by Marie Landry
“I should go. You don’t need to see me out, I know the way.” Just before I make it to the door, he says my name. I turn and he’s standing a few feet away, looking lost. “This shouldn’t be so hard,” I say, almost to myself. “We barely know each other.”
He lifts his shoulders in a helpless shrug. I want to wrench the door open and run through the house without looking back. Instead, I close the distance between us. His arms open and I step into them, and we hug each other as if our lives depend on it. I lift up on my tiptoes, leaning into him so he takes most of my weight, clinging to me and holding me upright. I ignore the tears stinging my eyes, refusing to let them fall.
We remain locked together for what feels like an eternity. Over Kieran’s shoulder I see the streetlights come on outside; it’s completely dark now. I squeeze my eyes shut, gather the remaining shreds of my strength, and pull away.
Kieran whispers my name as my arms ease from around his neck. I freeze with my hands on his shoulders. Our eyes lock and hold. I have no idea who initiates it, but in the next second, our mouths meet.
The kiss is so soft and sweet it makes me want to cry. This whole damn situation makes me want to cry. I know I should pull away, yet my body has overridden my brain. And my brain short-circuits completely the second Kieran’s tongue sweeps across my lips.
From the moment our tongues meet, sensation takes over. We grasp at each other, me gripping the front of Kieran’s shirt in both fists, him squeezing my waist and pulling me closer. This is the hottest, most intense kiss I’ve ever had. I can feel it in every inch of my body, heating me with an electric desire that could light up the whole block.
It would be so easy to lead Kieran to the bed right now. To strip off our clothes and let our hungry mouths and greedy hands do all the talking for us. There are a million things I’d like to forget right now, and I’m sure Kieran would be right there with me, happy to shirk the responsibilities of real life for an hour or two.
But the sensible side of me—the voice that’s always in my head telling me to do the right thing—knows a round of hot, sweaty sex wouldn’t actually fix anything. In fact, it would likely create a whole new set of problems, and I have enough of those right now.
Kieran nips my bottom lip and it’s the jolt I need to bring me back to my senses. With a gasp, I pull away, immediately putting space between us. My back hits the door and I scramble for the knob, gripping it without turning it.
“I-I can’t, Kieran. I’m sorry.”
He scrubs a hand over his face and paces toward the bed, turning his back for a moment. His shoulders rise slowly as he inhales, then fall into a slump on the exhale. He turns around again, but stays where he is. It’s like an invisible line has been drawn across the room and we both know better than to cross it.
“I wish you nothing but the best,” I say, my voice shaking. “Please know that.”
He nods, his fingers idly running over his lips. I try not to let my attention drift there. “I wish you the same, Meredith. Truly.” He drops his gaze from mine, and I take that as my cue to leave. Or, more accurately, to flee.
I risk life and limb by texting Ivy as I fly down the stairs and out of the house. When I reach the sidewalk, I realize I need to get away from the house; I’m not sure if I’m strong enough to resist running back inside and straight up to Kieran’s room. I text Ivy again, asking her to meet me at the corner store at the end of the street.
Shivers race through me as I start walking. With the sun gone, the temperature has dropped, and I stupidly left my jacket in my car at Connelly’s. Drawing my cardigan tighter around me, I pick up the pace. I only have to wait a few minutes in front of the corner store before Ivy pulls up. She takes one look at me through the windshield, puts the car in park, and gets out to wrap her arms around me.
I lean into her hard, the way I did with Kieran just a few minutes ago. She holds on tight, not saying a word, which is a good thing because her silence is probably the only thing keeping me from bursting into tears.
“Come on,” she finally says. “You’re coming home with me. Hugh started making Bolognese when we got home and it should be ready by the time we get back.”
“I already ate,” I say absently as I get into the passenger seat and buckle my seatbelt.
Ivy cranks the heat. “So you’ll eat again. Trust me, Hugh’s Bolognese will cure whatever ails you.”
Hugh doesn’t seem surprised to see me when we arrive. He kisses Ivy hello before dropping a quick kiss on top of my head. “All right?” he asks. When I simply nod, he examines my face for a few beats, then goes to set an extra place at the table.
