by E. S. Maria
My hands are itching to touch his hair. I used to love running my fingers through the smooth, dark blonde strands, and now I wonder if he’s cut his hair, or if he’s grown it even longer. But just as I’m about to find out, I hear the familiar sound of the front door opening, followed by the sound of two people talking animatedly.
Mum and Brodie!
And just like that, my brain has whooped my heart’s ass and is now keeping it under lock and key.
What the hell am I doing kissing Atticus like that? Have I not learned anything?
I break off the kiss, pushing Atticus off with all my might. And judging from the sound of his protest, he’s actually surprised by the sudden rejection.
“Don’t you ever try to kiss me again, you hear me?” I whisper harshly at him, making a show of wiping my mouth in distaste. Then with my heart still beating too fast to control, I push past him, needing to distance myself from him as far away as possible.
“Guess who’s back from the hospital with a massive bruised ego?” Brodie calls out as they join us in the living room.
“Oh, shush, you,” Mum answers back, chuckling not long after. I can just imagine her playfully smacking my brother’s shoulder, before pinching his cheek like he’s still a little boy.
It makes me smile, until I realise how much I want to actually see Mum doing that to Brodie.
Ignoring the pain caused by the tightness in my chest and keeping the smile plastered on my face, I remark, “Now I know where I got my clumsiness from.”
“Sweetheart, don’t listen to your brother. I only fell because I got some news that got me truly excited. But we’ll talk about that later,” Mum embraces me warmly before kissing my cheek.
“And Atticus, my dear, thank you for keeping Hannah company.” Mum lets go of me, and I can imagine her with her arms outstretched, about to hug Atticus. “See? You’re a big star now, and yet it doesn’t bother you to come out of your way and do us a favour, like picking up my daughter.”
“It wasn’t a big deal, Mrs. M. When it comes to Hannah, I’d—”
“He was actually about to leave, Mum,” I cut him off firmly.
After a moment of awkward silence, he answers back, “Uh, yeah. I better head out. It was good to see you’re okay, Mrs. M.”
The scent of his cologne, the same one I used to love on him, hits me as closes our distance. I brace myself for what he’s about to do next, jumping when I feel his hand on my shoulder.
“Bye, Hannah. It was great catching up. We should definitely do that again. Actually you know what? I insist that we catch up again. Soon, hopefully.”
Then he gives my shoulder not one, but two pats.
Two pats … the type of gesture you give to an acquaintance, or even a pet, before you say goodbye.
What was I expecting anyway? A hug? A kiss?
God, he pisses me off!
Not long after, he takes his lingering hand off me, and then he says his goodbyes to both Mum and Brodie. I hear the door slam shut, just as Brodie announces he’s going to the kitchen, leaving Mum and me behind.
Mum grabs hold of my hand, squeezing it gently. “Brodie told me what you did this morning before you went to the support group session. I just want to say I’m bloody proud of you.”
Proud … of me?
I feel like a fraud. How can someone be proud of a fraudulent human being?
I’m suddenly overcome with a strong emotion, an emotion I’m so used to nowadays. And just like that, tears well up in my eyes. But these aren’t tears I want to shed because I’m proud of myself.
In fact, it’s the complete opposite.
The tears now falling are tears of shame, of guilt, of self-loathing.
I finally found enough courage to visit Paul’s final resting place, finally apologising to him in person for causing this tragedy to happen in the first place. Then the group session was my first step in my attempt to move on, to heal.
And then I just undo whatever progress I had by kissing the one person who, albeit unknowingly, initiated the whole chain of events that ended with my boyfriend dead and myself blinded.
Hence the self-loathing … because as much as I want to blame Atticus, I know that what happened that night, six months ago, was no one else’s fault but mine.
This was all on me.
So again, I’m forced to ask the question: If Mum knew about it, would she still be proud of me?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I love my mum with all my heart, truly I do. But there are times when she can really be taxing.
Like earlier, for example, as soon as Atticus finally left, I wasn’t in the mood to talk at all. I was already having a hard time processing what just happened between Atticus and me, so forming words into sentences was not something I was really keen on partaking. But my mum … she could be very persistent if she wanted to. So I told her everything she needed to know about the group session, but excluded everything else that might result in her blood pressure rising, for good measure.
She also asked me why I was so hard on Atticus, and why I couldn’t forgive him in the first place. Okay. That surprised me, not only because she might be aware of what went on between the two of us, but also why it had taken this long for her to ask.
Back then, I liked how Atticus and I were keeping things on the down low. It was our choice to make our family think we weren’t together because we both knew that we had an expiration date. So we kept our relationship under wraps, something meant for only between us, complete with sly glances, hands linked under the table, read-between-the-lines jokes, the adrenalin rush from stolen kisses, and him climbing in and out of my window for our secret make-out sessions. It felt like Atticus and I were living in our own little bubble, just floating carelessly with the wind, enjoying the wild ride without outside interference.
But bubbles are fragile, and the possibility of our bubble bursting was a notion we weren’t keen on entertaining.
I loved our bubble … I loved Atticus being in that same bubble with me.
I loved him. And I thought he loved me.
