Take Umbrage

I called him.

I actually called.

I didn't send him a text message, didn't leave a message on his answering machine.

I called.

When he picked up, I could tell the smirk was present on this face even though his tone didn't really give it away. He seemed pleased, not happy, to hear from me. The sarcastic remark thrown my way at me contacting him – not the other way around – was laced with content, satisfaction. Like we had an ongoing bet that I didn't know about.

Like the phone call in itself wasn't hard enough to go through, he didn't even try to help me with what he knew was coming next. An invitation. My small hints muttered into the cellphone didn't phase him at all, there was no trace of an understanding between us other than him eliciting forth a solid inquiry from me.

And he got it.

The tame "You wouldn't want to come over to hang out or something on Tuesday, would you?" wasn't good enough for him. His vague reply forced me to take another try at asking him to come.

"Uhm, Paula's making dinner, and I thought that you might want to come?"

Nope. Still not good enough for that tease of a boy.

"Okey! I'm asking you to come over on Tuesday, 'cause Paula asked us to bring someone and I don't have anyone else to ask!"

Rushed, heated, and honest to the bone.

He's not offended. He's not shocked. The silence on the other end of the line is at
first frightening, then confusing, then annoying. 'Cause I can hear a low chuckle far inside the telephone line, reaching far inside my own mind. He's won, he turned out victorious in this hidden battle between our mental selves.

But I don't feel like a loser.

I've put more hair products in my hair tonight than I ever have before.

Not that I had any say in it.

When I told Paula I had invited a friend over, she immediately read it as a 'friend', not as the acquaintance he really is. When she wanted me to go shopping with her, I could see the joy written in her eyes, her cheerful attitude one I didn't have the heart nor power to break. When I saw the clothes and products she wanted me to buy, it took all self-control to not cringe in disgust, feeling shameful for not being appreciative enough.

She didn't bring Spencer with her. It was only me and Paula, no biological Carlin kid in sight. I was content with not having Glen by my side, his judging eyes following my every footstep, my every move. Spencer, on the other hand, is someone I wished was present. Not because her presence no longer frightens me, not because I want to spent time with her. It's because I felt like I'd taken her place, that I was overtaking a role that was supposed to be Spencer's, a mother-daughter relationship that was never supposed to have me in it.

She was happy though, Paula, as she sauntered through one shop and into another. Money didn't seem to be an issue as she gladly handed them over, barely taking any look at the price tags. "Nothing was too expensive for her girl's 'big night'."

A sentence I will forever remember.

And this is what got me into the situation I'm currently wallowing in. My hair sticky of god-knows-what, clothes a finer shade of what I'm used to, I'm thinking up ways to tell them that this is not a date. That this is not more than what it looks like.

But it is.

It's so much more than what it looks like.

Not only will I bring a handsome guy to the table, making my foster parents proud
of me. It will also show them that I'm not affected by them anymore. That I no longer depend on their lives to make one of my own. It will hopefully cause Glen to stop pining over me, effectively bringing him back, bringing back my brother.

But the biggest anticipation is the effect it will have on the Carlin not yet mentioned. I don't know what I'm expecting from her, there's no real hope for anything to come from her. But hopefully it will provoke some kinda reaction.

I'm just not sure which.

Or if it will be of good kind.

Swinging myself down the stairs, I see Glen opening the door in a bored manner, his demeanor one of confusion, annoyance.

"Who are you?"

I can see the smug smirk on Aiden's face as he's about to answer, my feet going faster than before, desperately hoping to calm the situation bound to happen
before me.

"He's a friend of mine, I invited him over for dinner. I mean, Paula asked me to."

"You invited this guy over for dinner...?"

His voice isn't harsh, it isn't mocking.

It's just unbelievably sad.

"Uh, yeah... didn't she ask us all? I mean-.."

"She did, I just didn't-... I didn't know you had actually done it, invited anyone I mean."

My eyes are drawn back to the boy on the doorsteps, his eyebrows raising in
disbelief, undoubtedly telling me what a ridiculous situation I've gotten him in.

I choose to break it.

"Well, I did. Uhm, Aiden, maybe you would want to come in?"

"Would I?"

"Yes", is all I answer before I press my hand onto his wrist, pulling him in for fear of the situation becoming even more awkward than it already is. A slow dribble of regret fills the inside of my bones as I feel Glen's eyes on my back, his head already hanging low when I turned around and started my long walk into the living room.

The grip on Aiden's wrist didn't last long. Mere seconds after it was initiated was all it took for me to drop it like a can of worms. Like the can of worms Aiden opens with his brutal line.

"I sense some drama tonight, how vicious of you to invite me over to make that love-sick puppy jealous."

He smashes it into my face, giving me no chance to prepare as my head looks frantically back towards the hallway, terrified that Glen could've heard, could've been let in on my knowledge. A knowledge he already inhabits, made perfectly clear by the way he's avoiding me, leaving me be.

Still, there's a bit of error in Aiden's sentence, Glen is not the one I'm aiming for, he's not the one I want.

"I don't know what you mean", leaves my lips faster than it should have, giving Aiden a reason to torment me further, probing me on.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"It's not like that, it's-...can we please just-..."

His grin slowly falters, eyes turning softer in a silent show of understanding, knowing that however much he loves to tease me, probe me on, this is not the time.

