Chapter One
My heart is not an organ.
It’s more than that. My heart is an animal—a chameleon, to be specific. It changes skin and color, not to blend in, but to be difficult, unreasonable.
My heart has many faces. Restless heart. Desperate heart. Selfish heart. Lonely heart.
Today my heart is anxious—or at least it’s going to be anxious for the next fifty-seven minutes. After that, who knows?
I’m sitting in the pristine office of the school’s guidance counselor, Kara Montgomery, and my heart is going haywire. It’s fluttering, dipping up and down in my chest, bumping against my ribcage. It doesn’t want to be here, because it takes offense at seeing the guidance counselor, which is really just a euphemism for therapist.
We don’t need a therapist. We’re fine.
Isn’t that what crazy people say?
“Layla,” says the guidance-counselor-with-a-psychology-degree/therapist, Ms. Montgomery. “How was your vacation?”
I glance away from the window I’ve been staring out of, forgoing the scenery of the snowy outdoors to focus on the smiling woman behind the desk. “It was all right.”
“Well, what did you do?” She is rolling a pen between her fingers, and then it slips out of her hand and falls to the floor. She chuckles at herself and bends to pick it up.
Kara is not a typical guidance counselor/therapist. For one, she’s clumsy and always appears frantic. There’s nothing calm about her. Her hair is never in place; strands are flying everywhere, and she’s forever running her fingers through them to make them behave. Her blouses are always wrinkled, which she hides under her corduroy jackets. She talks fast, and sometimes things she says aren’t very therapist-like.
“So?” she prompts, giving me her full attention. I want to tell her that her glasses are tipped to one side, but I don’t; she is less intimidating this way. My heart doesn’t need any more threats than what her degree represents.
“Um, I took walks, mostly.” I shift in the cushioned chair, tucking a strand of my loose hair behind my ear. “Watched Netflix. Went to the gym.”
Lies. All lies. I binged on Christmas candy my mom sent—or rather her assistant sent, because my mom didn’t want me to come home for the holidays. I sat on the couch all day and watched porn while sucking on Twizzlers and listening to Lana Del Rey in the background. I’m addicted to that woman. Seriously, she is a goddess. Every word out of her mouth is gold.
I’m not addicted to porn or Twizzlers, however. Those are just for when I get lonely…which is most of the time, but that’s beside the point.
“That’s great. I’m glad.” She nods. “You didn’t feel lonely without your friends, then? It was all good?”
Now, this is what I don’t get: why is she smiling at me? Why are her eyes curious? Is she trying to dig deep? Is she trying to fish for answers?
Her questions could be a cover for other loaded questions, like, Were you good, Layla? Were you really good? Did you do something crazy, like calling him in the middle of the night? Because you’ve done this before when you were lonely. So, did you call him, Layla? Did you?
The answer to all of this is a big fat no. I did not call him. I haven’t called him in months. Months. All I’ve done is stare at his photo on my phone—the photo no one knows about, because if my mom knew I was still pining after him, she’d send me to a real therapist, a real live one who would ask all sorts of questions rather than disguising them with euphemisms.
So no, I did not call him. I have only stared at a stupid picture like a pathetic lovesick person. There, happy now?
I shift in my chair and open my mouth to tell her exactly that when I realize she hasn’t even asked the question. I’m only thinking she has. It’s all in my head. I tell my anxious heart to calm down. Relax, would you? We’re still in the clear.
I exhale a long breath and answer, “Yeah, it was good. I kept myself busy.”
“That’s great. That’s good to hear. I don’t like when students have to stay back for holidays. I just worry about them.” She laughs and her glasses become even more crooked. This time she straightens them up and folds her hands on the desk. “So have you given any thought to what electives you’ll be taking this semester?”
“Sure.”
Of course not. I’m not made for education. The only reason I agreed to college was because I was given the choice between school in Connecticut and the youth rehabilitation center in New Jersey, and I’m not setting foot in New fucking Jersey or going to a rehab center.
“Well?” Kara raises her blonde eyebrow in question.
I lick my lips, trying to think of something. “I think I’m gonna stick with the regular courses. College is hard as it is. I don’t wanna pile on new things.”
Kara smiles—she’s always smiling—and leans forward. “Look Layla, I like you. In fact, I think you’re great. You have great potential, and to be honest, I don’t think you need these thinly disguised therapy sessions with me.”
I sit up in my seat. “Really? I don’t have to come here anymore?”
“No, you still have to come. I’d like to keep my job.”
“I won’t tell anyone. It could be our secret,” I insist. I don’t like to keep secrets, but this one I’ll take to the grave.
“It’s tempting, but no. Cookie?” She chuckles, offering the chocolate chip cookies sitting on her desk, going all friendly on me again.