But one day, that bubble burst.
And all because Atticus could no longer stand being in the same bubble as I did.
My heart burst like that bubble.
Stupid, fucking bubble.
Now I hate that bubble. I wish I never allowed myself to be in it in the first place.
And to add more to the drama, I found out that people actually knew that we were together after he left. My brother was especially livid, telling me that I should’ve known better, that he warned me beforehand, that I shouldn’t have been so naïve as to think he’d actually commit to me.
It hurt me at first when Brodie kept his friendship with Atticus. But I had no right to tell him what not to do.
Why would I stop Brodie from being friends with Atticus when I was the stubborn one who refused to heed his warning and continued a relationship with Atticus in the first place?
I didn’t plan on committing with anyone for a long while after Atticus left me, but then I met Paul and something about him made me want to give love another chance. He made me see that my brother might actually be right―that maybe I did deserve better.
And I did get better.
But then, sometimes life decides to serve you a big bowl of irony with a whopping side of cruelty.
Because just when I was finally happy with someone whom I knew loved me unconditionally, I did something completely stupid to fuck it up, and I ended up losing everything as a consequence.
My head is beginning to pound, and I can feel blood literally swooshing in my head.
This can’t be good.
I have to stop reliving all the shit in my past.
I need to get some rest.
Wiping an escaped tear from my cheek, I leave my nook by the window and drag my feet towards the bed. But just before I hop on, my big toe hits something from underneath.
After getting over the initial sting, I bend down to reach
for the culprit.
I have a feeling it’s the same culprit that tripped me on the same day Brodie came home.
Since losing my eyesight, it has been a common thing for me to bump into, or to hit something in my path. I can’t even imagine how many bruises or cuts I have accumulated over the months. But it isn’t the little accidents that hurt me, but the hard fact that this has become a big part of my reality.
It doesn’t take me long to figure out what hurt my toe. The feel of the smooth leather and thick stitching instantly gives me a mental picture of exactly what it is.
My stomach clenches as my fingertips find the handle, and without thinking, I hold onto it and pull the whole thing out of my bed.
I remember telling my mum to hide it. Even though I can’t see it anymore, somehow, I don’t want my brain imagining it in its old spot next to my bed, like where it used to be when my bedroom was still upstairs.
But now, for some reason, I’m pulling the whole thing out, my fingers knowing where to go as they lift up the clasps that keep its content sealed and protected. My heart starts beating excitedly as I lift the lid up, immediately feeling the smooth surface of the body, the neck, all the way up to its head.
Buckley.
My guitar. Yes, my guitar has a name, and his name is as beautiful as he looks, just like the fallen singer who shares his namesake.
Brodie thought it was ridiculous to name my guitar like it was a pet or something.
Atticus, on the other hand, told me that if it helped me connect with the instrument better, then there was nothing wrong with giving it a name, though apparently, it would typically be given a girl’s name.
He named his, Betty.
I can’t believe I used to get jealous of Betty … how I wished back then that Atticus held me the way he did his acoustic guitar.
But that was none-the-wiser, fifteen-year-old me.
That’s why I gave my guitar a boy’s name. I did it foolishly in the hopes that Atticus might get jealous too.
He never got jealous.
Like I said, foolish.
But I had Buckley in my arms almost every day.
I thought I’d never play Buckley again when Atticus left me, but Paul inspired me to continue on.
And now he’s gone …
I shut my eyes tight as soon as I feel my eyes start to moisten.
Paul would’ve wanted me to continue playing. He loved hearing me play music. He wouldn’t have wanted me to stop.
And if I can just be honest with myself, then I’ll accept the fact that I’ve never been this excited to touch my guitar again.
Holding onto the fret board, I gently lift the whole thing out of its case, folding my legs so I can sit comfortably, before positioning the instrument the way I always had.
Before I knew it, I begin tuning the strings.
My dad bought me this guitar because I wanted to keep up with my brother. Brodie looks so cool whenever he plays. Plus girls who play guitar seem pretty bad-ass as well. But Brodie has a gift, and he is so good. He actually needed just a handful of lessons, and he was already playing like a pro. Not only that, but he plays a mean piano as well.
I’m not, on the other hand, a natural. Even after going to my guitar lessons, the flow just wasn’t there. The idea that I wasn’t good at it, frustrated me. I was a consistent top five student, and I excelled in sports and the arts.
Maybe that’s why I became frustrated. I really, really wanted to be good at playing guitar, and I was getting impatient.
I was so close to accepting that maybe I’d never play guitar the way I wanted to.
That was, until Atticus stepped in.
I shake my head, then I let out a deep breath.
I need to get that man out of my mind, and I know that the thing to do is just to shut out everything and anyone else.
So, like I always used to, I close my eyes, letting out a deep exhale … and then I strum.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Four Years Ago
“So Hannah,” Patty annoyingly tries to catch my attention by tapping my shoulder with her pointe finger, “aren’t you going to tell us who your brother’s new friend is?”
“Huh?” I ask, immediately annoyed by her question.
