To Where You Are

by K. A. Hobbs

  I shrug and pull her inside into my drab, bare classroom. “Doesn’t really have quite the same dramatic flair, but the heart wants what it wants.”

  “Wow, you weren’t kidding about it needing Christmas in here, were you? This is a disgrace. Schools always have over the top decorations. We need to fix this.”

  Eyeing the box of doom hanging precariously near the edge of my desk, I point and say in a wobbly voice, “The Christmas is in that box over there. It may be contagious. I don’t want to get too close.”

  “I’ll make a start. Can you make good on the promise of hot chocolate, please?”

  I whistle through my teeth and chuckle as I head for the door. “Okay, but prepare yourself for the weirdest tasting hot chocolate you’ve ever had. I can promise you’ll never look at it the same way again.”

  By the time we’re done, my classroom looks like something out of a Hallmark Christmas movie, complete with twinkling lights and snowflakes dangling from the ceiling. It’s a work of art, and I really can’t take any of the credit. And even though I feel constant pangs of longing for my former companion, I find that Imogen’s chatter is soothing. She doesn’t seem to mind keeping the conversation flowing mostly on her own, or even seem to think there’s anything much wrong with me keeping quiet for the most part. She never gives me any grief for my short replies or the moments when I drift off into memories and fail to respond at all.

  When we’re done, I don’t feel quite ready to go home alone. The thought of the cold, empty house after her warm companionship leaves my stomach in knots and my chest aching for more.

  “Thank you for your help,” I say tightly, clutching her hands in mine and squeezing. “Let me repay you with dinner?”

  “It’s been a pleasure, truly, but I wouldn’t say no to dinner.”

  “Do you happen to like Chinese food? Only I’ve been craving noodles all day and I’d love some company.”

  She stands and brushes off her hands. “Make it rice, and you have yourself a deal.”

  “I, uh… I walk. It’s a bit of a way, but… I hope you don’t mind.” I shrug, unwilling to get into my aversion to cars right now when we’re both so cheerful.

  She frowns a little then nods. “Just, you know, remember I have little legs. I can’t charge off like people who are giants.”

  I laugh and begin to walk in the direction of my home, burying my chin into my scarf for warmth. “I’m hardly a giant. We’ll take it slow. You can tell me more about that ‘friend’ of yours you mentioned.”

  “My friend?”

  “Yes.” I grin and nudge her playfully. “George, wasn’t it?”

  “Oh, him. Not much to tell really.”

  “Don’t care,” I say with a giggle. “Make it up. I need to live vicariously through you. So don’t spare the details.”

  She sighs. “Fine. He’s tall, with brown hair and the bluest eyes you have ever seen. He wears glasses. Umm… He’s always smartly dressed, like always. And he’s very serious. I must piss him off a lot because I’m rarely serious.”

  “That was details?” I grumble, throwing out an arm to stop her from wandering blindly into the road where a row of cars is speeding towards us. “I was hoping for something a bit more… juicy.”

  “I don’t know anything juicy. Let me think…” She goes quiet for a moment, her eyes watching the cars as they fly past. “He has great hair, really thick and luxurious, the kind you just want to run your fingers through and tug on while he—” She stops herself from finishing the sentence. “He also has really elegant hands and a great butt. There. Better?”

  “Uh huh.” I smirk, seeing past her playfulness to the deeper desire she’s trying to hide. She likes this guy. A lot. “You noticed his hands. You have it bad.”

  “I do not, but I mean, come on. Everyone notices hands. If someone has hooves, you’re immediately repulsed. He has long, elegant fingers, neat nails. They’re not hairy, just… elegant. Like I said.”

  “Okay.” I grin, shoving my hands deep into my pockets and turning to her. “What do my hands look like?”

  “Small. And your cuticles need some work. A buff and a polish and you’d have beautiful hands.” She knocks her shoulder with mine. “Do I pass the test?”

  “The freak test maybe. That’s weird. And what even is a cuticle?”