She gives me whiplash and sometimes I want to ask her, Are you here to analyze me or not? Not that there is anything to analyze. I’m a simple girl, really. I hate winters, Connecticut, and college. I love the color purple, Lana Del Rey, and him. That’s all.
I reach out to take one cookie but then change my mind and take three instead. I never say no to sugar.
Kara watches me carefully and I am about to snap at her when she speaks up. “So as I was saying, I think you have great potential, but you need set goals and you need to work on impulse control.” She gives me a pointed look as I take a bite out of my cookie. “You don’t have any, or at least, what you have is very little.”
“Huh.” I sag back in the chair. “Well, I knew that already.”
Kara threads her fingers together on the desk. “Great. So we’ve already conquered the first step: acceptance. Now we need to work on the next step.”
“And that is?”
“How to control it.”
I hold up my finger. “Way ahead of you there. I’ve totally got it under control.” Kara raises a skeptical brow and I continue, “I’ve been going to all my classes even though I wanna walk around aimlessly all day, and I’ve got C’s across the board even though I hate college. Not to mention, I’d kill for a drag or a drop of Grey Goose, but I haven’t touched any of those things. I don’t even go to parties, because we all know parties are just breeding grounds for pot, alcohol, and sex.”
I shoot her an arrogant smirk then finish my cookie. She can’t get me after that. I’ve been good. I’ve busted my ass to be good.
“That’s commendable. I appreciate your restraint, but that’s also the bare minimum. You shouldn’t be drinking and partying it up anyway.” She pushes her glasses up. “College is your time to learn, to discover yourself, to see what kind of things you like, and for that, we have electives. So, I ask you again, any thoughts?”
Sighing, I look away. I’m back to staring out the window. The grounds are white and the trees are naked. It’s all desolate and sad, like we’re living in a post-apocalyptic world where things like electives are mandatory.
“What are my choices?” I ask.
Kara beams at me, swatting at a wayward curl that’s getting in her eyes. “Well, we’ve got a great writing program. Maybe you should try some of the writing classes.”
“You mean, like, writing writing?” At her nod, I shake my head. “I don’t even like reading.”
“You should probably pick up a book sometime. Who knows, you might end up liking it.”
“Yeah, no, I don’t think so.” I sigh. “Do you have anything else? I don’t think I’m cut out for writing.”
“In fact, I think you’d be great at it.”
“Really?” I scoff. “What do you think I should write about?”
This time her smile is both sweet and sad. “Write about New York. I know you miss it. Or maybe something about winter.”
“I hate winter.” I wrap my arms around my body and hitch my shoulders to huddle in my purple fur coat. Another thing I like: fur. It’s soft and cuddly, and it’s the only thing that can somewhat keep me warm.
“Then why do you keep staring at the snow?” I shrug, and she dips her head in acceptance of my non-answer. “How about you try writing something about what you felt when Caleb left? About the way you acted up?”
Caleb.
I’m jolted at the mention of his name. It’s not an outward jolt, more a tremor on the inside, like when you hear a sudden loud sound in a quiet apartment and you know it’s nothing, but your body tenses nonetheless.
I don’t think I’ve heard his name spoken out loud since I moved here six months ago. It sounds so exotic in Kara’s voice. On my tongue, his name sounds loud, shrill, wrong somehow. I shouldn’t be saying it, but hey, I’ve got no impulse control, so I say it anyway.
I hate her for bringing him up. I hate that she’s going there in a roundabout way.
“I didn’t act up. I just…got drunk…every now and then.” I clear my throat, pushing my anger away when all I want to do is storm out of here.
“I know, and then every now and then, you went shoplifting, crashed your mom’s parties, and got behind the wheel.”
Should therapists be judgy like this? I don’t think so. And why are we talking about these things, all of a sudden? Mostly, we stick to neutral topics like school and my teachers, and when things get a little personal, I evade and make jokes.
This one time when she tried talking about the days leading up to Caleb’s departure, I took my top halfway off and showed her my newly acquired belly button ring, and maybe even the underside of my bra-less boobs.
“I didn’t kill anyone, did I?” I say, referring to her earlier comment about drinking and driving. “Besides, they took away my license, so the people of Connecticut are safe from the terror that is me. Why are we talking about this?”
“Because I think you can channel all of your emotions into something good, something constructive. Maybe you’ll end up liking it. Maybe you’ll end up liking college.” She lowers her voice then. “Layla, I know you hate college. You hate seeing me every week. You hate being here, but I think you should give it a chance. Do something new. Make new friends.”
I want to say I do have friends—I do, they are just not visible to the naked eye—but I don’t, because what’s the point of lying when she knows everything anyway?
