Liza was shaking.
Not that such a thing was odd, considering that nearly everything scared her so damned badly.
Still, she wasn't sure when she'd last quivered so much. She wasn't able to hold anything even when she tried, hence why the shoebox she'd tried to pull from the back of the closet had spilled all over the carpeted floor of the condo's spare bedroom.
She shouldn't have even bothered touching the thing; she knew she wasn't ready to dive into her memories and past thoughts.
Yet here she was, staring right at those memories as the taunted her from where they were spread across the floor.
She was going to vomit again if she didn't move quickly.
But Liza had trekked to the spare bedroom with a purpose, and damnit if she wasn't going to make some more progress, no matter how little.
Swallowing down bile, she called, "Milo." The dog's name was barely a whisper, but he was at her side in the next moment, nudging his head under her hand to encourage her to put him. She did, but his fur, long as it was, did nothing to hide the quivering of her fingers.
Raising her other, hand, she pointed at one of the objects on the carpet—her darkened, dead—phone and croaked, "Milo, hold." The dog was quick in action, plucking up the device gently and eyeing her expectantly.
"Let's go." She stumbled out of the room, choosing to leave the shoebox for another day. If she tried at that moment, she would have broken down entirely.
Barely making it to the living room, Liza collapsed on the couch, grabbing a pillow and clutching it to her chest as though it would keep her from falling apart. She traded a long glance with Milo, who was seated on the ground less than a foot from her, the phone in his mouth and a patient glint in his dark eyes.
Liza knew he would hold onto it for as long as she needed, regardless of how thirsty or hungry or tired he became, because he was just so, so wonderful, and Liza didn't deserve him, but she absolutely was so grateful—
Oh.
She was crying again.
Swiping at her tears with the back of her hand, Liza sucked in a shaky breath.
Everything would be fine.
She didn't have to actually use the phone, right?
This was progress. Just progress. Just a little progress at a time.
The first step was getting the phone from the shoebox, and she had done that.
She didn't even have to charge it or turn it on yet. She simply had to get it from the shoebox and place it in a spot within the house where she would see it regularly. Dr. Whitney had told her that having the phone lying around would help, because having continuous exposure would remind Liza that it wasn't anything to be afraid of.
And, by extension, the people on the other end of the line within the phone weren't scary either.
Liza wasn't so sure about that last point, but she would make progress.
Stretching out a hand that was no longer shaking quite so badly, Liza murmured, "Release." Milo dropped the phone her hand obediently, licking her fingers soothingly before pulling away again.
"Good boy." She stared at the blank screen of the phone. The charger was still in the spare bedroom, mixed in with the mess that she'd made, and it would have to remain there, at least for a little bit.
She simply wasn't ready yet.
Tracing her index finger over the phone, Liza marveled at how sleek and shiny it looked. Her original phone hadn't made it through the crash, and this one had been a gift from her mother, who had handed it to her, kissed her head, and murmured, "please don't shut me out, sweetie."
And then Liza had done exactly that.
"I'm a shit daughter," she told Milo.
Milo tilted his head, curious about her words, and the action managed to win a tiny grin from Liza.
"Think she'll ever talk to me again?" It was a silly question, she knew. Her mother was one of the kindest women Liza had ever met; she would never hold a grudge against her daughter.
Still, that didn't stop the disappointment from creeping through every one of Liza's blood vessels.
Her mother had been so patient with her after the crash. So worried and attentive, and how had Liza paid her back? She'd tucked herself inside a shell of safety, unable to trust anyone but herself.
Milo's furry head settled on her knee, and her shoulders relaxed as she began to pet him with one hand.
She had to remind herself that her circle of safety was growing. Dr. Whitney was helping her, and she was able to talk to Elijah and go for walks nearly once a week, so long as there was no risk of Elijah or anyone else spotting her.
She was indeed making progress; it was just so damn slow.
Blowing out a sigh, Liza dropped the phone on the side table next to the couch and then twisted around until she was facing the closed curtains that looked out over the street.
With two timid fingers, she pulled back and peered upon the massive, daunting world that threatened her own.
The street was surprisingly quiet for such a sunny day. Then again, it was probably a weekday, so most people were at work while their kids were in school.
Or so Liza assumed, anyway.
