Clueless

“‘What does the brain matter,’ said Lady Rosseter, getting up, ‘compared with the heart?’” Mrs. Dalloway, Virginia Woolf

“Ms. Evans!” Lily’s gaze, which had already been locked on her elderly professor, Mr. Kenneth Bradley, didn’t shift an inch as his watery, blue eyes, which looked bulbous through the thick lenses of his bifocals, settled on her face. Only a few seconds after that, she felt every other set of eyes in the room fall on her, as well. She staunchly ignored them. Mr. Bradley gave her a beatific smile. “How about you share your response to the prompt?”

A hush of expectancy fell over the room as Lily’s dark blue eyes dropped to the cover of a weathered-looking, black leather notebook--the lone occupant of her desk, besides a pencil. Rumors, sourced from the few people in the room who had had the opportunity to act as peer reviewers for her, had been swirling that Lily was one of the best writers--if not the best--in the program. Those who, as of yet, had not been lucky enough to be partnered with her, had all been hoping that she would be chosen to share some of her work in class and, thus, decide for themselves if this was true. Lily, however, had kept up a devoted silence through every seminar period, so far, only speaking if she was called upon to and leaving class as soon as it was over, eschewing any possible small talk by the other PhD students. Her muse-like beauty, of course, only added to her mystique.

Lily gazed at the cover of her notebook, examining the cracks in the black leather, the areas that had faded to a dark grey from being rubbed up against other items in her purse. This was her sixth notebook over the course of ten years. The first one had been given to her as a going-away present from her parents the day before she had left for boarding school. You can use it as a field journal, her father had told her pragmatically, ever-hopeful that his daughter might one day follow in his archaeological footsteps. Use it to chronicle your life, her mother had whispered in her ear as she had hugged her goodbye. She had taken her mother’s words to heart, filling the notebooks with diary entries, rough sketches of the world around her, travel tickets and playbooks. Most importantly, however, these notebooks held her writing. This was where Lily captured the elusive words and wisps of phrase that floated through her mind each day. Even when she was given a laptop, the first and last drafts of everything she wrote went in her journals. These, more than anything else, were the true chronicles of her short life.    

She bit the inside of her left cheek. She didn’t want to share her response to the prompt. In fact, it was the very last thing she wanted to do, at that moment. Unlike many of the other students in the program, she disliked having to share her work with an audience. Half of them assumed it was because she was snobby, the other half assumed she didn’t have much to share, at all, rumors be damned. In reality, however, Lily’s reluctance to share her work derived from her intense, almost phobic, fear of public humiliation. Everything she wrote was precious to her--her prose and poetry pieces were like her children; hours were spent poring over them, polishing and perfecting them. Even then, however, she was never quite satisfied, which only served to fuel her fear of falling short of the expectations of others.

Despite her stubborn silence in class, she was forced to offer one piece to a different classmate, as well as her professor, every week, for peer review. To have it be read over, judged, and then returned with unsightly red markings scrawled everywhere, desecrating the virginal black and white of each page. She often waited until the last possible moment before the deadline to e-mail her work, spending these last minutes staring at the bland, brief greeting that made up the body of the e-mail, her laptop cursor hovering over the ‘Send’ button, her breaths coming in staggered spurts from her lungs. Send it. You know you have to. Just send it, already! But she always, always waited until the minute it was due before she closed her eyes and clicked, her stomach dropping and every cell in her body yearning for the action to be taken back, reversed. No one, so far, had sent back any really cutting commentary, but she wasn’t sure if this was because they had no specific suggestions or if they were just being too nice.

She glanced back up at Mr. Bradley with a closed expression before letting her eyes flick to the clock on the wall behind him. Just as she had predicted, his eyes followed hers there, finally alerting him to the fact that class was, in fact, over. “Oh, would you look at that!” He turned back to face his students. “I guess we don’t have time for one more. Maybe next week?” Lily met his hopeful smile with a brief one of her own, but didn’t elect to respond further. “For next week--” With one swift stroke, the leather notebook was thrust back into her purse, along with the pencil, the veil between revelation and obscurity dropping once more. The Iron Curtain, her classmates thought to themselves, disgruntled. “--as we delve more deeply into the treasure chest of the human pathos, I would like you all to write a piece about greed.” Greed? Hmm. It seemed so obvious, so basic--and so utterly boring. As the rest of the class began to stand and collect their things, however, Mr. Bradley held up his hands, halting all movement in the room. Lily’s fingers stilled, mere inches from the doorknob. “There is a catch.” His quiet, wavering voice seemed to echo around the room as his students waited for the next words in tense silence. “It can have nothing to do with money.” Lily waited a moment to see if he had anything to add before she pulled the door open and left. Well, she mused to herself, that makes it more interesting, at least.