“Fine.”
Kara looks at the clock on the wall to her right. “Tell me you’ll think about it, really think about it. The semester starts in a couple days so you’ve got a week to think about the courses, okay?”
I spring up from my seat and gather my winter gear. “Okay.”
“Good.”
It takes me a couple of minutes to get ready to go out in the snow. I snap my white gloves on and pull down the white beanie to cover my ears.
Winter is a cruel bitch. You gotta pile on or you’ll get burned by the stinging wind, and no matter how much I pile on, I’m never warm enough, not even inside the heated buildings. So, I’ve got it all: hat, scarves, gloves, thermal tights, leg warmers, fur boots.
I’m at the door, turning the knob, but something stops me.
“Do you think…he’s doing okay up there? I mean, do you think he misses me?” I don’t know why I ask this question. It simply comes out.
“Yes. I do think he misses you. You guys grew up together, right? I’m sure he misses his best friend.”
Then why doesn’t he call? “Boston is cold,” I blurt out stupidly, my throat feeling scraped. A chill runs through my body at the thought of all that snow up there.
“But I’m sure he’s fine,” she reassures me, with a smile.
“Yeah,” I whisper. I’m sure Harvard is taking good care of their genius.
“You know, Layla, falling in love isn’t bad or wrong or even hard. It’s actually really simple, even if there’s no reciprocation. It’s the falling out that’s hard, but no matter how much you convince yourself otherwise, reciprocation is important. It’s what keeps the love going. Without it, love just dies out, and then it’s up to you. Do you bury it, or do you carry the dead body around? It’s a hard decision to make, but you have to do it.”
I know what she’s saying: move on, forget him, don’t think about him—but how can you forget a love of thirteen years? How can you forget the endless nights of wanting, needing, dreaming? I love you. That’s all I ever wanted to hear. How can I let go of that?
With a jerky nod, I walk out of her room. Outside the building, the air is cold and dry. It hurts to breathe. My heart is still fluttering with residual anxiety when I take my phone out, and stare at the last picture I have of him. He’s smiling in it. His green, green eyes are shining and his plump, kissable lips are stretched wide. It’s fucking beautiful. I don’t think I can ever delete it. Not in this lifetime.
I put the phone away when I see a couple. They are up ahead of me on the cobblestone pathway, and they are wrapped around each other. The girl is cold, her cheeks red, and the guy is rubbing his hands over hers, trying to warm her up. They are smiling goofy smiles, reminding me of a smile from long ago.
Caleb as the ring bearer and me as the flower girl. Caleb stopping in his confident but boyish stride to take my small hand in his, me looking up at him with a frown. Oh, how I hated him in that moment. Caleb flashing his adorable smile and me returning it, despite the frown, despite the strange surroundings, despite the fact that my mom was marrying his dad. I hated getting a new brother. I hated moving across town to a new house with no rooftop garden.
At the fork, the couple takes a right turn and I’m supposed to go left, but I don’t want to go left. I want to go where they’re going. I want to bask in their happiness for a while. I want to see reciprocation.
What does requited love look like? I want to see it.
I take the right turn and follow the couple.
***
It’s cold, so fucking cold. Also, dark—super dark, and the Victorian lamps flanking the street don’t do shit to light up my path.
But none of that deters me from taking a harried pace. I’m walking down Albert Street, heading toward Brighton Avenue where the university park entrance is. Sleep is hard to come by, especially after Kara mentioned writing about my unrequited love.
Once upon a time, six-year-old Caleb Whitmore smiled at five-year-old Layla Robinson. She didn’t know it then, but that was the day she fell in love with him. Over the years, she tried to get his attention without success. Then one night, in her desperate, desperate attempt to stop Caleb from going off to Harvard, she kind of, sort of…raped him a little bit. She’s not entirely sure. Caleb went off to college one month earlier than he was supposed to and Layla was stuck acting up. The end.
Two years later I’m here, walking the streets, feeling ashamed of my love, ashamed of having ever fallen for my stepbrother and then driving him away.
For the record, Caleb Whitmore isn’t even my stepsibling anymore. My mom divorced his dad a few years ago, but I think some stigmas never go away—like, you don’t sleep with your best friend’s ex-boyfriend, and you don’t date your friend’s brother. Caleb will always be my stepbrother because we kind of grew up together.
I don’t even have memories of the time before him. I can’t remember the house I lived in before I lived with him, except that it had a rooftop garden. I can’t remember the friends I had before he came along. I can’t even remember my own dad before his dad came into the picture.
All I remember is one day when I was five, Mom said we were leaving, and that I was going to get a brother. Then the dark days followed where I cried because I hated the idea of a sibling.
