by Ana Simons
“Did he ever hurt you, Olivia?”
Avoiding the question, she squeezed my hand and let her head fall backwards, against the door. “God, what a mess!” The words that came out as a deep sigh were followed by silence.
I kept holding her hand, lightly stroking her knuckles with my thumb, allowing her the time to let it all sink in and release the tension built up inside her.
“He’s such an idiot,” she began, with her head leaning back and her eyes shut. “He’s furious because things aren’t going his way this time. He thought he could play one of his romantic tricks and that was it, as good as done. In the bag!” She swallowed a small sob. “He booked a flight to Paris and wanted to take me there. Today! That bastard thought I’d be so thrilled, I’d fall for his smooth talk just like that!” She clicked her fingers. “But you know what I did? I told him to shove those tickets up his arse! He’s used to having everyone kiss his ass and do exactly what he says. But I’m not falling for it, not this time! I’m not taking him back. The hell I will.”
I gave her hand a gentle squeeze.
“You know what else he told me? That I’m not like other women because I can’t forgive and move on. Because I’m resentful and mean, unable to appreciate the magnitude of his grand romantic gestures. Arsehole!”
My thumb made tiny circles in the centre of her palm.
“Worse still, he told me I’m going to end up alone, like a bitter and jaded and withered old bag, all because of my pride. Can you see how twisted this is? He sleeps around, but in the end the fault is mine – because I’m not humble enough to accept his apologies.” Olivia let out a short, bitter chuckle.
I kissed the tips of her fingers.
“But the thing I don’t get is, why does he keep on coming back? Why doesn’t he leave me alone? Why do men cheat but are unable to leave for good? To have some hot sex on the side and still be able to show off some sort of apparent stability? Tell me, what kind of messed up compromise is that?”
There are a million reasons, I suppose. Some of us are plain stupid, some can’t get enough of the adrenaline, others need to feel like they still have it, the ability to attract a woman. Others have real issues and should pay a visit to the therapist. Maybe the real question is why some women put up with it.
Anyway, I took it all as rhetorical and didn’t answer. She was obviously nervous, disappointed and mad at him too. She seemed to want him out of her life, which was good, and needed to get it off her chest.
“Romantic! Well, screw romantic, Brian. You know whose invention this is, all the romantic love rubbish talk?” Her features hardened as she shook off my hand.
After pushing back her hair off her face and thumbing the tears from her cheeks, she responded to the question herself. “It was invented by men, obviously! To keep women in their place, subservient to them, waiting for some noble idiot who’s going to appear out of nowhere promising to love them forever. Only to shag anything that moves behind their backs right after.” Her gaze pierced mine, her expression changing from one of sadness to utter irritation. “But you surely know that yourself, don’t you?”
What?!
“Shit, it hurts!” she winced as she held her foot up and analysed her heel. “Tell me, why did you bother coming here? Don’t you think I have enough problems already? Without you making matters worse? Damn it, I’ve got a bloody shard stuck in here. I have to get it out.”
After all that inarticulate rambling, she hobbled off to the bathroom, leaving me here, alone, on bent knees, not knowing whom she’s really pissed off at, and whether she wants me to go check on her or simply leave. Not knowing whether she needs me like I need her – but is too scared to admit it, too afraid to let me in.
A tight knot of dread has lodged itself in my stomach. I’m feeling a miserable ache inside my chest, as if my heart had broken into shards too.
21 ARMOURS
THE WORDS HIT ME like a punch to the stomach.
‘Dear Liv,
Let me just say it for one last time: I still love you. In a way, I didn’t know existed. I still miss you. In a way that hurts so badly sometimes I think I’ll go insane.
But I’m letting you go now – secretly hoping it’s true what they say: if you ever return to me, it’s because you’ve always been mine.
Have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
Love, Brian’
2004.
Eleven years ago.
I read the old note once again and the sick, unsettling feeling deepens even more. It’s the same burn I felt that night when I got a laconic text message saying she didn’t want to see me ever again. The same ache I felt all those hundred times I called desperate for an explanation, but no one ever answered.
I slide the wrinkled piece of paper back into the book and put it back on the shelf – as if by doing so I could stop the torrent of painful memories flooding my mind right now.
How is it even possible? It’s been such a long time and I still remember the stabbing pain that shot through me. Damn it, I’d almost forgotten… how empty I felt during all those months of unanswered calls and ignored text messages to the girl who’d left me without so much as a goodbye.
I take a deep breath.
Running a finger along the spine of that same book, I can’t help wondering why the note I wrote back then is still in it. Or the book, for that matter. Why hasn’t she trashed it – like she’d done with me?
P.S. I love you. But is that even a book you give to someone who’s just dumped you?
I can’t help laughing at the younger version of myself. Well, it’s not really a laugh, it’s more like a painful chuckle of self-commiseration. The stupid things one does when you’re young and life hasn’t yet given you enough reasons to become bitter.
But it’s all just a question of time, I suppose. At a given moment everyone goes through that, collecting the bad burns of rejection and gathering a handful of stories about how we were once hurt or disappointed.