Still, the weather was nice, and Elijah had said he wouldn't be stopping by until—
Her mind stalled abruptly when a car turned onto the street and began its descent down the road. It was a sedan, sleek and a dark navy color that glittered in the sunlight. Liza kept the curtain open, watching curiously as it slowed when it neared her house.
Perhaps it was the elderly couple? She thought they drove an old, rickety truck of some kind, but she also hadn't paid much attention. For one, she didn't look out the window too often, and, for another, she was normally too distracted by her panic to pay attention.
The car passed the condo just before hers and slowed further.
Liza pulled away from the window slightly, still interested but more wary than anything. She wasn't scheduled to receive her weekly groceries yet, nor her medicine, so why was the car . . .?
Pulling into her driveway?!
She was too horrified to move, her wide eyes frozen on the car as it slowed to a stop in front of the garage she had never opened.
Oh, God.
Oh, oh, God.
The engine wasn't audible from inside the house, but she knew the car had been turned off when the driver's door opened. Her heart was pounding such a frantic rhythm in her chest that it was difficult to breathe, but she stopped breathing altogether when she saw who climbed out of the sedan.
Her eyes flew to the clock on the wall, widening when she registered the time.
It was ten in the morning.
Ten.
Ten.
Why was Elijah at her condo at ten in the morning? He always came at one o'clock.
Always, always, always.
And why was he just as attractive as she'd expected once the terror of meeting him had passed?
Those brown eyes found her quickly, just as they had that first day, and it took everything within Liza to stay in place.
And then Elijah smiled at her, and she nearly threw herself off the couch as she made her way to the oak door, her heart pattering the now familiar but no less unsettling slam-skip-slam.
"Hello, beautiful," Elijah greeted from the opposite side of the wood, his tone thrice as cheerful as normal.
Liza had no clue how he sounded so happy all the time, but she was definitely a tad jealous.
"Hi," she greeted, furious at herself for blushing, of all the stupid reactions.
For God's sake, she was twenty-eight—she had no business blushing like a kid in middle school learning about sex for the first time.
"It's ten," she blurted after a moment, even as she and Milo got settled on the floor. "You always come at one."
"I'm flattered that you noticed," was his quick retort, though he did sound somewhat honored. "I normally do, yes, but I got a call on the way home from work and decided to stop by and share the good news with my bestest, most-special friend who is always dying to get a visit from yours truly."
Liza snorted. "Charming," she murmured despite her nerves.
Elijah laughed. "I know, babe, that's the point. Anyway, my good news."
"What is it?"
He sobered slightly. "Is it alright for me to tell you?"
Liza's brow furrowed. "Sure." It sounded like a question more than a statement.
"I'm just checking," Elijah reassured her. "I know some days I'm not mentally prepared for Austin to whine about his latest attempt at dating, even if the news is good."
"Oh." Did he have to be so nice? His kindness made her heart hurt. "Yeah. Yeah, you can tell me."
"Thanks, Liza, that's nice of you. Okay," there was a clapping noise, and she guessed that he'd hit his hands together out of excitement, "remember what I told you about my brother, Zachariah?"
"He works in a fancy casino in Vegas," Liza recalled, "and he hates Oreos."
"Yes and yes," he sounded giddy that she'd remembered, and Liza couldn't stop a proud smile from spreading on her face. "Well, good news, doll—he's no longer going to be a station chef and forced to deal with the sous chef woman he hates with everything in him."
"Why not?"
"He received a head chef position at Lillian's over in Midway. Exciting, isn't it? I'm pumped." He did sound thrilled, and Liza smiled brightly.
"Only an hour or two from here." She thought so, anyway. She hadn't driven anywhere in a while, though, so she could have been entirely incorrect.
"Yeah, that sounds right." Well, thank God for that. "I can't wait to have weekend dinners with a professional chef; I'll bring you some leftovers, okay?"
"Okay."
"I still need to bring you those Oreos I promised," Elijah mused. "Do you have a favorite dessert?"
Liza licked her lips. She hadn't bought anything special in a while, besides her normal grocery delivery. She wasn't very good at cooking, but she did like to bake, since she wasn't bad at it, and the activity gave her an opportunity to focus on something other than her anxiety. Though, it wasn't very thrilling to create for only one person, and her appetite was more variable than her moods.
