by Molloy, Ruby
“Too late!”
“I didn’t know Tam was pregnant until I was in prison and she―”
I lift my head from the mattress and scream. “Too late, Mason! Too fucking late!”
He leans over me until his nose is touching mine. “You want to know so now I’m fucking telling you! Shut the fuck up and listen!”
I quieten down, fearful and ashamed. Ashamed because I still want to hear what he has to say when I should be done here.
“Tam was an only child and she liked it that way. She liked that she didn’t have to share things, that she got her parents’ sole attention. We started dating when we were sixteen and she already knew she didn’t want kids. I already knew I did. But when you’re young kids are a long way off and it was never a problem. Until Tam got pregnant and I ended up in jail. I pleaded guilty, which meant no court case and I was fast-tracked. Tam wanted an abortion, but I was selfish. I begged her to keep him. I wanted him so fucking bad. I wore her down and Tam agreed. For me. Months later she gave birth to Josh, took him home, and within a few weeks she knew with absolute certainty she didn’t want to be a mum. Carolyn and Dean gave her support, made her see a specialist to check it wasn’t post-natal depression. Two months in they offered to have Josh for a week, to give her a break.”
His hands tighten on my wrists, pushing them deeper into the mattress. “She never went back for him. She couldn’t do it. So Carolyn and Mark took care of Josh. When I got out of prison I went to live with Carolyn, just until I could get a place for me and Josh. But things turned to shit because he didn’t know who I was, and he was so fucking happy with Carolyn and Mark, and when it came to me taking him I couldn’t fucking do it. He loved them, and they loved him, and it just felt like I’d be making everyone miserable. So I packed my bags and moved in with Tam. Found out later that Carolyn and Mark couldn’t have kids. They’d kept it to themselves, not wanting to pressure me into making a decision I’d regret. So I guess you could say it worked out for everyone.”
“Except for you,” I say.
“Except for me.”
Done, he releases my wrists with a final push and rolls to his back. I stay where I am, arms raised above my head, each beat of my heart a silent affirmation of pain. “She gave up Josh?”
He rolls to his side and stares down at me, his brows drawn together, his eyes fierce. “Don’t go laying this on Tam, Frankie! She was seventeen when he was born and she never wanted kids. I pretty much forced her into having Josh. Fuck, she’d visit me in prison, knowing I was fucking miserable, and there was nothing she could do to help. Her having Josh was a gift, it’s what got me through those two years, and I’ll be grateful to her every single day of my life. Shit, if you knew Tam, if you knew how much she loves Josh, you’d see she’s carrying that pain. It wasn’t the life she planned, and she hurts everyday that she’s not his mum, so don’t go laying the blame at her door. This was my fucking doing.”
I stare at him in silence, seeing his pain, taking in his messy hair, wild eyes and perfect beard. I know I’ll miss him. I’ll think about him often and when I do I know my heart will overflow with sorrow. I don’t want to do this, but I get that life is full of heartbreaking decisions. His and Tam’s story demonstrates this. But I know I don’t belong in Mason’s story. That’s already been told, written in full. Mason, Tam and Josh. The end.
My story will begin elsewhere. Years from now when I’m over Mason, when this will seem like a lifetime ago, I’ll have forgotten what he looks like and how it feels to have him moving inside of me. That’s when my story will begin.
I sit up slowly and swing my legs over the bed. They feel strange, weightless, incapable of holding me upright. I test their readiness, easing my feet to the floor until they’re fully supporting my weight. Mason is sitting now, his face troubled, as if he knows this is the end. The end of us.
I feel old. Weathered and beaten down, my hands shake with the effort of standing. I pin a curl behind my ear and see him watching, noticing the trembles, unable to tear his eyes away. The bed is an ocean, with Mason on one side, me on the other, both of us watching as the tide rips us apart.
“Frankie ...”
I shake my head and offer up a sad smile. “I won’t tell anyone,” I say, though I know that’s not where his thoughts lie. “I won’t even tell Ivy. I promise.” I look down at my hideous combat trousers and my worn Converses. This is how he’ll remember me, if he remembers me at all. Me, in my ratty clothes, my face streaked with tears, wearing a porn-star t-shirt.