  “I’m the freak? You’re the one who doesn’t know what a bloody cuticle is. Honestly, how do you get to… however old you are, and not know what a cuticle is?”

  Inspecting my fingers, I frown at them then lift a nail to my mouth and have a nibble to even it out. “I’d wager at least half the population.”

  “Stop doing that.” She shudders. “That’s revolting.”

  “What? This?” I do it again, right in her face, and laugh loudly when she puts her hand against my face and pushes me away from her with a disgusted scowl.

  “Honestly, Molly, are you even a girl?”

  “Jury’s out,” I sing, and dance up the steps to my house before turning and blocking the doorway for a moment. “Okay, so, how do you feel about mess?”

  She eyes me from the bottom of the steps. “What kind of mess?”

  “Well.” I throw a glance over my shoulder, even though the door is closed, and spread my arms wide in a helpless shrug. “It’s a little… chaotic in there. Housekeeping hasn’t exactly been the first thing on my mind recently.”

  Her eyebrows rise at that admission and I scramble to cover it up.

  “You know, with the holidays and all.”

  “I’m not judging. Although, I draw the line at finding dirty underwear in the lounge or anything.”

  Snorting a laugh, I drop my arms and turn to unlock the door. “I’m almost completely sure it’s not that bad. Mostly.” I think for a moment, trying to remember the last time I spent any meaningful length of time in the living room and come up blank. “Perhaps you better wait in the kitchen. Just for a moment.” I grin and let her in, shaking my coat off as the heat hits me.

  “Are you sure? I mean, we don’t want any surprises, do we? I can wait here while you go on knicker patrol.”

  “I’m sure.” I grin and lead her towards the lounge. “The place is just a little unloved is all. My mum is pretty much the only person who visits these days. I don’t use this room often.”

  “Do you have anything to drink?” she asks, making herself comfortable on the sofa.

  “Umm, well, I think you have a very exciting choice of water or wine. Just like at Jesus’ house. I mean, it is his birthday coming up.”

  “Been to Jesus’ house a few times, have you? Well, if it’s good enough for the almost-birthday-boy, it’s good enough for me. I’ll have the largest glass you have filled with wine, please.”

  I scoot through to the kitchen, calling back over my shoulder, “One pint of Merlot, coming right up.”

  By the time I’ve filled two large glasses with wine and brought them both, plus the bottle, back to the lounge, she’s well and truly made herself at home. It almost looks as though she’s been propping up my couch her entire life. Her feet are curled up beneath her and she’s dragged the bright teal throw from over the back of the couch around herself.

  “Ah,” she sighs, taking her glass. “To the birthday boy,” she calls, raising her glass.

  “Yes,” I agree, raising my glass and clinking it against hers. “And to turning water into wine. Anybody who can do that is okay in my book.”

  “I’d like to have someone who can do that. I wonder if George could. He always seems like he’s from another planet.”

  “Mmm, George,” I hum, drawing out the vowels of his name as I fall back into the couch and take a long gulp of wine. Ben would have been so disappointed in me. I can almost hear him wittering in my ear, ‘That’s not how you drink it. You’re meant to savour it.’ Blah blah blah. Nobody is willing to admit that wine is just grape juice that tastes rubbish and acts as an emotional anaesthetic. “You looooove him.”

  “Are you drunk
already, you lightweight?” she cackles from beside me. “I do not loooooooove him. He’s a friend. Now, are you going to order my dinner or is it going to be a liquid thing?”

  Sighing, I drain some more wine from the glass before struggling back off the couch to rummage in the drawer for the takeaway menus. “I wish I was drunk, my friend. I wish I was. Soon. Perhaps. If I’m a very good girl and finish my drinkie. Aha!” I pull out the menu of the only Chinese takeaway within a twenty mile radius worth visiting and hurl it at her.

  “Oooooof! Careful. You’re like a ninja tonight. What are we going for? One each, or order plenty and share?”

  “Pfft. One each? One. Each? What is this one each you speak of? It’s not a real takeaway night if you don’t order at least enough to last three days.”

