Entangled

by Cat Clarke

  He blushed. ‘For when you exercise, I thought you’d …’ I thanked him, noticing a couple of black hair bobbles nestled on top of the pile. He’d obviously really thought about this. It’s only now that I’m wondering how he knew I’d started exercising. And how did he know that it wasn’t just a one-off?

  It felt good to be out of those pyjamas for a while. Felt a bit like me again. It was good to get some exercise – to do something else besides remembering. Even tried to do some press-ups, before I realized that was a tad overambitious after hardly having moved for two weeks. I’m going to have to try to do a little bit more every day if I’m going to stay healthy.

  Ethan came back later this afternoon. I was lying on the floor, my heart beating wildly. I’d been running on the spot for ten minutes, which normally wouldn’t even make me break a sweat. I was exhausted. I heard the door open behind me. Ethan loomed over me, his face upside down.

  ‘Hi,’ I croaked.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Bloody knackered,’ I replied. I heard rather than saw him move over to sit on the edge of the bed. I stayed where I was, on the floor, one arm flung across my forehead. This was my chance. ‘Is Ethan your real name?’

  ‘Do you think I would lie to you, Grace?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe. It’s one of my favourite names, you know.’

  ‘Is it? I’m glad.’ He smiled.

  ‘Do you have a last name?’

  ‘Doesn’t everyone?’

  ‘You’re very confusing, you know.’

  ‘Isn’t everyone?’

  I laughed at this. ‘OK, what do you do all day then? You can’t just spend all your time cooking and doing the washing. How boring is that? Do you cook my meals?’ I was determined to get something from him.

  He paused. ‘It’s not important.’

  I sighed. This wasn’t exactly going to plan. ‘You look tired.’ It was true. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his skin was sallow.

  ‘You shouldn’t worry about me, Grace. How is it going?’ He gestured to the desk.

  I manoeuvred myself up onto one elbow, conscious that he was getting a more than decent view of my breasts. ‘I’m not sure. It’s hard. It hurts … to think about things.’

  Ethan stared at me for a few seconds. ‘Maybe hurt isn’t always a bad thing.’ He got up and stretched, stifling a yawn. ‘I’ll leave you to it. It’s getting late.’ He closed the door behind him and I was left wondering exactly what he meant.

  It’s not getting late.

  Is it?

  After my fight with Sal, I ran all the way home. Three miles went past in a blur. The tears had dried by the time I got to the front door. I hardly slept that night. Instead I replayed the conversation in my head, again and again – trying to make sense of it. It was hopeless.

  The next day was even worse. Knowing what Sal was going through, alone. Every few minutes I looked at the clock on my phone. An hour before Sal’s appointment, I couldn’t take it any more, and called Sal’s number. Straight to voicemail. ‘Sal, it’s me. I … I don’t really know what to say. I hope it goes OK today. Last night was … I think we need to talk about it. Ring me.’

  I didn’t hear anything from Sal – that day, or the next. I knew she must have gone ahead with the abortion. There was no question about it. I felt awful that she’d had to go through it by herself, but I was so angry about what she’d said.

  I couldn’t get over the fact that Sal had clearly harboured these feelings about me for some time. What I had said to her was stupid, no doubt. But to blame me for her getting pregnant? That was a step too far. This was Sal – the most sensible, intelligent, grounded person I knew. It made no sense at all. Still, it didn’t stop me feeling like the lowest of the low for what I’d said – in the park and that night after the club. Idiotic in the extreme, but Sal knew me. I thought she knew when to take me seriously and when to just ignore me. Everything had been fine between us before the visit to the doctor, hadn’t it?

  Days and days went by – a blur of angry tears and confusion. I cut. Even after what Sal had said.

  I went a bit too deep with one of the cuts in my arm. The blood oozed out so fast I thought it would never stop. I tasted a drop. It was warm on my tongue.

  Mum knew full well something was up. She even tried talking to me. I ignored her. I was so lonely – absolutely desperate to talk to someone. But not desperate enough to talk to her.

