by Kelly, A. S.
I take another sip of my beer, trying to wash down the bitterness rising in my throat at the thought of her, from last night, at the words I screamed at her and the words she screamed back. And I’m not drinking because it bothers me: I’m drinking from the frustration I still feel at having been so close to her, that she keeps popping up in my life. Not even two Xanax helped.
“So you must’ve just moved here?” Abby’s soothing voice sounds into my ear, as she lightly touches my arm. “Are you…seeing anyone?” she asks, with no attempt at masking her intentions.
I shake my head and finish my beer.
“I’ve lived here a year now, since I started working at the centre. I never really wanted to be a secretary for the management office, but at least I get the chance to meet loads of interesting people.”
“I’m off,” I say, getting up suddenly and shaking her hand off my arm.
She’s already too much for me.
“Leaving already?” Scott asks, finally tearing himself away from Rebecca.
“I’m tired,” I say, shooting down his comment as I throw on my jacket.
“I’m tired too,” Abby gets up too. “Would you mind walking me home?”
I really didn’t need this.
“Don’t you live just around the corner?” I ask rudely.
“Yeah, but it’s late and it’s dark, and you shouldn’t let a woman wander around at night on her own.”
“We’re basically surrounded by CCTV cameras,” I retort, losing my patience.
“Come on Ryan, what’ll it cost you?” Scott looks at me hard.
Nothing, I guess. It won’t cost me anything.
I nod towards the door, leaving Scott and Rebecca to it, while I begrudgingly take Abby home.
We walk side-by-side in total silence, as she pulls her coat across her chest, pointing out her building. I accompany her up to the door and wait for her to type in the access code, but she turns to me, suddenly, sliding her hands down my jacket.
I step away instinctively, putting some distance between us, but she doesn’t give up. “You’re so difficult, Ryan O’Connor,” she says, winking.
“You have no idea,” I mumble dryly.
“I like a challenge,” she retorts, approaching me again.
“This isn’t a game.”
“We could make it one,” she insists, sliding her hands under my jacket and stroking my chest through my shirt.
Her touch pisses me off.
I grab her wrist and step back, gruffly. “It’s not a game for you.”
“What’s wrong with you?” she asks, not understanding why I’m rejecting her.
“I just don’t want you to touch me.”
And it’s true. I don’t want this young, reckless girl to touch me, to take me back to hers. I don’t want her to push me onto her bed, to brush her body against mine, to have any claim over me. No, I don’t want anyone to touch me, enter into my life – not even for five minutes.
“What, am I not your type?” she asks, incredulous.
As if I cared, as if I’d even looked at her. She really doesn’t get it.
“That’s irrelevant. You could be the most beautiful woman in the world, and I wouldn’t care. You have absolutely no effect on me.”
Bullseye. She takes a step back, glaring daggers at me.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re an arsehole?”
I shrug and walk away, without a response. I know exactly what I am – I don’t need anyone to tell me.
Not her or anyone else.
13
Chris
I’m stretched out on the sofa with a glass of wine, a packet of salt and vinegar crisps – okay, three packets – and one of my favourite romcoms that I love to hate: 27 Dresses. But here I am, watching it for the fifth, or maybe sixth, time. There’s nothing better than spending a Saturday night at home on your own, making yourself feel terrible with a film about how true love finds everyone eventually, even though your own love life had decidedly ground to a halt sixteen years ago.
Evan throws himself onto the sofa, taking up almost all the space, and grabs one of the crisp packets from my hand. Maybe, deep down, I’m not totally alone.
“What shall we watch?” he asks, stuffing his mouth with his stolen snack.
I glance at him suspiciously, surprised by his interest.
“What? You’re the one who grounded me.”
True.
“Well, you deserved it.”
“And you should’ve helped me out, instead of leaving me to deal with Granny and Granddad.”
“They’re your family, of course they’re interested in your life.”
“Just like they are with yours,” he shoots back.
“Next time, try not to spy on me, okay?” I say, snatching back my packet of crisps.
“Wouldn’t it be better to have dinner instead?” he asks, making me feel guilty about my non-existent ability to be a normal mother, who does the food shopping, washes and dries the laundry and, most of all, who cooks.
“We could always order something…?” I suggest. I’m hungry, too.
Evan scoffs, getting up from the sofa and going off to leaf through the takeaway menus piled up next to the phone.
“Pizza? Chinese? Chippy…?” he scans them, uninterested.
We’ve already had all of those this week.
“You choose,” I tell him, getting up to refill my wine glass. Before I make it to the kitchen, someone knocks at the door. On a Saturday, at eight p.m.?
Something bad must have happened.
Evan looks at me and shrugs. I go over and open the door, a horrible feeling weighing on my chest.
“Hey, family!” Martin’s singsong voice immediately pierces my ears.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, worried. His unannounced visits are never good news.
“Am I not allowed to come and visit my family?” he asks, his tone falsely cheerful.
