Nearest Thing

Adam’s room always looks better after we’ve ruined it. The comforter, still warm from us, is half on the floor, the other half draped across my calves. His fitted sheet has somehow come loose again, despite the fact we had just put fresh sheets on when I got here this morning. My panties are on the dresser across the room. I have no idea how they got there. It’s not my job to question it either, not when he makes me feel so deliciously unburdened.

From somewhere beyond the bedroom, the soft thud of a cabinet closing. “You want water?” Adam calls, his voice carrying a lazy drawl.

“Yes, please.”

A beat.

“Was that a real yes? Or the thing you do where you say yes, then leave it on the nightstand until morning?” I can hear the smile in his voice.

I smile as I bury my face in his pillow, inhaling the faint scent of his cologne and something uniquely *him* – a mix of clean laundry and warm skin. “Mind your business.”

“Well, that answers that.” His voice carries through the apartment with the warmth of his soft laugh.

It’s only been eight months, yet somehow he notices everything. The way my pupils dilate when I’m lost in thought, the almost imperceptible tremor in my hand when I’m stressed… he catalogues it all with a gentle curiosity that’s both comforting and unsettling.

Instead, I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling with the stupid, boneless contentment that comes after Adam has thoroughly dismantled every coherent thought of mine.

My skin is still warm. My thighs ache pleasantly. There’s a mark blooming faintly along the inside of one wrist where his fingers held me down. Never harder than I wanted, but enough that looking at it sends another lazy curl of heat through my stomach. He knows exactly how far to take me and that may be my favorite thing about him. Not the dominance itself, but the confidence. The patience.

Adam never seems rushed when it comes to me. Whether it’s the ridiculously long showers I take before dates, the two long months it took before we finally were intimate or the hours he’s spent learning every dip and curve of my body… this man is nothing if not patient. And when my brain refuses to shut the fuck up, which is often, he somehow knows how to pull me out of it.

A hand around my throat.

His mouth against my ear.

“Look at me.”

“Stay with me.”

“Let me.”

“Don’t think. Just feel.”

And for once, I do. I’m not thinking about Monday. Or work. Or the pile of laundry on the chair in my apartment that only ever seems to grow. Or the vague suspicion I sometimes have that I have spent my entire adult life performing the expected instead of actually living my life. With Adam, there are no expectations. I can just… be.

The air conditioner kicks on, pulling me from my thoughts. I shiver and kick my legs free of the blankets. “I’m stealing a shirt,” I call to him. I hear a faint “Mmhm,” from the kitchen, confirming he’s likely found something to snack on without me. I shake my head and laugh softly to myself as I force myself out of the comfortable bed that tries to hold me hostage. I pluck my panties off the dresser across the room and shimmy them on. Glancing around the room, I’m unable to find my shirt, so I make my way to his closet.

The closet door sticks slightly when I slide it open. Despite me telling him at least three times to fix the damn track, it still needs to be wiggled to get it started. For a man who can seemingly repair anything else, this one fucking door has apparently defeated him.

I begin sifting through the various T-shirts he has hung in the closet, looking for one that looks well-worn and comfortable. I tug one of the shirts free and the hanger catches against the shelf above it. Something scrapes overhead, then tips forward. Thankfully, I catch it before it hits the floor, muttering expletives under my breath. It’s a small, wooden box that weighs far more than I’d expect by looking at it. I turn it in my hands, admiring the dark wood and brass hinges for a moment.

It’s not my place to explore his things, so I shrug to myself and reach above my head to place it back on the shelf. As I angle it onto the shelf, I hear something shift inside it and a little laminated card slips through the gap beneath the lid. It lands near my bare feet and I stare at it for a moment before picking it up.

A boy looks back at me. He can’t be any older than sixteen and his face is far too thin. He doesn’t smile. His dark hair is long, but I know that face. His jaw is narrower, his cheeks haven’t filled out yet and there’s something different about his eyes… but I know this face. It’s Adam. My lips curve into a smile before I can stop them as I look at the younger version of the man I feel myself falling for.

Is it an old school ID? Adam is usually pretty quiet about his childhood and I’ve never felt the need to push him, but it would still be nice to know more about the man. I turn the card over, hoping it’ll give me some more information. There’s a faded logo at the top.

CEDAR RIDGE YOUTH DEVELOPMENT PROGRAM

I frown, flipping it back over to the picture of young Adam. That’s when I notice it, just below his blank expression.

