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Our plane has landed, and again I have to give Harry credit. He hasn’t even tried to make small talk, apart from necessary exchanges. Probably because I’ve mastered a flat tone to my voice that’s an un-scalable wall. He may as well be sitting next to a stranger, the kind that makes you want to bury your face in a book so you don’t have to interact with them.
He’s tense. I can see it. Feel it. Finally, he breaks his silence.
‘What’s the plan?’
I shrug.
‘Are we calling it quits or what?’
You’d think I’d have that answer at the ready. I’ve had days to agonise over it, but the decision has eluded me. Obviously, I’ll be moving back to my and Snap’s apartment, but what happens then? Is the music over? I guess it has to be. We can’t continue like this, not that I’m angry anymore. What I am is lost. Back at sea. The one we just left.
‘Is that what you want?’ I ask, afraid to look at him.
‘Is it what you want?’
I can’t answer. I honestly don’t think it’s possible to fix this. Trust is like a broken cup: you can glue it back together, but there’s always going to be that worry in the back of your mind that one day it’ll leak or fall apart, and you’ll get scalded.
‘Suit yourself,’ Harry says, pulling my bag from the overhead locker and dumping it on the seat beside me. ‘Let me know when you get over yourself.’
I bite my lip through the sting of his words. ‘I’ll get a taxi and text you when I get home. I’ll have to borrow Snap’s car to get my stuff.’
‘Don’t be stupid. I’ll drive you.’
I shrug again. Am I the arsehole?
~
It’s getting dark and raining heavily when we emerge from the terminal. Cars whoosh, announcements echo, security officers yell at people for parking where they shouldn’t. I pull my jacket close as we line up for a taxi. When it comes, the driver is one of those chatty types. He wants to know where we’ve been, what we’ve been doing. Harry keeps him happy with glossed-over snippets of what it’s like working on a cruise. It staggers me how he sounds so casual. I’m counting the minutes until I can curl up with a hot chocolate in my own bed. If I still have one. Maybe it’ll be the couch.
~
Winter has taken root in Harry’s apartment. While we were away, it insinuated itself into the fabrics and furnishings, the walls even. Icy. I go straight to my room. My room. How odd that sounds now. I open my suitcase and start stuffing in as much as I can. Where am I going to get boxes for the other stuff? I’ll have to ask Harry to lend me his suitcase. I turn to find him standing in the doorway watching.
He looks weary, his hair hanging in his eyes, hands shoved in pockets, shoulder leaning against the door. How is it he still manages to cut through to my heart?
‘You can leave it until morning, you know,’ he says. ‘It’s late. It’s pouring out there. One more night won’t make any difference.’
I’m torn, bone weary and hungry. I suppose he’s right. I just don’t want to drag out the torment.
‘Stay,’ he says. ‘I’ll order pizza.’
I’m too drained to argue. ‘Okay.’
He leaves me, and I sit on the bed, wishing Mr Pink were here to cuddle. He probably thinks we’ve deserted him. I get up again and continue to sort things into piles, trying to figure if I can fit everything into two suitcases. When I can’t do any more, I sit and wonder. What now? Tomorrow I’ll be back to ‘normal’, whatever that is.
The doorbell rings, and Harry fetches the pizza. Eventually, I wander into the kitchen. He holds up a bottle of champagne, looks at me questioningly. ‘May as well use it, hey?’
I’m surprised he’s offering me alcohol after all that’s happened. ‘Sure. Why not? We can toast our demise.’ My laugh is forced.
Harry doesn’t smile, just hands me a glass and holds his out. ‘Truce,’ he says.
‘Truce.’
It’s hard to eat pizza when you’re sad. Deeply, cruelly, incurably sad. It sticks to your throat and sits like a heavy lump in your stomach. Harry watches me refill my glass but doesn’t say anything. Am I going to feel guilty every time I have a drink in front of him? Then again, maybe there won’t be any more times.
He clears his throat. ‘So, listen. I just want to say one thing.’
I wait, biting my knuckle.
‘I want to apologise. I should have been more supportive ... about that guy touching you. You were right; he was out of order. I should have understood. I was just thinking about not losing our jobs. I didn’t get it, and ... I’m really sorry.’