I look at him through narrowed eyes, without letting him through the doorway.
“I’ve brought dinner,” he announces triumphantly, shoving a bag filled with Tupperware boxes under my nose.
“Come in, come in!” I cry, stepping aside so he can get past me. “How did you know we hadn’t eaten yet?”
He throws me a furtive glance which promptly makes me eat my words. Evan appears from the living room.
“What are you doing here, Dad?” he asks, concerned.
“I’ve brought you dinner,” Martin says, hiding behind his bag of food. Evan greets him as if they’ve not seen each other for years, drooling at the thought of a home-cooked dinner. “I’d say I’ve done well…” adds Martin, pleased with himself.
“Enough chitchat,” Evan cuts in. “Show us what you’ve brought.”
“Chicken, potatoes, vegetables,” he lists, emptying out the boxes onto the countertop. “It’s all ready – just needs to be heated up.”
“I’ll put it in the microwave,” Even says, enthusiastically grabbing the Tupperware, while I drop down onto one of the stools and pour myself that glass of wine.
“Tough night?” asks Martin, grabbing a glass from the cupboard and sitting down next to me. He pours himself some wine too, and we wordlessly clink our glasses.
“What about you? How come you’re over here on a Saturday night with a pre-cooked dinner?” I ask, lowering my voice.
“Please, not now,” he says, not looking at me. “Let’s just enjoy this evening.”
I nod obligingly, before jumping off the stool to get plates and cutlery. “Shall we eat in front of the TV? We were just about to put on a film.”
“Which film?”
“27 Dresses.”
“I love that film.”
I smile – I already knew that. I set up the living room table, ready to be joined by the only men in my life for a ‘family’ evening in.
* * *
After the film is finished, and we’ve chatted like the loveably disastrous family we are, Evan goes up
to his room as Martin and I share some chocolate ice cream and whipped cream, eaten straight from the tub.
“So?” I ask him, licking the spoon fervently.
“Could you maybe not do those…gestures?”
“You mean, like this?” I point to the spoon. “I didn’t think I had that effect on you anymore,” I say, winding him up.
Martin shakes his head, laughing quietly. He takes a deep breath, and the truth comes tumbling out.
“We broke up,” he says, looking at me. “He left me.”
I knew his coming over would have some sort of repercussion for me.
“What did you do this time?”
“Me? Oh no, this time I’m innocent. He met someone else.”
“Oh, fuck.”
“Yeah…someone whose pager doesn’t go off in the middle of the night. Someone who doesn’t work on bank holidays or cancel dinner plans for his fucking job.”
“You know that’s not true.”
“Actually, that’s exactly how it is.”
“I’m sorry, Martin,” I tell him, sincerely, squeezing his arm.
“I tried to make it work, but you know what I’m like. I thought I’d found the right person, but apparently I was wrong.”
He lets his head drop onto my shoulder.
“I needed my family.”
“We’re here for you,” I say, stroking his face. I can feel him relax under my touch.
“Can I stay here with you? I can’t go back to that house by myself.”
“Of course, Martin. Take all the time you need.” He doesn’t need to insist: he’s Evan’s father, my first and maybe only love. I’d do anything for him.
“You’re the best, Chris,” he plants a soft kiss on my cheek, which instinctively makes me smile.
“Right, the best. Is that why I’m still single?”
“It’ll happen soon for you.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“You’re beautiful, darling.”
“But not beautiful enough for you to stay with me.”
“Chris…” he warns.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. You prefer…something else.”
“You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved. You know that.”
I smile, hugging him tight. “You can have the sofa.”
“That’s perfect. Thanks.”
I get up quickly, ready to go and find a pillow and a blanket for our unexpected guest, when Martin gently takes my arm.
“Do you think you could stay here with me, for a while?”
“Martin…”
“Only until I start to fall asleep. You know I don’t like being alone…” he stares at me with his beautiful brown eyes and I nod, unconvinced.
He gets up and hugs me, tightly.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you two.”
I squeeze him back. I really do care about him, too, and he needs our affection right now – something I’d never deny him.
14
Ryan
I take a few deep breaths before finally deciding to knock at the door. Mum’s face appears at the living room window, then disappears for her to open the front door for me.
“Ryan, finally!” she throws her arms around my neck and squeezes tightly, making me feel guilty for not having been to see them for the past few days.
“Come in, your father’s in the living room,” she says, before heading inside.
I look around, and sadness overwhelms me in an instant, mixed with anger and disappointment: feelings I’ve lived with for years, but ones that I’m not quite used to yet.
Their garden is always the same, apart from the lawn, which is currently covered in items from an outdoor play session: toys scattered all over the place, a ball, a Peppa Pig wheelbarrow. Inanimate objects that kill me slowly, reminding me that these toys should’ve been in another house, in another street, not far from here.
