Street Girl

19 | lucy

"That's not true—Katie, you'd never cheat."

"Of course I know that."

"It was just one stupid drunk mistake, and it happened before he even moved here. Luke's an asshole. You're not sloppy seconds. You're you."

"He's really not. You don't get it, El—I love him."

"Katie..."

"Forget it." She wipes her eyes with her sleeves. "Look, we can't hang out anymore, okay?"

"What? But—"

"As long as I'm friends with you, Luke won't even touch me. Just—stay away from me, Elliot." With that, she storms outside and slams the door. The chandelier rattles at the force of it, and Elliot has this blank, devastated look on his face.

"El?" I step from behind the wall. "Are you okay?"

He stares at the floor. "I'm assuming you heard all of that."

I want to say 'so much for just friends,' but it doesn't feel like the time. I say, "Yeah. That was... something else. If you ask me, good riddance."

"I don't think she's ever called me Elliot. Not once."

"Well—"

"Wanna watch TV or something?" He breezes past me, and I chase him down the hall.

"Wait, what?"

We reach the living room, but Elliot averts his eyes, his jaw tight. "Let's watch TV."

"Don't you want to talk about what just happened?"

"No." His voice is short, irate. With stiff limbs, he sits on the couch, swipes the remote off the coffee table, and turns on the TV. Torn up presents and tissue paper litter the floor beneath the unlit Christmas tree. A shiny hockey stick sits untouched to the side, and I drop on the other end of the couch. Family Guy is on but I don't want to sit here and watch some cartoon after what just happened. Elliot's arms are crossed and his cheek is pressed to his knuckles.

"Elliot."

"What?"

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

Suddenly I feel as though I'm invading his space, like I'm not wanted here. This isn't the Elliot I know. This isn't El.

He takes something out. A bong.

"You're smoking pot in here?" I ask.

"Why does it matter? My parents won't be home for a week."

"Okay..."

"You want some?"

"No, I'm good."

"Suit yourself." He takes a toke and fills the quaint room with the stench of burnt weed. The smoke is dirty and infectious against the Wexlers' Christmas decorations. It's like painting over someone's graffiti; you just don't ruin art.

We spend the rest of the night watching TV and not talking. I hate every second of it. When it ten p.m. hits, Elliot stands. His eyes are red, tired smudges beneath them, but his irises still glimmer like ice in the light. They're so blue, and he's so pretty, and I'm so confused.

I hold my knees together. "So, that was some drama earlier."

He yawns. "Yeah. It was about time he broke up with her. It's so typical, though. She's always blamed me for everything."

"Oh." I chew on my cheeks. I hate the idea of Elliot hooking up with that girl. When he slumps toward the archway, I ask, "Where are you going?"

"I'm tired, Lucy. I wanna go to bed."

"Guess I'll sleep here then." I pull a quilt over myself, but Elliot hangs by the doorway.

"Or you could come sleep in my bed with me. I won't try anything, I promise."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. Come on. If you want."

Quietly, I follow him. When we get to his room, he shuts the door behind us. Even though we're alone in this big house, I haven't truly felt it until now. There's so much silence.

"Do you have PJs?" Elliot asks.

"I have sweats, anyway."

"Wanna borrow something?"

"A shirt, maybe?"

He nods to the dresser. "Second drawer."

My reflection in the mirror watches me. My hair is all clumped and my freckles are particularly dark today. I'm not insecure, but I can't help but think of Katie and how pretty and tall she is. She's clearly a shit friend, but Elliot saw something in her. I'm short and stick-thin and I don't even have a home. What does he see in me?

I don't like feeling like this. This is messed up.

Inside the tank on the dresser, the lizard, a fat bearded dragon, pokes its head out. It stares and me and blinks before retreating to its rock.

Stupid lizard.

On the other side of the room, Elliot digs into another dresser. "Do you keep all your stuff in that backpack?"

"Some of it, yeah." I open the second drawer and pull out the first shirt I find. Like everything he has, it's blue. "Some of it's still at my friend Brett's."

"Why won't he let you stay there?"

"It's a long story."

"Oh. You can change in the bathroom, or here. I won't look."

I have no doubt he won't look. Elliot is clearly not in the mood for anything. I slip off my jeans and shrug off my flannel, half-naked and exposed.

"I'm sorry," he says.

I look over my shoulder. He's shirtless, revealing his toned back, and my cheeks smolder. I focus on the trippy Radiohead poster on the wall. "For what?"

"For being like this."

I don't really get what this is, but whatever.

His shirt is smooth and cool on my bare skin. Elliot wears hockey pajamas with his plaid boxers showing, and my face gets hot again.

"Um, so, yeah..." He shuts off the light, shrouding the room in darkness, and lies in bed. I climb in after him. "I sort of need to listen to white noise when I sleep. Does that bug you at all?"

"No, it's cool."

His phone illuminates his face as he scrolls through it, before soft waves ebb from the speakers. Elliot sets it on the nightstand and huddles under the covers. Our eyes lock when we face each other, and he hesitantly puts his arm on the curve of my torso. I shuffle closer to him. When he pulls me to his chest, I shut my eyes and sink into his warmth.

"I have to work tomorrow," he whispers against my forehead. "Nine to five. School's out for Christmas break, but my boss has me scheduled for most days. I have a hockey game in a few days too. Sorry. I probably should've told you beforehand I'd be gone a lot."

"No, it's okay. Thanks for having me."

He holds me tighter. "Thanks for being here."

The calm whooshing of the waves, along with Elliot's breathing, lulls me. I shuffle away from him. Moonlight seeps through the curtains and bathes his sleeping face, reflecting blue off the walls like the inside of an aquarium. I stare at his lips. Part of me wants to kiss him. Part of me wants to come clean, right here, right now. About everything.

If I told him the truth, would it make us closer? Would he forget Katie and only care about me? Or would he go running? What if I told him my ex-boyfriend tried to kill me? That the only intimacy I've ever had is out of necessity?

Maybe he'd say, "You're too much trouble, get out of here," and kick me to the curb. Or maybe he'd say, "It's okay, Luce, you're safe now, none of that matters when you're with me."

There's only one way to find out. With a gentle push, I try to wake him up. He stirs and mumbles unintelligible words, but through his mutters, I make out one name:

"Katie."