Eventually.
PART TWO
After Kirk
Chapter Ten
The deafening silence hit her the moment he left the house. He had gone. And this time, she had a feeling it was for good.
Her blood was still up from the anger she had felt when she pushed him; all the frustration; all the pent up tension; all the months of rules and ultimatums and lists and talk-a-thons and breaks. Nothing would ever be good enough for him. Not even this weekend, when she’d gone to extensive effort to buy in the right foods, plan nice things to do, keep the mood light and breezy.
But no, that morning, he had been like a caged bear. He had blamed it on a ‘vibe’ that he didn’t like. That was the reason he had packed his bags and gone home. That was the reason he was walking out of the relationship. After the hours of counselling she’d gone to at his behest, the talk-a-thons she’d endured, the hoops she’d jumped through, all the money she’d spent, it was a so-called ‘vibe’ that had finished them off. That was the one hurdle that she couldn’t jump over – maintaining a happy vibe at all times.
That’s why her temper had snapped. Like a short fuse. Like a switch that had been flicked. It seemed that she had gone from nought to one hundred, all in one go.
She replayed those final scenes. “Don’t do this,” she had begged him. But he had been resolute. His jaw had been set with the grim determination of someone who had made up his mind. He was leaving, and that was that.
Then those tears had come; loud and hysterical. Loud gasping tears which she was sure the neighbours could hear.
And then had come the push. The one and only time she had ever touched anyone. She relived it all. The pain, the anger, the despair, all piling up in one go. The frustration that nothing would ever be enough. “Fuck off, then!” she’d shouted. “Fuck off, you using bastard!”
Her blood had still been pounding after he’d gone outside.
“Get away from me,” he’d said. “You’ve physically assaulted me.” He had that air of disdain. He knew better. He was a therapist. She was like a sick patient.
Then, after his taxi had gone, she had paced around her apartment, frantic. Her head had throbbed; her mind had raced.
You’ve physically assaulted me. His words rang in her ears. You’ve physically assaulted me. Shame washed over her like a high tide. I must be a really sick person; to push someone like that. Oh my God, I’m so fucked up.
With trembling hands, she found her fingers lifting her phone, frantically trying to phone someone; Jason, her sister, anyone. Anyone that would listen. Anyone that would confirm that yes, this was not a nightmare. And yes, this was actually happening. Yes, this was just another row with Kirk, and he was bound to come back.
Jason listened intently, letting Sasha’s frantic and hysterical words fall out of her until eventually, after what seemed like a long time, she began to calm down a little bit.
“It’s not your fault,” Jason assured her. “Of course you didn’t physically assault him. You gave him a tiny push. My God, how many couples up and down the country haven’t done that at some stage?”
“No,” Sasha disagreed. “No, it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have pushed him. That was wrong. I must be a bad person.”
Jason persisted, “Sasha, please. Stop beating yourself up. My God, if you were to phone the police and say you’ve physically assaulted someone, if you then told them it was a push, they’d laugh at you. They’d think you were wasting their time.”
Sasha sat silently then, letting his soothing words settle on her; wishing that it was true.
“Kirk has you so ground down,” Jason went on. “He’s made you feel so shit about yourself, that this is just another way to make you feel bad.”
Sasha came off that phone call wanting to believe Jason. Wanting with every inch of her body to feel that it wasn’t all her fault. But she continued to watch her phone with despair, wondering if Kirk would text her, wondering if this wasn’t some horrible blip in their relationship; but knowing deep in her gut that this time it really was the end.
He wasn’t texting her. He wasn’t coming back. Not this time. She had gone one step too far. She had assaulted him. There was no coming back from this.
She texted him regardless; begging texts apologising for pushing him; claiming that it was the first (and the last) time she’d ever do that. That it would never happen again. That she was so sorry. But he ignored her. Every single text was left unanswered.
She was still in shock. She really couldn’t believe that it was finally over this time. After all the times they’d fought and made up, she really did think he would suddenly message her again, and everything would be forgotten.
In work, that next week, she carried her phone around with her everywhere. When she went to make tea, she kept her phone on the tea-tray, watching it the whole time, hoping that he would message. When she went to the loo, she set the phone on the floor and watched it the entire time, hoping it would spring to life. Last thing at night and first thing in the morning, she’d reach for her phone to check if he’d messaged her. Nothing.
An email did arrive. Not one week later. Not one month later. But two months later. Her heart hammered as she saw his name flash up on her screen.
A voice inside her said, See? I knew he would get in touch eventually.
She held her breath while she read his message; her fingers quivered with shock.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Hey Sasha, I was just thinking of you, and wondering how you are. Things are okay with me, however, my dad is not well at the moment, unfortunately. He’s in hospital with cancer, and we don’t expect he has long to live. I’m staying with my mum quite a bit, to help her through this difficult time.
I hope you and your family are well.
Kirk X
Sasha’s heart continued to hammer as she read and re-read the email. Despite herself, she went into immediate analysis mode:
• What does this mean?
• What does he want?
• Does he want me back?
• He must be missing me?