“Ryan,” Mum calls, sympathetically, shaking off the emptiness weighing down on my chest. “Sorry about that, the neighbours’ grandchild’s been staying with them for a few days.”
I knew it.
“Don’t do it.”
“What?” I ask her, still distracted.
“Don’t torture yourself,” she says softly, slowly stroking my arm.
I clench my jaw and convince myself to go inside, despite my legs’ desire to run away, to avoid seeing my family.
I stop in the doorway, closing my fists tightly and keeping my gaze down, cursing myself for my weakness, for letting my memories keep hurting me. For my life. For my terrible choices.
“Honey…”
“No…I can’t. Not today,” I tell her, lacking the courage to even look at her. “Please, Mum. Don’t ask me to stay.”
“Ryan…”
“I’m sorry. I’ll come back another day, okay? Say hi to Dad from me.” I open the front door and run outside. I throw myself hurriedly into the car, trying avoid looking back one last time at that damn garden – at all the things that should’ve been part of my life, but instead are filling up someone else’s life.
* * *
I park the car in one of the bays next to the supermarket, on the high street. I switch off the engine and climb out of the driver’s side. I look around, lost, trying to work out what to do with the rest of my day, when I realise that it’s already past two o’clock and I haven’t eaten anything yet.
Not wanting to go back to my apartment, which contains nothing but silence and an empty fridge, and also not wanting to see my brother, I walk along the road, trying to find something to eat.
I distractedly scan the shops along the high street, but I feel so confused that the images are blurred. I turn left, ready to retrace my steps, when something grabs my attention.
Christine is sitting alone at one of the tables in her café. I can see her through the glass, her elbow leaning on the wooden surface, her chin in her hand, her gaze distant.
Her hair is tied back, a tense expression on her face, her eyes empty and tired. Loneliness hangs over her.
A strange tingling sensation fills my stomach – it’s so frustrating and unexpected that it turns me upside-down, but freezes me in place at the same time, preventing me from getting as far away as possible from the situation.
She turns slowly, her hair slipping from its ponytail, letting a few dark red strands fall onto her shoulders which are lightly covered by a soft, figure-hugging shirt.
Her eyes meet mine and hold my gaze.
It’s nothing exceptional, nothing fantastical. Just a look. One of those looks that makes you believe in perfect moments, where the world around you is suspended, waiting for something both magnificent and terrifying, waiting anxiously. One that scares the fuck out of you.
I tear my gaze away as soon as I can, but I still can’t move. I just stand there, frozen in the middle of the street, attracted to her damn loneliness. Without realising it, my legs start to move, closing the distance between us.
I keep my eyes down as I make my way through the door and head towards her table. Even though I can’t see it, I can still feel her eyes on me. I place a hand on the back of a chair and she straightens up in hers, waiting for me to say something. I slowly lift my head, ready for another slap, a punch or a flurry of insults, but none of that happens.
She nods hello at me, then calls over a waitress, telling her we’re ready to order. She speaks for both of us, confident and casual, and I don’t interrupt her, don’t ask for any explanations. I don’t do anything but sit there, next to her, in silence.
She doesn’t ask and I don’t answer. We’re both alone – but we’re alone together.
It’s irrational, but I like it. It’s comforting, intimate. And the most surprising thing of all is that it doesn’t frustrate me, or scare me.
I start to feel relieved, calm, grateful for the situation, for having saved myself from an hour of loneliness and emptiness, without trying to fill it up with something else – something sterile and superficial, which
would probably have ended up causing me even more trouble.
I watch her eat, without lifting my head; but my eyes don’t miss a crumb.
I watch her cut the meat with her delicate hands, her nails bitten down as if she were a little girl. I watch her face change expression with every bite. I almost smile with relief when her face lights up at the sight of our coffee arriving, as if it could save her. Watching the delight in her eyes when she takes the first sip nearly makes me choke on my own coffee, and it takes everything I have not to burst out of my jeans watching her lick her lips, not wanting to waste a single drop.
When she’s done, she simply gets up and goes through the back. I follow her with my eyes glued to the small of her back, her figure hugged by her skin-tight jeans.
As soon as I realise I can move again, I get up too, not sure whether to offer to pay for my half. But I tell myself that it’s best to just leave things the way they are, to imagine this strange connection between us never really existed. To pretend that I never studied each of her movements like a stalker, and that I didn’t have an awkward erection like an overexcited teenager.
I head towards the door, my heart feeling slightly lighter than before, but with a strange commotion stirring in my body – as much as I try to hate that woman, she bursts her way into my thoughts. This definitely won’t lead to anything good.
I tell myself that I have to keep hating her, that there’s no reason to change my mind now. It won’t be difficult, given my temper – and hers.
I won’t let today change anything.
I won’t let her reassuring silence change my mind. Or her unexpected kindness. Or her intimacy, her pleasant nature. Or the way she made me feel less alone, even though her loneliness runs much deeper than mine.
