Read The Girl in My Dreams Online
Authors: Logan Byrne
The Girl in My Dreams
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2016
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Chapter One
Have you ever known somebody who completely changed the course of your life? I have. Her name is Annabelle Hawthorne, and she’s my muse.
When you grow up next door to someone your own age, especially if that person is of the opposite sex, things are just assumed about the two of you. I remember when Annabelle and I were younger, maybe seven or eight, and we were nothing short of inseparable. My mom would whisper to her mother that we were so cute together and one day we’d get married. I wasn’t even into girls yet, but for some reason, I was into her.
Things got in the way, though, and our time together grew less and less frequent as the years wore on. First she wanted to hang out with more friends—different friends, and ones who didn’t always want me around. She’d fight for me, saying she wanted me to come along, but eventually that ended. A few more years passed and she started doing activities like gymnastics and cheerleading, while I shoved my nose a little bit further into my books and escaped into worlds that seemed to welcome me with open arms. We finally got to the point where we’d nod at each other and say hi when we were both outside our houses, but I knew she only did it to be polite. She didn’t dislike me—at least I didn’t think so—but we were living in two different worlds. If men are from Mars and women are from Venus, she was from Venus and I was from Gliese 581 d.
•••
“Theodore, are you ready to go?” my mother asked from the base of the stairs.
Up in my room, I grabbed my Velcro wallet with the duct tape–covered rip and my three-year-old iPhone before walking down the stairs to my waiting mother.
“I don’t know why I need to go to this stupid thing. It’s not going to help,” I said with typical teenage angst that seemed a bit much, even for me.
“You’re going so that you can work through your emotions. Therapy isn’t a bad thing, you know,” my mother said.
“You and Dad are the ones getting divorced, not me. Maybe you two should think about going instead,” I said as I walked toward the front door.
“Hey,” she said, grabbing my shoulder and looking at me sternly. “I’m trying to do what’s best for you, Theo. I know you don’t want to go. But I didn’t choose for all of this to happen, remember? We have to make do with the best that we have.”
After she let go of my shoulder, I walked out to the car. I could feel the tension in my chest. Why wasn’t my father required to go to therapy? Oh, that’s right, it was because he left us for another woman and they were living it up in Punta Cana or some other place I’d never heard of. I guess I’d just have to do what I’d done every other session and say the absolute minimum necessary to fill the time and get out of there. I had a feeling my therapist was going to say that I’d made “remarkable progress” and that I was just fine.
After we got into the car, I strapped in and looked over at Annabelle’s house to see Trent, her star football player boyfriend, pulling into the driveway. I tried not to look as my mom backed out onto the street, but the two of us unfortunately had to drive in that direction, and it was like staring into the sun. You know you shouldn’t do it and that it can damage your eyes, but sometimes curiosity gets the better of you and you take a quick glance. This time, I shouldn’t have stared into the sun.
I saw her coming out of the house, a smile on her face, as her stray strands of mahogany-colored hair flowed in the crisp autumn breeze. She was something of an enigma to me, and as we drove past her house, my eyes fixed on her, she glanced at me, at us, and I felt the panic inside me. Her gaze held for just a moment, a single blip in the timeline of the universe, but to me it might as well have lasted as long as the evolution of our species. The sad part was that I’d evolved this far only to wish I could devolve back into a swamp thing as her eyes caught mine.
As she looked at me, her smile went away, though I wouldn’t call her expression unhappy. Trent, with his manicured eyebrows and forty-dollar spray tan, looked over, my mother not driving quite fast enough, and I saw him snicker and roll his eyes. Yeah, that was just about how things went these days.
I sunk a little into my seat as my mother, oblivious to my social mockery, turned on her favorite radio channel, easy listening, and tapped her fingers on the wheel as we pulled out into traffic and began our ten-minute ride to Dr. Grier’s office for my session.
As we walked into her office, I smelled the distinct scent of Ivy League greatness that seemed to emanate from her dark wood floors and cigar club–quality leather chairs. The receptionist checked us in and told us with a soft voice that the doctor would see us soon. It wasn’t that I had anything against Dr. Grier or therapists in general; I just didn’t think I needed to be here. I didn’t even have a choice in the matter. If anything, I was just collateral damage of adultery and a loveless marriage.
“Good evening, Theodore. Are you ready to come on back?” asked Dr. Grier, who was wearing a pinstriped gray pantsuit.
I left my mom to flip through
Reader’s Digest
as Dr. Grier led me back to her dimly lit office. I sat down on the patent leather couch that never agreed with the fabric of my pants, my body sliding a little, before I caught myself and wrapped my arm around the outside of the armrest.