“You know, that guy who was leaving your house with Brodie the last time Brook and I came over for dinner? I know I’ve never seen him in school, so he’s not from around here. Give me the goss, woman!”
Patty, Brook, and I are at the local shopping centre to watch a movie and to find something to wear for Viv’s birthday party. The day has been going well so far, until Patty decides to annoy me with her curiosity.
Since meeting that jerk Atticus for the first time weeks ago, I just refuse to acknowledge his presence each time he’s at our place to practise with my brother. It’s a good thing that they practise in the shed, which my dad converted into a soundproofed mini studio so that Brodie and his fledgling band can play without disturbing everyone else in the neighbourhood.
My dad tolerates my brother’s playing, since he knows he’s really good at it. But it doesn’t mean he’s going to tolerate having the police called by our neighbours because of noise pollution.
Anyway, I used to enjoy watching the band practise and sometimes, I’d take my guitar and I’d play some songs with them. When Atticus started practising with the group, most of the time he would just ignore me. But when he did acknowledge my existence, he would either stare at me with annoyance, or he’d tell a joke at my expense.
I haven’t been in that converted shed with Brodie and the boys for over a month now.
“He’s just some guy Brodie met while he was busking at the other side of the centre.”
“Really? What’s his name? I think he’s cute. No, hot. Really hot.”
Why is Patty so keen? I love her, but right now, she’s really starting to piss me off.
“His name’s Atticus. But Brodie calls him Tic. Any more questions?”
“Like an insect Tic?” Brook asks, chuckling.
“Yeah, but no k at the end. Oh, and FYI, only his friends can call him that,” I add sarcastically.
Brook squints her eyes at me but doesn’t say a thing.
“So what’s he doing with Brodie?” Patty continues her interrogation.
I roll my eyes at her, before shrugging, “He plays great guitar and sings pretty well, if you like that tortured, brooding type of sound.”
“Oooh, I bet he is, you know, tortured. That’s super sexy. I bet he’s good at other things too,” Patty says with a dreamy look in her eyes that makes me want to throw up my lunch.
“Gross. Don’t say shit like that. You don’t even know him, and neither do I. To be honest, I don’t think he’s a band type of a person. He’s only close to Brodie but hasn’t really connected with the rest of the band. Maybe he’s just one gigantic asshole.”
Brook sighs, “Why are the hottest guys the biggest assholes?”
I don’t answer her question, distracting myself with checking out the clothes in the store we stepped in. I really don’t want to waste my breath talking about Atticus anymore. It turns out to be a good thing, since I find a couple of cute dresses that I know would be perfect for the party.
Saturday arrives in no time. We’re at Viv’s sixteenth birthday party, and it’s going off just as she said it would. Though Viv and I aren’t a real fit in terms of personality―she’s a bit of an entitled bitch, and I don’t like entitled bitches―we somehow became friends because her brother Mike plays the drums in the unnamed band my brother formed.
One of the guys from school sneaked in some tequila, and offers me a shot. I shake my head no, but Patty and Brook insist I take at least one shot to loosen up, seeing as they have taken a couple of shots each already. It’s not like I haven’t tasted alcohol before and enjoyed it. Also, parties like these would always have something to help ‘loosen up’ someone. But I’ve always been the designated ‘good girl’ though. And by ‘good girl,’ I mean
I don’t get shit-faced drunk at parties so people can talk about me the next day. I want to be aware of everything and anything. So, even though I did eventually succumb to the one shot offered to me, I shoo the guy away as soon as I’m done.
“C’mon, let’s dance. This is my song, people!” Patty screeches, rising up from the couch with her hands in the air. Judging from her slurred speech, Little Miss Lightweight strikes again.
She pulls me up, just as Brook leads us to the makeshift dance floor near Viv’s swimming pool. Her family hired a DJ, one of the best ones in the Central Coast, and the music is admittedly too hard to resist.
We’re dancing, giggling, showing off intentional god-awful moves, when three guys from our school approach us. Patty seems to know one of the guys, Stan, who focuses on her. Brook and I sneak a wink. I’ve seen this guy staring at Patty before, and it looks like he’s finally found the guts to come up to her.
Two of his friends start dancing with Brook and me. The guy I’m dancing with is Mal, who’s a bit on the short side, with spiky hair. Brook’s dance partner, on the other hand, is tall and lanky. But I must admit, they can dance, and quite well too, like b-boy style cool. Eventually though, Brook and I end up just standing there, watching with the rest of the guests, and cheering them on when our supposed partners begin an impromptu ‘battle.’
Having enough of the show, I excuse myself to look for some food. I’ve only had a soda and a shot of tequila, and my stomach is beginning to act up from hunger. I finally manage to find a table laden with enough fancy finger foods to feed an army, or in this case, a big group of teenagers.
I grab myself a chicken satay on a stick, presented so nicely in a skewer stick and squared banana leaf. The chicken already has peanut sauce on it, which I seem to have forgotten, as a good portion of the said sauce is now on the bodice of my brand-new, light blue, vintage-style dress.
Shit.
Does this stain?
Shit!
I look around for some serviettes, but just as I find the last two on a holder, a much bigger hand grabs them before I do.