As she stepped out into the cheerful sunshine of an unseasonably warm October day, her mind was already flipping through its lexicon of reference material. Greed not involving money. Hmm... “L-Lily?” She whipped around so fast, the thin, bespectacled boy (man, she corrected herself, realizing it was a classmate) who had been hurrying after her almost walked right into her chest. Even though she was wearing flats, his eye-level only came up to her breasts, which he was now ogling. She was suddenly acutely aware of how loose the laces of her silk shirt were tied, giving her classmate--and everyone else--a more generous view than they were used to. She took half a step backwards and swept her olive-colored Barbour coat, which hung over her right arm, across her torso in a feeble attempt to cover up. Her sudden movement jarred him from his daze and he glanced up into her face, half-fearful, half-awed. “I’m so sorry, I just...” He trailed off, clearly waiting for some kind of acceptance of his apology, but there was none forthcoming. She stood, silent and still, waiting for him to explain why he had felt the need to flag her down. When the man, whose name she couldn’t quite place, finally realized that she had nothing to say to him, he hurried on. “I wish we’d had time to hear your piece.”

His expression had morphed into that of an eager-to-please puppy. Lily just stared at him, not quite sure how to respond and in no mood to do so. “Would it be possible to walk and talk?” She finally asked, not waiting for an answer before turning on her heel and heading in the direction of the student parking lot.

“Uh, yeah! Sure!” She mentally groaned as she listened to him trotting along beside her. She was anxious to get home and start dinner, even though Ryan had texted her to let her know that he would be home late from practice. She had to make dinner, start writing, and-- “It’s a shame that you don’t talk more in class. You’re an amazing writer.”

She gave him a sharp look, but didn’t stop moving. “When have you seen my writing?”

He looked confused. “I...I peer reviewed for you last week...”

“Oh.” So, that’s Andrew Clement.

He chuckled nervously. “I guess I’m not such a memorable guy, huh?” He paused here, clearly waiting for her to jump in and negate his comment, but she was so focused on trying to find Ryan’s car in the lot that she didn’t notice. He cleared his throat. “Um, well--”

Lily’s phone began to buzz in her purse. “Excuse me,” she said quickly, reaching into the depths of her cognac leather bag, “but I have to take this call.” Perhaps Ryan finally decided what he wants for dinner...

“Oh!” His footsteps slowed beside her, while she moved on, one hand still fumbling in her bag. “Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then? For Westin’s seminar?”

She barely heard him, her thoughts suddenly occupied by the name coming up on the caller ID. Why in the world...? “Goodbye,” she said instead, distracted. She then pressed ‘Talk’ and lifted the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

“Lily?”

“Christopher?!”

She could feel his smile through the receiver. “I’m surprised that you still remember me!”

“As if I could forget you!” Christopher Walsh--published poet and local Boston royalty--had been the graduate student that was assigned to teach Lily’s creative writing class during her first semester of sophomore year. He had been quick to recognize her talent and encouraged her to come out of her shell and share her work, which, up until that time, she had guarded even more staunchly than she did now. Even after the semester had ended, they kept in touch, often meeting for lunch to read each other’s work. Christopher had been the first person that she had ever trusted to read her writing. He was intelligent and non-judgmental, yet unafraid to constructively criticize her work. Her writing bloomed under his tutelage and it was by his suggestion that she decided to apply for creative writing graduate programs. Though he had been disappointed that she hadn’t chosen the program at BU, where he had landed a permanent job, he had accepted her decision gracefully enough and wished her the best. Without him, she knew, she would be nothing and, when she took a moment to think about it, she realized that she missed, not only his guidance, but his company. “To what do I owe this call?”

“Well,” she could hear the barely concealed excitement in his voice. Even though she had only known him for three years, she could read him like a book. “I happened to be attending a conference in the lovely city of Denver, Colorado, today and--”

“Oh, Christopher,” she cried, elated, “you must come and visit me!”

“That saves me the trouble of asking, then!”

Lily was beaming as she unlocked the car door, the electronic chirp seemingly mimicking her good cheer. “We’ll have baguettes with brie and red wine and...oh, it will be just like old times!”

He chuckled. “That sounds wonderful. I can’t wait to see you, Lily! Would you kindly text me your address? I’m in the car, right now, and I can’t write it down...”

