by E. S. Carter
I slip quietly into Ivy’s room to see her asleep on her bed with her favourite dolly tucked into her side. Then onto Arthur’s room, where my little man sleeps on his back, fists clenched and raised above his head, his face, if possible, even more beautiful in sleep. He huffs a little and twitches in dreams, and I have to hold myself back, the need to touch him almost overwhelming.
Tonight, I never once forgot about my children. Even while listening to Halle sing, they were present, in the back of my mind. The only person I forgot about was my wife, and the admission of this fact, although only to myself, almost cripples me.
With weary legs, I slide down onto the cold tile floor next to Arthur’s cot and lean up against the wall. From here I can just make out my son’s profile and the slight rise and fall of his small chest as he breathes deeply in slumber.
Nothing has changed here in this house.
But everything has changed inside me.
And not for the better.
Just as I was sure I was heading in the right direction, moving forward, and building a life without Laura, a girl with a flower in her hair sweeps the rug out from under me.
And she doesn’t even know it.
And I can’t even explain it.
But watching Halle, listening to her words that, at that moment at least, felt like she sang them only for me, makes me want to run again.
If I’m getting good at anything, it’s my ability to flee.
Tomorrow, my weary mind tells me as my eyes protest against the darkness, and the time between each of my blinks becomes longer.
Tomorrow, I’ll have a clear head.
Tomorrow, things will make sense.
Tomorrow, I will remember all that I am and all that I’m trying to become.
Blink.
Sleep takes over, and I sigh into her arms.
I’m here, Josh. I’m always here.
Laura Smiles.
I struggled to sleep last night. The same as I’ve struggled to sleep for the last week since my gig at Aurora.
Typically, when I get a few consecutive nights off from work, I’ll use the opportunity to explore the island and find the parts of Ibiza that tourists don’t bother to discover. With a whole week off you’d think I’d have found plenty of things to do, but I feel adrift and purposeless.
Since the night almost three years ago, when Ian, my ex-boyfriend, left me here without a penny to my name, I’ve carved out a life. I have a meaning to my days, an amazing group of friends whom I love, and a job that I don’t hate. But now, lying on my bed with skin that feels too tight, and an itching sensation that crawls through my veins, I realise I was just kidding myself.
All my insecurities are still there, bubbling under the surface, threatening to boil over and melt away everything I’ve worked hard for, leaving only a sticky stain of destruction in its wake.
I dream about my birth mother, almost every night. In my dreams, she looks just like me - no older or younger – it’s like looking in a mirror. I know it’s her I dream about, even though I never knew her or even saw a picture. I know it’s her because of the flames. They lick at her feet, weaving their way up her legs to her torso until they consume her whole. As she burns, she watches me in silence. I always wake up at the same point. Right before she turns to ash, she blinks at me and a tear rolls down her cheek, never falling off her chin. Instead, it evaporates and turns into steam before disappearing into the smoke.
I feel like I am that final tear. Born but fading into nothingness, my entire life was taken from me by the flames.
Although these dreams are not new, they have become less regular over the last few years. So, what is the catalyst for their return?
Him.
Josh.
Such an unassuming name for a man that has sent me into a tailspin. A man I don’t know or want to know for that matter. A man I have had very little contact with and I doubt I’ll see again.
Still, he’s infiltrated the impenetrable.
And I want him out.
“Halle,” Zoey calls from outside my closed and locked bedroom door.
The handle jiggles as she tries and fails to gain entry.
And that is why I installed a lock. My friends have no boundaries.
“I’m sleeping,” I call back and bury my head further under my sheets.
“Duh, you’re not sleeping,” she replies between the dull thud of what I assume is her forehead tapping against the door.
“Uh, yes I am. Besides, how would you know, you can’t even see me.”
“Because I can hear you.”
“No, you can’t. You’re delirious and talking to yourself again.”
Another thud, this time a little louder, so I guess it’s her knee.
“No,” she replies after a brief pause. “I know I’m not talking to myself because those conversations are far more interesting than this one, and usually only happen after I’ve had my hands down my knickers and I’m flicking on my…”
“Do not finish that sentence.”
“I will if you don’t get out here in the next five minutes,” she taunts.
“Arghh, I swear I’m gonna find myself a single room somewhere that people will leave me in peace when I ask them,” I petulantly complain as I throw the sheets off my head and drag my body out of bed.
I’m stark naked, except for my boy shorts, when I open the door to my room at the same moment that Zoey is about to head butt it again. She stumbles, and momentum carries her forward straight towards me, her hands automatically reach out to stop her fall and land on my bare boobs.
She leaves them there and looks up at me with a cheeky grin.
“I’d say they lie. More than a handful is never a waste,” she smirks.
“Take your hands off my tits.”
“But, they are so pert and warm and…”
I flip my arms around in circle and knock her hands from my chest. The look I give her is half shocked, half amused. She didn’t intend to have a grope, and it’s not like I’m particularly shy about my body in front of my friends but I’ve never had my naked boobs fondled by another chick before and she sure as hell milked the opportunity.
