The Unrequited Page 5

  “What are you talking about?”

  He leans forward again, and I’m hit by the desire to push this desk away. It feels like miles and miles of ocean rather than a few inches of polished wood. His proximity has upped the sounds of the world. The talking, the laughing, the footsteps. The earth is shifting, rolling side to side, and he seems like the only anchor. How crazy is that?

  “You want me to spell it out, huh.” His voice has dropped an octave. Low and gravelly. Words slurring together. “I know your secret, Layla.”

  A blip in my heartbeat. Firecrackers burst over my skin at the way he said my name. As far as I’m concerned, my name is average, but his voice, the movements of his tongue against his lips, make it special. A squeaky sound escapes me because I’ve forgotten how to speak.

  “You think I don’t know? It’s in your eyes.” He flicks his gaze left to right, studying said eyes. His blue and my violet. The colors with just a pinch of a difference, belonging to the same part of the spectrum of a rainbow.

  “What about them?” I breathe at last, gathering my scattered thoughts.

  His lips twitch and my cold, dry fingertips want to touch it, feel the tiny dance of muscles. “They do a shit job of hiding your emotions.” His lopsided smile morphs into a chuckle. Dark and rich, like chocolate. We want to taste it. For once, I agree with my stupid heart.

  “What emotions?” I’m just saying things now, robotically. A doll made of plastic.

  “You have a thing for me.”

  It takes a second for me to register what he just said. “Wh-What?”

  He draws back and shrugs. “It’s obvious.”

  “What?” I screech again. My plastic brain is coming to life. “That’s ridiculous. I don’t…I don’t have a thing for you.” He shrugs again, so cocky and arrogant, as if the whole world revolves around him. My palms ball into fists. “I don’t. I don’t have a crush on you—or on anyone, for that matter.”

  Thomas nods. “Sure.”

  “I don’t.” I huff out a frustrated breath.

  “Okay.”

  His careless dismissal, his disbelief, his beautiful, condescending eyes—they make me want to hit him. They make me want to spill my secrets. I’m taken aback. I never want that. I never want anyone to see the dark, needy hole inside me. Even I don’t want to see it.

  This is sick, Layla. How can you think that about your brother?

  My mom’s voice in my ears angers me further. She pops up every now and then to be my tormentor, to tell me how much I need Kara to straighten me out.

  I take a deep breath and tighten my features. I hate Thomas Abrams in this moment, and I want him to know it. My pelvic bone digs into the edge of the desk as I let my anger loose. “I hate to break it to you, Professor Abrams, but old guys don’t do it for me. They’ve got a sickly smell that I don’t like, and correct me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t that thing down there increasingly shrink with age?”

  I’m angry enough to not care about what I just said, but not angry enough to ignore the flame flickering in my stomach or to not look at the…thing I just mentioned, the slight bump hidden by the zipper of his jeans. Heat spans the entire length of my body as I imagine what it looks like…bare and hard.

  “I wouldn’t know, Miss Robinson.” His soft, smooth voice brings me out of my trance. “I think I have some good inches left in me, but thanks for the tip. Might come in handy in a few years when I start measuring my dick.”

  Dick. He said dick. In front of me. His student. Everything about this is inappropriate. My skin is throbbing, pulsating with too much energy. I’m saturated with sweat and tingles.

  What is happening?

  He shrugs on his coat and buttons it up with deft movements. His eyes are on me as he says, or rather commands, “Don’t be here next time.”

  Then he walks out.

  ________________

  The night is sleepless and snowy. I watch the snow through the door of my balcony, pressing my naked body to the chilled glass.

  I am hot, too hot. I look down and find myself covered with a constellation of scarlet splashes, almost hiding the web of blue veins under my pale skin. My thighs slip against each other due to the wetness leaking out of me. I break my cardinal rule and touch my swollen pussy. My hips jerk at the sensation. It’s foreign and so fucking good. The folds are creamy and sensitive, begging for something.

  You have a thing for me.

  That’s all I can hear, all I could hear throughout the day. I shiver, imagining his wispy whispers over my skin.

