’m kidding.” I throw out an awkward laugh. “Wow, Boston sucked all the humor out of you, didn’t it?”
He laughs and I picture his dirty blond hair and green eyes. I picture his smooth fingers gripping his cell phone—is it an iPhone?—while he talks to me.
“Where are you staying?” I want to complete the picture, see what he sees. My hungry heart wants information.
“At your mom’s. In fact, I’m staying in your room.”
“No way.” I sit up. “Ugh. Why? They’ve got enough rooms. My room is messy.”
“Lay, you don’t still live here. They cleaned up after you.”
“Oh, right.” I fall back and prop my legs on the coffee table. “Sorry I panicked.”
“What for? I’ve seen your room before. I know you’re a slob.”
“Hey! I’m not a slob. I’m just a little disorganized.”
“No, you’re a slob. You lost your phone in your room for two whole days because of your supposed ‘disorganization.’”
“Well, excuse me for acting my age. Not everyone is as perfect as you, wiping off water rings.” I shudder.
This time our silence is much lighter. I take the time to complete the picture. Caleb is in my room right now. It’s hard to imagine it clean, but still I see him sitting on my bed, propped against the white headboard, maybe even staring out the left window overlooking Central Park. This time of year the trees must be bare, and today, they must be covered in freshly falling snow.
“So I’ve been calling because I wanted to see if you were still coming to Henry’s party,” Caleb says, after a while.
That’s why he’s been calling. He wants to see me.
I press my palm to my stomach, trying to squash the onslaught of butterflies, the fluttering of their soft wings. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt that. Did I imagine it wrong or have the sensations always been so…light with dulled edges?
It’s nothing like the sharp tug of my belly button or the firecrackers over my skin, or the urge to smash my thighs together and grind my hips.
“I can’t.” It comes out agonized, pained. “I’ve got some stuff to do at school. I already told Mom.”
“Oh.” He is disappointed. I can hear it in his voice. “Well, maybe I’ll see you some other time then.”
“Are you planning on sticking around?”
“I think so, yes. The company needs me. I mean, I’ve been groomed for it forever, you know. I think it’s time.”
“Sure. Yeah. The company. Well, I’m glad you’re gonna be around.”
“Me too,” he says with a quiet voice.
It’s the end of our conversation. It’s time to put down the phone, but nothing feels resolved. What was the point of the call? Somehow I know it’s not the usual check-in about the party.
“Why did you leave me?”
Did I just say that? I did, didn’t I? I’m such a fucking moron.