But there was one thing she missed about being normal . . .
"Donuts," she admitted quietly, knowing he would hear her perfectly well, since he somehow always did. "The chocolate cake ones with a little bit of glaze, but not too much."
"The perfect balance," Elijah agreed. "Kind of like you and me, babe. I'm the store-bought, half-stale but still delicious Oreo to your bakery-produced, fresh and warm chocolate cake donut with a little bit of glaze but not too much."
Liza laughed before she could stop herself, always touched by his sweet words and goofy personality. "Does your brother know how to make donuts?" She'd never tried, but she didn't think it would be too hard.
"I'm sure. You're not wishing he was here instead of me, are you? I have to say, that would break my poor little heart, doll." He was joking, but Liza couldn't help but wonder if the hint of worry in his voice was genuine.
"No, I'm not, Elijah." And that was true. "I'm happy that he's going to be closer to you, though." She shifted in her spot. "Do you miss having him nearby?"
"Sure," he answered honestly. "Sometimes I remember moments from when we both lived at home in high school; we got into a shitload of trouble most of the time, but we had a hell of a lot of fun. But hey, we're both doing our own thing, and even though we don't talk all that much—we're lucky when our schedules match up—it never feels like we missed a day, you know? I complain about Austin, ask Zach if he's developed a gourmet Oreo like that pastry chef on YouTube, and then I listen to him rant about his micromanager of a sous chef and how tiny Las Vegas apartments are. It works out."
Against her will, Liza's eyes drifted to the couch, where she could just barely make out the darkened screen of her phone.
"Have you ever . . ." she trailed off, sucking in a breath. "Have you ever had trouble calling someone? Even if you know and love them."
There was a long pause, before Elijah said, his voice low with emotion, "You mean when you look at the phone and almost wish it didn't exist just so you wouldn't have to use it?"
"Yes." How did he do it? He understood her so damn well that it was scary in its own way.
"I'm familiar."
"How do I finally make the call?"
Elijah blew out a heavy sigh, and Liza almost worried that she was being a burden, but he eased her worries by replying, "Isn't that the question? It's hard as hell to do it, Liza, but one day I just looked at the phone and realized that waiting wasn't doing anything except making my anticipation worse, so I got over it and called. And it sucked major ass, by the way. Still, I did it, and then it seemed far less intimidating."
There was a short silence as she absorbed his words, fiddling with the tags on Milo's collar.
Was it that easy? Well, she supposed it hadn't been easy for him, since he'd said as much, but . . .
She looked at the phone once more.
To pick it up and finally call her mom . . . could she truly do it?
No.
"I don't know if I can do it yet."
"I don't see how there's anything wrong with that," her companion reassured her. "Sorting through our personal shit takes however long it takes, doll, that's just how it works."
"So if I can't do it today—"
"Then try again tomorrow," he finished. "Pretty much. And if it doesn't happen tomorrow, then you try again the next day, and so on and so forth. And then one day, it finally happens."
"You make a lot more sense than my therapist."
Dr. Whitney was great, but it was clear that the woman hadn't experienced the same things as Liza. She doubted Elijah had either, but he seemed to relate far more easily than Whitney. Of course, Liza supposed that Whitney's job wasn't to relate, but rather to assist in her recovery.
Nonetheless, it was much easier to talk to Elijah.
He chuckled at her comment. "I wouldn't say I'm totally qualified for that, babe, but thanks anyway. I've got to say, I enjoy talking to you over most people, too."
Liza clasped her hands over her cheeks, sharing a comical, bug-eyed look with a confused Milo, who clearly didn't understand her reaction.
She didn't either.
Maybe it was a weird reaction born of the fact that she hadn't had any contact with the male species for an entire year. After all, Elijah surely wasn't fliting with her. He called her 'babe' and 'doll,' but he was so light-hearted and silly that she was sure it wasn't an uncommon thing for him to do. He seemed like the type of person who saw a friend after ten minutes of separation and hugged them as though they'd been apart for ten years.
That fact only made her like him more, damn it all to hell!
"Elijah?"
"What's up, doll?"
"Thanks for coming here to share the news with me."
It made her warm all over to know that he wanted to tell her about it even before going back to his own house and changing or grabbing some of the foods he loved so much.
