Being Kalli

by Rebecca Berto

  It’s just a hug.

  I want to believe this.

  But it breaks my heart. This is a good friend to a good friend hugging. There’s compassion and care in this hug, but there isn’t more to it.

  He pulls away too soon.

  “Here’s what happened for me. I’ve liked you since we started uni. I know it’s only been half a year or less, but every time we kissed I faked being drunk or got myself drunk to get away with touching your waist. I waited to speak to you on the dance floor just to feel my lips at your ear. I invented a school project to photograph you because you’re the most beautiful girl I know.

  “After we made out and got under each other’s clothes I’d already lost my strength in you. You were all I thought about during my days, and in my dreams at night. You were my dream come true every moment we got close, and I barely had any part of my life that was just me, that wasn’t you weaved into my actions somehow.

  “You didn’t realise when you left that night, you took that part of me without returning it. I was lost and hurting before I heard what happened, saw you. But once people were saying what you allowed that fuckhead to do to you against the wall, him publicly owning you, all those noises, and then seeing you and sensing him all over you, and not me anymore, it was like you burned that part of me all in an instant.”

  Of course I’ve imagined what went on for Nate. I’ve had the time to agonise over it, to hate myself for treating sex carelessly, treating his trust carelessly, and treating his delicate feelings so carelessly.

  But never was it animated like this. Never did it feel like I was projected within his body, having me hurt him and myself with my spinning out of control.

  Because I now wonder how I’d get over something like that if it happened to me.

  That’s utterly terrifying.

  “It doesn’t have to be over. I’m so ready for this.”

  Nate doesn’t answer, but his body language is enough. He’s still lounged against his side of the sofa, but it’s the gap between us that does the most talking. His muscles look relaxed this way, unlike they do when he’s against me. Then, he’s tense, unsure or uncomfortable. The way he looks tells me he needs this space.

  I look down to my lap. It’s not a conscious decision, rather a need to feel smaller, more insignificant. In this moment I foresee no more vibrato / vibration. We won’t ever find the sweet spot again in our friendship where we perfectly match; I’m the attention, he’s the looker. We used to fit like that, like two adjacent puzzle pieces.

  In my head we make sense, now. I suppose we made sense in his head, pre-Kalli stuff-up.

  But again, we’re on two different trains passing in opposite directions.

  Nate shakes his head, and I take my answer. Not yet. Yet being the operative word of hope I hang on to.

  Nate stands and as he starts to leave, my heart lurches to stop this, and I call just loud enough for him to hear, “What are you going to do? What happens now?”

  He turns his head without facing his body to me. “I’m figuring that out for myself.”

  • • •

  Later that day I’m on my bed, fiddling with my phone, wondering if it’s right to call Aunty Nicole back about the her and Mum saga. No matter the mess I make here or the time I spend cleaning it, it’s the same. It has been ever since that party and the rift between Nate and I. It’s so quiet, but not the peaceful one; rather, a quiet where I’m always tensed, looking over my shoulder. If I’m not thinking about Nate, it’s something else. Once, when I was little and everyone was speaking, Nicole and I were playing the card game snap, and I asked her why I had to sit back from the cards that far like she told me, and why I had to hold my hand either on my cards or by my side.

  “But Mum let’s me sit with my legs out, lying around the cards, and she never ever cares about my hands. Why are you so mean?”

  Aunty Nicole told me, “They are the rules. Games aren’t any fun if you cheat.”

  I, being the kid I was, scowled and acted disinterested because she wasn’t fun at all. I wanted to peek at her cards and she wouldn’t let me. I wanted to play the way I knew, and I got confused remembering all these new restrictions.

  Sitting on my bed, I know now games with Mum versus Aunty Nicole weren’t fun versus boring. They were different. Mum and I don’t worry about rules. We can be reckless and weird. Mostly spontaneous. With Aunty Nicole, I’d have to be on the ball, decisive, thinking a step ahead. It excited me in an alternate way.