  Yeah, I do.

  Somehow, someway, I have developed this crush on him. I know he’s married. I know he’s an asshole, rude and mean and some kind of a genius poet—but maybe that’s the appeal. I don’t want him to love me back. I don’t want the hope of reciprocation. Hope kills. It tortures. I just want this.

  This viral need that is eating through my heart, my brain, all my organs, starting up a pulse deep below. It swells and slickens, like every time I watch porn. I never bring myself relief because it feels dirty, illicit to be jerking off to something like that. Besides, after what I did to Caleb, I don’t think I deserve any kind of pleasure. Hence, my cardinal rule: no touching my own body.

  But this pulse is hard to ignore. It’s too strong. Too forceful. Too alive, as if my pussy is breathing and has a mind of its own. It’s making me do things. He’s making me do things to myself. He’s making me touch my clit, my slippery cunt. Slow, at first. Slow, measured, lazy circles. Then fast, rushed, frantic flicks that cause my body to writhe. My small tits jiggle and shudder, pink nipples beading in excitement as I twist them with my other hand.

  He’s making me play with myself. He might as well be cradling my hand, dusky digits curled over my small, smooth ones. I’m his puppet and he is my invisible master, holding my strings from miles away.

  “Thomas,” I whisper and shatter at the same time. I come, wrapped in Thomas’ heat and his poems. The orgasm vibrates through my body, making me moan, exhausting me so much that I have to press my forehead against the chilled glass.

  Even through the arousal, I’m aware that it’s wrong and sick and inappropriate. But, it’s also freeing. A cleansing ritual. I’m shedding my old obsession. I’m moving on. Being normal.

  Before this, I was Layla Robinson, crazy in love with her stepbrother. Now, I’m Layla Robinson, crushing on her poetry professor.

  I slide open the balcony door. The curtains whip and billow in the frosty wind. Snowflakes catch on my fevered skin, cooling me down, freezing me, turning me blue.

  And I throw my arms open and laugh.

  “I’ve got a crush.” I grin at Kara.

  “You’ve got what?”

  “A crush. You know, when you fantasize about someone?”

  “Yes. I know about that.” She smiles. “So who’s the guy?”

  “That’s the best part.” I chuckle. “He’s like, the most unavailable guy out there.”

  He is my professor, an asshole, and he is married. This crush is triple doomed.

  Kara frowns at me and laces her fingers together on the desk. “I’m sorry. You lost me.”

  “Don’t you get it?” I spring up from the chair and pace. “It’s hopeless and I know it and I have no urge to date him. No urge, whatsoever. I don’t expect him to tell me he loves me because I don’t want him to and I know he won’t.”

  “Because he’s unavailable,” Kara jumps in.

  “Uh-huh. That’s right.” Laughing, I sit back down.

  “That’s…interesting. Kind of backward, but interesting. But what if it changes? What if you begin to want those things?”

  “I won’t, because he’s like cancer.” Kara raises her eyebrows at my analogy. “I know the endgame with him. I know the cancer is going to kill me, so I’m not begging for my life anymore. I just…” Sighing, I try to put my feelings into words. “He distracts me, you know…from Caleb. He makes me feel normal. If I can fantasize about someone else then that means C
aleb’s hold on me is weakening, going away.” I swallow as sadness and fear and tiny excitement overwhelm me. “And I want that. I want a life of my own where I don’t think about him all the time.”

  Our session goes fast after that. Kara is happy I’m moving on, but I can see the guardedness in her eyes. She doesn’t need to worry though. My crush is harmless, just a distraction, and I need that right now.

  After finishing, I go to Crème and Beans to get my coffee fix and run into Emma. She’s at the counter, paying for a large mug of coffee, and I come up behind her.

  “Hey.” She waves at me awkwardly, and I do the same. She is still wary of me and I can’t take it, especially when there’s nothing to be wary of.