ELLIOT PARRISH

I read it twice. A third time. My smile disappears slowly as I flip the card over again and again, as though Adam’s name might magically appear on the other side if I give it another chance. Below his name is a date of birth. My stomach twists and my hands feel clammy. The birthday listed isn’t his, not the one I know at least.

I stare at the photo. Same eyes. Same small scar through his left eyebrow that I’ve kissed before. Once, maybe three months into dating, I asked where it came from. He’d told me it was farm equipment, that he was a stupid teenager. He smiled when he said it and I teased him about being a reckless farm boy.

I take a deep breath to steady myself. There has to be a reasonable explanation. People change their names. Use middle names… Maybe Elliot is… what? His real first name? His middle name? A fake ID from when he was a kid? I can feel my heart beginning to race again and take another breath before opening the box to put the card back.

I should put the card back. Put the box back up on the shelf. Adam has never gone through my things, not once. And I’ve never been the kind of girlfriend who digs through drawers looking for proof that a man is secretly doing something terrible. I trust him.

The thought comes automatically.

I trust him.

Except… the card in my hand says Elliot.

I lift the lid. Inside, there are photographs, loose papers, a folded envelope that’s slightly yellowed, a cheap braided bracelet and newspaper clippings. I reach for the first one. The paper is fragile and I’m careful as I unfold it.

It’s him.

The headline above the picture of younger Adam — Elliot? — punches me in the gut.

LOCAL TEEN MISSING FROM RESIDENTIAL TREATMENT PROGRAM

It feels like the air has been sucked from my lungs. I look to the text under his photo and feel tears stinging my eyes.

ELLIOT PARRISH, SEVENTEEN —

I don’t bother to read the rest. I toss it back in the box and grab another.

STAFF MEMBER DEAD, TWO YOUTHS MISSING AFTER INCIDENT AT CEDAR RIDGE

Another.

AUTHORITIES CONTINUE SEARCH FOR MISSING TEENS

This one is accompanied by a grainy photo of a log building surrounded by trees and police tape. Words jump out at me as I skim the page.

abuse allegations

runaway

death

investigation

My pulse pounds in my ears. The ground feels unsteady beneath my feet as I stare at the room around me. Nothing has physically changed here, but nothing is the same anymore. For the first time, the room doesn’t feel safe. Yet, I still try to rationalize it. There has to be an explanation. There has to -

“Brenna?”

I jump, the newspaper in my hand crackles as my grip tightens around it.

Adam stands in the bedroom doorway. His gray sweatpants hang low, accentuating the familiar V of his hips. My eyes trail up his shirtless body and for half a second, he looks completely normal. Then he sees what I’m holding.

The softness, the lazy amusement that always graces his features when he is with me disappears in an instant. His hand drops slightly, the glass of water in his hand threatening to spill. His face is almost entirely unreadable, but all I do know is that he has never looked at me like this before.

We stare at each other for an eternity. The air conditioner continues to hum in the background. I can hear my own heartbeat. It’s so quiet, I can even hear the water in the glass as his grip tightens.

I hold up the ID. “Who’s Elliot?” I curse myself for how weak the tremble in my voice sounds. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink. He just continues to stare at me and the absence of an answer just fuels my fear. “Adam?”

His throat bobs as he swallows. “Brenna…”

The tone, the way he says my name… it reminds me of the way you speak to something wounded. How you call to an animal so they don’t flee. I shake my head softly, slowly stepping back.

Adam moves slowly, as though he may spook me. Carefully, he reaches out to set the glass on his dresser. His hands cautiously extend toward me. “Just… let me -”

“Who’s Elliot?” I startle myself with how loud I yell at him.

“I can explain, just give me a minute. Please.” Finally, I can read some of his expressions. He’s so scared. But so am I.

I grab the newspaper clipping with his face on it and shove it at him, “Is that you?” He stands there, seemingly stunned. “Is. That. You?”

“Yes.” It’s barely a whisper, yet the room narrows and spins around me.

“You told me your name was Adam.”

“I know.” His eyes cast downward in shame.

“You know?” it comes out sharp. The laugh that escapes my lips comes out nearly hysterical. “You know?” I repeat, louder this time.

“Brenna, please… I can explain all of it.”

My stomach drops. “All of what?”

His eyes flick toward the box. The newspaper clippings. Then back to me. There’s an all of it.

“How much?” I ask.

“What?” His head tilts slightly in confusion.

“How much of it is bullshit?” Venom drips from my voice.

“Brenna, pl-”

“Your name?” I bite. He flinches.