  I don’t know which type of person I prefer to be. Mum had thought her ways were fine; my aunty was always uptight about everything. I adore them both, and don’t want to choose who I love best. It’s not that I’m on my aunty’s side of this argument, but I miss the banter. The sisterly back and forth. The teasing. And the fights.

  All that feels like a dream sometimes. A dream that I long to have back.

  For the first time it doesn’t matter to me if I don’t get at least one guy a party, or if I’m not the hottest girl in a room. I don’t want to study to get the certificate so I can land the high-paying job that’s generally expected of university students, either, but I want to let things just happen.

  I push the memories to the side and dial Aunty Nicole. The memories plant an ache in my heart that blossoms into full longing. She answers on the second ring.

  “Kalli! Hey, how are things?”

  We catch up on bits and pieces, trying to talk like we did before I knew the big secret. I now have to work hard at my tone of voice and choice of sentences so I can imitate being normal. But it’s hard, trying to act like the person I was then.

  She tells me about my cousins. One is going to university open days and the other is choosing subjects for their final high school year subjects. She talks about them like a proud mum, adding in phrases like “oh my God, and you know” before something important like an A+ grade on a test. I’ve always idolised her as a mother and a person. Not seeing her regularly since seven, I think, however, she’s a fantasy in my mind. No one is perfect, even when they seem to be a lucky one with no hang-ups like the rest of us.

  Her voice pulls up my attention to the change of topic. “I have to request one thing.”

  “Uh-oh, what is it now?” I say, adding a coy edge to my tone purposefully.

  “Can we stop pretending to be interested in this full-time working, mum-of-two bored woman? I won’t believe you if you tell me your youthful, university self has nothing interesting to say.”

  I sigh then cover my mouth as if that’ll take it back. It’s not that I was bored at her, but rather the relief that she understands I have issues I’m hiding. Out in the open, I decide to give a no bullshit answer since I blew my cover anyway.

  “Ha! There is plenty. Where do I start?”

  “At the juiciest,” she replies.

  I’m about to say, “There’s nothing to say” which is what Mum says. Considering I have so much going on and life is not normal at the moment, I’m a little concerned about that being my reaction. I need to stop burying.

  “Uh,” I go with. “It’s long.”

  It’s the truth.

  “Mary or boy stuff?”

  “How …” I don’t even finish; I’m sure she knows where I’m going with it, basically.

  “I was nineteen and at uni too, my dear. I had a non-standard Mum, too. So, which is it?”

  “Both. But you can fix one.”

  “How’s that?”

  All I can hear is her retort last time, biting back at me when I pushed too far on this topic. But her tone of voice during this call is honest, interested, unlike many times where out of habit, we act cordial, asking about weather and life and recent events. This call, she’s daring to ask for more, although that’s me assuming lots here.

  “See Mum … I know—I’ve heard it from both of you, how long it’s been. Just hear me out.” I pause, not sure why because I’m not inviting her to say her piece. Just before I start, and she hasn’t said a word
yet, I know it’s because I’m testing to see how invested she is, if she is willing to see Mum, hoping I have the magic beans.

  “How do you forgive after a massive blow out like that? I just keep thinking of scenarios, and two pop into my head. One is you see each other and, flooded with memories that erase any harsh feeling, you hop right into hanging out in the same breath. Or, you smile when you greet, ask how she is, see if she still has sugar with her coffee. You leave, and feel like you made it. I think I know which it’ll be for both of you.”

  Still, Aunty Nicole waits.

  So, I add, “The thing is, why aren’t I as lucky with my blow out?” But I’m not done. I inch the phone away and grunt, “Hm?” as if the electronics in the phone can answer that one. I whisper sorry in my next breath. Out of line, Kalli. She’s trying to help, so be nice.

  “Hey, listen. Calm, first. That always works,” Aunty Nicole starts. I roll my eyes. “But honestly, don’t roll your eyes at me because I will know you’ve done it.”

  How the hell did she—?

