The Buyout

Chapter 1: Elena

It was a rare sunny winter day in London when I left. My flat empty, most of my clothes donated, my things sold. No dust left behind to betray my past presence in this city at all. 

Heathrow was bustling, looking different than I remembered. It had been ten years, but I suspected my memories of dark corners and roaring jet engines were more products of a scared child than reality. I pushed my way past families bidding each other goodbye. Those with the silent tears and tight smiles and hugs that they chiseled into memory— those were the ones who had nothing to worry about. They'd see each other again, probably. And most likely sooner than later. It's the quick, terse, and tight goodbyes that are the saddest. Who knows when they'll ever see each other again? They'll probably spend the rest of their lives wondering if they even want to.

My first-class ticket was my only birthday gift to myself. 23 . It's not a particularly satisfying number, but it's a lot stronger than 13. I had not flown since I stepped off my first plane and I figured I could afford myself this one last pleasure before leaving Elaine Clark and becoming Lannie. I sunk into the plush seat, relishing the immediate privacy of the pod. It was going to be hard to leave these kinds of pleasures behind. Having money made everything efficient, peoples entire jobs dedicated to making life easier for you. Whatever you wanted for dinner when you wanted it. Showers available directly on the plane. A happy person didn't need those kinds of things, of course, but they certainly made life a lot nicer when everything else was complete shit. And from what I've seen of many wealthy people, their lives are truly complete shit. Absolutely miserable creatures with nothing in their lives except their money and echoing mansions. It makes those bastards dig their nails into their wealth as deeply as they can, their entire existence reduced to keeping stock prices above water in a rising ocean, drowning whoever is nearest, staying above the waterline by climbing on others backs, barely noticing when the water's risen above even their own noses. 

It would be cruel to wretch a drowning man's livelihood from his hands. Terribly cruel.
I catch my blurry reflection on the plane window and relax my face into something softer. If this is ever going to work, I'm going to have to leave my anger behind for a bit, even if that requires becoming a different person entirely. 

They didn't trust me enough as it is. 

It turns out both Lannie and Elaine are proper terrified of air travel. And both are proper terrified of coming back to California. My hours on the flight were the longest of my life and the night collectively the shortest. Either way, I was standing in the blinding California sun before I was ready.

It hadn't changed. Not really. I felt the nerves in my throat and took the smallest of steps back toward the airport. A car pulled up to the curb, its driver lowered the window and asked me if I was Elaine. My Uber was here. I felt the world open up around me. I wasn't obligated to go through anything yet; at this point my hands were still clean. I could head back inside the airport, book a ticket to New York City and start over there. The Uber driver called my name out again, and panic gripped me, latching onto my body and squeezing the very breath out of me. My vision began to blur, and I tightened my hands into fists to try to control their shaking, angry that my body was betraying me. This was supposed to be a triumphant return. The thumb on my right hand brushed over some raised skin on my index finger. A scar. And I remembered to breathe. Deep breaths that made my head come back to earth and loosened my chest. Still unsteady and shaking I called to the Uber driver, barely registering his irritation, as I rolled my luggage towards his parked car. 

"You look just like your profile picture, but since you weren't responding I couldn't be sure," he said, getting out of his car to help me place my luggage in the trunk. He was not pleased with me at all. I handed him my luggage, and he must have noticed my shaking hands because his entire demeanor softened. "Bad flight?" he asked as he closed the trunk. I shook my head, burying my hands deep into the pockets of my denim jacket. 

"No. It's just coming back..." I met his eyes as I trailed off, and they held far too much pity. Irritation flared in me, hot and brief. "I'm just tired," I amended, getting into the backseat. He didn't question me further as he got back in and began to drive. I caught him watching me from the rearview mirror, but I purposefully looked away and leaned my head against the car window. The sound of music filled the car, and I allowed myself to relax. That's when the exhaustion hit me. My blinks got progressively slower, my eyelids grew heavy, and just as I was beginning to dream the sudden stillness of the car woke me. 

"This is it."

And there it was. Home sweet home. 

It was modest, as far as McMansions went, its most impressive feature had always been its backyard. Space was expensive in California. 

"Your parents expecting you?" I wondered how I must appear to him, for him to be so concerned. No, they weren't. The house would be empty, probably covered in a generous layer of dust. 

"Yes, thank you." He helped me get my luggage, and then I bid him goodbye, promising five stars. The sound of my luggage rolling over the pavement filled the hot silence, and I felt my heartbeat rise with every step. I played with the key in my pocket to keep my fingers from shaking, But unlike in the airport, I had been expecting it, and I was fine. The trick was to stay ahead of it. 

I'd been living in England for four years when he sent me the key in a small box with a single note card. He was moving to Colorado to be near my grandmother, who was sick--apparently. He wasn't selling the house, though. He had managed to keep it in the financial mess that had followed, and he was leaving it for me. In case I ever wanted to go back. As if an afterthought, he congratulated me on finishing high school. Told me he loved me, and that I could come home to Colorado if I wanted to. I never replied. 

Five years later, here I was. I wondered what he would have thought of it all. I stopped in front of the front door I'd dreamed of so many times, back when I would have given everything for things to back to normal.

I slid the key into place and turned. 

The smell hit me first. A contrasting mix of stale and sterile. It relaxed me. This wasn't my house. It hadn't been for a very long time. I hung my jacket on the coat rack, abandoning my luggage by the front door. He must have hired a caretaker, judging by the clean and unused interior. Nothing had changed. The furniture was all the same, even the television was still the same old plasma. 

I placed my hand on the stairway railing, gauging whether I was up for seeing my old room, but my curiosity won over caution, and I stepped on the first creaky wooden step. 

Utterly untouched. I gaped as my eyes took it all in, the coral comforter, the sunflowers I had painstakingly painted on the wall, my bookshelf filled with novels and comics of all shapes and sizes, the computer dad had helped me build...

It was all here like I had never left. I placed a hand on the comforter. It wasn't dusty, but it would have to be cleaned. But first—I sat on the bed cautiously, and then slowly reclined until I was sinking into the foam mattress. I smiled. It was still the most comfortable bed I had ever laid on. I closed my eyes, at peace with the childhood safety that surrounded me. I let it comfort me, pretending that I was twelve and whole again. 

I started on Monday, but at least for now I could have this moment. Slowly my breath grew deep, and I sunk into a dreamless sleep.