Page 53 of Elusive

“Night,” I mumble in regret, to myself… since she’s already gone.

*****

What can only be a few hours later, sounds of the shower and soft music wake me from my uncomfortable-as-fuck attempt at sleep. My neck’s stiff and my feet are numb from hanging over the end of this miniature version of a couch, but I wouldn’t have “slept” anywhere else… except beside her in bed.

I groan as I start to rouse; not of pain, but disappointment — that she’s already awake, well-short of the rest she needed, and most definitely because of the song she’s got playing — just a bit shy of “chipper.” I don’t know it offhand; doesn’t matter, I do know a gloomy ballad when I hear one. Which is why I grab my phone and google the few repetitive lyrics I’m able to pick out; to see what the hell it is singer dude’s droning about. Presley can give me shit all she wants, but we both know she pays just as much credence to lyrics as I do. She confirmed that with her reaction to “Infinity Street.” So, whatever song this is, she’s picked it for a reason. I finally find it — “Sign of the Times” by Harry Styles. Whoever the hell that is. I scan through the words… Jesus, depressing much? I read them one more time, and I’m still confused. Is he dying, saying goodbye to someone else who’s dying, or is this a mass-death anthem? Again, doesn’t fucking matter;any/all of the options suck. It’s intervention time.

I stand and try shifting my morning wood to an unobvious-as-possible position, which doesn’t work, then head for her room. The door to it opens, but the bathroom one’s locked, so I knock, loud enough to be heard over the music, but hopefully not tooloud, as in “scare the shit outta her” volume. “Everything okay in there?”

She yelps, so much for not scaring her, and after a few seconds the music’s gone. “What?”

“Just checkin’ if you’re alright?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Oh, I don’t know… maybe because you’ve had next-to-no sleep, after a horrible night, and just so happen to have chosen a suicidal serenade to start your day?

What I say though, is, “no reason, just makin’ sure. You hungry? I could whip something up.”

“No, you couldn’t,” she laughs. “My fridge is a barren wasteland, not sure why I even have one.”

Damn, don’t wanna leave her, but can’t not offer if… “are ya hungry?”

“I could eat, but I’m not starving. Don’t worry about it, really.”

She’s hungry. Gotta feed her, so, gotta leave her; not for long though.

“How ‘bout I run out and grab us something?”

“Sounds good. Thanks.”

“My pleasure, babe. You got anywhere particular in mind?”

“Nope, whatever works. I’m easy.”

I call bullshit with a chuckle under my breath. If Presley’s “easy,” I never wanna meet up with hard. “Alright, I’ll be right back.” Still chuckling to myself, I turn to go… and see it. Just sitting there, out in the open, tempting me like Eden’s apple. How, I haven’t a clue, but I know instantly what it is, and that I havenoright to eventhink about taking a closer look, but I do so anyway. It makes me a terrible person, and now, actually undeserving of the trust I so badly want her to give, and yet, I just can’t seem to summon up the strength to stop myself, let the potential of what could be pass me by. Any insight into Presley, the woman who refuses to give me any, lest a flitting, accidental peek… it’s too hopeful, promising, to resist. Within reach, a key… to a door I can’t kick down. No “magic password” to gain entry. Suppose you were granted the power to see someone else’s thoughts… would you take it? That’s what it comes down to; what I must ask myself. Am I willing to forego everything I consider “the right thing to do” to truly enter her world? Understand her? Unlock the labyrinth that keeps her from true happiness?

Yes. If it helps her, then the answer’s simple. Yes, I am.

So, having justified in my head, my heart not buying a word of it and already aching, I plop my deceitful ass down on her bed, my shame strong, but being overpowered by possibility… and start reading her journal.

Thinking I’ve left, she cranks the music back up, this time a song I recognize — “Iris” — no less concerning than the one before and the more I read of raw, unfiltered Presley, poured onto the page, the more I understand her song choices. All her choices. Why she insists on the indestructible fortress she lives behind. Why she never even considers investing in a long-term relationship, avoiding any real emotion. With each and every word the pieces start falling in place to form a startling, enraging portrait of my mystery girl.

I read faster, flipping pages like a madman, which I now may be, until I no longer see words — I see red. Not metaphorically. My vision is literally fogged by a thick, dark crimson, the hue of a savage rage the likes of which I wouldn’t have thought myself capable. The color of blood, that will be shed by cause of my hands if given the chance.

Countless questions whirl my mind in a chaotic racket, along with ideas on how toinflict the most pain possible, and loudest of all… ways to help her. Somehow, thank God, I’m aware enough to notice when the music and shower both turn off, hustling to put the journal back right where I found it before sprinting down the hall to grab my shit and bolt out the door. Halting in my tracks just as quickly, I double-check that I locked it behind me — always, amidst anything, Presley’s safety my utmost priority. Now, impossibly more so than ever.

But one thing at a time. Right now, I need to pull myself together, go get food, and fake my way through sanity until I figure out what the fuck I’m gonna do with, about, my new stolen knowledge. I want to go on a rampage, search out answers, crack fuckin’ skulls, beat someone ‘til I feel the worthless, undeserved life leave their body. More than anything though, I want to know why, how, my precious girl was left to hurt alone when she has such a large, “hands on” family. The most perceptive damn “clan” I’ve ever known, aware of shit another clan-member’s thinking or feeling before they themselves are. How the hell did this, of all balls, get dropped? Especially by Sawyer Beckett?And Dane Kendrick? Two sinisterly scary motherfuckers… who both missed it. Doesn’t add up.

I’m not about to call either one of them, but I’m also not about to just drive around in wonder, so I call the person closest to Presley… the punk I thought was a close friend of mine too.

“Hey,” JT answers, as if everything’s fine and he harbors no guilt over lying to me for months. “How’s P? She make it through the night okay?”

“Hey yourself. She made it fine, and she’s… well she’s as good as she can be, considering,” I seethe, unable to contain my anger. “Got a question for ya. I’ve asked it before, more than once, but I’m gonna try One. Last. Time. Be very careful how you answer me, brother.”

“Okayyyy,” he drawls in worried curiosity. He’s wise to be worried.

“Why is Presley… the way she is? You know what I mean, no friends other than family, never goes out without one of you, repulsed by the thought of real dating, hates crowds, the thing last night. All of it. Why?”

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