“Hey, now. No need to get so defensive. You can feel mine anytime.”
“I’m good thanks,” I grin sarcastically at her. “If I want to touch boobs, I have two of my own that fit the bill perfectly.”
“And my palms,” she adds with a chuckle. “You just wait until I tell Rach how you threw your naked self at me.”
“I did no such thing. You landed on me.”
“Ah,” she winks. “Semantics.”
I huff out an exasperated sigh that ends with a chuckle.
“What did you want anyway?”
“You.”
“Zo, seriously, what was so important that you dragged me from my bed?”
She looks at me, all jest disappearing from her face.
“Life,” she replies simply.
An hour later we are in Ibiza town. With Zoey, it’s often easier to give in than to argue with her, so when she said we were going out for the day, I walked straight into the bathroom and started the shower.
Now, here we are, hand-in-hand, strolling through the bustling streets lined with cafes, shops and bars.
Zoey is a tactile person, and I’m not going to lie and say that I don’t drink up every drop of affection she gives freely.
You’d think that having had the childhood I did, I’d be wary of physical touch. I’m not, I crave it, but only from those I trust. For us to walk with our hands linked is nothing more than an extension of our friendship, although I guess people assume we’re a couple.
We turn the corner of a narrow street and Zoey drags me behind her to stop me from buying yet another hair accessory from a stand displayed outside a cute vintage store.
“Stop, you have too many as it is,” she complains. “I swear you’ve bought a hair clip and two headbands already today.”
“So? They’re cute, and
a girl can never have too many. Stop being a spoilsport and…”
My sentence dies off when I suddenly feel eyes on me, and I lift my head to look over to the opposite side of the street.
There, pushing a baby buggy and oblivious to the older woman at his side who is chatting away to him while holding the hand of a little girl, is Nate’s brother.
His eyes lock on my gaze then dip to observe Zoey’s hand in mine, before returning to my face. I have the urge to drop Zoey’s hand like it’s hot, but I don’t. Instead, I squeeze it tighter, until she stops and tries to tug it free.
“What the…? Girl, you’re gonna break my fingers. What’s with the death grip?”
She looks from my face and follows my line of sight to the other side of the street.
“Ohhhh… Now I see what my broken bones and bruised fingers are all about.”
She doesn’t miss the way he looks at the two of us, and the repeated times his eyes latch on our joined hands.
“Do you wanna put on a show for him? We could have a quick snog or…”
“No. Don’t even think about it,” I warn, whispering from the side of my mouth like I have a speech impediment. “And don’t even think of going over there and saying…”
Too late.
I’m tugged across the road, dodging passers-by, until we are right in front of him.
“Hey, it’s good to see you again,” Zoey begins, all charm and smiling friendliness. “When we met on the beach, I never realised you were related to Nate. He’s our boss.” She gestures with her fingers to first her and then me, and still, he doesn’t say a word in response.
“Hey, you’re the lady who found my ball,” the little girl to his side says, while still holding onto the hand of his companion. Now that I’m closer to them both, I can see the family resemblance and this strikingly attractive older lady must be his mother.
She smiles kindly at first Zoey, and then me, and offers her free hand in greeting.
“It’s lovely to meet you both. I’m Nate’s mother, Oh-” she continues with a tilt of her head towards the man at her side who remains mute “-and Josh’s too of course.”
Zoey enthusiastically takes her hand, but instead of shaking it, she leans on for a hug and cheek kiss, like she’s known this woman her entire life. To be fair to Mrs Fox-Williams, she doesn’t even blink at my friend’s over-exuberance.
“I’m Zoey,” my friend introduces. “And this is Halle.”
She looks over towards Josh and with a dead straight face that I know conceals a smirk, addresses him directly and says, “I think you already know Halle, your brother told me you both watched her sing in Aurora the other night.”
I can’t believe she said that. I’m going to murder her. Slowly.
“Did we?” he replies, his eyes never once leaving mine. “I can’t remember.”
With a dismissive tilt of his head, he breaks his gaze and stares off towards something in the distance.
What an absolute prick.
“Huh,” Zoey muses, and I should’ve known she wouldn’t let his slight go. “I’m sure the words Nate used when I heard him talking to you over the phone a few days later were ‘transfixed by the girl’. My bad for earwigging on a conversation and assuming.”
She smiles sweetly at him, not a trace of the venom I can hear lacing her words shows on her gorgeous face.
“Yeah, well,” Josh retorts sarcastically to Zoey’s saccharine barb. “Didn’t anyone tell you that assuming makes an ass out of u and me? And no offence, Zoey was it? I’m not interested in your ass.”
“Joshua Fox-Williams,” his mother interjects, with a look of shock and embarrassment on her face at his not so veiled rudeness. “I think you need to apologise and then practice your social skills.”
He grinds his teeth at her reprimand, and I almost choke when I swallow down a snort-filled smirk at his annoyance, but he doesn’t look back in our direction or offer an apology. His eyes stay steely grey and trained on some point further down the street.