“I have to go now,” I say, as if there’s somewhere I have to be at this hour on a Monday night. He follows when I back away, rounding the bed, his steps larger than mine, bringing him closer. Too close.
“Mason, stop.”
He does. Mason Zannuto is finally listening. “It’s over,” I tell him. “We’re over.” I don’t have it in me to explain and, anyway, what is there to say, when he’s already said it? His life, his history with Tam, his love for Josh, none of this is my business. Which means I am not for him and he is not for me.
He doesn’t follow me to the door or come running while I wait for the lift.
Stepping into the steel structure, I hear a muffled thump from Mason’s apartment. I press the button for the basement car park knowing it’s not my business anymore.
♥ FIFTEEN ♥
Cherry Pie
Frankie
I miss him.
He’s my first thought on waking, my last before sleep, a craving that goes unsatisfied.
I threw away the cast. I stomped it underfoot until it resembled white chalk, watching as the wind carried away the smallest of its fragments.
No-one mentions his name, not even me; as if he never existed or ever had a place in my life.
And now Sid is texting me, telling me he misses me, that he wants me back. These texts come often, dozens during the day and sometimes during the night too. When I respond, telling him no as plain as I can without being hurtful, he texts back to remind me of the fun times. And there were fun times, but the longer we were together, the fewer and further between they became. When Sid reminds me of our day out in London or our hike across the South Downs, he doesn’t seem to remember that these were at the beginning of our relationship, not in the middle or the last three or four years. And instead of inspiring a desire to have him back in my life, his texts remind me of the dull monotony of our relationship.
His latest text arrived a few seconds ago. Backlit with green, the colour echoing the sinister tone of his text, it reads: ‘I’m getting bored now, Frankie. I want you back and I know you want me too. Stop playing your stupid game, saying you don’t want me when we both know you do. I forgive you for fucking Zannuto. I was in the States and you were lonely and missing me. I get that. But I’m home now. Call me.”
I guess my texts haven’t been blunt enough, but now my thumbs are tapping against the screen. ‘WE ARE OVER. I don’t want you back. All I want is Mason. Not you! Mason! Understand? Stop texting me Sid. We are over!” I hit send before I change my mind.
This time when he texts back, one word sits to the left of my screen. It reads ‘Bitch!’. That’s when I know it’s time to block him. I do this while the girls discuss which drink to buy next. I’m with Nora, Kayla and Ella, drinking cocktails in Archer’s. It’s a pretentious bar in the centre of town, a mirror on every surface, perfect for the patrons who are constantly checking their reflections. We’re here because I refused to go to Torment and I figure this is the last place he would hang out. I don’t want to see him or, worse, see him with someone else.
I’m heading home tomorrow, back to Ivy’s. My exams are complete, my time at uni over. I’ll be the first to leave. Nora and Ella are here for another couple of weeks and Kayla is staying until her results come through. She and I are both planning on living and working in London. I figure it’s a big enough city for me to never bump into him.
It’s Happy Hour and I’m sipping on a Rainbow Sangria
, a drink that’s so frigging cheerful it looks like it’s about to explode. The music is upbeat, the lights bright, and I think I might vomit in my own glass if I don’t get out of here soon. I can see the girls are of the same opinion. This was a stupid idea and it’s not where I want to be on my last night in town. Who knows, I might never step foot in Morton again, and I don’t want my last night to be in this shitty little bar.
“Drink up. We’re going!”
Hollow-cheeked as we suck on our straws, we drain our glasses as if it’s a competition to see who can finish first. I win, followed closely by Kayla who’s already a little cross-eyed.
Out on the street we form a circle. “Where to now?” Ella asks.
“Torment,” I say.
Nora looks concerned. “You’re sure? You really want to do this?”
“It’s my last night here and I’m not spending it in a bar full of narcissists.”
“Yeah, but ...” Nora’s ‘but’ remains unspoken, though we all know what she was about to say.
Kayla fills the silence. “Torment it is, then.”
