Page 31 of Love Out Loud

My heart bottoms out when I pass the open door to her bedroom. The room looks, frankly, untouched. Her bed is crisply made. I can’t see her suitcase anywhere. More important than any of that, Lark isn’t in it. A quick glance at the living room tells me she’s not out there, either. The bathroom door is open and the lights are off, so she’s not in there.

Did she…leave?

I lodge my fingers in my hair, gripping at the strands and using the sensation to distract me from the panic slithering its way up my stomach and squeezing my heart. It’s a sensation I’m deeply familiar with—an anxiety that would arise every time I woke up to find my parents gone with no idea where they went or when they’d be back, and one that revisits me sometimes when things start to feel beyond my control. But I haven’t felt that in a long time. Years and therapy healed most of those wounds, though it would seem some are still lurking below the surface.

Breathing in and out as deeply and slowly as I can, I try to get the edge of my adrenaline to soften. No luck. I scrape the dust off my checklist of things I’d do to make myself at least functional when I used to feel like this. Deep breathing. No help. Close my eyes and think of something happy. I try that, but it’s no surprise that Lark’s face is front and center. Shaking my head violently, I snap my eyes open. That made it worse. Call Lark. Well, I can’t fucking do that, can I, because she’s supposed to be here and she’s not.

I tug even harder at my hair, trying to at least feel something other than this. Somewhere, a faucet drips, and the sound of it grates on my already-frayed nerves.

Okay, Lennon. Get it together, I tell myself. Deal in facts only, not worst-case scenarios. What do you know?

Yesterday did not go as planned, but was she that upset with me that she’d just up and leave? Without saying goodbye? No, that’s not like her. She was always the one who stuck around, no matter what. Who saw me for who I was—a lost boy needing somewhere to belong, a lost man searching for connection and never really finding it—and was never scared away.

She has to be somewhere.

I force my feet to continue on their way to the kitchen, even though they’d rather stay rooted to the floor. The peanut-butter-and-jelly supplies are still on the counter where I left them, and now I don’t even know if she ate anything. I’m the world’s shittiest host. I didn’t plan for any of this.

Coffee. My brain is in a fog, and coffee will at least help me clear it. I fill the tank, grab a pod, and push the button to start the machine. Which is about when I see movement on my balcony out of the corner of my eye.

Lark is sitting outside in one of the giant outdoor armchairs. She’s made herself a little nest with a blanket and some pillows that she must have found in the hall closet. Her short blonde hair is mussed slightly, and her back is to me as she stretches her arms wide, then curls up again, tucking them under the blankets on her lap.

I hadn’t seen her in my panic. I assumed the worst, and my brain on two nights of very little sleep took it from there.

Lark would never just up and leave. I don’t know why I feared she would. My parents would—and have. Used to anyway, when I was young. I woke up alone in my house sometimes with a note to go check in with a neighbor who had a similarly aged kid. They liked to party. Or “network,” as they called it, which may have been true to some extent. Dad was always looking for the next big job that could change our lives. Mom was always looking for something exciting to do. Eventually, they came back, but it was the same thing every time. I’d panic, force myself to pour some cereal and eat it, and go to the neighbors’ house to hang out for the day. The neighbors never seemed to mind. They liked having me around to play with their kids, but I never let myself get too attached. Dad would find a different job soon enough or Mom would want to see somewhere new, and the friendship would be over.

As I got older and was able to be by myself, I’d stay and try to read a book until they came home but would usually end up flipping the pages without registering any of the words. They brought Daisy home with them after one such evening at a party that turned into the whole night and the entire next day. Just came back after an entire day gone with the dog as an apology, or maybe as a makeshift babysitter. It’s hard to say.

Eventually, I had Lark, too. She suggested once that we notify some authority, but she must have seen the dread in my face when I insisted she not tell anyone. Children’s Protective Services could take me away, and once I found her, I couldn’t imagine being anywhere she wasn’t. So I’d call her, and she’d come over with a paper cup in each hand—coffee for me, tea for her—and we’d sit together on my back patio watching Daisy chase rabbits while we waited for my parents to show up.

It only takes a few minutes for my coffee to brew. I set it aside and use the machine to make tea for her. With a mug in each hand, I cross the living room to the sliding door. I set one of the mugs down to open the door, then walk outside. I put her tea on the small table in front of her and cup mine in my hands against the slight chill in the morning air as I take a seat in the other armchair.

“Thanks,” she says, but she doesn’t look at me. Her eyes remain fixed on the sliver of horizon between the buildings.

I hum and sip my coffee. It burns my tongue a little, but I welcome it. It feels better than the numbness I was experiencing inside. “I’d ask if you slept well, but it’s five in the morning, so probably not.”

She shakes her head. “You?”

“Same.”

Her blue eyes slide to me then, glancing down to my bare feet and up to my bed head. She huffs a small laugh. “What’s your excuse?”

“You,” I say without thinking.

Her eyebrows lift in question, but I haven’t had enough coffee to explain that away. I take another sip. She doesn’t push it; she just sighs and turns back to the horizon.

The silence between us is charged but easy. Something’s coming, but it’s not going to wreck us. That’s impossible. But it does stretch for a few moments. I drink about half of my coffee and Lark starts on her tea before she speaks.

“I’m not sure I belong here.” Her voice is small, unsure. It’s unclear whether the heartstring that snaps at that is because of her words or because of the way she says them as if she’s defeated. She sounds like a woman who has tried to talk herself into something one more time than she’s tried to talk herself out of it.

I want to jump out of my seat and get on my knees and beg her to stay. I already thought she left once this morning, and it sent me into a spiral. If she actually left now after I’ve had only one day with her, I’d be inconsolable. But I try to keep my words as measured as possible. “What do you mean?”

She swallows some tea, then fidgets with the tea bag as she speaks. “This isn’t me, Lennon. I don’t make impulsive decisions to fly to LA and sign on to do a job I have absolutely no qualifications for. No matter how much I’ve missed you.” Her gaze meets mine as her voice cracks on the last sentence.

Fuck, I’ve missed her, too. It’s easy to ignore when life gets busy and we talk every day anyway, and I probably should admit that a big part of me was avoiding seeing her to also avoid the necessity of parting again. But having her next to me right now is a million times better than talking on the phone, even if things are fraught between us in a way neither of us seems to be able to explain.

She drops her gaze back to the mug in her hand. “And I don’t want to burden you.”

I set my cup down and take hers from her to do the same. I hold her hands in mine as I lean forward. They’re warm from the mug but also clammy. She’s nervous again. The desire to take away this pain of hers and make it all better is a constant beacon, but there isn’t much I can do.