Ivy gets a call from work, so I wander into the living room while I wait for dinner. I love Ivy and Hugh’s house, and this is my favorite room because it’s so them. Bookshelves line two whole walls and are crammed with books, framed photos, and a few souvenirs from their travels. I’m perusing the shelves, as I always do, when Ivy calls me for dinner.
Despite having a healthy portion of fish and chips plus some of Kieran’s pie and mashed potatoes just a couple hours ago, I somehow manage to devour an entire bowl of spaghetti Bolognese and two pieces of garlic bread. Talk about eating your feelings. And yet I have no regrets as I wipe my plate clean with the last bite of bread. No regrets about eating so much, anyway.
At Hugh’s insistence, Ivy and I take our glasses of wine into the living room while he cleans up. Seeing him all domestic like this is a side of him I’ve never witnessed, even though we’ve been friends for years. It makes me ridiculously happy for Ivy and yet oddly envious at the same time. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever have what these two have. A nasty little voice in my head tells me I could have this life if I would just get out of my own way. And to that voice, I say a resounding ‘fuck you’.
“Want to tell me what happened?” Ivy asks once we’re settled. Her black cat, Fiddlesticks, hops up on the couch between us. She looks from me to Ivy and back again before climbing into my lap. I snuggle her close, burying my face in her fur; she’s always been a perceptive one.
The idea of rehashing everything that happened with Kieran makes exhaustion settle over me. I tip my head back, resting it on the cushion behind me, wishing I could close my eyes and fall asleep right here. Fiddlesticks starts to purr, and between that and my full belly, it’s a struggle to keep my eyes open.
Ivy waits silently. Knowing her as well as I do, I’m sure it’s hard for her to refrain from pelting me with questions. Finally, I take a gulp of my wine, followed by a deep breath, and I tell her about Kieran. I’m careful not to break any rules of confidentiality, but I tell her about our time together and the undeniable attraction between us.
When I finish speaking, Ivy drains her wine and refills both our glasses. I’ll likely have the hangover from hell tomorrow after drinking beer at Connelly’s, whiskey with Kieran, and now wine.
“Can I be honest with you?” Ivy asks. We both know it’s a rhetorical question, so she continues without waiting for a response. “You know I think what you’re doing with HTC is great. A job like that is meant for a kind and compassionate person like you. Plus the touchy-feely stuff comes naturally to you.”
She pokes at my leg, and I let out a tired laugh. “I sense a ‘but’ coming.”
Ivy makes a short sound of agreement. “But…while I think what you’re doing is amazing and you’re providing a service that makes people happy and brings them comfort, sometimes I wonder if you’re hiding behind your job. Using it as a way to keep yourself distant from people.”
My mind whirs over her words. Exhaustion paired with alcohol, not to mention carb overload has my brain working at a sluggish pace. Before I can come up with a response, Ivy goes on.
“You haven’t dated anyone in ages. And that’s an observation not a criticism, you know that. You’re independent and you don’t need a man; we’ve both seen too many people date for the sake of dating, and it rarely ends well. But from the sounds of it, you’ve met this amazing
guy who you get along well with, and who you clearly feel something for. The only thing stopping you from pursuing something with him is your own set of rules.”
My own set of rules. That may be true, but those rules are there for a reason. They’re meant to keep people from getting hurt. And while I do believe some rules are meant to be broken, I don’t think that applies here. I’ve broken my own rules a time or two, like with Kitty; I’ve come to care for her the way a protective older sister might, but that’s different. Kitty understands it’s a one-sided relationship and I’m there solely for her. And, possibly more importantly, I don’t have to worry about Kitty breaking my heart.
“What’s stopping you, Mer?” Ivy asks softly, her dark eyes searching mine.
Guilt gnaws at my stomach. I still haven’t told Ivy about my mom losing the extra funding at Birch Hill. I keep meaning to, but I’ve been busy and so has she. Excuses, my mind whispers. Tell her now, it says a little louder. I open my mouth, but the words won’t come. I move my lips, feeling like the Little Mermaid after the sea witch stole her voice.