It’s a warm evening and our clothing reflects this. Kayla’s wearing a khaki dress that buttons down the front and is short enough to reveal her brown legs. Nora’s opted for a dress too, but hers is more casual and Ella is stylish as ever in tight grey trousers and an oversized black shirt. Me, I’ve gone for the I don’t give a shit approach. I’m wearing denim shorts, a t-shirt and a new pair of Converses. My only concession to dressing up is a wide headband that has my hair pulled back into a thick bunch of curls. It looks wild and funky and Ella gave her approval so I know it looks good.
I lead the way into Torment. I avoid looking down the side of the bar where he and his friends usually hang out. Instead, I head to the left, to the very end of the bar, waiting in line to be served. My heart is beating too fast and my palms are sweaty. Just imagining he might be here, seated around the corner, has me panicked and fidgeting like a hyped up druggie. I order our drinks and we move away from the bar, finding an empty space near the centre. Conversation flows between Nora, Kayla and Ella, but I’m too nervous to contribute. I glance round the bar, scared I’m going to see him.
“He’s not here,” Ella says, reading my mood.
I don’t waste time pretending I don’t know what she’s talking about. “How do you know?”
“I had a good look when I walked in. His friends aren’t here and neither is he.”
“Oh.” This is a big deal. Ella knows this too, I can tell. This is their hang-out and the fact they’re not here means they’ve changed their routine. Because of me.
“Maybe they’ve got someplace to be tonight,” Kayla offers.
I think I might be sick. Or cry in my drink.
Nora changes the subject and the conversation gets back on track, but I lag behind, my mind stuck on him. The night is a disaster, my mood slowly rubbing off on the others, and now we’re staring into our drinks, out of conversation. I call time. It’s early, the night has barely begun, but I’m through. I leave them to it and walk to the cab rank. There’s a line of cabs and no queue. The driver is a morose and untalkative. We’re a match made in heaven. I stare out through the window at the clubs and bars. The door of a bar opens as we approach and just before we’re level he steps out onto the pavement. Traffic slows and I swear time does too. He sees me and stops in his tracks, each of us staring at the other until the cab has gone by and he’s out of sight.
I close my eyes, telling myself it’ll be okay. I’ll be fine, just as soon as I’m safe and sound in bed. But this is a false promise because when I sink beneath my duvet, eyes open, all I can see is his face staring at me with haunted eyes. The need to reach out to him is relentless and I almost give in. I type ‘I miss you’ before deleting it and replacing with ‘can we talk?’. My thumb hovers over the send icon. That’s when I scream and hurl my phone at the wall.
Sleep is intermittent, disturbed by dreams. By five a.m. I’ve had enough. I shower and pack, cleaning my room until there’s no trace I ever lived here. My pink duvet with the white daisies is now in a cardboard box downstairs and my desk lamp, which hummed whenever I switch it on, is outside in the trash. The windows are immaculate and the semi-permanent dust that resided on my windowsill is no more.
Ella and Nora are still in bed, sleeping off last night’s cocktails. I grab a bite to eat and sit at the kitchen table, checking my phone. Cracks run across its screen like fractured ice, feathering into the corners, but it works. It bleeps with a message from Ivy asking me what time I’m heading home. I respond one-handed, eating my toast. My spelling is a little off, but I know she’ll get the gist. It bleeps again and for a moment I wish it was him. I know it isn’t because I blocked his number. It’s not like he tried to contact me or anything, but when I sat and stared at my phone for hours one night, willing it to ring, I knew it was time to take action.
Unable to relax, I clean away my breakfast mess and start on the living room. It seems my restless energy is limitless. I remove the sofa cushions, vacuuming up lost sweets and mini dust balls. I dust along the skirting and throw away last year’s magazines, the covers of which feature orange-skinned women who remind me of Josephine.
Ella and Nora don’t make their appearance until a few minutes before noon. They’re both sporting hangovers, though Nora swears hers is worse. Revived by food and coffee they help my load my belongings into Myrtle.
“I’m going to miss living with you,” Nora says, wrapping me in a hug. “No-one cooks like you.” It’s a lame joke and neither of us laughs.
