To Hell and Back, page 4
Exercise can help you get rid of bad thoughts and possible depression. Yeah, sure… Two hours running and lifting weights in the basement of our house, but nothing. I’m still thinking about the only person I want to kiss, just imagining the taste of his lips on… “Shut up!” I yell at myself while looking at the mirror. I slap my forehead with my palm to beat out all the crap out of my head.
“Who are you talking to?” I completely forget that I’m not the only person in the gym. My mom looks concerned—probably thinking that I’ve gone insane.
“Sorry, Mom, I have Rose on the other end.” I lie and point to the AirPods in my ears.
Although I’ve had music banging in my ears all this time, it’s no longer possible to hear any words over my thoughts.
She grabs her stuff and hurries upstairs while speaking with someone on the phone—this phone call has just saved me from what she wanted to say.
Speaking of phone calls… “Why aren’t you asleep?” I know that it isn’t that late in London, but I certainly would’ve been asleep by now.
“Just missed you, Lucy.” He’s hinting at being more than friends again. No matter how good a distraction he is from Mr. K, it’s unfair to use him in a more-than-friends way.
“So, you called me to tell more about yourself?” I pretend to ignore what he’s just said.
He sighs. “You’re so impatient. Time will come, and I’ll tell you everything.”
I sip some water before asking, “What do you want to talk about, then?” I don’t want to press him over how secretive he is. I have to check Google for that; it seems like I’m going to get more information from outside sources than from him directly.
“Don’t you miss me?” I hear some hope in his voice, as if what I’m going to say next may change things a lot.
And what am I supposed to say? I haven’t seen him for a day! Not an eternity. Although, I haven’t seen Mr. K for an even a smaller amount of time, but it does feel like forever.
He’s waiting for me to answer, so I summon all the courage I have to tell the truth, “Sam, you’re—”
I stop as I hear a woman’s voice in the background saying something about the bed being cold without Sam. Is this a joke!? “I see which kind of business you have there.”
“No, Lucy, wait—”
I don’t let him finish before I hang up the phone.
How stupid was I to believe someone could like a weirdo like me? I know I wanted to tell Sam that I’m not interested in him, and again remind him that we’re just friends, but all this time he wanted me as one of his trophies!
It’s all my fault. I was wondering why he got so close to me in such a short period of time (that’s an understatement)—pretending to be my friend when he just wanted to get in my underpants. Ugh, gross!
This woman is probably one of his trophies or prostitutes—I wouldn’t be surprised. But her voice…it sounded too damn familiar.
Sam keeps calling nonstop, but I turn off my phone. I don’t want to hear his made-up explanation, and I never want to see him again.
It’s almost ten, but I don’t feel like going to sleep anytime soon. I go to the third floor—seriously, I need an elevator for that—where my bedroom, study room, and our family’s mini library are.
In the library, I decide to pick one of my favorites, the same one Mr. K picked: The Picture of Dorian Gray.
I drop it on my bed and head to take a shower. “It’s going to be the long night.” I murmur as I twist the shower handle.
Chapter 5
Today is Sunday. Last week, Mr. K didn’t show up for our next scheduled meeting. He was absent the next day and the day after that as well. I think he may have transferred to another school—there was no homework for his class and no explanation for why he was absent three days in a row. When I asked Ms. Gately about this and why he didn’t meet after school, she said she didn’t know anything about it (I know she was lying) and that I’ll have to wait for Mr. K to come back. She wasn’t specific about when this will happen, though.
Surprisingly, Rose found some time to call me over the past few days, and we even had time in school to talk about why she been avoiding my calls. Her explanation is classic: “I was overwhelmed with a lot of work at home,” she told me on Wednesday, though she provided no details of the “work” she’s doing. She added that her mother is getting better and that I shouldn’t worry, but I know she’s hiding something. I just can’t put my finger on it. Fine, I don’t blame her. I haven’t told her anything about Mr. K or what’s happened between me and Sam (not that there’s much to tell).
Speaking of Sam. Well…I don’t know, because I don’t answer his calls or read his messages. I can’t force to block his number, though. But I don’t think about him much. I’m still angry, but not to the point where he occupies my mind—not like Mr. K does.
I still dreamed about Mr. K, but today I saw myself in his embrace. I tried to forget it, but it’s just stuck in my head. I remember how good it felt just to stay with him while his hands circled my waist as if he didn’t want to let me go. Can you even feel anything in dreams!? Oh, I need a Tylenol.
“Good morning,” Dad says from behind the newspaper.
I reply the same while grabbing a Tylenol and swallowing it. These dreams are only giving me headaches lately.
Yesterday, we were supposed to have a daughter-father day, but an emergency day at the hospital took him by surprise. I thought we might do something today, but Christopher, our family’s lawyer, is coming by later to pick up Dad and drive to the bar where they’re going to watch some football—yeah, he’s also Dad’s best friend. And don’t get me started on alcohol and driving…
Mom, on the other hand, has closed herself in her mini-laboratory (on the second floor), and God knows what the hell she’s doing in there. She never allows anyone to come in when she works on whatever she works on. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s creating the pill of life. I mean, she’s there at four in the morning, and it’s ten now—I overslept again.
