The Unrequited

by Saffron A. Kent

He hates the book, but he wants it. I think he hates how much he wants it. But why? If he wants it so much, he should just take it.

I wouldn’t even know what to say to him, except, Hi, I’m Layla, and you remind me of a song.

But we want to follow him, my heart whines. Fine. Just this once.

He doesn’t look like a college-going guy…because he is not. This blue-eyed smoker is a professor.

Who is this man? He’s like candy-coated toxin. I’m so caught up in my musings that I almost miss the golden glint of a ring on his hand. For a split second, I’m confused as to what it is. Then I realize it’s a wedding band. The blue-eyed professor is married.

“I told you, I have many talents. Sniffing out crazy is one of them.” I gasp and he chuckles. He called me crazy. I absolutely hate that, but as I watch him leave, it’s not anger that I’m feeling. It’s something else. Something magical.

Me? I’m crouching, because I completely forgot about the homework. Hide. Hide.

Back in New York, I always knew guys liked my face—I take after my mom, after all, the beauty queen of the Upper East Side—but they never liked me. All they saw was my beautiful face, never me. I was invisible to them.

Caleb was the only one who knew the real me, but that wasn’t enough.

He hates me. A small smile blooms on my lips. I love that he hates me. See, hopeless. I’ve never loved hopelessness so much before.

I know I shouldn’t have done that. This is the reason my mom sent me to therapy. I have zero impulse control.

I bet Thomas fell in love with her at first sight. How could he not have? She inspires that kind of devotion. There’s a clench in my chest, as if my heart is shrinking. I wonder what it takes to be loveable. Maybe you have to be less crazy or less selfish or less…ruining.

With reluctance, Thomas jumps into introductions, moving closer to Hadley. “Yes, this is my wife, and that little guy over there is Nicky—Nicholas, our son.” Did he just say son? A son. He has a son. A child. He’s a dad.

This is getting worse by the minute. Let’s hide, my frantic heart squeaks. I’ve been masturbating to thoughts of a man who has a son. A son I can’t stop staring at.

My gaze lands on Hadley. Maybe the sunrays are hitting her wrong, but I swear I see…apprehension on her face as she looks at Nicky. Her soft lips are turned down and dark bags have erupted under her eyes. I don’t understand her reaction. She snaps her gaze away as if she can’t look at Nicky or her husband anymore.

Emma looks down, frowning. “Oh no, I guess he needs his mommy.” I swear I see Hadley flinch. What is going on? Thomas notices it too and breaks into action.

With a sinking heart, I realize Thomas is like me. He is the unrequited lover.

Turns out, Thomas Abrams isn’t a mystery anymore. He’s just a man in love with someone who doesn’t love him back. It demystifies everything about him, and it breaks my heart in a million ways. I pick up his book and read the poem again. I lick his words as if I’m licking his soul, his heart, his wounds.

as though she is my muse. I don’t want a muse. I don’t want Layla Robinson in my thoughts.

It’s probably the first time all night that she’s been aware of me, and like a fucking beggar, I take it. I rejoice in her undivided attention.

She jumps out of the car and I follow her. I’m beginning to think this was a bad idea, but I’m running out of options. I need her to understand.

When I look at him, though, all I see is someone brokenhearted. I see him trying to catch his wife as she slips. I see him following her, like I did with Caleb. I wrote that poem for you.

I’ve got a confession to make: after seeing Thomas with Hadley at the coffee shop, I watched him…in his house…through the window, at night. I know it sounds bad. Borderline criminal. Psychotic. Stalkerish. If Thomas ever knew, he’d kill me. If Kara ever found out, she’d shit her pants. So, I’m never going to tell them. I’ll be taking this one to the grave.

he sets the vase down and walks out, following her. Always following her.

If I’m not careful, I’ll end up blurting it all out. Thomas can never find out what I saw. Never.

I can’t tell him what I did. He’ll hate me. But I like that. I need the accusation. Someone to remind me that I deserve to be shunned by my own mother. Tell me how bad I am, how pathetic and sick and insane.

She knows I love him, but she doesn’t know how many lines I’ve crossed for that love.