  I briefly considered calling Sophie. I was actually a little bit annoyed with her. I thought she might have called to see how I was. After all, as far as she was concerned I could have been pregnant. I knew I was being ridiculous because a) I had dropped that girl like a particularly heavy brick and didn’t deserve her concern, and b) I’d lied to her about the pregnancy test. So my indignation was hardly righteous.

  I called no one, and no one called me. I was suffocating with loneliness. The pain was almost physical. I felt like tearing myself apart. I wanted to escape from my own skin.

  And then one night everything changed. I’d spent the evening in my room, drinking, trying to forget. Listening to depressing music. Being such a teenager. It even struck me at the time: I was a cliché, and not even a good one.

  I decided to get up off my arse and do something. I changed into my leggings and an old T-shirt, put on my trusty trainers and bolted out of the house. Running while inebriated: I can thoroughly recommend it. I flew through the streets. Yeah, there was a bit of stumbling here and there, but other than that I’d say the alcohol was more of a help than a hindrance. It wasn’t long before I felt that same rush that running always gives me. I could have run forever. It didn’t even bother me when it started to rain. I just pounded the pavement even harder.

  I didn’t mean to end up at Sal’s house. Not consciously anyway. But sure enough, that was where I found myself. Leaning against a lamp post, looking up at her bedroom window like some kind of crazed stalker. I stood there, trying to catch my breath, wondering what to do. I didn’t feel drunk any more, that was for sure. It wasn’t that late; Sal’s light was on. The curtains were drawn. I was so close to striding up to the front door and ringing the doorbell. I was torn. Part of me wanted to grab Sal, give her the biggest hug in the world and pray that everything could go back to how it had been before. And part of me wanted to grab her and shake her and shout and scream, ‘How could you say those things to me?!’ I wanted to do both of those things and neither of them. I did nothing.

  I turned my back on Sal’s house and slouched off down the street. Suddenly the idea of running all the way home didn’t seem so appealing. I felt sick, and just … sad. I headed for the nearest bus stop without a second thought. There was a boy there, sitting in the bus shelter in the dark. The light must have been broken. I sat at the other end of the bench; I didn’t have the energy to stand. I leaned my head back against the glass and closed my eyes. I breathed – in and out, in and out, trying to empty my head of everything. It was raining again. I could hear it pattering against the roof of the shelter, and the slick sound of car tyres on wet tarmac.

  I knew the boy was watching me. You can feel it sometimes, can’t you? With a sigh I opened my eyes and turned towards him. He looked away quickly – guiltily. And then back at me, to see if I was still looking. I was. He looked away again. And then back again! I treated him to my trademark eyebrow raise.

  He stuttered, ‘Sorry. I … Sorry.’ I said nothing, just looked at him. He was kind of hot. Scruffy, shortish blond hair, a bit unshaven. Nice strong face with a good straight nose. I couldn’t tell what colour his eyes were. Clothes-wise he was going for the T-shirt over a long-sleeved T-shirt look – it worked for me. Even in the darkness I could make out a pair of bright white trainers peeking out from the bottom of his jeans. I wasn’t looking him up and down, you understand. I took in this information in a millisecond (or maybe two).

  ‘Can I help you?’ I said, but not in a mean way.

  He looked embarrassed
. ‘Er, no. Sorry.’ Then he looked away – again! He was a shy one all right. I closed my eyes again, not really caring if he took the opportunity to look me over. I wasn’t in the mood.

  I opened my eyes when I heard a bus pull up. The bright lights of the bus dazzled me as I approached the surly-looking driver. And realized I didn’t have my purse. Idiot.

  ‘I … Sorry. I seem to have left my purse at home.’

  The driver looked at me sceptically, even going so far as to use my very own eyebrow trick against me.

  I was indignant. ‘It’s true! Please. I need to get home. I’m cold, I’m wet. Come on …’ The driver just shook his head. He’d yet to utter a word.

  I felt a tap on my shoulder. Bus-stop boy stepped around me and stood in front of the driver. ‘Two singles, please,’ and I heard the jangle of money dropping into the money-collecting tickety machine thing. Without even a look over his shoulder, he hurried forward and up the stairs.

  The driver smirked. ‘All right for some.’

  I walked past him, saying nothing.

