"Are you going to say something?" He asked.

"Pardon?"

His back was still to me, but I could tell that he was glaring at me. The air was filling with a tension that seemed to radiate from him, his stare sharp enough to slice it. I wanted to fade away into the sheets around me, to wrap myself up in them like a cocoon so I could come out to something beautiful (namely: me).

"Well, you made it very clear that you were eavesdropping," he reasoned, his tone clipped. "Is there something you wanted to say, or do you just like to watch me squirm?"

I frowned, looking away from him. Even though he wasn't looking at me, I could feel those blue stormy eyes beating down on me, absorbing my every movement like a hawk watching a lone fish glide underneath the waves.

"Claude . . ."

"Bea," he imitated.

"Don't be like that," I said, quietly. I didn't want to beg.

"Like what?"

I ignored his question, because he knew. "I know that this is probably hard for you to talk about. I get it, I really do. This is my job, my profession, to help people who are struggling with issues like yo-"

"I don't need your help," he interrupted me. The worst part was that he no longer sounded angry at me and that was always the worst type of anger. A rage so quiet that it could slink through your veins unnoticed as it slowly poisoned you with its vile venom. With Claude, the silent fury seemed to be embedded in every clipped phrase that escaped his mouth, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, his bones. I wished he would yell at me.

"Claude, I think-"

"No. I don't care what you think, Bea, because at the end of the day, you have no right to talk about me like you know what I want or need," he said. "You don't know me. We are strangers, remember?"

 Strangers.

I sampled the word on my tongue. It tasted like an oyster, like a sharp string of salty sea before descending down my throat at a pace so leisurely I could feel its life passing away as I swallowed it down. And then it was gone. We were both gone.

"I'm sorry," I said, quickly, still not looking at him. I unwrapped myself from my covers, instantly wishing that I could disappear into that cocoon, even if it seemed that everything beautiful cringed away from me. "I was out of line. You're right. I'm sorry."

"Good" was all he said in response. He was still sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to me.

I wanted to move. I wanted to leave. I didn't want to be behind him, staring at the clothed layer of his back. I wanted to be in front of him. I wanted to grab him and make him look at me and shake his shoulders until he stopped looking at me with those icy blue eyes that could freeze me just by blinking. I didn't want to look at him.

"Good," he said, again, after a moment. Claude stood up now, running his hands through his hair. I could only imagined what his face looked like, rigid fury shaped out of the ice block of his face. It only took a moment before he reached the door and was out of the room.

I stared at the door. The long mahogany rectangle with its gentle contours and what appeared as a small ink blot for a doorknob. I wondered if his hands were stained when he opened the door. I wondered what else of Claude was stained.

I blinked a couple times, glancing around me. I didn't know how long I had been gawking. The light in the room seemed to be at the same level, yet I could feel that time had passed through the stiffness of my bones.

I crawled across the bed. I grabbed the phone, which Claude had dropped, and started dialing the ever familiar number.

The dial tone rung a few times. "Hasmioto residence."

I swallowed, trying to remove the giant aquatic ocean slug from my throat. Feebly, I questioned, "Announcing your residency? I would've been fine with a simple how-do-you-do, but I appreciate the pageantry."

"Be-a!" She practically shouted. The last syllable of my name fell away to a roar of air, some clattering, and eventually Aiko's rapid hyperventilation filled the phone.

"I'm guessing that either a massive earthquake just shook your house," I guessed, unable to suppress a smirk. I felt air filling my lungs properly once more. "Or you dropped the phone."

She growled, "I'm going to kill you."

"But could you really kill this darling face of mine?" I retorted.

"What happened to calling me as soon as you landed?" She demanded, ignoring my comment. "Paul and I have been worried sick."

"Yeah, about that . . . I'm sort of driving to New York," I informed her, trying to sound as casual as possible.

"You're driving?" Her tone softened. "That- of course. It makes sense. You were pushing yourself too hard, Bea. You don't need to fly any time soon, never really, if you don't wan-"

"No, no, it's not that," I assured her, quickly wanting to end that line of conversation. "My flight was cancelled."

"Cancelled?" Her disbelieving tone was making my skin crawl. "Why?"

"Well, in case you didn't notice, Aiko, there's a massive snow storm in New England," I responded, dryly, but even I could hear the hard edge detectable in the undertones of my voice.

"Thanks for forecast," she replied, sarcastically, but still light-hearted. "I know it's snowing, Bea, but I didn't know your flight was cancelled. Paul checked online and it didn't say anything about any cancelled flights."

"But we're talking about Paul," I reasoned.

Her tone became defensive. "What does that mean?"

"Aiko, do you remember Christmas like, five years ago, when you gave him one job, the simplest task, of making Christmas turkey while you did last minute Christmas shopping? Because I sure do." I smirked, remembering the story. "And do you remember what you came home to find?"