“Of course! Would you like to come by around...oh, say seven?”

“That sounds excellent. I’ll see you then!”

She was too excited to form a more thoughtful response than, “Okay!” She ended the call, placing the phone in one of the cup holders of the center console, and started up the car. As she put the vehicle in reverse, she caught a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror--her cheeks were flushed pink, her eyes bright, a smile on her face. It will be nice to see someone from Boston. From home. She missed the T, the Charles, even her tiny cubicle desk on the fifth floor of the library. Boston had been her chosen home for four years and she found herself yearning for its well-known paths and predictable day-to-day life. Living in Denver, Lily found herself running into surprises at every corner, so she made sure to keep her eyes open, take it all in, and hope that, soon, things would settle back down into a normal pace, a pace that she was used to.     

Her phone buzzed against its plastic confines, rattling around noisily and distracting her from her reflection. She glanced down at it and saw that she had just received a text message from Ryan. For a second, she felt a strange stab of guilt. This feeling was quickly shaken off, however, to be replaced with one of horror. It had been selfish and ignorant of her to invite someone over to Ryan’s house without his permission. She threw the car in park and snatched up her phone to call him.

“Hey, Lil!” Ryan sounded breathless on the other end when he picked up.

“I’m sorry to bother you during practice--”

“Nah, it’s fine! I’ve got a water break, anyway. What’s up? Did you get my text?”

“Yes, well...I was wondering,” she paused, coughing delicately, feeling like she was six years old again and asking her mother if she could have a playdate. “May I have a friend over tonight? They’re visiting from Boston and it will only be for a few hours--I promise we won’t stay up too late, I know you have a game tomorrow and you need to sleep--”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” He interrupted her quickly. “Why are you asking me for permission?”

“Because it’s your house.”

“Lily, it’s your house, too. You can have people over whenever you want! I mean, I appreciate the fact that you’re worried about my performance on the ice--” She laughed at this. “--but don’t worry about it. Seriously. I don’t want you to feel...trapped in your own home, cut off from your friends,” he said, chuckling. “Like I said before, I’m going to be late getting home, anyway, so yeah. Invite over whoever you want!”

“Thank you so much, Ryan,” she said warmly, deeply appreciating his ever-present, easygoing attitude. “I’ll leave your dinner wrapped in the fridge.”

“No, no! Don’t worry about that! Unless you’re cooking for you and your friend, you don’t have to make something for me, okay? There’s leftovers in the fridge that I can heat up. It’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. Have fun tonight, Lil, and I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Okay! Thank you again!” She hung up and put the phone down. She twirled the device around the cup holder gently, her eyes locked on the screen--still flashing Ryan’s smiling contact picture--but her gaze far away.

~             

“Thanks for the ride, Landy,” Ryan said, leaning on Gabriel’s open passenger-side window and peering into the cab of the car. His teammate’s face was shrouded in blue shadows from the darkened sky overhead, but his easygoing smile burned bright white, like a beam from a lighthouse.

“No problem, man.” He leaned over, slightly, to peer over Ryan’s shoulder and into the driveway. “Whose car is that?”

Ryan glanced behind him, his eyes running over the shiny, silver Mercedes-Benz with Colorado plates that was parked in his driveway. Must be a rental. He turned back to face Gabriel. “Lily’s friend from Boston happened to be in town, so she’s hanging out with them.”

“She has friends besides Serena?” Ryan glared at him. “Oh, wait! I almost forgot about you, Mr. Friendzone.” Ryan rolled his eyes. His teammates never failed to remind him that he was living with a certifiable rocket and not taking advantage of it. “I’m kidding, don’t worry.” Gabriel glanced at the clock on his expensive dashboard touch screen. “Shit, I’ve gotta run. I’m meeting Serena for dinner.”

“Nice! Where?”

“This little place near her office. Nobody knows me there, miraculously enough. Or, at least they pretend not to... We’ve met there a couple of times, actually, since she’s been working late for the past few weeks.”

Ryan shook his head. “I don’t know how you guys do it.”

Gabriel looked confused. “Do what?”

“Last.” He had seen many a relationship crumble under much simpler circumstances than theirs. “I mean, our schedules are fucked up enough to begin with, nevermind the fact that she’s working all the time, too... How do you...how do you keep the...,” he squirmed uneasily at the thought of saying his next words aloud, “...the spark?” Gabriel leaned his head back against the headrest and let out a guffaw. Ryan was glad that he couldn’t see the flush rising in his cheeks. “Fuck you!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Gabriel chuckled. “It’s just funny to hear you saying shit like that. You’re not really the romantic type.”

