Chasing Alys

by Morgana Bevan

  “There’s just the risk that you’ll be the bimbo helping some dickhead cheat on his oblivious and doting girlfriend,” I whispered, my eyes fixed on the brown liquid swirling around my glass.

  I threw Emily a glance when no overly confident retort followed. She appeared to be absorbed in the scene unfolding on TV, but her lips were pursed and her brow furrowed. She didn’t like the truth in my words.

  The clouds cleared as quickly as they’d appeared. Emily turned towards me, her grin firmly in place again. “Not if I’m careful.”

  I bit my tongue against a sigh. She was always at her most argumentative when she’d had a drink. Why did I think I could talk her around with reason this time? Even so, I couldn’t stop trying.

  “How will you be careful? Are you going to ask every guy you meet at a bar twenty questions and social media stalk them before you decide to go home?”

  She drummed her fingers on the sofa arm as she mulled over my words. “Maybe.”

  “And you’re going to believe the information you uncover?” I asked, disbelief widening my eyes. Emily’s head bobbed in reply, but her eyes were unconvinced.

  “We’re different people, Al. You keep getting burned, but at least you’ve tried. I’ve done cautious and I’ve done serious. I want some fun.” She pressed her hands around her glass as her eyes tried to channel Puss in Boots. “Let me have fun for a little while.”

  This time I did sigh. She sounded far too sober for my liking. There was no way she’d forget this conversation tomorrow.

  She settled back in her seat, considering me. “Do you ever think we’ve got it all wrong?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She frowned, her gaze wandering over our sparse white walls. We’d lived here for nearly four years and we still hadn’t decorated. With no plans to move, it was probably time to add our own touches to the space.

  “Do you remember what your dad and almost every single one of the Pub Brigade said when you broke up with Liam before we left for uni?” Emily asked, the words drawn out as she puzzled through her thoughts.

  I didn’t have to think to know what cliché she was talking about. Far too many people had repeated it to me over the years. “Love will find you when you’re not looking?”

  “That’s the one.” She clicked her fingers. “They meant well, I guess, but it was probably the biggest lie they ever told us.”

  My mind raced, trying to catch up with her tangent. “What does that have to do with one-night stands?”

  “Not a whole lot.” She shrugged. “I was just thinking that with those words they built a fail-safe in our heads. Liam cheated. You stopped trying to engage with guys. Maybe some part of you in the beginning used flings to pass the time and distract yourself from looking for love.”

  I stared at her. Disbelief filled me in a rush. “I wasn’t waiting for love, Em. I was trying to protect myself from it.”

  She waved her hand, dismissing my denial. “Let me finish. Maybe they got it wrong. Maybe it’s not about waiting for love. It’s about choice. Finding a person you get on with and choosing them, choosing to love them.”

  Ryan’s smiling face popped into my head and I squashed it.

  “Like your parents.”

  My eyes jumped to Emily’s watchful face. “My parents?”

  “Didn’t your dad choose to follow your mother around the UK?” she asked.

  I nodded, still confused by the serious turn. “He saw something in her that first day at her book signing and he decided she was going to be in his life. If that’s not the perfect example of choosing love, I don’t know what is.”

  Was it true? My father told the story every opportunity he got. He seemed to have relished the chase, and given the way he talked, you wouldn’t think he ever doubted himself. No matter how far from home my mother led him, he kept trying to win her over.

  I still didn’t understand how he could be so certain. Certainty was a thing I’d never felt when it came to men.

  “All of your failed attempts don’t count,” Emily said, her voice too cheery for someone who just had their heart broken. “They are timestamps in your life until you find someone you want to choose.”

  “It’s a great theory, Em,” I muttered.

  I couldn’t decide if I believed it. The romanticism of soul mates, two people drawn together no matter what, had always appealed to me. I’d always thought my parents were examples of that kind of love, but maybe I was wrong.

  “And maybe Oliver was my first stamp and not my forever.”

