by K. L. Jessop
I shake off the shiver that runs through me when the cold pools of water make contact with my feet as I head out to be with him. How can he stand the autumn chill and not feel the cold? It’s freezing. Approaching him from behind, I circle my arms around his waist to place my hands flat against his chest, my cheek resting against the solid muscles of his back that are now glazed with goosebumps.
“I wondered where you got to,” I murmur.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Have you been out here long?” I ask, already knowing the answer as his body is ice cold.
“No.”
My eyes close with his response, disliking that he can’t be honest with me. It had been the same last night when I’d asked about the room that is forever closed. The one he locks. The one that I am forbidden from entering. Painting equipment is clearly stored in there as he’d emerged with brushes before we’d painted, and I already know of his work, so why so secretive?
Moving around to face him, I am relieved that he welcomes me in his embrace, however, his eyes are still on the city skyline. He looks distant, like the world is on his shoulders, and I don’t like it. Needing him to escape whatever torment he is currently battling, I place my hands on his cheeks, bringing his line of sight back on me.
The second his eyes find mine, I see them change. The distress fades away like clouds breaking on a dull day and his body relaxes.
“Hi,” I whisper.
His lips tug a fraction before he grips my chin with his thumb and forefinger, pulling me closer so I have to reach up on my tiptoes. His nose runs along my cheekbone, moving to my hair where he inhales my scent, his free hand gripping the back of my neck, securing me in place like he doesn’t want to let go. I let him caress me in a way I believe he needs before he comes back to press his mouth against mine, kissing me with so much conviction and grace it has my heart raging like a thunderstorm in my chest. The tips of our tongues whisper against each other and I grip on tighter to stop the fall—a descent I know I’ll never recover from, no matter how hard I hold on, because the man has me freefalling harder than I can contain.
How does he do it? How can he elicit such a reaction from me with the simplest of touches?
“What was that for?” I breathe, wishing I’d never questioned him because I should be grateful for the connection we have, regardless of what secrets we continue too hide from one another.
But his response is not what I am expecting, nor does he answer my question, and even though I’m left confused, it makes my breath catch all the same when he murmurs, “You always bring me back.”
He’s like a closed book with a hidden key that I fear I will never be able to find no matter how hard I search. I wish he would talk to me, tell me what haunts him so greatly—I wish he’d trust me. He hasn’t even disclosed his bipolar and I question whether he is ashamed of that. Or maybe that’s the reason and that’s why he hides himself so much because in his eyes it is humiliation. Maybe that’s why he punishes those who try to get close in the only way he can instead of expressing the challenges he faces daily. But the underlying questions that come from all of this is why or who has had the power to make him ashamed? Who made him feel such doubt and worthlessness to begin with when all I see is a beautifully broken man in the search for solace?
“I’m right here waiting, Dexter.” And I will be.
He turns me in his arms and we both look out over the city. The morning sun is still rising, and the sky shows it’s going to be a nice day. The rush hour traffic is a low hum below us while river boats travel up and down the canal as the distant sound of reggae music beats against the walls from Camden market.
“You know that’s something I’ve never done in all the years I’ve lived in London…”
“What?” he questions, his chin now resting on my head.
“Been on a riverboat. I might travel home on the canal instead of going on my scooter.” Last night, Dexter and I went to collect my scooter, pushing it off the road and around the back of the gallery to keep it safe until I can get it fixed. The paintwork has scratches and the headlight and wing mirror need replacing, too. It’s all minor damage, but the accident has knocked my confidence a little. I need to get back on it as it’s an easier form of travel around the city, but right now, the idea makes me anxious.
“I’ve never been on one either. Doesn’t really interest me.”
“Nothing interests you other than sex and spray paint,” I tease.
“Bullshit. I have many interests.”
“Alright, name them.”
He thinks longer than I expect, and I’m patiently waiting for his answer when he replies with one.
“Well, there’s JD.”
“I love how you thought long and hard about that.”
He chuckles. “Okay, maybe I don’t have that many interests.”
“Well, I’ll have to help you find them.” I turn in his arms to face him again. His once dark eyes are now trouble free. “But as much as I’d like to, right now I need to get some work done.”
“I wouldn’t bother. It’s dusty as fuck in the gallery. I’d give it a day or so before you head back in there.”
The builders have said they won’t take too long with the renovations, but that doesn’t mean I can let my workload slack while I wait. The website still needs to be completed and Dexter still needs to help me out with that regardless of his reluctance. “That’s okay, I’ll work from home.”
“You don’t have to do that. Take another day.”
“I’ve taken a day already. Besides, I need to go home.”
“Why? It’s not like you have a cat to feed.”
“Not anymore no: someone attacked my pussy and tore my knickers to tatters.” I wiggle my eyebrows. “Although, I do need to head into Camden market while I’m here: I need something for Malcolm’s Birthday.”
His features change and his words come out a little sharp. “Who’s Malcolm?”
Jealous?