“What, and you are?” He snapped, irritated.

“I think you’ll remember that, before I settled down with the most perfect woman on the face of the Earth, I had quite a way with the ladies,” Gabriel replied smoothly.

Ryan snorted. “Like you even had to say a word with that face.”

Gabriel grinned. “Damn right. I had to shape up when I met this one, though.” He placed his finger on the picture of Serena that was taped to his dashboard. When Ryan had asked him why he had put it there, he had told him that, God forbid he ever got into a bad car accident, he wanted to be able to look at that and see her smiling back at him. I’d die happy if she was the last thing I ever saw on this Earth. It was moments like these that made Ryan think about the terrible--yet terribly fascinating--idea of love. What Gabriel and Serena had was something special, rarely seen, and impossible to comprehend from the outside looking in. From Ryan’s vantage point, it seemed suffocating, yet the two of them were almost always deliriously happy when they were together. Sometimes, it even hurt to look at them, to see how wrapped up in each other they were. It scared Ryan, just a little bit, to think that there were some people in this world that you just needed. People whose gravitational pull on you was unquestionable, unconquerable, and unending. He had watched from the sidelines as Serena and Gabriel had struggled for almost two years to be independent of one another, only to fall back into each other’s arms, desperate and clinging, as though their very survival depended on the other’s presence. It was thrilling to see them so happy, but terrifying to imagine that he could become prey to such extreme emotions. “But to answer your question...” Gabriel dropped his hand from the photograph, pulling Ryan out of his reverie. “We may not see each other as often as we’d like, but when we are together, we make it count. This probably sounds cheesy as hell, but when we’re together after not seeing each other for awhile, we turn our phones off and everything, just so that we can concentrate on, you know, being--”

“In the moment.”

Gabriel smiled. “Exactly. Just like the breathing stuff that your dad taught us.”

He could hear his dad’s voice in his head, now, telling him to count his breaths, focus on his goals, nurture his relationships. The relationships that you foster with the people in your life are the most important. The way you treat people and interact with them...it makes all the difference. He had always applied his father’s words to his family, his friends, and his teammates, but never to girls. He was like a stalled car when it came to women--he let out weak, sputtering coughs of charm that drew them in and gave them hope, but ultimately never made it out of the garage and onto the bumpy roads of life with them in the passenger seat. It was the thought of intimacy that always brought him up short. Not the physical intimacy, of course--he would take that any day. No, it was the idea of opening up to someone whose judgments that he could not control, leaving himself completely bare in front of someone else’s eyes, that had always made him take pause about being in a serious relationship. There were too many risks, too many what-ifs, nothing concrete enough to put your faith in. Just a feeling--and feelings changed. “Well, kudos to you guys for making it work.”

Gabriel’s eyes strayed to the clock. “Yeah, well, if I don’t haul ass, all of that hard work might be for nothing.”

“Right,” Ryan said quickly, patting the window before taking a step back. “I’ll see ya tomorrow, Landy.”

“See ya!”

As he walked up the driveway, he listened to the rumble of Gabriel’s engine fade as his Range Rover took off down the street. For the first time in awhile, all felt right in the world--the team wasn’t off to a bad start; Gabriel and Serena were happy, despite their difficult circumstances; and here he was, about to come home to Lily. It still felt like a privilege to do so. He took the deck stairs two at a time, ignoring the lingering soreness in his legs from that afternoon’s stint at the rink. When he reached the top, he turned to face the deck door--and froze.

Through the glass, he could see Lily sitting at the dining room table, a glass of blood-red wine cupped in the palm of her hand, the stem nestled between her middle and ring fingers. There was a rosy cast to her cheeks and her eyes shone brightly, even from a distance. She looked elegant, vibrant...happier than Ryan had ever seen her before. And it clearly wasn’t just because of the wine.

Sitting across from her, with one arm resting on the tabletop, the other across the back of his seat, was a dark-haired man; thin, but tall; with pale skin to match Lily’s. He was mid-speech, a wry smile on his thin lips, and Lily was leaning in, clearly hanging on every word he was saying. A hot surge of jealousy and shame burned a torrid path straight through Ryan’s chest. He let the anger flash across his face for only a moment before his features settled into an expression of stony indifference. Then, he raised his hand and, with one knuckle, announced his presence.