  “I just wanted to make sure. My sister and I would always order way more than we would eat. But some people, odd people, order only one each. I know. Shocking, right?”

  “Well, just as long as none of those people are here tonight, we’re good to go.” I throw myself onto the couch beside her and peer over her shoulder at the menu I once knew off by heart. “What do you like?”

  “Everything. But I’m craving prawn toast, chicken in black bean sauce and egg fried rice.”

  Eventually, after a lengthy discussion, we order half the contents of the menu and settle in to wait for it to be delivered, working our way through the first bottle of wine and making a significant dent in the second before the doorbell goes. My head is already beginning to spin with the alcohol, a pleasant buzzing to replace the usual morose thoughts that linger there. I know it’s just a false high, a plaster on a gaping wound, but in the moment, it makes life easier, even if it doesn’t last beyond the hangover the next morning.

  The food is delicious, even more so for the wine slowly filling up my bloodstream, and we slowly grow more and more giggly as the night goes on, putting a dent in Ben’s old wine collection.

  “I have a game to play, if you’re drunk enough that is,” she says, sitting up a little and groaning.

  “M’not drunk,” I mumble, dropping from the couch onto the floor and rolling onto my front to push up onto my hands and knees and crawl for the next bottle. “What’s the game?”

  “Wanna get to know me a little? Say… twenty questions?”

  “Hmm,” I hum, tipping up the bottle and filling both our glasses up once again. “Sounds like fun. Will I find out more about the glorious butt of Gorgeous George?”

  “You have twenty questions to ask, no skipping, no going back, so it’s entirely up to you what you find out.”

  “And you have to answer?” I check, my mind already humming with devious questions.

  “Absolutely. And no lying either, or there’s no point in playing,” she tells me, looking all stern.

  “Ooh,” I coo, flopping myself against the couch with my butt on the floor. “I like it when you’re all bossy. No lying. Gotcha. Soooooooo, shall I start?”

  “Go on then.”

  I think for a moment, trying to create some sense in my wine-addled mind in order to come up with a good question. Twenty sounds like a lot until you have to decide what to ask, and then suddenly every question seems super important.

  “Okay. Go easy first time around. Where did you move here from? You never have said.”

  She sits back, relaxing at my easy question. “London. Well, just outside really. It was lovely, but then things changed and life brought me, well, here.”

  “London,” I say dreamily. “I’ve always wanted to go there.”

  “You’re used to quiet. I imagine London would be a shock to your system. Okay, me now.”

  “Wait. You mis-sold this game to me,” I bark out. “You said I ask you questions. Not the other way around.” I twirl a finger at her accusingly. “Sneaky.”

  “Fine, fine.” She holds her hands up. “Ask away. You have nineteen left. Make them count.”

  I grin, raising my glass and taking a drink. “Yesssss. Why did you leave London?”

  “I… I got a new job here, and it wasn’t something I could say no to. You’re fixating on me coming here, huh?”

  “Just getting to know you better,” I reply with a shrug.

  As the wine takes hold of my system more and more, my questions grow more and more inappropriate, until I’m pretty sure I could do a sketch of George’s backside without ever having seen it. And I can’t even draw. I have no idea what question we’re up to by the time I’m completely gone, drunker than I’ve been in a really long time.

  “So tell me,” I slur, my head rolling against the couch as I try to find her with blurry eyes. “If gorgeous George with the glorious butt were to turn up here now and drag you to my kitchen, demanding you bend over and let him take you, would you let him?” I giggle at my own question, deciding in my drunken brain that it’s an excellent one, my best one yet.

  “What kind of question is that?” she stutters, seeming a little ruffled. “No, I would not. And do you know why? Because he would never, ever ask me that. He’s a gentleman.”

  “Ah, but hypothetically, if he did? Remember, no lying.”

  “Fine. Yes. I would. You’ll see exactly why when you meet him. Not to mention it’s been a verrrrrrry long time, if you get what I mean. And, well, because George is outrageously sexy.”

