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Watching Dean drive away was another form of self-torture, while I thought of all the things I should have said. Should’a, would’a, could’a. The story of my life.
It was a sunny morning, and the café buzzed with life. King bounded to me with a joyful woof when I walked into the courtyard, and I reached down to stroke his head.
Lou wasn’t far behind. “Hey. How was it? Did Villainy rock it up? And how about the other bands?” She gave me a tight hug. “I’m looking forward to hearing all about it. Me and King, we had fun too, but not as much as you, I’ll bet.”
I couldn’t talk about it. Not yet. I was still processing how things fell apart so quickly. Perhaps I should have lied and said I didn’t mean it about loving him? Would that have bought some more time? However I looked at our relationship, it was only ever a short-term thing. How could it be anything else, when Dean wanted to live in Auckland? That city might as well be the moon, as far as I was concerned. I needed to live here or somewhere like here. No pubs and clubs, and no temptations. A clean, quiet life was the only thing that would fix me, and that wasn’t enough by itself.
I was making great progress. I wouldn’t let this be a setback.
“Well?” asked Lou. “On a scale of One being supremely shitty and Ten being way better than I could ever believe, how was your day? And night. You can roll them into one answer.” She winked, and smiled at me.
“You know,” I said, “I’m really tired, and I’ve got a headache. Can we catch up later?” I couldn’t miss the look of concern on her face, but I couldn’t handle it.
It was tempting, to hide for the rest of the day and lick my wounds in the privacy of my little apartment. Lou wanted to talk to me, and I couldn’t put her off for long, but I wasn’t ready. I took King for a long walk on the beach and told him I was making up for abandoning him yesterday. He gazed at me with his limpid brown eyes, and then gave me a doggy grin when I bought an ice cream for him. He was so easy to please. Why couldn’t everything in life be as straightforward?
I planned to do two pieces of sand art, since I wasn’t here yesterday, but I was torn on what I wanted to say. I fluctuated between feeling angry, and wanting to curl up in a ball and give in to the anxieties that nudged at me. A little voice in my head reminded me I was stupid to trust Dean. That he’d been using me from the start. That he didn’t care for me at all, and I’d projected my feelings onto him.
Sitting on the sand, King sprawled nearby, I contemplated ideas. Lyrics, definitely. Something to make me think of Homegrown first, and then another to symbolize my frustration.
The first was easy. A line from my favourite Villainy track, “Ammunition.” I spent ages, creating a border to look like bullets lying nose to tail. I stood and walked around it, viewing it from every angle. It wasn’t right. The bullets looked stupid. More like random blurs. Nobody would understand the meaning behind it. Then I realised I’d spelled a word wrong.
Jesus. This artwork was supposed to be relaxing and part of my personal therapy, and here I was, fucking it up. “God damn it,” I snarled and kicked at the corner nearest me. I smudged the bullets. Messed it up even more. Fury lit into me, and I stomped all over the picture, rubbing it away and eradicating it from the sand. Was I trying to rub thoughts of Dean out at the same time?
King sat watching me, a worried look on his furry face. I’d scared him. I flung myself to the sand and threw my arms around his neck. “I’m sorry, baby.”
What time was it? If I stayed here too long, I ran the risk of seeing Dean if he went for a jog. I didn’t want that. I’d rather not do my art at all. The exhibition opened next week, so I only had a window of a couple more days to get the final images printed. It didn’t matter if I stopped the series now. Nobody would know, except me.
I went slowly back to the café. With luck, Lou would have finished work and left for the day.
The only person still around was Jacques, and he was closing up the café. I snuck upstairs to my apartment. I fully intended to do some work. I had image files to review and flyers to proofread before they went to final print, but I gazed at the images I’d created over the past week. The ones Dean liked. I couldn’t escape thoughts of him.
What could I do as a distraction? Yoga. I pulled up the gym schedule on my phone, but there wasn’t a class this evening. The movies? No, that’d remind me of going with Dean.
This was madness. How did I function before I met him? Before he consumed my every thought?
In the end, I went to bed ridiculously early and tried to watch a stupid comedy series on Netflix. It didn’t make me laugh. Would anything, ever again?
When I crawled out of bed in the morning, I was beyond grumpy from lack of sleep. It started hammering down rain in the early hours, and the noise woke me, reminding me painfully of the night before and the accident. Of seeing Dean being magnificent.
Would he call in for coffee? If he did, would I say anything? Or would I smile and be polite?
Lou caught me as I went into the café. She gazed at me and chewed on her lip. “You look like shit,” she said. “Really. Are you feeling okay?”
Her blunt words made me grimace. “I’m tired. I’ll be better after some coffee.”
“Maybe. If you want to talk about it, you know where to find me.” She slung an arm around my shoulder. “Do I need to sic my brothers onto your fireman?”
Tempting, but no. I shook my head. “He’s not my fireman. We’re just friends.”
“Girl, I saw the way you went off with him on Saturday. You were walking on air. Not like this. What’s he done?”
I longed to confide in her, but I was scared she’d see through me. Recognise me for the fuckup I was. I blew out a breath and forced a smile that made my cheeks hurt.
“Thanks, but I’m good.” I would be. Eventually.
*
Dean was leaving his beach cottage today and moving into the little house up the road. He’d be closer to me, and yet couldn’t be further away. It meant I could go on the beach without fear of running into him, but in this weather, I’d no plans to go out anyway. It gave me another excuse to immerse in Netflix, to pass the hours, but again it didn’t work. I’d find myself staring at the screen and wondering what happened.
He’d be back at work on Tuesday, and I was in a state of high stress, in case he called in for coffee.
He didn’t.
The weather was awful again. It mirrored my mood. Late-summer storms were common here, and they usually lasted a few days. There’d been a small tornado the year before. It swept up from the beach and tore through a local plantation of fir trees, scattering them like matchsticks. I shivered at the memory, my thoughts going straight to Dean. Was he outside in this?
The café was quiet, and my shift dragged. I should be counting down the days to my exhibition opening, but I couldn’t summon the energy. Maybe I was coming down with something? A summer bug?
Dean-withdrawal. Shame there was no known cure for that.
I went through the closing routines, and then retreated to my place, to throw myself on the bed and stare at the ceiling. The drumming of the rain was a constant background noise today. Maybe it would lull me to sleep?
When my phone chirruped, I didn’t look at it. I’d been interacting with people all day, and now I wanted to be alone.
It rang a few moments later. I sighed but reached out to pick it up. It was Lou.
“Steph.” Her voice was high and stressed. “Dean’s been hurt in a callout.”