Lily gave a start, the wine in her glass sloshing around violently. Her companion, however, simply turned and stared, his expression coolly curious, as Lily’s had been the first time that she had met Ryan. Lily set her glass down and stood up, hurrying over to the door. As she approached--her feet bare, the sleeves of her silk shirt rolled up--Ryan’s anger was blunted. She never said it wasn’t a guy. You just assumed it was a girl. It shouldn’t matter, anyway. He took a deep breath and watched her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, then reach out to unlock the door. She can be friends with whoever she wants. It’s none of your damn business. Despite these attempts at self-regulation, Ryan couldn’t shake his feelings of possessiveness for Lily and hostility towards her friend. He wanted her to choose him, no one else. And there was a split second, a sliver of time, right before Lily was about to slide the door open that she glanced up and met his eyes. And in that single, glorious moment, Ryan could have sworn that she already had.

“Hello,” she greeted him, slightly breathless. The moment had passed, but it had left Ryan somewhat stunned and slow to respond.

“Hey.” She took a step backwards, giving him space to come inside. He did so, sliding the door closed behind him. “Sorry to interrupt your little pow-wow.”

“Oh, no! Not at all!” He followed her further into the room, trying to craft a marginally genuine smile as his steps brought him closer to his unexpected competition. “Ryan, this is my friend, Christopher Walsh. Christopher, this is Ryan O’Reilly, my roommate and the owner of this lovely home.” Ryan tried not to let his mind descend into the exhausting mathematics of whether it was more intimate to be referred to as a ‘friend’ or ‘roommate’ and, thus, if he had the advantage over her guest or not.  

Christopher stood up and held out his hand, a bemused smile lifting his lips. “How do you do?”

It was amazing how a stranger had the ability to make Ryan feel completely insignificant with such a simple gesture. “Uh, fine.” The ‘uh’, so coarse and ungainly, seemed to effectively drown out the rest of his response. “Um, and you?” This conversation could not possibly be going any worse.

“Wonderful, now that I’ve seen Lily!” She beamed at his words. Okay, so maybe it could. Ryan tried to ignore a rising feeling of nausea. “Thank you, by the way, for inviting me into your home.”

If I had known she was inviting you... “Uh, yeah...no big deal. I mean, it’s Lily’s house, too.”

Christopher was smiling, but no warmth reached his eyes. They remained cold, calculating. “So I’ve heard.”

A palpably awkward silence fell. The two men stared each other down, neither about to yield whatever invisible ground they thought themselves to be standing on. Lily glanced between them--for once, noticing conversational tension--clearly at a loss for what to do. She turned to Ryan. “I left you something to eat in the fridge!” Her voice was cheery and strained, sending him on an instant guilt trip for putting her in such an awkward position.

He gave her a bigger, more genuine smile than the one that had been meant for Christopher. “Thanks, Lil! I’m starving!” Exercising his usually dormant primal instinct for mating competition had left a hollow in his stomach and a pounding in his head. He took the opportunity to slip away, unbothered, to the refrigerator.

Lily and Christopher reclaimed their chairs and went back to the conversation that they had been having before Ryan had arrived. As he heated up his dinner in the microwave, he gave half an ear to their words, only to realize that they were discussing literature. Of course. The microwave beeped, signaling that his food was ready. He took it out, mixing up the contents of his plate to distribute the heat before taking a huge bite. “Ffu--” Lily looked up, startled, but started to laugh when she saw Ryan frantically waving his hand in front of his mouth.

“I know that you’re hungry, but if you don’t slow down, you’ll burn your tongue.”

With an effort, Ryan swallowed the hot food and grimaced. “Yeah, I think I’ll just wait a few minutes.” For a moment, he stood at the kitchen island, not sure where to take a seat, but when his eyes slid to the dining room table, Lily was looking at him expectantly, her dark eyes wide. Ryan made his way to the table, choosing the seat next to Lily, across from Christopher, who ignored his arrival.

“The extended metaphor that’s used during the novel--”

For the first time since he had arrived home, Ryan let himself relax and zone out. This wasn't so bad. In the end, Christopher would still be the one to leave and Ryan would get to stay behind, with Lily. No matter how jealous Christopher was, the facts weren't going to change--Ryan still won. He lifted a forkful of steaming food to his mouth. At that moment, Christopher turned to face him, a mockingly curious expression playing on his features. “Perhaps Mr. O’Reilly would know?” Ryan stared at him blankly, having lost the thread of the conversation awhile ago. Christopher’s lips spread into a condescending smile. “I’m sorry. We were talking about Ulysses...Have you read it?”