  I pushed my own thoughts into a box and focused on Emily’s subdued smile. “That’s definitely a possibility. How does it make you feel?”

  Her smile grew. “How long have you been waiting to say that to me?”

  “A while.” I shrugged, grinning.

  “If you want it to be authentic, you might want to move to the chair and find a notebook.” She pointed to the armchair in the corner of our living room.

  The heavy atmosphere lifted enough for us to laugh at my awful imitation of her career and breathe.

  “But seriously, how does it make you feel knowing Oliver wasn’t your happily ever after?”

  She sighed, and her expression turned guilty. “Relieved. Is that bad?”

  “If that’s really how you feel, then not at all. He was a learning blip in your path.”

  Emily nodded. “I like the sound of that.”

  Silence fell between us while the film continued to play. I wasn’t watching, though, my thoughts trapped in her theory. What if I’d gotten it wrong all this time, overlooked someone while I blindly tried to distract myself? Because she was right. My wild years could be construed as a distraction rather than protection like I’d always told myself. Had I missed my chance? And if not, would I be open to it when it came? The thought of either scared me. It wasn’t a question I could answer.

  “I have the best idea.” Emily jumped to her knees, grabbing my shoulders and shaking my attention back to her. She had it – and she was freaking me out. In all our years together, she had never been this manic. “Alys, we need to go out and find some randomers in some bar, christen my newfound freedom!”

  “Right now?” I squeaked.

  Emily nodded her head hard.

  “Em, it’s after two AM. The bars shut hours ago, and the clubs won’t be letting anyone in.”

  My gentle logic didn’t ease the wattage of her smile. “Then we’ll go tomorrow,” she said. “I need to add some more timestamps.”

  “Don’t you think it might be too soon?” My voice was hoarse while unease fluttered in my stomach. I flat-out hated the idea of her being subjected to the “down to fuck” population of Cardiff. I got it: she was trying to keep moving forward, but I couldn’t stop my past from informing my present or hers.

  “What are you talking about? The sooner I put that asshole behind me the better. Tomorrow night. We’ll go out tomorrow night. You can show me what I’ve been missing.” She slapped my arm, punctuating each point.

  With that decided, she settled back down to watch the film while I glimpsed her out of the corner of my eye. She’d flipped a switch from subdued to manic so fast that it unsettled me. She looked like my best friend, sounded like her, but the words coming out of her mouth were not.

  Chapter Six

  The constant vibration of my phone against the wooden bedside table woke me the next morning. The light filtering around the edges of my blackout curtains was too soft, which meant one thing: it was far too early for me to be awake on a Saturday, hungover or not.

  I rolled towards the sound. My stomach flipped and sharp pain stabbed my head. I buried my face in my pillow, swallowing hard. Alcohol equals hell.

  This had been my reality since I turned twenty-one. Someday, I’d realise my days of drinking like a Fresher until 5AM were well and truly over. That day wasn’t last night.

  Silence filled my room and the flat. Whoever had woken me must have given up. Forgetting about it and going
back to sleep sounded like a brilliant idea.

  It could be a job.

  Wait, at stupid o’clock on a Saturday in the middle of winter? No one was crewing at this point.

  Or it could be your only parent, who you haven’t texted back or called in a week.

  If anything was going to keep me awake, it was guilt.

  Breathing through my clenched teeth, I forced myself to sit up, bracing against the headboard until my headache settled into a low-grade thump. I needed painkillers and a vat of tea.

  I picked up the phone, and sure enough, missed call from Dad. Sighing, I hit redial and settled in. My father really loved to talk. I’d long blamed it on his need to impart wisdom, whether in person or through his fiction.

  “Alys, love. Did I wake you?” My father’s strong Welsh voice boomed through the phone and I winced. I pulled the phone away as he kept going. “I realised I hadn’t heard from you and I picked up the phone without looking at the clock.”

  I yawned. “It’s alright, Dad. Sorry, I forgot to call you.”