There’s a knock at the door, and Dad rises to open it. An African American nerd with glasses and short black hair greets him. Then Chris looks at me and asks, “Do you mind?”
“Nah, have fun,” I say sincerely, and Dad leaves with Christopher.
I’m actually happy that Dad has such a great friend—jealous a little, but still happy. He deserves a break from everything, especially as Chris comes only about twice a month. Who’d have guessed that lawyers and doctors share similar schedules?
Not long after Dad leaves, there’s a knock and then the door opens. Sophia, our housekeeper, is here to clean the house as always—she comes every Wednesday and Sunday. She has keys but prefers to knock anyway. “Good morning, Lucinda,” she says in her heavy Russian accent.
I murmur the same thing and add, “Mom’s in her room again.” She nods, understanding that she should avoid the entire second floor, where the sound of the vacuum machine can put my mom into a rage.
There’s not much to clean in our house, so she’s mostly done around three in the afternoon.
Sophia places her cleaning stuff on the floor and heads to the kitchen while I go to the basement (AKA the gym) to do some exercises.
“ …” I can hear the Russian song from Sophia’s speaker as I head back to my room.
For some reason, it reminds me of Mr. K and how I…wait a second, how do I even know what the song is about!? Why do I have the feeling that I understand every single word in this song? Okay, I need a break. My headaches are making me hear things now.
I open the curtains in my room and stop abruptly as my eyes lock on the man looking directly at my window from the other side of the road. I rub my eyes with the sides of my palms and look at the same spot where the man was standing just a second ago—amazing, now I also see things.
I grab a change of clothes and head to take a cold shower—maybe it will bring me back to reality because for now, it feels like I’m still dreaming.
Hours pass. My homework is finished, and I have nothing to do, so I decide to Google information about Sam.
Nothing! I mean there are a bunch pictures and references to his vast net worth, but that’s about it. Is he now controlling the media as well? The earliest article, from a year ago, mostly describes his beauty and how on Earth he’s still single…but there’s literally nothing before that. It’s as if he didn’t exist until a year ago. Google doesn’t even have his age, for that matter, but most people agree that he’s in his early twenties. He’s certainly an enigma, but I don’t care since I never want to see him again.
Out of boredom and to satisfy my own curiosity, I Google Mr. K…but nothing comes up. He’s more of a Pandora’s box than an Enigma machine. At least Alan Turing cracked the Enigma…Pandora’s box is just a myth containing who knows what. I mean, the fact that Mr. K doesn’t have any social media is worrying—searching would be easier if I had his first name. But, well, I don’t. And everyone knows what happens when you open Pandora’s box (actually, it was a jar). No matter how tempting, I should stick with the Enigma machine. No, better just to be a lonely cat woman—with no cats.
There’s no more vacuuming (or singing), so I assumed that Sophia has left the house. Hair still wet, I head downstairs to grab something to eat.
Before reaching the second floor, I stop as my mom leaves the room and walks downstairs with a jacket in her hand. I pause when she stops to look upstairs—it seems she doesn’t see me. She walks to the door and quietly leaves the house. What the hell is going on in this family!?
It seems that everyone has left me alone in the house to explore the truth behind my mom’s work.
I ignore the lightheadedness and the growling in my stomach and head to my mom’s lab—Dad has one, too, but it’s more like an office than a lab.
I try to open the door, but it’s locked. That’s no surprise, but what is surprising is that the regular lock has been replaced with a biometric one I haven’t seen this before. I don’t even want to think about it or I’ll jump to the worst conclusion. I’d better pretend that it’s protecting Mom’s lab from robbers, and that behind this door is something groundbreaking that will save many human lives—better to think of virtuous deeds than of evil.
Mom is home a little earlier than Dad, but both are unusually late. I try to ask Mom about her work in the lab, but she keeps saying it’s a secret that will be revealed when she finishes everything—but she doesn’t even give a hint about what “everything” means.
Dad, on another hand, seems like he had a fun time with Chris. He can’t shut up about how they got into an argument over politics—I stop listening at the mention of the word politics.
“I think I’ll go to bed early tonight,” I say and head upstairs.
I doubt they hear me. Dad keeps talking, and Mom tries unsuccessfully to keep her opinion out of the discussion—well, now it’s an argument—and I want to slip away before they ask my opinion (which, by the way, I don’t have…but try to tell them that).
I don’t know if I’ll see Mr. K tomorrow, but if I do, I have to confront him about his disappearance and somehow discern if he has a wife or girlfriend. I really need some closure, some reason to stop thinking about him, because his current position at the school stopped bothering me a long time ago (or it seems like a long time ago).
Chapter 6
“I don’t want to speak to you, and I never want to see your face again!” Unsurprisingly, Sam is waiting for me outside of the house.
“Please, let me—”
“No. Goodbye, Samael.” I walk away from him and toward the busy road to get a cab.
“Lucy, stop!” I hear him pleading, but I keep going. “I said stop!” he shouts. I turn to see his right fist bleeding and the side mirror of his car smashed in pieces. “Please,” he adds, ignoring both the pain and his blood dripping to the ground.