Ryan’s gaze flicked to Lily, who was looking at Christopher out of the corner of her eye, her pretty features rippling with poorly concealed discomfort. He looked back at Christopher again, swallowing the food in his mouth, the sound like a roar in his ears, compared to the silence of the room. “Uh...nope,” he finally answered. “Can’t say that I have.”

Christopher simply nodded at him, as though he had just confirmed something that he had already known, and then turned his body towards Lily, again, effectively shutting Ryan out. “I suppose he can’t help us, then.”

Ryan sat perfectly still, a flush creeping up his face, his eyes zeroed in on the side of Christopher’s head. You bastard. He could see exactly what he was trying to do--undermine his friendship with Lily by pointing out his biggest weakness: his complete ignorance of the world of literature. Her world. And how could Ryan ever be worthy of Lily if he couldn’t even begin to understand one of the most important facets of her life?

Ryan bent over his plate and focused on shoveling the rest of the food into his mouth, ignoring the pain as it scalded his throat and tongue. You’re an idiot for ever thinking you had a chance with her. He would just have to settle for being her friend. It was what she really wanted--she had made that more than clear. As long as she was happy, he could be somewhat content.

He stood up, stacking his dishes and heading to the sink. He gave them a perfunctory rinse before shoving them in the dishwasher and then started towards the stairs.

“Where are you going?”

The petty, angry part of him wanted to ignore Lily’s question, but the rest of him--firmly under her spell--made him turn around. It’s not her fault he’s a dick. As much as he wanted to blame her for bringing Christopher between them, he realized that he had to accept that he was a part of her life--the part that he would never fit into. “I’ve got some laundry to do.”

“Oh...okay.” It seemed as though she had more to say, but after a moment, she just gave him a weak smile and went back to her conversation. He turned away, grimacing. Her smile had wounded him in a way that no word or look from Christopher ever could. It was a gesture of pity, an acknowledgement of his inadequacy--and the greatest blow to his pride. He hurried down the stairs to the first floor.

Just as he reached the laundry room door, he remembered that he had left a pile of dirty clothes in his bedroom. Damn it. He had been hoping to get an extended reprieve from Christopher’s cold, unforgiving stare.

“I didn’t realize that you were a hockey fan.”

“It’s a...fairly recent interest.”

Ryan came to a halt halfway up the stairs, his curiosity piqued by the conversation going on above him.

“Brought on, I suppose, by your...’roommate’?” Even Ryan could hear the subtle, sarcastic emphasis on that word. Lily was silent and Ryan desperately wished that he could see her reaction to her friend’s words.

“Not entirely, no,” she finally responded slowly. “My friend--you remember Serena, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes...You wrote a few poems for her, didn’t you?”

Lily cleared her throat. “Yes.” Ryan was pleasantly surprised by this revelation. I’ll have to ask Serena about them. He was curious to read some of Lily’s work, given the fact that she seemed to practice her art in secret. Sometimes, late at night, he could see a light glowing from underneath her door, the sound of classical music turned down very low seeping out with it. This was the closest that he had ever come to any of Lily’s work and he was eager to see some of the things that plagued her mind so late at night. Dreams or demons?

“Did she enjoy them?”

“...I haven’t shown her any of them, actually.” Well, that kills that line of inquiry.

Christopher laughed. “Still just as secretive as ever, hmm?” Lily gave no response. “Have you written anything about Mr. O’Reilly?”

Ryan’s stomach dropped, his heart hammering in his chest. Her write about me?! He tried to take a few quiet, deep breaths and slow his heart rate, in order to hear her answer over its insistent drumbeat.

"If you don't mind me asking," Lily began, in a tone that clearly conveyed that she didn't actually give a damn if he minded or not, "what, exactly, has so piqued such a rabid interest in my 'roommate'?" Ryan stifled laughter. Her heavy dose of sarcasm on the last word had made one thing clear--Lily was not always as clueless as she seemed.

Christopher, however, didn't miss a beat. "I have no interest, whatsoever, in Mr. O'Reilly. In fact, he bores me. What interests me is your interest in--"

"What is the matter with you?!" Lily cried suddenly.

"What is the matter with me? Lily, I believe the better question is: What is the matter with you?" A mutually incredulous silence fell over the room. Ryan climbed another step, wondering if he should intervene and, if so, how. "Look at yourself! Look at what you have become!"

"What I've become...?! Christopher, what in the world--"

"You dress differently, speak and act differently...for God's sake, even your writing has changed--"

"I didn't realize that was such a problem for--"

"It's because you're living with this uncouth oaf." Ryan gave a start. An oaf? Really? He would have been angrier if he had called him something with a little more modern bite, at the very least.