Ivy’s quiet laughter surprises me. “You poor thing! You’re worn out.” She inches to the edge of the couch and perches there, facing me. “You’ve been taking on too much, Meredith Cormier. You’re going to spend the night here. I’ve been waiting for someone to christen the guest room, and who better than you?”
I start to stammer out a response—I have work to do at home, plus I don’t have any of my things—but Ivy shakes her head and hops to her feet, scooping Fiddlesticks from my lap.
“Nope, not listening. Want me to draw you a bath or do you want to go straight to bed?”
I sigh. There’s no arguing with Ivy, and if I’m honest I don’t even want to. I like the idea of forgetting all my obligations and problems for one night, and allowing someone to take care of me. I likely wouldn’t get anything accomplished at home anyway. “Bed.”
Ten minutes later, I’m sitting on the brand new queen-sized bed in Ivy and Hugh’s guest room, wearing one of Hugh’s old St. Andrew’s t-shirts. Hugh, bless him, ushered his fiancée away from the door when it looked like she was a moment away from offering to tuck me in. She finally wished me goodnight with the promise of a hearty breakfast in the morning.
I shift to the center of the bed, crossing my legs and leaning against the plush pillows. I check my phone for the first time since I texted Ivy to pick me up. No new messages.
“That’s a good thing, Meredith,” I mutter to myself, my voice laced with disgust as disappointment tries to take over. “You’re the one who told Kieran nothing could happen between us, remember?” I send a quick text to Celia to let her know I won’t be coming home tonight. I have a feeling Ivy will call her if she hasn’t already. I imagine her quizzing Celia on my behavior, asking if she’s noticed if I’ve been acting weird recently. I guess I wouldn’t blame her.
Ivy’s words spin around and around in my head. Is she right? Am I using Human Touch Companions as an excuse to keep people at arm’s length? I bring strangers comfort, I listen to their problems, I help them in whatever way they need, but I’m just a body. A stand-in of sorts. I could be anyone.
The thing is, lately I have been taking comfort from them too. I used to be able to shut my emotions off along with my brain. Now all I seem to do is feel. And I feel better after spending time with someone who doesn’t know a thing about my personal life. I feel better after holding someone. It always left me satisfied because I knew I was helping, plus it’s natural I’d feel the effects of the oxytocin releases myself. But it’s something different now. Something deeper.
That comfort is like a drug. I feel better for a while and I forget about the ache in my heart from missing my mom, but the pain comes back. It always comes back. Taking comfort from someone I’m meant to be comforting is just a band-aid on a gaping wound—one I’m worried will never heal, because how could it? I’ll always miss my mom. I’ll always hate what happened to her.
Out of habit, I sign into the HTC site. I have a notification of payment from Kieran, with a message attached. Holding my breath, I click to open it. My eyes widen as they go to the dollar amount, which is more than my standard fee. The message reads:
Meredith, I noticed the ‘add a tip’ option next to the payment button, so I added a little extra for your trouble. You were the best companion a guy could ask for. I really do wish you the best. Kieran.
A lump forms in my throat as I read his message a second time, then a third. Simple and to the point. Just how it should be for a business transaction.
I’ve let this become more than business, though. Despite needing the money, Ivy is right. I’ve been using HTC as a crutch, and it’s not healthy. It’s also not fair to my clients. I need to learn another way to cope, just like I’ll now need to find another way to make the extra money to keep my mom at Birch Hill.
Ivy asked what was stopping me from breaking my own rules, and I didn’t have an answer for her because I couldn’t get my thoughts together enough to form the words. I have an answer now, though. Allowing people to get close means opening my heart. A heart that’s already broken from the loss of my mother and the life we had together. Making new friends is one thing, but the spark I felt with Kieran was more than friendship. And if I allowed things to progress and he decided to return to Ireland or things didn’t work out, I’d end up with another crack in my heart. How much damage can one heart take? It’s easier—safer—not to find out.