  I was so relieved. My legs were leaden. Maybe drinking and running hadn’t been such a stellar idea after all. I trudged up the stairs. The bus was half full in that irritating way – every double seat had a single person on it. I spotted bus-stop boy towards the back. Normally I like to sit as near to the front as I can. When Dad used to take me to the park I would run up the stairs as fast as I could, praying that the front seat would be empty. I liked to pretend I was driving the bus. I was very good at pretending.

  I slid onto the seat next to the boy and said thank you. He looked up and smiled, and for the first time I got to see his eyes. They were blue, and framed by the longest eyelashes I have ever seen on a boy. He was quite pale, and looked as tired as I felt. I suddenly realized what a sight I must look. I pushed a stray bit of hair behind my ear and tried to surreptitiously check out my reflection in the window. It was no good – he was in the way. No make-up and sweaty running clothes: there was no way he would be interested. And I wasn’t interested either. Who am I kidding? I’m always interested. It had been a crappy day, I was probably still a bit worse for wear and I was sitting next to a (sort of) fit boy.

  ‘That was really nice of you, paying my fare.’

  ‘No worries. I couldn’t just leave you stranded there, could I?’ He smiled again. Nice smile, good teeth (very important). ‘Not the nicest night for a run,’ he said. The raindrops streaked along the window next to him.

  ‘Yeah, it was a spur of the moment thing. Went out a bit too hard, I suppose. Need to pace myself a bit better next time.’ I shrugged.

  ‘Or bring your bus fare with you?’ We smiled at each other. Hmm, I like.

  ‘I’m Grace, by the way.’

  ‘Nat. Nice to meet you.’

  ‘You too. So do you make a habit of rescuing damsels in distress then, Nat?’

  He smiled a quick smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘I wish.’

  I waited for him to explain, but he shook his head and said, ‘Never mind.’ I let it go.

  So we talked. That is, I asked a lot of questions. And he answered them in a perfectly polite, friendly fashion. He asked me stuff too, but I could tell that he wasn’t that interested. I mean, he was kind of interested, but I wasn’t getting the right signals. Something was slightly off, and my radar was screaming GIRLFRIEND ALERT! GIRLFRIEND ALERT! So I asked THE question.

  Nat shook his head and said no. I believed him, but there was something a bit weird about the way he said it. I couldn’t put my finger on it, so I ignored it.

  Things I learned about Nat on the bus

  1. He was nineteen.

  2. He’d just finished his first year at uni and was home for the summer.

  3. He was studying medicine (clever as well as pretty – yay!).

  4. He’d bought the trainers that day and was embarrassed about their shiny white obvious newness.

  5. He was working part-time in some crappy pub in town.

  6. He’d spent three months last summer doing some kind of charity work in Nepal. Obviously the caring, sharing type.

  7. He was yummy.

  He also admitted – very reluctantly – that he still hadn’t passed his driving test. Hence the need to get buses everywhere. He was embarrassed about that; he was really cute when he was embarrassed. His eyelashes made him look all coy and sweet.

  For the first time in ages I was enjoying myself. It just felt so normal – talking to a boy, trying to work out if he liked me or not. Not-so-subconsciously mirroring his body language (trickier than it sounds on a cramped bus seat). To be perfectly honest, I was so bloody lonely that I think I’d have jumped at the chance to talk to anyone that night. But lucky for me, it was Nat. Luscious, butter-wouldn’t-melt, too-good-to-be-true Nat.

  My stop was coming up a lot faster than I’d have liked. I toyed with the idea of staying on the bus with Nat, but I was knackered. Plus, it’s always better to play hard to get in these situations. Assuming the boy actually wants to get you, of course.

  ‘Listen, my stop’s coming up. Thanks again for coming to my rescue. I’d like to pay you back somehow.’ I let that hang in the air for a moment before pressing on, ‘Could I maybe buy you a drink to say thanks?’ Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease say yes.

  Nat looked at me for a couple of seconds. I think he was a bit taken aback, poor love. And just when I was sure he was going to say, ‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ he said, ‘That would be nice’ instead! It seemed a bit of an effort for him to get the words out, but I wasn’t going to dwell on that. I gave him my number, since I didn’t have my mobile on me (duh!). He promised to call, and I believed him. I practically skipped down the aisle. A quick glance back at the top of the stairs, but he was looking out of the window. Huh. Two can play the hard-to-get game, I suppose.