There's never been a worse time.

It's all wrong. Everything I hoped for is put in reversal, a knife stabbing at my insides, twisting in sadism.

Scenes of Spencer walking down the stairs, head turning up to meet the lecherous face of Aiden, smile gracing her features instead of the frowned I hoped for.

Hands grasping one another, fingers drawing letters of attraction in the insides of each other's palm. Innocent 'hi's being said when their inside voices whispered words of seduction laced into the fabric of their pronunciation.

Chairs being placed closer than they need to, laughter mingling inside one another, creating a tune I'm not supposed to hear. Their bodies shifted toward one another, open and inviting only to the other.

Banter of phantom familiarity builds a cocoon of comfort between them, a comfort I'm not privy to. Eyes drawing maps of recognition on the other's face, lessons being taught for the other to learn them, remember them.

I haven't let my eyes leave them since I first saw them interact, Spencer and Aiden in their obvious flirtation. There's no need to turn away, to hide the open glares of discomfort overtaking every feature of my soul. No eyes have been cast my way, no words of inclusion bringing me into their nest.

To an outside person, one outside this secret world of mold they're choking me in, it's an easy dinner, one of laughter, one of smiles.

But I'm not smiling.

I'm overlooked, I'm not there. I don't see any reason to join them in their
happiness, because I'm not feeling it. I'm not one of them, never feeling more like someone apart from them.

The chair to my right is turned away from me, the owner of it unaware of my existence. When the only thing I wanted was for her to finally see me.

Random fingers are keeping my head from rolling off my body, tired bones barely keeping the elbows from falling off of my knees.

They're still inside, still playing a game of monopoly I didn't even try to participate in. They should have seen my discomfort, they should have detected my mood but none of them did. None of them even looked at me.

I never thought I would ever feel this way again, this longing for previous times, previous homes, but right now I can't help it.

Because this house hurts me more than any of the others ever did.

Now and then I can hear their roars from inside, the happy times I'm still not included in, the bonds of a family that I still haven't touched.

That I'm still not even close to touch.

I'm blaming them for not including me enough, for not making it dysfunctional
enough, for being too perfect. They live a life I've never been privy to, one I can't handle, one I can't understand.
I blame Aiden for stealing away what I want, what I need. My dear old friend 'hope' that he ripped from me and threw away like it meant nothing to him, while it meant everything to me.

The shadows of the tree begs me to let them dance across my features, but I'm
not letting them, I'm not in any shape to make them smile.

To make anyone smile.

That's why I've taken residence of this place in the garden, hidden behind leaves and broaches, faking a need to not be seen.

Because all I want to is to be seen.

I can't see the door opening, as my head is battling with those brave fingers not letting me fall into a heap. But I can hear it squeak itself open, a person's hand grazing the outside doorhandle, still not out in full view. I can imagine the gestures, the disappointment of having to leave the other's intimacy, I don't need to see it to know it's there.
The laughter fills the evening air, soft voices whispering words of reunion in a different time, in a different setting. Then they die down, only footsteps breaking this deafening agony they're putting me in.

I don't want this anymore. I don't want Aiden to give me back my hope, I don't
want him to beg and grovel for my forgiveness.

I just want these feelings to go away. Because they will never be requited, they will never serve a purpose other than what they're doing right now.

Choking me.

So when I hear footsteps coming my way, I'm not happy, I'm not relieved that someone finally noticed me.

Because it's too late.

Not even the body sliding down next to me – projecting a warmth that spreads through me – can make this better, can make me feel at place.

Not even the hand that shakily lays itself down on my thigh is soothing the turmoil in my head.

I'm rejecting her like a body rejecting an organ it needs, I'm not letting her see me, I'm not letting the shadows dance from her face and upon mine. We are nothing alike, therefore we're not allowed to share the same light.

"I know you didn't do anything."

And suddenly the organ fits, suddenly my body grants its presence, curiosity filling the veins it's attached to.

"I know you only tried to help."

There's something familiar with her words, with their meaning but I can't seem to place them, I can't seem to find the puzzle in which the piece is a part of. Therefore, I dare myself to look at her, I dare myself to be drawn into those eyes I'll never get.

Her eyes doesn't find mine instantly, instead traveling a path from my cheeks and upwards, finally resting on mine with a sympathetic look. Those fingers of mine no longer holding any essential purpose find their way up to touch the trail she left with her eyes, fingers feeling the moisture of tears in their path.

I'm openly crying, and I'm letting her see.

"You know, all those months ago."

She can see the confusion in the wrinkle of my forehead, in the arch of my eyebrow. When she sees my lips quiver, looking for words to express what she's already read from my face, she stops me, halts me with a squeeze on my thigh.

"Just, don't-.."

Two words hanging loosely in the air, a sentence begging for continuation, for a
longer life than what she's giving it.

There's no more words coming from her though.

Not even from her eyes when she turns away from me, looking out on the garden
instead of the river on my cheeks.

No more words are spoken, my lips not being able to form all those questions they're begging me to release. It's uncomfortably quiet, the leaves rustling in the background doing nothing to slow down my quickening pulse.

We're so quiet.

So quiet that I barely notice that her hand is no longer on my thigh, but never so quiet that I don't notice the hand slipping into my own, emitting a warmth that will probably never leave me.

"I don't understand you."