"How DARE you!" Lily's fury seemed to burn away all of the air in the room, leaving Ryan breathless in shock. The only other time that he had ever heard Lily raise her voice was when she had been defending Serena. The one person who, besides her parents, she seemed to love unconditionally. To be put on equal terms with her best friend was humbling, to say the least. "How dare you say such horrible things about Ryan after he so kindly allowed you in his house! You've been nothing but an odious guest ever since he has arrived home and, quite frankly, I'm tired of it. I can't quite understand the source of your distaste for him, but--"

Christopher interrupted her, his voice still level, but laced with icy venom. "He is an uneducated, overpaid, womanizing idiot who is only interested in you, because of the one thing you can offer him--and we both know exactly what that is. You would be fooling yourself if you think any differently and--"

"Get out." The inner beast in Ryan that had been about to rage up the stairs, to Lily's rescue, was quieted by the authority of those two words. If words could kill, these would have surely done so. For one, wild, silent moment, Ryan actually believed that they had slain her friend, but his stunned silence was not meant to last.

"Excuse me?"

"I said, get out."

"You're being very childish--"

"Get out of my house, Christopher, before I have my 'oaf' of a friend remove you." He edged his chair back from the table and Lily felt some of the tenseness in her body seep away. There would be no triumph in his departure, though, she knew. Her blood boiled in her veins, the pulse in her temple throbbing painfully. She had never known such fury in her life, nor did she ever want to experience it again. It ate away at her, scorching her from the inside out. Christopher made no move to stand up. "If you do not leave right now--"

He held up his hands in surrender as he rose from his chair, his eyes cold. "Fear not! I'm leaving."

She followed him to the sliding glass door, her hands fisted at her sides. He slid it open, letting in a blast of cold air. "Goodbye, Christopher," she said with finality.

He took half a step out the door, but then turned back, his icy blue eyes piercing her, needling her with the hard stare that he had only ever used on ditzy undergrads and 'tiresome people.' Never her. Until now. "I don't know who you are, anymore."

"Perhaps you never did," she responded harshly. She felt something inside of her tearing, breaking. I thought you were my friend.

But then he sneered, his thin lips parting to deal the final blow. He had always loved having the last word. "The amusing part is that I doubt you know, either." And with that, he turned on his heel and left, his footsteps masked by a crack of thunder that seemed to roll right through the earth, right through her. Another gust of biting wind blew through the open doorway, bringing with it a spray of raindrops, like a blessing of holy water. She reached out and slid the door closed, shutting out the chaos outside, only to lock herself up with what was within.

Ryan had finally emerged from his place of hiding and now stood, staring at her back. She was incredibly still, her posture frighteningly rigid. "Hey," he finally called out softly, not wanting to startle her. "You alright?"

He watched as one of her hands came up to her face to brush something away. Is she crying? He took a few, tentative steps towards her, wondering if the ache in his chest was what a breaking heart felt like.

"I'm fine," she finally said, turning to face him, her beautiful face aged, careworn. There were no tears on her cheeks, but her blue eyes were glassy.

"I know he's supposed to be a good friend and all that, but...he kinda sounded like an asshole."

To his surprise and relief, Lily smiled wryly. "If he sounds like an asshole, I suppose he isn't such a good friend, then, hm?" Ryan chuckled nervously. He had never heard Lily curse, but she had certainly saved her first time for a good one. The humor didn't last, however. Her smile changed into something bitter and sad. "I'm sorry, Ryan, but its been a long night. I think I'm going to go to bed, now." His eyes followed her as she slowly ascended the stairs, wishing that he knew what to say to comfort her.

"Thanks for sticking up for me," he blurted out, "by the way."

She turned towards him, her expression pained. "Oh, Ryan! I'm so sorry that you had to hear that!"

He shrugged. "Trust me, I've been called worse things than an oaf. He gets points for trying, though!"

Lily shook her head, biting down on her lip to hide a smile. How could I possibly be laughing, right now? Only Ryan could make humor out of such a serious moment. It was one of the things she enjoyed about his company. "I just...I don't understand why he was acting like that! I've never seen him that way before."

"Well, I doubt he's ever come face-to-face with someone he perceives as 'competition'." She stared at him blankly. "He was jealous, Lil."

"Of who? You?" Ryan nodded. "Why?"

He stared at her, marveling over her naiive confusion, her honest bafflement. "You really don't know?"

"Know what?"

"The effect that you have?"

"On who?"