  “That’s alright. I couldn’t remember if it was this Thursday you finished on that television show or next Thursday. I guess I’m too used to your calls before six AM that I forgot you were never an early bird.” Dad chuckled, probably remembering the many times he’d had to steal my duvet and threaten me with a bucket of freezing cold water to get me up for the school bus. I was always one “five more minutes” away from a shock wake-up call.

  “It was this Thursday.”

  “That’s good. You seemed tired last time we spoke. A break might be good for you.”

  I sat up straight at the careful edge in his voice. “Is everything alright?”

  “Oh yeah. Everything’s great. Phil was over last night.” Phil was Emily’s father and one of the many reasons my attempts to convince my dad to move to Cardiff always failed. “I swear I’ll beat him at chess one day. My time is coming.”

  Despite my hangover, I smiled at the wistful sound of my dad’s voice. He was the smartest man I knew, and yet he could be so delusional sometimes. “You’ve been saying that ever since I can remember. I think it’s time to put that pipe dream to rest.”

  “You might be right.” He sighed before his tone turned cheerful again. “So, have you been dancing yet?”

  I snorted. “What do you think?”

  “Yeah, that was a silly question.” I could hear him scratching at his greying hair. The image of his sheepish smile rose sharp and fast in my mind. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

  “I did.” I grinned, remembering the way Emily had chattered incessantly on our way home. “I might have converted Em to swing dance.”

  My father chortled. The delighted sound whisked down the line and wrapped me up in the past. I could remember a time we’d been inseparable, when he’d play, read and laugh with me. It didn’t last long, unfortunately. I was five when he hit a big literary prize list and the precious time he had for play evaporated.

  He rarely laughed like that anymore. My time to enjoy it was short, as a mixture of guilt and sadness swept in. He’d laughed more when my mother was alive.

  “Speaking of rest, do you think you’ll be home soon?”

  I grimaced. He posed it as a question, but it wasn’t really. He knew I had very few reasons to stay in the city for two and a half months while I waited for my next job to start. He’d understand if I said I needed to stay to catch up with Emily. His disappointment would crack me in two with indecision, as it did every time he tried to coax me home, but he’d understand.

  Could I take the guilt?

  Unlikely.

  “I’m off until the end of January, so I could come home for a little bit.” My face scrunched up as the words left my lips.

  Oh, dear god, what had I done?

  I couldn’t handle a month in West Wales, let alone nearly two.

  “That would be wonderful. I haven’t seen you since last Christmas. It’ll be nice to have you home for a bit.” The genuine glee in his voice had me grimacing now.

  For a bit. Why didn’t I set a time period? I could have said, “I could come home for a week, but I’ve got some things I need to do before Christmas, so I’ll have to come back to Cardiff.”

  “I’ll go to the shop tomorrow and get in some of that vanilla tea you like. When should I expect you?”

  I banged my head against the fabric headboard. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  “Emily will slash my tyres if I try to leave her this weekend.”

  My father chuckled at the visual. “I don’t remember her having a temper.”

  “Things change,” I muttered. “I think Monday’ll be safe.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll see if Elan is available to give the house a quick clean.” His voice grew distant as he muttered tasks to himself, making a list.

  “You don’t need to do that, Dad.”

  “Nonsense. Your bed hasn’t been slept in in nearly twelve months. That room needs cleaning,” he insisted.

  I knew that tone. I could argue until I was blue in the face and he would never budge. But I was too hungover to face off with a stubborn man over something like a cleaning lady.

  “Alright. I’ll see you on Monday around lunchtime.”

  We hung up, and I fell face first into my pillows.

  I was a good daughter. This is what good daughters did. They went home for longer than a weekend once a year. It would all be fine.

  Chapter Seven

  “Morning!” Emily sang half an hour later as she wandered into the kitchen in her PJs. If her short pixie hair hadn’t been standing on end, you’d never be able to tell she had spent all night drinking herself into a stupor. She hummed a cheerful tune while I sat at the kitchen table, breathing in the reassuring scent of camomile tea and avoiding any sudden movements.