“Miss you too,” Ella says, and we end up in a group hug, swapping goodbyes and promises to meet soon.
I watch them in my rearview mirror, waving like idiots, losing sight of them when I turn the corner. I’m crying and Myrtle seems distressed too, her engine stuttering as we head towards Ivy’s. She’s standing on the porch when I get there, watering red-petalled plants with ugly coarse leaves. She watches me unload my boxes, her cactus themed dress fluttering in the breeze.
“I’ll fetch some lemonade,” she says.
I struggle with the boxes while Ivy retreats to the kitchen. It takes three journeys before my belongings are out of Myrtle and in my bedroom. Ivy is waiting in the kitchen, glasses already set out on the table with a slice of lemon drizzle cake each. I settle in my chair and Ivy sits in hers, her eyes watching me with a keenness that’s a little unnerving.
“You’ve lost weight!” Her tone is almost as sharp as her gaze.
“I’ll put it back on soon enough,” I say, because there’s no denying my clothes are loose and my face is thinner.
“Bags under your eyes too.”
“Ivy, I’m fine.”
“Norma’s in better health than you!”
This is an exaggeration. Norma is Ivy’s friend. She’s seventy-three years old and recently underwent a hip replacement. I call Ivy out on this by staring at her until she bites off a chunk of her cake and washes it down with a hefty swallow of lemonade.
“What do you have planned for today?” she asks.
I shrug. “Unpacking, I guess. Why?”
“Can’t an old lady ask a question without being asked one back?” Her tone is uncharacteristically caustic and she’s glaring at me with something akin to anger.
“O-o-k-a-y.” Something’s got Ivy rattled, though I have no idea what. “Anything you want to tell me, Ivy? You don’t seem yourself.”
“I’m fine,” she says this in much the same way as I said it and I realise she’s worried. About me. I chew on my cake, blinking away the moisture that interferes with my vision. I don’t want Ivy worrying. I can deal with missing him and the endless sleep-deprived nights, but I can’t handle this. I swallow my last bite of cake, and though my belly is full and I have no appetite, I help myself to another slice. Immediately her face softens and she leans forward as if to confide. “We’ll have some meat on those bones in no time.”
Ordinarily this would terrif
y me – Ivy’s idea of a healthy weight and mine do not coincide – but I let it pass in the hope she’ll have a new project tomorrow.
I spend the afternoon and early part of the evening unpacking. I seem to have acquired more possessions since I moved out and I end up keeping one of the boxes as temporary storage. I push it into a corner and eye my room. There’s a whole lot of pink going on, from duvet to curtains, to the fluffy rug on the floor. It’s the room of a twelve year old and it’s not that dissimilar to the room I left behind this morning.
“Ivy,” I call out through the open door. “Do you have any spare curtains stored anywhere?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I was thinking of changing my room, swapping the pink for something a little more grown-up.”
She lifts the lid on her footrest and pulls out a set of cream curtains. “These any good to you?”
Turns out there’s an unopened duvet in the tiny cupboard between the living room and kitchen, and a spare lampshade on top of her closet. Come nightfall, the only thing in my room that’s pink are the walls and I plan on painting them tomorrow.
I’m sitting on the sofa watching one of Ivy’s favourite game shows when she shuffles out of the kitchen with two plates in her hand. It’s a slice of cherry pie each. “Supper,” she says, offering me one of the plates, seemingly unconcerned by the fact that supper has never featured in our routine before.
“Supper?”
“Tush! It’s just cherry pie, Frankie! It needs to be eaten before it goes stale.”
I don’t believe her for a second, but I dig into my pie and lick my spoon clean when I’m finished.
That night I sleep better than I have in weeks. No dreams disturb my sleep, though I think of him when I wake. I wonder where he is and whether he’s alone. I wonder if he’s missing me the way I miss him.
“Breakfast!” Ivy’s shout comes ahead of the rap of her knuckles against my bedroom door. I’m about to hop out of bed when the door opens and Ivy enters with a cheap plastic tray in her hand. As she nears I see the mug of coffee and a plate piled high with buttered toast. I sit up and she lays the tray across my lap.