I’m in two minds to keep him guessing, see his reaction, but Dexter is not a man to cross, and I like this bubble of contentment too much to sabotage it with my game. “He is my best friend.”
“Single?”
“And very gay. So, no need to worry.”
“I never said I was.”
“You didn’t have to.” I grin. “Do you want to come with me?”
“No.”
“Go on. I’ll buy you some macaroons if you’re a good boy.”
“I said no.” His voice is stern, and I pull out of his hold, irritated because I pushed him when I told myself I wouldn’t.
“Well in that case, do you have some shorts or something I can wear until I get home? My dress is a little short now that I’ve got no tights to wear either.”
His back straightens. “You’re heading into Camden now?”
I just said I was.
“It’s on my way home. It’ll save time.”
“You’re not going out to have every man gawk over you should the wind catch your dress.”
“Then find me something I can wear or come with me,” I say firmly.
He studies me for a moment, and I see the hesitation in his eyes until he replies. “I’ll find you something.”
I pull the joggers of Dexter’s I’m wearing up around my waist as they keep falling with being too big. They’re all he had spare and due to them falling down with every step I take, he’s half-heartedly decided to come with me after all.
We are in Stables Market of Camden. Vintage and retro style clothes hang around us, music pours from speakers we can’t see and the differing aromas of cooked food and spices linger around every corner from the outdoor food markets. My plan to find Malcolm’s birthday present is failing: everything I find he either has already or he owns something familiar. That man has a bigger fashion wardrobe than Lady Gaga, so it’s made it difficult to find something original. As I look through different styles that jump out at me, I feel Dexter’s lack of enthusiasm behind me
as he slowly merges into the background. What had started off as a morning where we were spending time together has now become somewhat of a lone shopping trip. I’ve felt him fade from my side the deeper into the crowds we’ve gotten. He’s clearly not himself today, so I don’t pressure him. I’m just happy that he’s here and willing to try when I get the feeling he’s wanting to run. Finding a very large, tan brim hat—that I fancy getting for myself—and a big, black and white feather boa, I place them on and turn in Dexter’s direction. With my hand on my hip, I pose with a pout to blow him a cheeky kiss as he approaches, only it goes unnoticed because his eyes are everywhere as if he is searching, his face drained of colour.
“Are you okay?”
“Pepper, I—" He starts to speak when a child’s scream bellows out near us. Dexter’s head spins in the direction of the noise, his body rigid. The child appears to have fallen, and her mother bends to comfort her, but as I take my eyes off the little blonde girl, it’s Dexter I’m more concerned about. As he focuses on the child, the anguish and uneasiness in his stance makes my own body freeze. The vulnerability in him is nothing I’ve ever seen before. His fists are balled at his sides, his knuckles white, and his chest rises and falls harshly. He’s back there, in a place he never speaks of—the place where his troubles fester.
Stripping off the hat and boa, I take his face in my hands, trying my best to bring him back to me.
“Dexter. Look at me.”
It takes him a moment, but when he does, he’s still so distant. His big eyes are laced with so much heartache it’s crushing. The only physical contact I have from him is the firm grip of his hands on my hips. The pressure makes me wince, and I fight the urge to escape because I’m unsure he realises what he’s doing.
“Find me, Dexter. Look at me.”
The terror in his eyes generates an ache in my chest that’s so intense I have to blink back the tears. I know Dexter has his demons, I never realised that they had the ability to make this strong man so defenceless. His frame tremors under my touch, his skin clammy. He’s broken, utterly shattered, and I don’t feel I can do anything to help him because I don’t… have… answers.
“Blue…” I barely recognise the broken whisper that comes from him.
“I’m here. I’m right here.”
As if my words wade through his distress, he releases my hips and wraps his arms around me in the tightest embrace, like he’s too afraid to let go. He buries his face in the dip of my neck as his fingers lace through my hair, his heart racing against mine as I hold him close, ignoring everything and everyone else around us as we lock ourselves in our bubble of wreckage and ruins. Needing him to talk. Wishing he would tell me.
“I’ll always be here.”
“You okay?” I murmur, trailing my fingertip over his cheek. We both lie naked in my bed, me on my front and Dexter on his side facing me as his own fingertips trail up and down my naked back. We haven’t had sex, but as soon as my front door had closed behind us, Dexter had stripped from his clothes as if they were suffocating him and headed into my room. After getting the bottle of Jack Daniel I’d bought the other day, I too had removed my clothes and rested beside him.
He hasn’t spoken at all, and I don’t want to push him, but I don’t know how long I can go on like this.
“You know you can talk to me, right? About anything. No matter how bad things are.”
“I don’t want to talk. I want to listen. I need to hear you right now.”
My heart sinks with his reply. Will he ever open up?
“Okay.” If that’s what he needs. “What shall I talk about?”
He runs a finger down the centre of my back and when his eyes find mine, my stomach drops with recognition.
Not this. Anything but this.
“Dexter.”
"Please. Tell me what your tattoo means?"
I close my eyes as my own haunts I wish to forget hit me like a freight train. “It means I am strong,” I whisper. “It means I’m surviving, even though at times it doesn’t feel like I am.”