I feel terrible as I look between Sam and the mirror lying on the ground. “Please, I won’t hurt you. I just want to talk.” This comes from the person who just smashed a mirror with incredible force for no real reason.
He doesn’t bother to look at his hand, which covered in blood and pieces of glass, but I do. “Get in the house,” I say as I move to open the door.
I can’t just leave him bleeding because of me—even when I’m scared of what he’s capable of.
A few pedestrians have stopped to look at us, as if we’re in some Broadway show. Sam doesn’t seem to care much about the blood dripping from his hand. “I have a bandage in the car.”
He doesn’t let me say anything as he climbs into the driver seat.
“God damn it!” I curse silently and walk to his car. I step over the glass and drops of blood and sit in the passenger seat.
He wraps his right hand with an elastic bandage created for muscle relief, not for a bloody cut with pieces of glass stuck in it.
“We’re going to the hospital!” I order him as I buckle my seatbelt.
“No. I’m driving you to school, and we’ll talk on the way.” His voice holds no hint of his earlier wrath. He starts the car.
“Let me at least look at your hand,” I say with a note of worry. If this idiot gets an infection, I’ll make sure the doctors don’t give him any pain-relief medications.
“There’s no need.” Why he is so casual, as if it’s not a big deal?
“You can get—”
“I said I’m fine!” The rage has returned to his voice. Suddenly, I’m scared. I turn away so he can’t see the tears that have sprung to my eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
I wanted to know the real Sam. I think I just met him.
He stops the car. “I’m sorry for yelling at you.” No matter how many times he apologizes, it’s won’t change a thing. He’s just shown me the type of person he is.
I turn to look at him: black shadows under his eyes from lack of sleep, messy hair, a wrinkled black T-shirt. I hadn’t noticed how miserable he looks…and all because of me. “I’m listening.” His eyes light up with hope.
“The woman you heard on the phone was no one to me. A hotel manager I called to check the temperature of the bed. The mattress should’ve heated up, but instead—”
“Save your breath. I don’t care who you sleep with as long as you don’t think of me as one of your trophies. One moment you’re saying we’re friends, and the next you’re trying to flirt with me while someone is in your bed. I’m not stupid Sam.”
There’s a sign of pain in his dark brown eyes as he says, “I never thought of you as a trophy. But tell me, Lucy, why are you with me? Do you really being honest with yourself when you say you just want to be friends? I never wanted this for us, but I accepted what you suggested because it was the only way to be with you.” I wasn’t the one suggesting anything!
I’m speechless for a bit, but he keeps looking at me, waiting for my response. He’s right—the only reason I’m with him is so he can distract me from the person I really want to be with, and who is even more unfamiliar to me: Mr. K. “You don’t even know me.” And I barely know you, Sam.
“I know enough about you to want more…more for us.” I raise my eyebrows, but he actually seems to be serious. It all goes back to the conversation we had in the park and the long list of reasons, unknown to me, why he’s interested in me at all.
How the hell does he know enough about me? What does “enough” mean to him, anyway? Is it like some basic info from Instagram or like enough to marry me? “Let’s start from the beginning,” I finally say.
He nods in agreement. “As friends?” I can hear the hope in his words: the hope that I’ll say no.
Should I use him for now, pretend to be his girlfriend, and maybe later on it will become real? “As a couple.” I guess yes. If he knew the real reason behind my agreement to this relationship, I can’t imagine who or what would fall victim to his rage. “But I can’t promise it will work,” I add, quickly, so I won’t feel too guilty.
“You won’t regret it.”
I know that I’ve just made him a happy man…but can I be happy with him?
“Same place.” He kisses my cheek and walks back to the driver’s seat.
The moment he drives away, I drop my fake smile and waving gestures of fake happiness. “What am I doing?” I whisper to myself. I’ve already made him miserable by refusing to speak with him for days, but breaking his heart…that’s different. Maybe I’ve made a mistake.
“Are you okay?” The beautiful voice I could listen to instead of music...Mr. K is behind me!
I turn to face his magnificent…everything. “Walk with me,” he says, moving in the opposite direction of the school.
Well, I’m already late for the first period anyway—Sam’s conversation took longer than I thought, plus we got stuck in traffic.
“I’ve been thinking about you these past few days,” he says as I catch up with him.
I don’t know how to reply to this. I can’t just tell him that I think about him every day, that he comes to my dreams, that I have feelings for him. Only an insane person would say that to person they know nothing about. Maybe I’m dreaming right now?
“And what have you been thinking, Mr. K?” I try to sound aloof yet respectful. He is a teacher, after all. Who knows why he’s been thinking about me. Maybe he just wants to apologize for missing our meeting.
He stops to look at me. “You’re so beautiful, Lucy.” I’m pretty sure that my mouth falls open in shock as I see his arrogant smirk. Should I even talk about a teacher like that? Nah, who cares anymore? “Let’s reschedule our meeting for Friday.”
“No problem, Mr. K.” I’m still trying to pretend that he’s nothing more to me than a teacher.