I open a new message in HTC and address it to the admins. I start by apologizing for the short notice, and then inform them I need to take a break from the site, and ask them to put my account on hold indefinitely.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Life goes on over the next few weeks, as it’s known to do. The official start of spring arrives in a flurry of blossoms and lush green grass. Everything feels fresh and new. Everything except for me. I’m just tired, wandering around in a fog, feeling lost.
Even though I know taking a break from Human Touch Companions was a good idea, I miss it. And it’s not the only thing I miss; I have this perpetual feeling of missing something or something missing from me. When I was little, my mom, who is Acadian and was born and raised in a largely French-speaking town in New Brunswick, wanted me to be bilingual like her, so she taught me French from an early age. I remember her teaching me the phrase ‘tu me manques’; the concept is the same as ‘I miss you’, but the literal translation is ‘you are missing from me’. I didn’t get it at the time, but I understand it now with painful clarity.
Long before I started working for HTC, something else my mother taught me was the fact mental health is as important as physical health. Working with families, especially the types of families she had as clients, Mom dealt with mental illness nearly every day. Along with empathy and compassion, she also taught me to recognize the warning signs, and she made sure I was aware things like depression and anxiety aren’t the same for any two people.
In my first year of college, I became good friends with a girl named Alice. She was sweet and quiet, and we didn’t hang out all that much outside of class except to study and occasionally go for coffee. In our second year, she became quieter than usual and more withdrawn. I’d go visit her at the house where she was staying only to discover she was napping. She would miss classes, bail on study sessions, and cancel plans to meet up.
I suspected something was wrong, and I asked my mom how I should approach Alice.
“The same way you approach anyone about anything, Sunshine Girl,” she’d said. “With love and kindness and understanding. No judgment. For some people, acknowledging a problem is painful, and accepting help is difficult.”
When I finally worked up the courage to talk to Alice, I was met with denial. She was dealing with a lot, she said—school was more difficult this year, she was arguing with her mom, she found out the guy she liked had a girlfriend. I let it go, telling her if she ever wanted to talk I was always available.
Event
ually, she did want to talk. She knew there was something wrong, she just didn’t know what to do about it. I went with her to the college’s health center to make an appointment to see a doctor. Then I accompanied her to her first three therapy sessions, sitting in the waiting room and watching repeats of Friends on the tiny wall-mounted television. With continued sessions, medication, and support from friends, Alice started to feel better.
I haven’t thought of Alice in a long time. She moved away after college and we lost touch until a few years ago when I found her on Facebook. She doesn’t post often, but she looks happy in the rare pictures she posts of her and her husband.
I think I’m Alice now, though. In denial.
When I first started feeling this way—despondent, and as if everything took more effort than usual—I assumed it was situational depression. Who wouldn’t be depressed if their mother, who was also their best friend, declined as quickly and drastically as mine did? I missed talking to her, laughing with her, and seeing her regularly. I grieved the time we wouldn’t have together—time this disease had taken from her. From us.
Now I’m afraid it’s more than that. I’ve gone from feeling everything to feeling nothing. I keep waiting for the numbness to pass, but it hasn’t.
And yet, I keep going as if everything is fine. I struggle out of bed every morning when what I’d rather do is stay hidden under the covers. I go to work, I put a smile on my face, and I carry on with the things I’ve always done, like hanging out with friends and going to book club. I maintain my sunny disposition because that’s what I’ve always been known for, and that’s one of the things my mom loved best about me. I was her Sunshine Girl.
I don’t feel like that Sunshine Girl anymore, though.
Today is a beautiful day, and I’ve been sitting at my desk for half an hour giving myself a pep talk to get out and do something. I just submitted another paid article to a travel site, and I keep telling myself I should go enjoy the day. Despite having no luck with extra funding for my mom, I’ve created a budget for the next several months that should work. If I’m super careful with my own expenses and if I can continue selling travel articles, plus eventually get back to work for HTC, I should be able to keep my mom at Birch Hill through the year. Beyond that…well, I’ll figure that out when the time comes. Hopefully some of the funding I’ve applied for will come through.