Since those missed calls at Crème and Beans, he’s called several times, but I haven’t picked up. I was hoping he’d leave a message or something so I’d know what it’s about, but he hasn’t.

Why does he keep calling me? As impulsive as I am, a strange fear is keeping me from taking his call.

Gasping, my eyes whip open. Thomas Abrams is a fire-breather. He breathes flames and lust, makes me forget everything and say yes. Yes to obsession. Yes to stalking. Yes to insanity. Yes to licking. With shaking hands, I begin to write and capture him in words.

Abruptly, he fists my curls and stops me. I look at him fearfully, ready to apologize—not for the kiss, but for being the kisser. His gaze reflects passion, stark, raving need, and I shiver, despite wearing layers and sweating with his heat. “Are you trying to kiss me, Layla?” he rasps, flexing his fingers on my makeshift ponytail.

“Like this.” Twisting my hair in his grasp, he swallows my lips in his mouth. He sucks on the shape of my sensitive flesh and all I can do is let him.

“Don’t fucking move,” he tells me, emphasizing it with a tug on my hair. “Okay.” I swallow. “I’m sorry.” A pained chuckle. “For what?” “I made you kiss me.” The legendary tic makes its appearance at the heel of my words. It drums on his jaw like a secondary heart, or maybe a time bomb. “You did, didn’t you?”

“Because you what?” “Because I do this kind of thing. I-I’m selfish and bad…” I moan, doused in shame and arousal. “I take what I want because I can’t control myself. I don’t want to.” “And you want me, don’t you?” When I don’t answer, he tugs on my hair sharply. “You want me, Layla.” It’s not a question, but still I nod my head. Yes, I want him.

I’ve wanted him since the first time I saw him. I want him more and more with each passing day. I want him because he’s like me. He’s in unrequited love and I want to save him, somehow.

His eyes shine with satisfaction, a sense of victory at my answer. He loves my desperation and it makes me hornier. We’re so fucke...

“I can do whatever I want with you and you’ll let me. Isn’t that right, Layla?” He licks his lips as if savoring his own words. “I can tell you to jump and you’ll ask how high. I can tell you to strip and you’ll strip as if your clothes are on fire.” “Yes,” I m...

For a second, I can’t make the connection between what he’s telling me and what happened here, but then I get it. He’s absolving me. He’s rendering me blameless for kissing him, for making him kiss me. I wonder if this absolution includes what happened with Caleb. Am I free of those sins too? My heart scoffs. Are you kidding? We tricked him into having sex.

It’s all my fault. It’s just like me to do those things. I want Thomas’ accusation too.

“Stay the fuck away from me,” he says softly, deadly. With that, he marches out of the storage room.

But tonight, the kind of madness that has gripped me is different. It has nothing to do with love, and everything to do with a violet-eyed girl who refuses to leave my thoughts.

The absolute need to possess someone, to be the air they breathe and the universe they live in—I feel both powerful and powerless at once.

My eyes scrunch closed and all I see is her, wrapped around my body, moving, bucking. Like she’d die if she didn’t touch me. Like she’d lose her mind.

It’s the fact that she threw herself at me, knowing I might reject her. Could I be that vital to someone?

It makes me want to hold her close even as I want to push her away. How dare she spy on me? How dare she make judgments about my life? What does she know about it anyway?

I shouldn’t have followed her. I shouldn’t have lost control and kissed her back. I’ve been good at ignoring her all week. But she licked me. In a classroom. In broad daylight....

Hadley is leaving me. For good. She turns and her face is wary but blank, somehow. Her posture is both delicate and firm.

“Guess what, you can’t escape the argument. You can’t fucking escape me.” I know I should control myself. I should. It’s not her fault she wants to get away. It’s me. I’m the one who ruined everything. But dammit! Can’t she see how much I love her? How her leaving would fucking destroy me? And if she loves me, how can she do this to me? She doesn’t love you.

I reach her and before I can talk myself out of it, I grab her bicep. She flinches at my touch and my gut burns with anger and resentment and fear. She can’t leave me. She can’t. I can’t be alone.

She’s leaving me. She’s. Leaving. Me.