And then a burst of sunlight: a tiny six-year-old boy holding the rings on a velvet cushion, standing next to me. I remember thinking I was taller than him in my frilly, itchy dress, flowers in my hand. I remember thinking that I liked his blond hair and green eyes as opposed to my black hair and weird violet eyes. Together, we watched our parents get married, and together, we grimaced when they kissed each other on the lips.
It was beautiful, with white lilies and the smell of cake everywhere.
Now, I make my way toward the solitude. Slipping and stumbling on the transparent patches of ice, I enter the park. The cold wind curls around my body, making me shiver, but I keep going, my booted feet trudging through the snow. I’m looking for a particular spot that I like to frequent during the nights when I can’t sleep, which happens often.
Unrequited love and insomnia are longtime friends of mine. They might even be siblings—evil and uncaring with sticky fingers.
Frustrated, I stomp and slip, falling against the scratchy bark of a tree. Even through the thick layer of my fur coat, I feel the sting.
“Motherfucking…” I mutter, rubbing the burn on my arm. My eyes water with the pain, both physical and emotional. I hate this. I hate crying. I wipe my tears with frozen fingers and try to control my choppy breaths.
“It’s fine. It’s totally fine,” I whisper to myself. “I’m gonna be fine.” My words stumble over each other, but at least I’m not crying now.
Then I hear a sound. Footsteps on the iced ground. A wooden creak. Fear has me hiding against the tree, but curiosity has me peeking out.
A tall man dressed in all black—black hoodie and black sweatpants—is sitting on the bench, my bench, under my tree with the network of empty branches.
That’s my spot, asshole, I want to say, but I’m mute. Terrified. Who is he? What’s he doing here at this time of night? People sleep at night! I’m an exception though; I’m heartbroken.
He sits on the edge, head bent and covered by the hood, staring at the ground. Slowly, he slides back, sprawls, and tilts his face up. His hood falls away, revealing a mass of black hair illuminated by the yellow light of the lamp. It’s long and wavy, almost sailing past the nape of his neck and touching his shoulders. He watches the sky and I do the same. We watch the moon, the fat clouds. I smell snow in the air.
I decide the sky isn’t interesting enough. So, I watch him.
He is breathing hard, his broad chest puffing up and down. I notice a thick drop of sweat making its way down his strained throat, over the sharp bump of his Adam’s apple. Maybe he’s been running?
Without looking down, the dark man reaches back to get something from his pocket—a cigarette. He shifts, brings his face down, and I see his features. They are a system of angles and sharp, defined lines. His high cheekbones slant into a strong, stubbled jaw. Sweat dots his forehead and he wipes it off with his arm, stretching the fabric of his hoodie over his heaving chest.
Any moment, I expect him to light the cigarette and take in a drag. I realize I’m dying to watch him smoke, to see the tendrils of smoky warmth slip away into the winter air.
But he…doesn’t.
He simply stares at it. Wedged between two of his fingers, the cigarette remains still, an object of his perusal. He frowns at it, like he is fascinated. Like he hates it. Like he can’t imagine why a blunt stick of cancer is holding his attention.
Then he throws it away.
He reaches back again and gets out another cigarette. The same routine follows. Staring. Frowning. My anticipation of seeing what he does next.
This time he sighs, his chest shuddering up and down as he produces a lighter from his pocket. He throws the stick in his mouth and lights it up with a flick of his finger. He takes a drag and then lets the smoke seep out. His eyes fall shut at the ecstasy of that first pull. He might’ve even groaned. I would have.
Watching him fight his impulse to smoke was exhausting. I feel both sad and happy that he gave in. I wonder what I would’ve done in the same situation. Kara’s face comes to mind, her saying I need to work on restraining myself.
I know the smoke coming out of his mouth is virgin, not a drop of marijuana in there, but I want it in my mouth too. I so want it.
Abruptly, he stops and shoots up from his seat, pocketing the lighter. This guy is tall, maybe 6’3” or something. I have to crane my neck to look at him even though I’m standing far away. He skips on his feet, takes one last drag, flicks the cigarette on the ground, crushes it, pulls the hoodie over, and takes off jogging.
I come unglued from the tree, run to the bench, and look in the direction where he vanished -- nothing but darkness and frosty air. I might as well have conjured him up, like a child makes up an imaginary friend to feel less lonely. Sighing, I sit where he sat. The place is cold as ever, as if he never sat there.
My exhaustion is taking its toll and I close my eyes. I breathe in the lingering smell of cigarette and maybe even something chocolatey. I curl up on the bench, my cheek pressing into the cold wood. I hate winter, but I can’t fall asleep in my warm bed. It’s one of those ironies people laugh about.
Drifting into sleep, I pray that the color of the stranger’s eyes isn’t green.