Fuck. Rejection hurts like hell.
And after a while, you become a narcissistic coward hidden behind your armour, so you can pretend you’re numb to feelings and therefore able to dodge pain. This is usually how you get into this fucked up cycle of damage we’re all trapped in: the more you get screwed over, the more bitter you become, the thicker that armour becomes. Out of self-preservation, you don’t allow anyone to break in, instead, you just keep shutting everyone out. Everyone. The ones who could hurt you again, but also the ones who could be worth knowing and loving. Then you carry on hurting these people too, up to the point everyone is living in a bloody shell, pretending that they’re not jaded, that bitterness hasn’t taken control of everyone’s lives, and that–
“Thank you for the flowers.”
A barely audible voice interrupts my erratic thoughts. I turn and find her staring at me fixedly, holding a jar with the flowers I picked from the floor.
“You’re welcome.”
“Peonies are my very favourite flower.” She places the jar on the mantel. “And thanks for cleaning the whole mess in here.”
“No problem. It was my fault anyway, so I guess it’s only fair that I take care of it.” I force a smile and a playful tone that doesn’t really match with the tense atmosphere in the room. “You okay? How’s your foot?”
“Fine.”
“I was looking around, at your photos here. This one looks really cool, where was it taken?” I ask, grabbing some silver frame from the top of a stack of books, without any idea of what I’m talking about.
“Last Christmas, at the hospital.” Her words are almost a whisper.
“How long had you been there, watching me?”
“A little while.”
The idea is startling, I don’t dare to ask how much she’s seen. I put the picture back down.
Gathering all the bits and pieces of confidence left in me, I muster up the courage to start telling her the truth.
“You’re wrong about me, Olivia. Regar
dless of what people might have told you, I don’t–”
She says something too, in unison, and neither of us understands the other.
“What?”
“What?”
“No, you go first,” I tell her.
“Just wondering if I should make us some tea...”
I shake my head.
“No? Something stronger, right? Maybe we should–”
“Go out to lunch. It’s such a beautiful day outside, why are we stuck in here and not soaking up some sunshine?”
She wrinkles her nose in disagreement.
“Why not? You’re on a hot date with those godawful jogging bottoms you’re wearing?”
She gives a light chuckle. “Hey, what’s wrong with my joggers?”
“They’re abso-bloody-lutely hideous. Though that top does offer a mighty fine spectacular view!” I taunt her a little just to break the tension, with my eyes pinned to her cleavage.
She snorts, and her mouth opens in a half-smile. “Idiot!”
“That’s probably the most endearing thing I’ve heard lately. Feeling a little calmer now?”
She sucks in a breath and then exhales slowly. “My life’s in absolute chaos. I wish I knew what it’s going to take to get it back under control...”
Silence engulfs us as she begins to move towards me with hesitant steps, my eyes holding hers, hoping she can still see through me. And then she stops, on her face the same hurt she had before.
I take a step closer, just one, it’s all I need to be able to run a hand gently up her arm. With my heart hammering in my chest – such is my fear she may pull away – I caress her face.
“Do you really mean it, when you say you don’t want to get back together with him? Or are you just punishing him, making him suffer a little before you take him back?”
I immediately regret the question. You should never ask questions when you’re not ready for the answers.
She lets her eyelids flutter shut at the touch of my hand, into which she tilts her head, inviting me to continue.
Holding my hand, she nods. “It was tough at the beginning, dealing with the absence, it always is. But we weren’t going anywhere, I was withering away into someone I didn’t recognise anymore. It was draining and toxic, a constant turmoil that threw me off balance more often than I wanted to acknowledge. It was the right thing to do. I think I’m finally finding some peace.”
I look into her eyes with a quizzical stare, trying to read her emotions. “You are? What’s wrong then?”
“I’m not losing any sleep over him, not anymore…” Her gaze bores into mine.
Then what is it?
I move a little bit closer, so close our bodies are nearly touching, and I can feel her warm breath on my face, the scent of her hair awakening familiar memories.
“My heart is racing, you know?” I whisper as I run a thumb across her lips.
“Why?” The word comes out as a sigh.
Hesitantly, she lifts one hand to stroke my stubble.
And I’m gone.
I pull her in and hold her in a tight embrace, one arm wrapped around her waist, one hand buried into her hair, to cradle the back of her head. “Because you make me nervous. So damn nervous.”
“I do?”
“You’re so wrong, Olivia.”
“I am?”
“I don’t think commitment is a bad word. I’ve always wanted to take the plunge, with both feet even.” A surge of agony rips through me as I totally let my guard down. “So it’s not fair you think I’m an arsehole who’s only interested in jumping straight into the sack.”
Her features tense. “And do you think it is fair for the women you’re… seeing? Have fun and then hide them like some dirty little secret?”
“Maybe you think you do, but you don’t know anything about what’s going on in my life. And besides, what makes you think you can judge me? You of all people?” My tone is flat and even.
She takes a step back. “Me of all people? What do you mean?” she asks, and I watch her eyes fill with tears.