  Her melody set off the jackhammers in my head once again, and I sighed. I was well and truly buggered. I shouldn’t have got out of bed, but my nauseous stomach had refused to let me ignore it any longer.

  “Where do you want to go tonight?” Emily asked, her voice free of any pain. Had my head not been in my hands, it might have hit the table along with my heart. With her head buried in the fridge, she missed my incredulous glare.

  “I assumed you weren’t serious about that,” I grumbled, staring into my tea like it had the answers to my bad life choices.

  “I’m always serious.” She removed oat milk and chocolate from the fridge and moved on to searching the cupboards, either oblivious to my disbelief or ignoring me.

  I chose to focus on eating instead – a terrible idea. One bite of toast and my stomach flipped. The bread turned to ash on my tongue. After forcing myself to swallow, I pushed the plate away and let my heavy head fall to the table. Alcohol always seems so fun the night before. How I manage to forget its negative effects every single time I overindulge is beyond me. Apparently, I suffer from selective memory.

  Something clattered to the kitchen floor. I flinched, sitting bolt upright before remembering the little men with daggers in my head. Groaning, I pressed my thumbs into my temples and glared at Emily’s back. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m making pancakes. Do you want some?” Emily held a glass jug up for inspection, smiling at me over her shoulder.

  She was on a mission to make the perfect vegan pancake. Two years later and she still hadn’t cracked it. My stomach rolled at the thought of gooey banana-filled dough. I shook my head.

  “Suit yourself. So, tonight?” she asked again, and I tried not to curse her need to fixate on details. It had always been her biggest flaw.

  “Why don’t you surprise me.” The legs of my wooden chair scraped against the tile as I stood. “I’m going to go to the shop while I can move. Do you want anything?” I necked my tea; the toast I ignored. My stomach didn’t know what was good for it sometimes.

  “Peanut butter ice cream, pretzels, danish pastries, pop tarts, popcorn and lots and lots of wine.” I froze on my way to the sink, stunned at the list
. I studied her with suspicion. She didn’t look like she needed another session on the sofa. “We ran out of alcohol last night.” She said it like it was a bad thing. My head disagreed.

  “Alright. Text me if you think of anything else.”

  “Ah, can’t. I really do need a new phone now.” Her expression turned sheepish, and she focused harder than necessary on whisking the batter. I assumed that she’d left the device submerged too long. I wasn’t awake when she fished it out. “I might have thrown up on it last night.”

  “You sure told Oliver what you think of him.” I would have had to be a saint to keep a straight face for that one.

  Emily kept stirring, staring out of the kitchen window with glazed eyes. My amusement dried up as I watched her. She noticed me studying her and forced a smile. “Stop looking at me like that. I’m not made of glass. I’ll be fine.” She waved me off with a spatula.

  She was right about one thing; she would be fine. I’d make damn sure she got over the dickhead. Even if I had to drink myself stupid every weekend for the rest of our days to achieve it.

  Turning my attention elsewhere for now, for the first time I noticed all – and I mean all – of the bottles lined up on the kitchen counter. No wonder I was in agony; we’d gone through two bottles of wine and numerous spirits. Yet Emily appeared perfectly fine. Bitch.

  Cursing her bizarre alcohol tolerance, I retreated to the bathroom. One look in the mirror confirmed what I felt. My lips were cracked, my eyes were bloodshot, my skin was an unsightly shade of red. I felt bad for making fun of Emily’s hair – mine resembled a matted bird’s nest. Yet the thought of applying make-up to my blotchy pale skin made me distinctly unhappy. No make-up it is.

  I tamed my hair into a messy bun, brushed my teeth, scrubbed my face and applied moisturiser. In my state, I wasn’t capable of making any more effort. Plus, I was only going to the shop. No one cared what I looked like!

  “I forgot to ask,” Emily shouted in the hall outside the bathroom door. “How was the gig?”