I take a shuddering breath, clinch my fingers on my glass as I focus on the champagne bubbles rising in narrow columns, then whisper the first honest thing I’ve said in weeks. ‘I tried to stop him.’
‘I know. If I’d seen it happen, maybe—’
‘No. I mean Samuel.’
~
Snap is blooming. He grabs me in a bear hug before I’m inside the door. ‘OMG, girl, how are you? Thank god you’re back. I’ve put on ten kilos since Granny’s been cooking for me, and she piled lashings of food in the freezer before she left. If I start wearing stretchy pants, kill me, will you?’
I wrestle myself free. ‘OMG yourself, your slur is nearly gone. And look at your face! It’s nearly back to normal.’
‘I knooow right? A miracle, isn’t it? Granny helped. Pushed me every day with the speech therapy.’
He helps me carry my cases to my bedroom. I look around. Everything is neat. Snap nudges me with his hip. ‘So, where’s that man of yours? Not stopping to say hello?’
‘No. He’s got stuff to do.’
Snap tries to examine my face, but I turn away. ‘Come here,’ he says, hugging me again. ‘You’re so skinny! What have they been doing to you?’
‘Nothing. I’m fine.’ I grin to prove it.
He calls my bluff. ‘So,’ he says, ‘Trouble in paradise.’ He’s savvy enough not to push me, ‘Okay, well what do you want to do?’
‘Let’s talk about you. What about your man? The flower pot guy? Ben, yeah?’
He rolls his eyes in delight, claps his hands like a happy child. ‘Now there’s a subject I never get tired of. Follow me, I want you to meet someone.’
He spins and heads towards his closed bedroom door. Oh geez, please tell me he’s not here. I’m not ready for meeting boyfriends. I close my eyes, do the deep breath thing, then plod on behind him. I can do this. It’s Snap. I’ve got to be happy for him.
He turns the doorhandle, cooing. ‘Here, sweetie. Daddy’s here. I want you to meet someone special.’
God save me. Is that how he talks to his boyfriend? He gently pushes the door open, and a little black nose appears in the gap, then a long, shiny brown face attached to a wiggly body comes tearing out. It’s a sausage dog!
‘Meet Charlie.’
Snap’s face sparkles as he sits in his favourite chair while Charlie tries to lick his face off. While he half-heartedly fights off his fur-buddy, he tells me how Ben and Granny have turned him around. Granny is no nonsense, and Ben – the donor of this blessed little munchkin – is sweet, attentive and a rock for his creative soul. I listen and smile where it’s appropriate, giving words of encouragement. I’m happy for him, but some tiny, ugly part of me is resentful. Which is disgusting, because Snap is my best friend, and no way would I want to go through what he’s been through. Still, I wonder. Have I been replaced?
‘Umm, I think I’ll take nap. I’m falling asleep here.’
‘Kitten, it’s only eleven, and I’ve got morning tea ready.’
‘Just give me an hour. I’m beat.’
~
It’s hard to be sad when you’re woken up by a doggy face wash. I push Charlie and his pink tongue away. ‘Thanks, matey.’ He sits back and waits. If sugar could be moulded into something brown-furred and wiggly-tailed, this is what it would look like. So smooth and silky soft. I can see why Snap fell for him: those big, shiny trusting eyes daring you not to love him.
Snap’s in the kitchen pottering. The sound of contentment. I sag, knowing we’re going to have to have ‘the conversation’. But this won’t be so bad. It helped opening the wound last night. Now it needs to drain. I can do this. Charlie agrees, his whole bottom wiggling in affirmation. God, he’s cute.
Snap’s prepared a feast to ‘put some meat on my skinny bones’. The coffee from his new espresso machine is good and hot, liquid gold. We sit opposite each other at the kitchen counter, Charlie at Snap’s feet ready to catch anything he might not-so-accidentally drop. We glance at each other between mouthfuls, exchanging smiles. It’s good to be back.
‘So?’ he says.
I put my fork down and slowly finish chewing my smoked salmon and benny egg on an English muffin.
I swallow, look up at him. ‘I fucked up.’