“How have you been feeling since our last visit?” Dr. Grier asked.
“Oh, can’t complain about anything,” I said with a smile.
“Are you sure about that, Theodore? Many times when we’re dealing with difficulties in life, we tend to create fantasies in our minds about things being happy and fine, and we try to live in those fantasies even though they aren’t real,” she said.
“Oh, wow, that sounds crazy. I’m doing well, though,” I said with a half smile that any seasoned interrogator would see through.
“Mm-hmm,” she said, as she jotted something in her notebook. “How did school go this past week? I see that we talked about you applying for colleges soon. Have any picked out?”
“I haven’t been keeping up with that,” I said.
“How come?” she asked.
“I’m not sure it’s for me,” I replied.
“College?” she asked.
“Yeah. I’m not sure it’s for me, you know? I have no clue what I want to do with my life, and I don’t really want to spend the money trying to figure it out,” I said.
“If you aren’t going to college, what will you do with your time? How will you live?” she asked, as if the only way to live was through conventional means.
“Just like I have all this time up until this point, I suppose. I don’t see much changing.”
There was a certain sense of taboo whenever you talked about college and the desire to not go. I wouldn’t say I
never
wanted to go, but what’s the point if you have no direction? When I was a kid I wanted to be a paleontologist, but that wasn’t in the cards any longer. I really didn’t want to sit out in the sun all day, every day, brushing the dirt, and my grades weren’t exactly up to par anyway.
I focused on a bad patch job on the wall that was covered by a shade of green reminiscent of pea soup that had been left out for a few days. Still, it was almost better to just look at that than to pretend I cared about being here.
Dr. Grier spoke with my mother after the session as usual, and I only wondered what they could be talking about.
“He doesn’t seem interested in much of anything these days,” my mother would say.
“Do you know that he wants to skip college altogether and work flipping burgers for the rest of his life?” Dr. Grier would add.
My mother would gasp, bringing her hand over her mouth like she did whenever something she didn’t agree with popped up. She’d keep her distance for a couple of days, making sure not to bring it up, but the overbearing weight of the news would make her mind crumble around her and she’d just have to bring it up at the worst time, and I’d have to defend myself and try to calm her down—even if that meant lying to her. We had a rapport going.
“Ready?” my mother asked as she came out, forgoing any further discussion.
Without saying anything I got up out of the chair and followed her out to the car. The crisp autumn air tickled my senses and made me stick my hands in my jacket pockets.
When we got in the car, she turned on the heater, and then we drove home in silence. I guess it was going to be one of those kinds of nights.
•••
I ate dinner later that night in my room as I worked on an international business project that was due later in the week. My phone buzzed—my best friend, Martin, asking me what I was up to. Martin was one of the only people in this world I knew I could always count on. His skin was dark, him even likening it to a creamy milk chocolate bar once, who wore sweater vests to school and played with Pokémon cards in weekend tournaments all over the state. He might be weird, but I was stuck with him.
Just working on this project. It never ends,
I replied, adding a sad-face emoji to the end.
I picked up a black marker to write the name of the country I’d been assigned on the top of my project. It was Sweden, and I was supposed to think of a product or service that would benefit the people, as well as how I’d sell it, for how much, and why I chose that item. The problem wasn’t with the project, but with the country I was assigned. I didn’t know anything about Sweden. I liked their candy fish, but what else was there?
My hand, which rested on the poster board as I wrote out my letters, rubbed against the black ink and caused a small smudge. I tried to get out with a dab of spit on my right index finger. What a mistake. If anything, I just made it worse, and now it turned a stony shade of gray that was noticeable even across the room.
My phone buzzed. Martin wanted to let me know he was reading a most fascinating book on Napoléon Bonaparte and his rise to power. I ignored his message, focusing on the problem at hand. I remembered that I had a bottle of white-out in my cabinet. It would still be a bit noticeable, but nothing like this.
My cabinet—which held my most prized possessions, right next to the junk I stuffed in there to make my mom think my room was clean—sat next to my window. As I went to get the white-out, I couldn’t help looking outside and seeing the withering piece of string that connected my bedroom and Annabelle’s. We used it as kids to communicate with each other at night. A tiny basket used to sit on the string before a storm flipped it off about six years ago.
After I found the white-out and closed the cabinet door, I looked out the window again. Annabelle was there, sitting on the end of her bed consumed by the glow of her iPhone.
Turn away, Theo, turn away. Go back to your desk, work on your project, and go on with your life. You only look like a creep, and you’re definitely not helping your reputation if she catches you.
Still, though, I couldn’t help but peek, a quick peek, and I saw her put her hand to her mouth and begin to cry.