A similar twinkle to the one Zoey just had in her eyes, enters Mrs Fox-Williams’. She looks at Josh then at me, and schools her features before saying, “In fact, you can practice your social skills right now by taking both these ladies for a coffee to apologise for your rudeness.”
That gets an instant reaction from all three of us.
I splutter and blurt out, “Oh no, that’s not necessary at all.”
Zoey smiles big and excitedly replies, “Halle would love to go, but I have some stuff to do.”
And Josh growls, “Mother, quit your meddling.”
Mrs Fox-Williams laughs lightly, before replying to all three of us, “Oh, nonsense, I’m not going to take no for an answer. Ivy, you’ll help me push Arthur, won’t you, darling?”
“Mother.”
“Oh, hush, Joshua. You need to get out more, and you need to apologise. So make sure to buy the ladies a piece of cake as well as their coffees.”
Then she bustles him out of the way, places both her and Ivy’s hands on the handle of the baby buggy, smiles once more at me and begins to walk away from us. She gives us another little smile and a wave as they reach the corner and then they disappear into the throng of tourists on the main street.
Well, this is awkward.
“We’ll just be off. Won’t we Zo?”
Zoey glares at me like I’m speaking a foreign language while Josh stares off at that favoured spot again, ensuring he looks anywhere other than me.
“Don’t be silly, I have stuff on that I’d better rush off and do, but you guys should totally grab that coffee, plus wasn’t there cake mentioned?”
“Zoey,” I warn, giving her my best, ‘don’t fuck with me’ glare. And do you know what? She smiles. She bloody well smiles.
“Nice chatting with you Josh,” she sing-songs as she steps back and gives us both a finger wave before turning on her heels and walking away down the street, only looking back once to waggle her eyebrows at me.
Did I say this is awkward? I was wrong. It’s utterly mortifying.
“Listen,” I begin while self-consciously backing away. “It was really sweet of your mother to offer, but seeing as she’s not here, she’ll never know if we don’t grab coffee. So I’ll just...”
“She’ll know.”
“I won’t tell her if you don’t,” I retort with a secretive smile.
“She’ll know.”
Great. He’s practically monosyllabic.
“I’m a pretty good actress. If I ever bump into her again, which I doubt I will, I’ll be sure to tell her you bought me the biggest slice of cake I’ve ever had and we chatted for hours about the meaning of life.”
He finally looks at me then. His eyes drink in my face like it’s the first time he’s ever seen me.
“Follow me. There’s a place around the corner.”
“I…”
“She’ll know, and I don’t know about you but I quite like my easy life. So, let’s get a damn coffee and a piece of cake, and then you can go back to doing whatever it was you were doing before your friend decided to try and play matchmaker with a guy who couldn’t be less interested if he tried.”
Like hell am I going for a coffee with you, you ignorant…
I want to start my response the exact way my inner monologue is telling me to, but instead, I watch as he walks slowly away, indicating with a nod of his head for me to follow. Like I’m a dog or one of his children.
Yeah, you can kiss my arse, mister. I’m not going anywhere with you.
She takes a deep gulp of her steaming hot coffee, followed by another and another, and I swear she must have burnt her mouth and tongue with the scalding liquid. Then, with a couple of pronounced but shallow head nods and few further swallows - as if she’s psyching herself up for some momentous feat and this is a horrific, jungle style, eating and drinking challenge - she hacks off a chunk of her lemon cake and rams it into her mouth. Her cheeks bulge like a gerbil storing food for the winter,
and her mouth is so full that she can barely chew, let alone swallow.
“Mmm,” she mumbles, and a few crumbs escape her plump lips. “Biss iz zoooo gooommd.”
Another chunk of cake gets forced between her lips, despite her not swallowing the last, and frosting covers her entire mouth with a massive blob landing on her chin.
Why did I bring her here?
Ah, yes, because my mother has a built-in bullshit meter, and she’d know if I didn’t.
That is the only reason for this farcical coffee date.
Date? This isn’t a date.
Still, I was surprised when she followed me the short walk here. I mean, it’s not like I particularly encouraged her attendance. In fact, I went out of my way to show her I couldn’t care less if she followed or not.
But she did follow, and I want to ask why because I’ve been nothing but a prick to this girl and she hasn’t deserved any of it, but I’m finding it hard to be apologetic. The reason I’m finding it so difficult is because she makes me feel, and I’m not ready to let anyone else in except my kids and my family.
“Why don’t you call a waitress over and ask for a ‘to go’ bag and cup? If you cram any more into your mouth, you’re likely to choke.”
Her eyes flick to mine. Her cake-stuffed cheeks are so comical that I fight back the urge to laugh. Her face is a mess, and she can’t offer up a reply because she’s physically unable. If her eyes could speak for her, they’d be telling me to ‘fuck off’. As it is, she lifts her free hand and gives me the middle finger instead.
This should make her wholly unappealing to me, but for a brief second, one I struggle to accept, I find her the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
She dips her head and covers her mouth, diligently chewing away until she can swallow, then with a paper napkin, she wipes away the mess on her face, leaving smudges of lemon icing behind.