If his dad is unwell and he’s turning to me, that means that the person he wants to comfort him, is me.
Sasha read and re-read the email, reading the words in black and reading her own presumptions in the white spaces in between. It was a sign, surely.
With her hope restored, and her dreams of his love for her confirmed, she replied,
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Hi Kirk,
It’s nice to hear from you.
I’m really sorry to hear about your dad. I’m sure it’s a very difficult time for you and your family. If there is anything I can do to help, please let me know.
Sasha x x
Looking back, she should have ignored his email completely. However, if love was a switch, she couldn’t turn hers off immediately. And unfortunately she was still in love with him, even after the storming out and the vibe and the physical assault. It was love. Pesky, annoying, inconvenient love.
There was no reply to her email. Another few weeks passed before he emailed her again. It was as if he’d dangled a carrot in front of her and then snatched it away.
‘Yes, I’m still here. Yes, I still think of you,’ the carrot said. But, ‘oops! That’s me off again! That’s all you’re getting!
Heart – you may have been starting to heal – but let’s reignite the fire and bring back all the pain for you…
If it had been a one-off email, Sasha might have understood. But looking back, she never realised that these carrot emails would appear, sporadically, for a long time to come.
Chapter Eleven
The next dangle of the carrot was a couple of months later. Just as Sasha was beginning to move on, Kirk popped up again, with another email, tempting her by seeming to say, see? I can’t forget about you. See? It really was love. See? I can’t move on either.
&nb
sp; How many break-ups were clear-cut, Sasha wondered? How many times, from the point of someone saying, ‘we need to talk,’ was that really the end?
How many times was that the last contact, the final chapter, no more epilogues or going back for more? Next to never, Sasha imagined.
Sasha was sitting in her favourite morning coffee shop when the next email arrived. It had become a habit, this morning coffee shop. It had become her haven. Her head was constantly whirring, constantly trying to process the heartbreak that had just happened, and this coffee shop gave her the peace to do it. It had comfy sofas, and strong coffee, and low lighting and good looking waiters; guys with scruffy hair and low-cut jeans, guys whose motorbikes sat parked outside, guys who looked like they snorted powder up their nose at the weekend and spent their Saturday nights banging their heads in a mosh-pit in town, guys that were eye candy.
There was one guy in particular who caught her eye. He had shoulder length dark hair which he pulled back into a ponytail. He had chiselled features and dark eyes. He wore jeans that hugged his cute bum and outlined the contours of his legs. He was cool personified. Sometimes, she’d look up and catch him looking at her, and then he’d look away quickly. It was a fun game and it distracted Sasha momentarily.
Sasha would sit on the low comfy sofa with her hot Americano on the coffee table in front of her. She’d have a notepad of paper on her lap and a pen in her hand and she would write. Write and write and write. Morning pages, she called them, or a diary. A stream of consciousness. It was her therapy. It cleared her head in the morning. She’d get everything off her chest about Kirk and then she’d put the pen and paper away and walk to work and start her day afresh, trying desperately to move on from the constant heartbreak that consumed her.
After a while, someone joined her on the opposing sofa. A woman in her fifties. Attractive. Well-dressed. Smiley. Polite. She wore a wedding ring and an engagement ring. Lucky bitch, Sasha thought, imagining her cosy, settled, suburban lifestyle.
But the woman was too pleasant to be resentful towards. She was smiley and polite, without being gushing or over the top. She made small talk but then knew when to be quiet. It was as if they had an unspoken rule: quiet time.
Sasha would have her head stuck in her writing and Mrs Wedding Ring would have hers stuck in her Kindle and that would be that – perfect quiet.
It got to a stage that Sasha began to keep a seat for her – setting her coat on the empty sofa to deter other customers. And removing the coat when Mrs Wedding Ring came along.
If Sasha was honest, it was for purely selfish reasons. Mrs Wedding Ring knew how to respect the quiet code, while other customers would chat noisily on their phone and interrupt Sasha’s peace. It seemed that Sasha needed a lot of peace at that time. Her head was so chaotic with analysing, figuring out and resolving her heartbreak that it felt that her head was on a washing machine spin of epic proportions.
So, that morning, when Kirk’s email arrived, Sasha was sitting opposite Mrs Wedding Ring.
The email that Kirk sent her was a YouTube link to a song – the Castaway soundtrack. There were no words in his email – just the link to the song.
Sasha knew what that meant. Castaway was a film they had watched together, lying cuddled up in a hotel room together, when they had been wrapped in a cloud of love and togetherness. It was a time that Sasha pined for; a time that seemed so real and so recent and yet it had been snatched from her, as though a thief in the night had left her empty and desolate.
Sasha knew what that soundtrack meant. Kirk had started crying the moment the orchestral tones had flooded out of the TV set that night. It was a song of hope, of determination, of strength over adversity. But most of all, the song was a memory, of that night they’d had together.
Sasha felt her inward spirit soar. It was as if her heart was saying, See? He does love me! I knew it didn’t make sense that he just walked out that day. He does still love me!
Her heart soared with confirmation and validation. I knew it.