“Your birthday?” Silence.

“Your parents?”

He sighs, “It’s complicated.”

“Oh my god!” It’s all too much. I need to get out of here. I don’t even know who the man standing across from me is anymore.

I toss the ID and clippings back in the box and blindly grab a t-shirt, yanking it over my head. Before I can even fully pull it down over me, Adam crosses the room and is inches from me.

“Brenna, please. You can’t go.” His eyes are pleading.

I laugh that same venomous laugh, “I can’t?” I turn to grab my pants from the floor and snag my phone off the nightstand. As I straighten, I try to weave around him, but he steps in my way. I collide with his firm body, every muscle in mine tensing in fear.

“Adam… Don’t do this. Move.” I try to keep my voice stern and strong, but I’m truly terrified. He doesn’t budge. He doesn’t even move to try to grab me, he just stands in my way so I can’t go. I step to the side and try to get around him again, but he follows. I can feel panic creeping in as we move back and forth, each attempt I make to pass mirrored by another step from him.

“Adam! Let me go!” We are nearing the door, his body a solid wall against mine. I stare at his face, searching for any flicker of the man I thought I knew in the depths of his eyes — but there’s only a chilling blankness. His eyes find mine and maybe it’s the fear on my own face that makes him pause, but it gives me a moment to push past him.

I don’t allow myself to run as I head to the kitchen for my keys and purse. I refuse to let him see any more of my fear. I slip my feet into my shoes, the back tucking under my heel, but I don’t care. I just want to get out of here. I pull my phone from my pocket and start to dial my friend when he grabs my wrist. I jump back. “Jesus… I’m sorry. I won’t hurt you, Brenna. I just want to talk to you.” He reaches for me again.

I dodge him. “I don’t know that!”

His face crumples. I know it hurts, but it’s the truth. “That’s not fair,” he mutters.

“Fair? You lied to me for eight months! I find a fucking missing-person article with your face on it and you wanna talk to me about fair?” My anger continues to boil over and I’m terrified of how I’ll lash out if I don’t get out of here soon. I’m scared of what he’ll do to me now that I know… what? His secret?

“I know.” His voice is still soft. Still filled with shame.

“Someone died, Adam.” I desperately want him to tell me I’m wrong. That the articles are wrong.

Instead, he shakes his head. “Elliot.” His jaw tightens and he closes his eyes. It’s like he wishes he could drag the word back.

I stare at him. “What?”

He opens his eyes again and there’s something raw in his expression now. “My name. My name is Elliot.”

It shouldn’t matter, but hearing him say it out loud, hearing him admit it… kills something inside me. Adam doesn’t exist, not really. The man I have known for the last eight months isn’t even real. Eight months of saying his name, whispering it against his mouth, crying it into his pillow, typing it into my phone… and it wasn’t even real?

I shake my head as I turn towards the front door. He calls for me again, but I ignore him. I yank the door open and his palm hits the door just above my shoulder, slamming it shut before I can get through. I scream involuntarily. Elliot jerks away from the door like he’s been burned. “Fuck. No. Brenna, I’m sorry!”

I shove the door open again, but his hand catches my arm before I can get through. “Just wait!”

“Let go of me!” I scream, trying to pull my arm free.

“Please, just stop. Brenna, please. Give me two fucking minutes.”

“Get off!” I wrench backward and his fingers loosen immediately.

“I’m not trying to —” I cut him off by swinging my purse at him. He barely reacts.

“Stay the fuck away from me!” I yell, turning toward the door again.

“I was just trying to get you to stop, to listen for two fucking seconds!” He fists both hands in his hair.

“That isn’t your fucking decision to make, Elliot!” As the words leave my mouth, I see it. Something flashes across his face. Something that terrifies me. The door is only a few steps away and I turn to run. I bolt toward the door. I hear him move behind me, but before I can process it, my ankle rolls on the shoe I never put on properly.

Panicked, I reach for the wall, but miss. There’s a horrible second where I know I’m falling, but haven’t hit anything yet. Then the side of my head meets the table beside the front door and pain explodes. My vision blurs and I can hear Elliot screaming my name. His face swims above me, his mouth moving, but I can’t tell what he says. He looks terrified. Good. He should be scared. I want to tell him that too. But my eyes won’t stay open and my tongue feels too big for my mouth.

“Brenna, stay with me…” I hear my name. I hear the way Adam has said it a thousand times. Soft, familiar, like it belongs in his mouth.

But Adam is gone. And Elliot sounds exactly like him…