  “So Emma, uh…” She gives me her full attention and I stumble over my words a little. “I don’t…know how to say this but, uh, I’m just gonna say it. I kind of know that you don’t like me for some reason and I also know that you like Dylan.” She freezes, her eyes wide, blush burning her cheeks. “I-It’s okay. I’m not…I’m not judging or anything. I just wanna say that you have nothing to fear from me. I shouldn’t even be on your radar.”

  I whoosh out a breath when I’m done. She is in shock, opening and closing her mouth at my frankness. After a few seconds, she manages to gather herself. “I…don’t know what to say. I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

  Denial. I’ve done the same thing before.

  “It’s fine. You don’t have to say anything. Just know that I’m harmless.”

  At that, she scoffs. “Right.”

  “I am.”

  “You’re the violet-eyed goddess.”

  “Huh?”

  She smiles sadly. “That’s Dylan’s nickname for you. He’s crazy about you. Last semester when you guys had that class together? He wouldn’t shut up about how much he liked you.”

  “What?” I bark out a disbelieving laugh.

  “It’s fine. His feelings are not your fault. I’m being stupid.”

  “But he doesn’t have feelings for me.” Emma doesn’t look like she believes me, and I continue, “Do you want me to prove it?”

  “Prove what?”

  “That he doesn’t like me that way. He can’t. He doesn’t even know me—not like he does you. Trust me when I say this: Dylan likes you.”

  Dylan might think I’m attractive, what with violet eyes and black hair, but liking is taking it too far. Back in New York, I always knew guys liked my face—I take after my mom, after all, the beauty queen of the Upper East Side—but they never liked me. All they saw was my beautiful face, never me. I was invisible to them.

  Caleb was the only one who knew the real me, but that wasn’t enough.

  Hope flares in Emma’s brown eyes and my heart hurts for her. She is me, so very much like me in her unrequitedness.

  “I don’t think so.” She shakes her head and sips her coffee.

  “Will you at least give me a chance to prove it to you?”

  “Okay. Yeah.”

  “All right then.”

  We throw small smiles at each other and I think this could be the beginning of something. There is a delicate truce between us. I get my coffee while Emma waits for me and then we head out together. She tells me she went to see an apartment a few streets over because she’s planning to move out of the dorms.

  “It was the worst. I don’t think I’ve seen such a small room in my entire life, and I’ve been to the city, numerous times.” She shudders.

  “Why don’t you live with me?” It’s a spur of the moment decision and I don’t even know I’ve made it until after the words come out of my mouth.

  “What?”

  “Yeah.” I nod. “I think it’s a great idea. I live just up the street, and I’ve got a spare room you can use.”

  “I don’t… Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Do you wanna come see it?”

  “Right now?” She stops walking. “Yeah. I’d love to.”

  “Great.” I grin.

  Five minutes later, I let her in my tower. The ground floor smells like paint and new floors. Emma raises her eyebrow at the construction equipment but remains silent. We take the elevator up and she walks into the apartment after me.

  Now that she is here, I see the space through her eyes and am embarrassed. The open floor plan has a living room and kitchen separated by a large island, which is hidden under the empty pizza boxes and Chinese takeout containers. A blanket is sprawled on the beige couch with a bag of chips and a package of Twizzlers on it. My laptop sits on the coffee table, lid half open, beside a stack of notebooks.

  The only good thing about this large space is the sliding doors that lead to the balcony beyond the kitchen.

  I smile at her in embarrassment and walk her to the spare bedroom on the left, adjacent to mine. This room is empty and, quite frankly, the cleanest one in the apartment since there’s no stuff in here.

  “This would be your room,” I tell her, almost cringing at what she must be thinking about my living conditions. It feels oddly intrusive and vulnerable to show someone where you live. I’m beginning to regret this idea.

  Emma walks in and circles around the room, passing by the closet, the en suite, and at last, standing at the window overlooking Albert Street and the university park. I’m at the edge of the room, feeling anxious. I tell myself it’s no big deal if she hates it, but really, when is rejection not a big deal?

  “I love it.” She faces me and grins.

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. It’s super big. I love the building. The location is great.” She frowns. “Though how much is the rent for this place? I don’t think I can afford it.”