"Everyone! Well, mostly guys, but probably some girls, too--"

"What effect?" She snapped, frustrated. This evening had been confusing enough and by now, Lily was tired of the guessing games. She just wanted to understand, finally, what was wrong with her. Why she had so few friends--or managed to lose them--and why she felt so lonely in a world of over a billion human beings and why this city had changed her life, in all the wrong ways. "What are you talking about?"

"Lily, you're so insanely, out-of-this-world beautiful, you drive us all crazy!"

Nighttime shadows lay across her face like prison bars, giving her a mask to hide behind as she processed his words. She stood so still, her alabaster skin glowing in the dim light of the stairwell, she might as well have been a statue in a museum. After a long, stunned silence, however, she leaned forward, revealing her eyes, dark and shining. "Us?"

Ryan stifled the rising panic that threatened to grab hold of his heart. Of course she would latch on to the one word that would incriminate him. He had hoped that she would gloss over it, but there had been no chance of that. In a matter of seconds, Lily had broken down what he had said and extracted the terrible truth that he had been trying to hide from her for months. Ryan drew up the last dregs of his resolve and walked towards the stairs, keeping his eyes fixed on her. He came to a stop just below where she stood and she crouched down to put her face closer to the bars of the railing, closer to him. Just a few more inches and he could reach out and touch her face. He shoved his hands into his pockets, instead. "Yeah, 'us.' As in, me included."

She regarded him gravely through the wooden bars. "You think I'm beautiful?" She whispered, her breath ghosting across his face, leaving a lingering note of red wine.

He felt a sudden rush of adrenaline, his body reacting to her question as though he had just been pushed off of a 100-story building. The truth will set you free. "Lily," he said, the word so loud in his ears, but so soft against hers, like an exaltation, "you are the most beautiful girl I have ever had the privilege to know."

It felt as though her pulse had made its way to her lips, making them throb with an unnamed need. She wondered how she could still have a pulse, given that she had stopped breathing as soon as he had spoken. Her grip on the railing was so tight, it was painful, but she knew that if she let go, now, she would fall into the abyss that had been plaguing her dreams for weeks. She held on for dear life. "Ryan--," she managed to choke out. He leaned up towards her, his expression one of tragic yearning. Something had changed, shifted--for better or worse, she didn't know. But the tightrope that she had been balancing on was suddenly much thinner, more treacherous. She straightened abruptly, her hand still clutching the railing, her knuckles white.

Ryan, unceremoniously jarred from his almost-fulfilled dream, took a step back, dazed. So damn close. But, to his surprise, he didn't feel as despondent as he should have. In fact, he felt strangely powerful, as if his admission had freed him from some invisible prison of his own making. Lily, on the other hand, looked almost terrified, like a cornered animal. He hadn't meant to scare her. He reached up, his fingertips grazing against hers lightly, making her draw her hand back in surprise. "You don't have to say anything. I just figured you should know." And then he smiled, a gesture of confidence and power that left Lily's head reeling and her thoughts completely scrambled and a heat surging through her body that she had never felt before.

"Goodnight, Ryan," she mumbled quickly, before turning on her heel and stumbling up the stairs.

---

She cupped some of the lukewarm bath water in one hand; with the other, she held a book open, her eyes darting across its pages by the light of the candle nearby. She hadn't been able to bear the thought of putting the lights on and seeing herself reflected in the mirror; the source of a terrible greed...

She shook her head and turned the page, bending her will to concentrate on the words on the page. She alighted upon one of her favorite passages; fairly innocuous to anyone else, but it had always spoken volumes to her:

“But was it nothing but looks? People said. What was there behind it - her beauty, her splendour? Or was there nothing? For easily though she might have said at some moment of intimacy when stories of great passion, of love foiled, of ambition thwarted came her way how she too had known or felt or been through it herself, she never spoke. She was silent always. She knew then - she knew without having learnt. Her simplicity fathomed what clever people falsified. Her singleness of mind made her drop plumb like a stone, alight exact like a bird, gave her, naturally, this swoop and fall of the spirit upon truth which delighted, eased - sustained, falsely perhaps. ‘But she’s no more aware of her beauty than a child’ he thought. For always, there was something incongruous to be worked into the harmony of her face. She clapped a deerstalker’s hat on her head; she ran across the lawn in goloshes. So that if it was her beauty merely that one thought of, one must remember the quivering thing, the living thing, and work it into the picture; or if one thought of her simply as a woman, one must endow her some freak of idiosyncrasy; or suppose some latent desire to doff her royalty of form as if her beauty bored her and all that men say of beauty, and she wanted only to be like other people, insignificant.”