In her joy, she found herself telling Mrs Wedding Ring.
“I’ve just got an email from my ex,” she blurted out, despite herself, her face glowing. “He sent me a song.”
Mrs Wedding Ring smiled in a conciliatory manner. “See?” she confirmed. “He’s thinking about you. He still misses you.”
“Yes,” Sasha glowed, despite herself. Even though any other normal girl would have been saying ‘Fuck him! It’s months since he’s been in touch. What? He sends you a poxy song with no words in his email and you’re supposed to jump up and down in excitement?’
But that’s exactly what Sasha was doing internally – jumping up and down in excitement. I knew it. I knew he still loved me!
His email had been sent the night before – in the early hours of the morning. Sasha replied straight away.
“Lovely song. I remember that night we watched that film.”
A reply pinged back from him straightaway. “Indeed! X”
That was it. “Indeed.” There were no more emails for days after that. But it was enough to raise Sasha’s hopes and lift her spirits. He’d be back. She knew it.
Mrs Wedding Ring confided in her one day. “I’m actually widowed,” she said, in response to Sasha’s casual conversation about ‘you and your husband.’
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Sasha said with sympathy. She chided herself. All along, she’d put Mrs Wedding Ring down as a smug married, with a perfect life. But here she was with her own grieving.
“He died when he was thirty-four,” she said. “Cancer.” She spoke briefly about what had happened. The sad time, how she had tried to pick herself up. From then on, it was as if there was a bond between them. Both of them nursing private hurts. Both of them experiencing loss. Both of them trying to put on a brave face, to get through the day. Both of them comforted that neither of them was alone.
Chapter Twelve
It seemed that songs were the method through which Kirk wanted to communicate with Sasha.
Weeks passed before any more emails arrived from him.
After the initial, ‘See? He does still love me! He does still care!’ the silence dampened her hope again. Perhaps it was just a momentary blip he’d had. Perhaps he was drunk one night and feeling morose. Perhaps, in the cold light of day, he’d remembered why he’d finished with her (‘You physically assaulted me’) and he would go back to his rigid determination not to contact her.
As each day of silence passed, Sasha’s hope would fade. It really was over, she’d tell herself. She really did have to accept it. No longer could she live in the shock-and-denial-carriage. She had to move into the acceptance carriage and realise that this time, it really was finished. Days rolled into weeks. Sasha would turn up at the coffee shop, save the other sofa for Mrs Wedding Ring, cast a flirty eye at the waiter, drink her coffee and write her morning pages. Mrs Wedding Ring would turn up, fresh-faced and smiling, thank her for saving her a seat, get a cup of tea, make a little small talk and then settle to read her Kindle. The routine rolled on, day after day, week after week. Until words scrolled across Sasha’s page like ‘acceptance…’ and, ‘it really is over this time…’ and ‘he’s not coming back…’
Moving away from the shock and denial, the plaster of acceptance was being placed on her heartbreak. She began to come to realise that yes, it really was final.
Which is why it was confusing that every couple of months Kirk would re-appear, to rip the plaster off, open the wound and re-ignite the pain again.
It was never really possible to move on when he kept re-appearing like this, sparking her hope and showing her that yes, he was still thinking about her and yes, he did still love her.
The next email that arrived was also a late night email. Sasha was beginning to notice a pattern. Could the late nights suggest drink taken? Sitting on his own? Feeling lonely? Reminiscing about their good times?
Again it was songs. A string of songs this time. One after the other. A list of ab
out twenty emails. Sasha couldn’t believe her eyes as they pinged in one after the other. It was like receiving a bountiful feast after months in the desert.
“This is Blondie,” he wrote, attaching a Blondie song. “You look like the girl from Blondie.”
And then another; “This is Kim Wilde. You look like Kim Wilde.”
On and on the songs went, accompanied by compliments and memories. It seemed as if he was having a real reminiscence party and she wasn’t there to join in.
“Can I phone you?” he asked.
Sasha’s heart raced with excitement. This would be the moment. This would be the point where he would say, ‘I can’t live without you. I thought I’d be able to but I can’t. I’ve missed you so much. I just can’t do this, Sasha.’
But, as she got herself ready for the call, sitting up, propping herself up on her pillows, now wide awake; the adrenaline coursed through her. She waited. And waited. And waited. No call came.
Sasha could only conclude that he had fallen asleep.
Sure enough, late the next afternoon, he replied. When she saw his name pop up on the screen, her heart jumped with excitement. This would be the moment where he’d declare his undying love for her, that all these months apart had made him realise how much he loved her.
Sasha was mid-shop in M&S when her phone dinged with excitement. Unable to wait to read his email later, she stood still in the aisle, basket in hand, next to the fresh meats and the packages of sausages and she glanced quickly at his email to get the gist of the content.
“So confused at the moment…..” she saw.
“Sorry for contacting you….”
“It won’t happen again….”
Her heart sank down to her very toes. How could this be happening? How could he be rejecting her again? All these months later? How could he have given her so much heartbreak, and then come back, to further kick her to the floor?
The Year of No Rules Page 6