“Look at you. You’re an intelligent, independent woman and yet you’ve been putting up with a prick who’s been hurting you in more ways than you have the courage to admit.”
She winces. Then everything is silent for a while.
“Why did you bother coming here at all?” The words burst out in a trembling voice. “Wait, I know the answer: because you couldn’t score that night. What a harsh blow to your male ego, huh? But you’re wasting your time. I’m no one’s fuck buddy, hang-out-friend-with-perks or whatever you were counting on,” she says without taking a breath.
I tug at her hand firmly and lock my eyes on hers. “Olivia, stop it.”
“Go to hell,” she spits in a whisper, wiping the tears away with the back of her hand.
Pushing her backwards, I cage her with my flattened hands against the wall. “I’m already there, sweetie! Now, look at me,” I tell her in a low harsh tone.
She keeps her eyes down.
“Look at me, goddammit!”
Eventually, she glances up, a blank stare hiding how much hurt has already corroded her inside. There are hardly any cracks in her armour, I truly don’t know how to get in and tear her guard down.
“You’re wrong again,” I say. “You’re not a failed hook-up. How can you even think that? The moment I saw you that day at my sister’s, when you came for your granddad’s funeral, my world began spinning out of control.”
She looks taken aback. “You saw me too?”
“I knew it was you. Instantly. And from then on, I couldn’t get you out of my mind. Damn it, Liv, feeling like this again is pretty scary.”
It’s like a hurricane sweeping everything in its wake and I can’t do anything but watch the mess left behind.
If she could only understand that.
“That’s the only truth, Liv. That’s what I really came here for: to make a fool out of myself and let you know I miss you. And that I love you, I always have.”
“What?” she breathes out, unable to look me in the eyes.
“I love you, Liv.”
She remains silent for a few moments, shaking her head slowly, the swelling of her breasts rising and falling with each nervous breath.
“Liv?”
“No. No. No. This is just insane. Grown tired of swiping right on everyone on Tinder or wherever people go these days to get laid? Is that it?” she cries, clamping a trembling hand over her mouth. “The thing is, I’m not like the women you’re used to – so what the hell were you even thinking?”
What? I throw my hands up in the air with exasperation.
“Last nerve, woman, you’re stepping on it.”
“That you’d come here, snap your fingers and I’d let you treat me like homework?”
I push her hard against the wall and bend down, my mouth hovering just above hers. “Yes, I’d gladly slam you on the table and do you. All. Fucking. Night. Long.”
She tilts her head up slightly, I don’t even know how come our lips aren’t touching.
“I’m sure you would. And you wouldn’t stop until my legs are quivering and the neighbours think Oh God is your middle name, right? Because I wouldn’t settle for less, Brian Anderson!”
Jesus. If the line between furious irony and this feeling that she’s actually asking me to take her wasn’t so blurred, I’d already be all over her.
I pound on the wall, struggling to keep control. “But have you even heard anything of what I said? Just told you that I love you!”
“So what? Those are nothing but words. Empty words.” She nearly chokes on a sob. “Empty words and empty promises. I’ve been listening to those all my life.”
So what?! Her indifference knocks me to the ground, and I decide it’s time to throw in the towel.
“Sure, to you that means absolutely nothing. I should have known better by now,” I tell her in a small voice as I release her and step back.
Fighting back the wave
of disappointment, I quickly put my jacket back on and open the door.
“What now?” she interrupts me. “I’ve hurt your feelings? Why would I believe you? Why would I trust you? I trusted you before and see what happened? You broke that trust!”
I let the door slam hard behind me.
“I did what? So glad you bring that up! It’s just about time I stop wondering what the hell I’ve done to you! So, please, do enlighten me. Spit it out and let’s settle this once and for all.”
22 TEARING SCARS
“SO HOW DO YOU think that made me feel, huh?” she cries, her hands shaking, her voice failing her.
Right now, I don’t have an answer. I’m still trying to make some sense out of the insane story I’ve been listening to the past five minutes.
The moment of truth finally arrived, and I thought I was ready for it, but I’m not. Her words are burning in my core in a hundred unimaginable ways.
“Brian? Aren’t you going to say anything?”
No, I’m not. What I’ve just heard is so absurd I don’t even have the words to describe what I think about it, what I’m feeling. I need five seconds to cool off and gather my thoughts.
I get up from the sofa and head for the window, where I lean over the old, rusty balcony rail and look down at the sunny Verónica Square.
There’s a bunch of British tourists sitting at the outdoor café, sipping beer and talking loudly and cheerfully, searching for something on a map. Ten to one, they’re looking for a way out of this goddamned labyrinth of narrow streets and crammed buildings.
My eyes shift to the young couple – really young, probably as young as we were back then – seated on the stone steps next to the building of the former School of Arts and Crafts. They’re all wrapped up in love, one can see by the smiles on their faces, still so full of hopes and dreams. If they only knew...
Olivia comes up behind me and rests her hand on my shoulder. “I know I should have handled it differently back then. And throwing it in your face now, it’s just as stupid. I’m sorry. But we were kids, and that’s what kids do, dumb things. Please, come inside.”