  “Time is the biggest healer. That became a cliché for a reason. Think about one time you were so mad you couldn’t stand to do anything else but be angry. You are remembering a time, yeah? Now you’re not all too mad, though? Not in comparison to that very moment when your control went out the door and rage took over you.

  “My point is, humans are defined by our emotions. Give us time, and we tend to assess a situation rationally. The worse the anger, the more time. Someone stole your eraser? Give yourself two days and you won’t remember it ever happened. Someone stole your boyfriend? Get drunk, whine to your bestie, date some douchebags, and then find a better boyfriend. After a few years, you’ll have to dig to remember all the little details.”

  I smile to myself, forcing it to stay even after I just want to cry or punch something—or both. On my desk are still cut-outs and a stack of photographs and pens I used for Nate’s photo book. I look at these and remind myself that did some good. That our relationship is better than it was when he first heard the gossip about what I did at that party with Donovan.

  Better is not right, though, and for the first time, I find myself longing for him. I have agonised over every moment of my betrayal, and how stupid I was to somehow believe we weren’t attached. We were, and are attached. Before, it was with hope and newfound obsession. Now it’s a link of pain and a world of suffering that I can’t take away.

  “And if you do it right, things will turn out fine. I have lost so much with my sister that I don’t care anymore if she broke my heart in every way possible, as much as that one fight cost me. Deep down, I’ve loved her infinitely forever, and that’s what’ll come out of all this.”

  “So then what you’re saying is you’ve been waiting for the right time to see Mary?”

  Aunty Nicole groans close to the phone, eliciting a harsh breathy sound on my end. “You’re a sly girl, Kalli. Sly. Only reading what you want.”

  “But I’m right.”

  “I suppose you are.”

  “We’re free, like, all this week and next. And the one after.”

  There’s a space where I’m afraid she’ll bite back.

  I’ve pushed too far.

  My shoulders tense up, and it works through my body.

  Until I feel her roll her eyes at me through the line. “Mm, I’ll see.”

  I hang up feeling victorious, until I realise she probably feels the same, getting under my skin about my “guy” issue.

  20

  Even though staring won’t change what Nate’s just texted me, I won’t focus on anything other than his words. After a month of little talk except for run ins and with Scout between us, I had honestly believed we’d continue for the next month, finish the uni year, and after the few-month break of no excuses to see each other, we’d lose contact.

  But then the text happened. That stupid head of mine chokes up again and I just blink, waiting to blink one of these times and have his words disappear:

  Nate: Have a magazine interested in using one of my shots of you. Can I come over with release forms to sign?

  I should know what the hell he wants me or him to release, or what I need to do, but my focus is on the part I instead comprehend very well.

  Me semi-naked, Nate adoring me from behind the lens, him, that first time making me come undone at his will, that bond.

  Us.

  And. My. House.

  It’s as I rush to reply my fingers freeze up. I shake them out and re-grip my phone.

  Kalli: Sure, sounds cool. When do u wanna come?

  Nate: In half hr?

  My first reaction is panic. Me, a guy, alone? Seth and Tristan are at kindergarten, and Mum is at work, but I tell Nate yes. I’m not sure when or if I’ll be able to tell him what I need to, but I’ve been practicing, weaning out of my habit.

  Scout suggested a desensitisation process. We decided on someone non-romantically involved to test out how I’d go alone. The first step was to ask a professor a question in his office. Closed door, chairs separated by a desk, cut-off space. I went in there after a shot of tequila.

  Next was a group assignment. There was one guy and Scout. We were studying, and Scout ducked off a couple times, once to go to the loo, and another later to grab some food supplies. I freaked with my study buddy, but I blamed it on asthma crossed with a freak attack over how I’d get the assignment done, and after losing it, the rest of the time with that guy alone was fine. Scout came back and when we left, I felt accomplished.

  I’ve worked my way up, but knowing it’s actually happening—Nate and I in my house, alone—hardly bothers me. Aunty Nicole was right, and I’ve spent the last month and a half without having Nate’s support, and instead with a constant weight everywhere I go.