Life since Persie has been nothing but a constant struggle where I plaster a smile on my face in the hope it will change the way I feel inside.
Dexter continues his comforting touch on my back as tears glass my eyes. My heart squeezes with what I’m about to divulge.
I’ve talked about Persie and her accident to others, but I’ve never talked about the effect her death really had on me—the pain I physically felt; the raw ache that ripped me in two before I truly knew of the fate that laid with Persie.
“Three years ago, my sister, Persie, died. She was killed outright in a car accident. She stayed at a friend’s house the night before and was heading back that morning to meet me as we had uni. I was walking down the street when I suddenly had this sheer pain in my chest that had me falling to the ground. My fingers and mouth were numb, and my lungs felt so tight that I struggled to breathe. Malcolm was frantic with worry and screaming for someone to help as I laid there with my eyes closed, trying to calm myself as best as I could while Persie’s face was all I saw staring back at me as if she were actually there with me. And at that moment, I knew something was wrong.”
I’ve never experienced anything else like it in my life. The pain I’d felt was like someone had kicked me to the floor and pressed a heavy weight on my chest and let it go for it to crush me. I hadn’t been able to breathe, but it had been my heart that was hurting more than anything. “That feeling of fear I had for Persie was so deep that it outweighed the pain of why I was originally taken to hospital. I rang and I rang but got nothing. I was so scared because I knew, I knew something wasn’t right and no one would listen to me. They said I needed to rest. Not long after, I rang her again… and when it connected, and I heard the officer’s voice, I knew why I was in so much pain."
"You felt some kind of impact because of your close connection.” His matter of fact statement hits home so solidly that I break down.
“I must have.”
No one will ever understand my suffering since that day. Grief is grief, but what my sister and I had shared was something I’ll never have again. I believe I felt part of the pain Persie endured at that tragic time, and I carry that with me daily.
“Persie was my identical twin.” I break through my falling tears. "And she died on our birthday.”
“Jesus, Blue…” Strong arms cover me as he pulls me towards him. Whispers of solace and compassion press against my skin as he holds a kiss to my forehead that I feel in the very depths of my soul. “I’m so sorry.”
“I miss her so much it hurts.”
I’m secured in his embrace as his thumbs brush my tears away until the last one falls in silence. I don’t know how much time passes, but when I see that dusk has filtered through my window, I know it’s been too long that we’ve been silent.
"You hide your pain behind your smile,” he murmurs, breaking the silence like he’s been thinking this through for some time. “It makes sense now.”
“I try as best as I can because it’s what Persie would have wanted.” Leaving Dexter’s side, I sit up and reach to the bottle of JD that is on my bedside table. Taking a long mouthful, I pass the bottle to Dexter.
“What was she like?”
“Exactly like me.” I chuckle. “Only more outspoken.”
“Jesus, really? I thought you were bad enough.”
“Watch it.” I prod him in the side. “We were inseparable. Studied Journalism together, too.”
“That’s why you stopped?”
I nod. “Maybe one day I’ll go back when it’s less painful. I know my parents would like me to, especially Dad as that’s what his life has been built on. Right now, he wants me to find myself again.”
“They sound like good people.”
“My mum has her quirks, but I couldn’t wish for any better from either of them. They want me to be happy.”
“And are you?”
I’m unsure if his question is about my
true state of mind or if he’s referring to when I’m with him. Truth is that Dexter has made me forget the pain and opened my eyes to a world I’d never seen. I haven’t wanted anyone because I am so consumed with grief and heartache, but he’s taken that away without me realising and replaced it with something else—something more—and the idea of losing this feeling he has generated scares me. I can’t go back to who I was. I can’t.
“Right now I am.”
He studies me for a second before he takes a long drink. The change in his eyes is noticeable. Uncertainty, solitude and loss cloud them and it makes my stomach drop.
Reaching out, I stroke the back of my hand down his cheek and whisper the words I’ve been so desperate to hear the answers to. "What's your story, Dexter?"
I feel his body tense beside me, the silent hostility between us loud and clear. He doesn’t have to tell me everything: I need to understand him a little better—like why he reacted the way he did today.
"This is me asking, not for work purposes." Moving closer, I cup his jaw, but he pulls back.
"Don’t."
"Look at me, Dexter."
He refuses, so I try again, this time not giving him a choice as my voice is low but full of strength.
“Look. At. Me.”
When he does, apprehension washes his features. I place my hand on his cheek again and hold his painful stare as I murmur the words he seems too afraid to speak, hoping my knowledge will help him open up. "I know you have bipolar. And I know for whatever reason you are fighting it."
The colour drains from his face as if I’ve cut open a wound and left him to bleed.
He swallows. "You know?"
"Yes."
“How?”
I give him a knowing look and his eyes close with recognition as he spits the name between his teeth. “Emmet.”
“He didn’t want to tell me, but you were all over the place and I needed to know why because you were difficult to work with. So I made him tell me.”