  That night I slept better than I had in ages. Of course I hadn’t forgotten about Sal – not even close. But at least now I had an alternative to think about. Whenever Sal popped up inside my head, I re-routed my brain down the path to Nat. It worked, sort of.

  day 16

  The exercise is definitely doing me good. I really went for it today. I was running on the spot, sweating like a bastard, when Ethan came in. I stood there, hands on hips, breathing hard, waiting for him to speak first. ‘Don’t stop,’ he said. So I got down on the floor and started some sit-ups, watching Ethan as he took a seat at the table. He made no effort to look at the stack of paper there. His eyes never left mine. I counted thirty sit-ups, with us staring at each other the whole time. It definitely wasn’t normal.

  Just when I thought I couldn’t take any more staring, Ethan’s head drooped down to his chest. He’d fallen asleep. It was a moment or two before the realization fully kicked in. Ethan was asleep. There was nothing to stop me walking out the door. My heart thumped wildly. But then, maybe he was faking – testing me to see what I would do.

  I sat on the floor, straining to hear the sound of his breathing above my own. A snore or two would have been helpful. Maybe a little bit of drooling, just to be sure. I scooted over to him so that I could a get a better look at his face. His hair had fallen in front of his eyes, but I could see that they were closed. This was my chance. I could just make a run for it. Or rather, a creep for it. It could all be over in a matter of minutes, assuming the building wasn’t some kind of mad fortress.

  So what was stopping me? I wish I knew. Instead of scarpering, I sat back on the floor, with my legs tucked underneath me. And then I don’t know what possessed me, but I rested my head on Ethan’s thigh. I’d clearly lost my mind, but it felt … right. Ethan moaned a little bit and shifted his leg. I held my breath, certain that he would wake up. He didn’t.

  I don’t know how long I sat there – maybe twenty minutes? I couldn’t believe he’d fallen asleep. It was bizarre. I mean, I’ve fallen asleep on the night bus a couple of times, but what kind of half-arsed kidnapper falls asleep, allowing the perfect opportunity for escap
e? And what kind of screwed-up girl has the perfect opportunity to escape but just sits there like some kind of lapdog?

  I came to my senses. Carefully, quietly, I stood up and backed towards the door, keeping my eyes on Ethan with every step. When I got to the door, I paused for a second, readying myself. I reached for the door handle and turned it. And then I was suddenly overwhelmed by a blast of pure panic. My heart slammed in my chest, and I felt hot and cold and shaky and weird. I couldn’t get enough air into my lungs. There wasn’t enough air in the room. I thought I was dying.

  My stomach flipped. I ran to the bathroom and puked in the toilet, coughing and spluttering and choking. And then I lay down on the cold floor and cried. I didn’t know what was happening to me. I didn’t know how I felt about anything any more – why hadn’t I been able to leave? I didn’t want to be here …

  … did I?

  Eventually I dragged myself out of the bathroom and onto the bed. Crawled under the duvet and lay watching Ethan, trying to ignore the bitter taste at the back of my throat. After a while, Ethan stirred. He raised his head, put his hands up to his face and rubbed his eyes. He turned towards me and blinked.

  ‘You’re still here,’ he said. I couldn’t tell if he was pleased or disappointed. Maybe both.

  ‘Where else would I be?’

  He nodded towards the door.

  ‘What’s out there?’ I asked.

  ‘Everything.’

  Christ! All this Man of Mystery crap is really starting to grate.

  ‘Grace, why didn’t you leave? What are you afraid of?’

  I thought for a moment. ‘Everything.’

  It’s true.

  Ethan sat a little while longer, saying nothing. I felt my eyelids get heavier and heavier, until I couldn’t resist. Sleep came. I don’t remember any dreams as such, just a few random images that I can’t piece together. Dad’s funeral in the rain. Sal sitting on a park bench, holding hands with a shadowy someone. And Devon, looking like he hadn’t slept in a week – sad and worried, slouched in an uncomfortable-looking chair.