  I hate losing friends, and losing Nate? It’s oh so much more.

  Truthfully, it’s much easier handling us in a house alone than it is bearing one more day pretending I’m fine with how things are now.

  First thing, I check the time to know when half an hour will be. My room is a pigsty. I change my sheets in case they stink, pick up the clothes I dropped beside my bed from this morning, the one before that, and from however many others. I vacuum up bits of fluff from the carpet. When I’m almost done, there’s a knock at the door.

  I run-tiptoe there so I’m not pounding monster steps in the guest’s earshot and chuck open the door.

  He is there, looking like he’s been on vacation this time apart. Unlike me, he doesn’t have bags under his eyes. He has a shirt on, rolled up to the elbows with a couple of buttons undone at the top. He’s wearing straight-fitted jeans and Keds-like shoes. Except Nate isn’t into brands, so I bet they’re just from Payless Shoes or something.

  I gaze into his pale eyes, see his jaw working as he attempts a tight-lipped smile. It’s the kind of sexy that makes me remember exactly what I’ve lost.

  He continues to work his jaw, muscles sinewy down his neck and out of necessity, I spin around and ask him to come in without looking, because I’d rather keep my composure, thanks.

  “Oh, err …” he starts.

  I stop in the hallway down the house when he doesn’t seem to go on. Seeing me, he averts his eyes. “Did you need to get changed or anything?”

  Horrified, I look away from him as soon as he looks up. It’s like a game of eye chase. And it feels all the more ridiculous knowing I haven’t played any type of chase with someone older than four in years. But the worst part is knowing I actually look like shit to him.

  I don’t have a big ego, but my hair’s more on the just-rolled-out-of-bed-looking-like-Miranda-Kerr side than a bunch of knots, and I have yesterday’s mascara and eyeliner on, which also looks like sex makeup, which I assumed looked good, as they do in movies.

  Guess I’m wrong.

  I dip my head and take a couple of steps, stalking off with zero confidence, until Nate says, “Sorry, just um, yeah.”

  Whatever.

  I have to
remember he came here to use me. He needs my signature to release my rights. That’s it. I don’t even care if I’m making a mistake. I’ve done a total flip. I need him gone so I can continue my routine life—uni, study, work, family, parties. Seth and Tristan are my highlights, but Aunty Nicole, too, because she’s closer to agreeing to see Mum in the times we’ve recently spoken. Parties are a way to kill time. I haven’t kissed a guy since Donovan, and out of both parts—the “no kissing” and “Donovan”—the latter has left a sour taste in my mouth. That guy is starting to creep me out.

  I turn the corner to head into my room, but notice Nate isn’t following me. Popping my head back around to the hallway, I see he’s got one hand in his pocket, his knee bent, leaning against the wall, whistling to himself.

  “Hey—” he looks up “—just come on in.”

  Nate doesn’t have to ask, “Are you sure?” It comes out in his careful distance behind me, and in the way he sits on the furthest possible corner of my bed.

  I pull out my desk chair, flip it around and sit down all the way across the room, facing Nate.

  Then I realise.

  Why his eyes haven’t been on my face.

  Why he’s sitting over there, one leg tossed over the other, his arm shielding my view from his lap.

  When I rest my arms on the armrest of my desk chair and feel my boobs through my tank top, I do not feel my bra.

  My eyes go wide, and two things happen.

  One, I look down and see dark circles, and my nipples poking out. My breath goes in an instant and I can’t take another, let alone move. I just take in my nipples. Dark. Poking.

  But then I snap up my gaze and zero in on Nate’s hand ever-so-well-placed on his crossed leg that shields his lower abs, crotch and upper thighs. The meaning of his actions rocks my core, sending a hot, erotic wave spilling over between my thighs. I wonder how hard he is, if I’m making this all up. Because that is likely given my circumstantial celibacy and month-and-a-half bout of loneliness. I could imagine Nate kissing me now, too. Anything’s likely to be imagined.