  “I knew it!” I cry out triumphantly through a hiccup as though I’ve just won the game. I don’t even know whether this game has a winner, but if it does, I definitely just won it. “How many is that?”

  “Enough.” She laughs. “I want to ask you one.”

  “Well that’s no fun,” I grumble. “Fine. But first, I need more wine.”

  I attempt a commando crawl across the floor to where the pile of empty bottles is beginning to outnumber the full ones.

  “Tell me how you feel about losing Ben. After all this time, is it still crippling you? Or is anything—anyone—helping to ease that ache?”

  I blow out the air in my mouth, giggling at the sound it makes and then doing it again before I register her question. Dimly, it occurs to me that it’s a pretty intense question, but the wine thrumming its way through my veins doesn’t care. A game is a game, right?

  “Well, currently, Mr. Merlot and Mr. Shiraz are making it decidedly tolerable. Sometimes, they don’t work so well. Sometimes, I swim in the sea and I think about letting the waves carry me back to him. But then I remember my mum, who has lost enough already, and I drink a glass of wine and let another day pass me by. It’s not so bad, I guess.”

  “You’re drowning. I know about that. Does having a friend help?”

  I snort inelegantly, wondering if Imogen will mind snorting. It’s not very ladylike, like biting nails and not knowing what… cubicles are. “I had a friend. I had a few. But it turns out that friends like grief to have an expiry date. You’re allowed to be sad for a few weeks then you have to be done.” I cock my head at her, taking in the way she’s watching me with those intent eyes she only pulls out occasionally. “You, though… You help. I like this.”

  “I’m going to try my best to help you, Molly. I promise.”

  It turns out, Molly with some alcohol inside her means honesty. It means she doesn’t put even more walls up. She doesn’t barricade herself in and refuse to let me help her.

  It loosens her up, makes her talk, and Molly is an adorable drunk. It’s like she doesn’t even remember that she’s never told me about her loss before. She just spews all these thoughts from her head without any thought. It’s almost as though we’ve been friends for years and not just a matter of hours.

  “Ready for another?” I ask her almost comatose form.

  She shrugs drowsily, falling down onto her side and resting her head on her elbow before grumbling something about being bony and grabs a cushion off the couch to lean on. “Go for your life.”

  “If I could grant you one wish, right now, what would it be? And it can’t be to have Ben back. That’s out of even my capabili
ties.”

  She blinks slowly at me a few times, and I can almost see the thoughts swirling around behind the drunken haze in her eyes. I’ve taken away the one wish I know she’d make in a heartbeat, but what else makes her tick? What could be done to make her life better now that he’s gone?

  “I’d wish for my mum to find someone. She’s been alone for too long. If she had somebody to be with, I think she’d be happier.”

  “Your wish is…” I feel emotion thicken my voice, “…to help someone else?”

  “She’s my mum,” she states simply, as though that explains everything.

  “Wow. You’re one of the kindest, most compassionate people I know.”

  “I’m not, you know,” she slurs, her entire body rolling back until she’s left staring up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly. “All she’s done is try to help me for knocking on for two years now, and I’ve left her out in the cold time and again because I’m not ready to face up to anything that’s happened.”

  I get up off the sofa and lie down next to her. “Ever think it’s never going to be the right time? So we just have to do it anyway?”

  Her hand moves around beside her until it finds mine, and she curls her little finger around mine and holds on tight. The point of contact is tiny, but she’s clinging on for dear life as she whispers, “I don’t think I can.”

  “I know you can. If I’m working towards making a new life, you can, too. You just need to find someone who makes you want to fight—someone you want to wake up every day to see.”

  Her grip increases until I almost gasp out at the pain, but I hold it in while she drags in several deep breaths, like she’s holding tears inside, even when drunk. “I had him, and I killed him.”

  I reach out my arm and pull her to my body tightly. “There’s someone else out there for you. I know there is. Some people… they have more than one love of their lives. You’re one of those people. There’s no way someone who loves as deeply and as all consumingly as you do, is destined to be alone. Ben wouldn’t want you to be.”