It was just so nice to feel included, even if it was still at a distance.
There was a breathy chuckle on the other side of the door. "Thanks for being here to listen." He tapped three times on the door, and Liza's brow rose.
It wasn't like his knocking of greeting, which consisted of three, evenly space raps that were quick in nature and seemed to represent an excited, "Hey, I'm here, come say hello!"
The three latest thuds against the door had been different: The first two were slow and evenly spaced, like a knock, pause, knock. There had been a longer pause, then a hardier, heavier hit against the door, as though to signify that something important had been said and finished with a bolded period.
Knock, pause, knock, wait, wait, wait, knock.
"What was that?"
"A form of communication."
The answer was surprisingly tight-lipped. "What does it mean?"
"That's a secret." She would have thought by his short answers that he was mad, but she could hear the smile in his voice, and it was enough to stave off her anxiety.
"Do I need to do it back?"
"Sure. It's a nice message meant to be shared between friends."
Liza shot Milo a bewildered glance. "Like, 'it's nice to see you?' Or, 'I hope you're doing well?'"
There was another pause. "Sort of," he conceded after a moment, laughter dancing along every word he spoke. "It doesn't mean anything bad, doll, I promise."
"But you won't tell me?"
"Not yet. Maybe one day, when I can see you in person and hopefully give you a hug."
She didn't know how to tell him that opening the door was one thing, but touching—oh, God, not touching!—was an entirely different, much larger issue.
No touching.
Liza hated touching.
She couldn't tell him though, not yet. As much as she had come to trust Elijah, she simply wasn't prepared to touch on that topic. Hell, she and Whitney hadn't even addressed the 'touch problem' quite yet.
So, instead of explaining all that to her newest friend, Liza balled one of her hands into a fist and tapped on the door three times, just like he had.
Knock, pause, knock, wait, wait, wait, knock.
"Whoa, Liza," he teased, "watch your language!"
"Elijah!"
His loud laughter only made the warmth in her stomach spread further, until it left her fingertips tingling with energy.
"I'm sorry, babe," he said once his chortles had calmed slightly. "I'm kidding; it really isn't anything bad. After all, my mom hates cursing, remember? She wouldn't teach me anything raunchy."
"I don't believe you."
"Damn," he whistled, and she was thankful that he knew she was joking. "That hurts, doll, really. I guess I'll have to make it up to you, won't I? I ought to look into donut shops nearby and get ready to grovel."
He'd have to leave the donuts on the doorstep and hide in his own condo while he waited for her to grab them, and his groveling would have to be done on the other side of an oak door.
The realization that she and Elijah were almost exact opposites was a sobering one, followed immediately by the one thought that had been haunting her since the damn accident took almost everything away from her.
She was too different.
They were too different. He was freedom and brightness and joy, and she was darkness and tears and a broken heart that threatened to never mend.
She suddenly felt restless and unsteady, a combination of emotions she'd never felt while in her only safe place, and such a change sent fear sizzling down her spine, leaving her cold and clammy.
What was wrong with her?
"I have to call my therapist," she blurted, standing so quickly that her vision blurred, and she nearly went tumbling onto the floor. Milo was quick to support her as she backed away from a confused Elijah.
"Oh," he spluttered, caught off guard and . . . he sounded almost hurt. "Okay. Are you alright?"
The thought that she had made him feel bad only made her feel worse, and she rushed out a quick, "See you later," instead of answering his question before disappearing upstairs and into the safety of her bathroom.
She almost didn't make it to the toilet fast enough before she vomited.
And then she couldn't stop, even though the bile burned her throat and tears and snot dribbled down her cheeks and lips unattractively, leaving her a mess of tangled emotions and 'what-ifs.'
The whole disaster was another testament to how different she and Elijah were.
He surely didn't freak out and spend several hours vomiting through sobs so harsh they shook his whole body, leaving him exhausted and wishing just a little bit that he hadn't been left alive after a terrible plane crash.
The thought only made her cough up more stomach acid.
And so, sometime after ten but before one o'clock, Liza fell apart inside her bathroom, more terrified than ever of her own mind.
***
A/N: Poor Liza. :(
Any thoughts on what the knock sequence signifies?
Inquiring minds wish to know!
TTFN,
A.R.