  I enter the room and wave my hand at her. “Oh, don’t worry about that. My stepdad owns the building.”

  “Whoa, really?”

  “Yeah. It’s still not ready to rent out, but they made an exception for me. I call it my tower.”

  “So that’s why it looks like a construction zone.” She nods her head as if coming to a conclusion. “You’re rich, aren’t you?”

  “My parents are. I’m just lucky, I guess.” I shift on my feet, feeling embarrassed when she remains silent. “What about your parents? I mean, are you close with them?”

  “No. I don’t…I don’t talk about them.” Now it’s her turn to be embarrassed, and I want to tell her it’s okay, that sometimes we just don’t get along with the people who gave birth to us, but she doesn’t let me talk. “Anyway, I can’t just not pay rent. I mean, I don’t wanna live for free.”

  I puff out a breath, thinking. “Okay, so how about this? You can chip in some other way. Like, maybe you can grocery shop? And also cook? I’m terrible at that kind of stuff. I never remember to buy anything other than Twizzlers.”

  Her eyes squint as she mulls it over. “I can do that. I mean, I’m not a great cook, but I do like cooking. I cook for Dylan all the time, so I’m totally in.”

  “So you’ll do it? Move in?”

  “Yes.” She laughs, and in a surprising act, wraps me in a tight hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. I can’t believe I finally found something great. I am so freaking happy right now.”

  Her hug makes me feel all choked up, like a frog is croaking in the depths of my throat. “It’s gonna be great.”

  “Yes.” She moves away, beaming.

  She continues touring the house and balcony. We decide on a move-in day—tomorrow.

  “I’d do it today but we’ve got the poetry night and I won’t be able to find anyone to help me move my stuff.”

  “Poetry night?”

  “Oh yes.” She shakes her head. “I forget you’re new. So every other Saturday we meet up at this bar called The Alchemy, just outside of campus. It’s pretty informal. We read our stuff to each other. Sometimes theatre people do their shows, but tonight is poetry night and I’m reading some of my poems. You should come.”

  “Sure.”

  ________________

  I am bundled up in my
white beanie and my purple fur coat, which is buttoned up to my chin. My thigh-high boots crunch over the pavement as I reach the red door of The Alchemy and enter.

  It’s a small space with exposed brick walls and vaulted ceilings, the kind you find in a church. Wooden beams run along the length of the roof, lit up with Christmas lights. The air is warm and laced with a fruity aroma. Just like the Labyrinth, this place is bursting with energy.

  My eyes take in the artwork on the walls, the mock guitars, the musical notes, the framed newspaper clippings, the silhouettes of people dancing in various poses, along with black and white photos of some of the famous writers I’ve only come to know this week.

  “Hey, Layla!” I hear Emma’s voice over the crowd and find her waving at me from the bar. “Over here!”

  “Hey!” I barrel through to get to her and greet her with an amused smile when I see she’s balancing three drinks in her hands. I take one glass from her and we wind our way through the scattered layout of tables.

  “Hey guys, this is Layla, my new roommate,” she says as we reach her table. There are a couple of guys sitting; one’s Dylan, and the other one I don’t know.

  “Hello.” I finger-wave at them.

  Both wave back and the guy introduces himself as Matt. Dylan stands up and gives me his chair. “Hey Layla. So glad you came.”

  Now that Emma has revealed that Dylan likes me, I analyze his behavior. He’s both shy and chatty, adorably awkward. It’s a harmless crush, the kind I have on Thomas, which ties my tongue, gives me wet dreams, and makes my crazy heart pound faster. It’s not easy and comfortable. It’s not what he feels for Emma.

  I’m aware that I’m sitting wedged between the two would-be lovebirds, but I’m not budging. I need to prove to Emma that Dylan is into her.

  Leaning toward Dylan, I ask, “How are you guys drinking alcohol? Aren’t you all underage?”

  Dylan gulps as I shoot him a flirty smile. Emma is sitting strained in her seat. I hope she trusts me.

  “It’s all, uh, props. They don’t serve alcohol on Labyrinth night.”