"Okay, okay, maybe my husband decided that he could write the next hit Christmas carol-"

"Which is crazy. Mariah Carey has the monopoly," I reprimanded.

"-But you have to admit that You Make My Bells Jingle was actually pretty catchy," Aiko insisted, a hint of pride gushing through the phone.

"If I say that, Paul will never let me live it down."

"That is . . . true," she confirmed with a sigh.

"Anyways, returning to the original topic at hand, I am driving. But snow is a thing and it's blocking my rental car and I can't drive and also I have a cold so I don't want to drive and . . . well, I'm in a motel," I told her, summarizing the last day.

"Aww, that's too bad," she murmured. "Do you think you can still make it for Christmas dinner?"

"I think so. I'm going to try driving tomorrow," I informed. "Well, that is if I can somehow get away from Stupid McDumb Face."

Just the thought of Claude (let alone driving with him for who knows how long) made me want to dissolve into the very air. The warm glow that had filled me since Aiko had dropped the phone can diminished, fading away to the place where I thought Claude and I could be friends.

"Wait, please don't tell me you have Julian with you," Aiko begged.

"Julian?" I repeated, my mouth dry. "Why do you think Julian would be with me?"

"You referred to Stupid McDumb Face," she reasoned. "Please don't tell me you're bringing him. You know how Paul and I feel about him an-"

"Relax, Aiko, I'm not with Julian," I reassured her, swallowing. "He isn't my boyfriend, remember? We just have casual, no strings attached sex on a regular basis."

"Oh, because that's supposed to make me feel so much better," she muttered.

"What? We're protected."

"Well, of course you are. Can you imagine what it would be like having that Neanderthal's kid?" Aiko mused. "He's also probably crawling with more diseases than I can name-"

"You just don't like him because he insulted Paul's music," I argued.

"Well, yeah," she agreed. "Who just calls their girlfriend's father a washed out David Bowie impersonator?"

Her words didn't just my ears. They fled between the flaps of my earlobes and flooded my brain, over-riding any command of my heart to beat or my lungs to fill with air. Those words embedded themselves into my veins and flowed through my entire body until they had taken over me.

I blinked.

"I wouldn't know, considering I'm not Julian's girlfriend and Paul isn't my father," I responded, quietly, after a moment.

"I . . . I'm sorry," she quickly apologized. "That was insensitive of me."

I bit my lip. I was curled up on the bed now, the phone lying on the pillow beneath my head. "It's okay. I . . . I shouldn't have snapped at you. Not over Julian. And you and Paul have practically been my parents over the last few years, anyways."

"You don't need to apologize," she reassured me. "Although, I still don't like Julian an- I'm sorry, Bea, I know you don't want to talk about it, but . . . How are you? Are you feeling okay?"

I gulped. Her question was heavy, and I could see the rising feelings rushing towards me like a tsunami wave on the horizon- one that was so large and coming so fast that there's no way I could escape it. "I'm fine."

"I know you're not," she murmured, gently.

"And how can you know that?" My question was combative, yet my words weren't sharp.

"Because you're never okay in December," she answered. "And you don't have to pretend you are, Bea. It's okay. I understand."

I blinked, but the world was already submerged in the ocean. The tsunami had arrived and the world was flooded. "No, you don't. You never will."

"Bea-"

"Wh-why does it ha-have to be Dec-December an-any-anyways?" I asked. Oh no. Now I was doing that weird gulping of air while I tried to speak, as if I had the hiccups and was simultaneously drowning. "I-I mean . . . Se-Sep- September makes more sen-sense, right?"

"I don't know. These sorts of things never make sense," she said, softly.

"I tho-thought pys-pyscho-psychology would help me und-underst-st-stand why it hurts so mu-much," I told her.

"And did it?"

"No." I curled the blanket my tighter around my face. "It was ju-just fuc-fucking words, you know? Jus-just some stup-stupid science and stud-studies and numbers. The sor-sort of thing I use to do my job. B-but when I th-think that may-mybe I need help, I re-realize that I d-don't wan-want to be an-another fu-fucking num-number. I do-don't want to b-be par-part of their stup-stupid sta-statis-statistics. And . . . they are not just another stu-study."

"Of course not, Bea," she soothed.

"I wi-wish you were he-here," I sobbed.

"I am," she insisted.

But she wasn't.

And I cried.

*

Hey Reader!

Sorry for the lack of update in the last few days. This chapter was just a hard one to write and I had several ideas about its direction before eventually settling on this. What do you guys think about Aiko (and Paul)? I'd love to hear some thoughts, as it seems that there are at least some silent readers out there.

Thanks for reading and I'll try to have another update out soon for you lovely readers.

Love,

Your Favorite Liar <3