The phone rings. I keep breathing.
‘Hello?’
‘Hey, how’re you doing, Lia?’
Keep breathing.
‘Sorry. Stupid question.’
‘I wonder how many times I’ve heard the word “sorry” in the last six weeks? You could probably give me a formula for it, couldn’t you?’ I say.
‘Probably.’ His laugh has an anxious edge.
Phone calls are awful for this kind of thing: the silences.
‘How are the boys holding up?’ he asks.
‘Oh, they’re not. Not really. But they’re better than me,’ I say.
‘Lia, I – .’
‘Pete, can you come over? The boys are with their grandma and I just need something more human than the telly tonight.’
I make an effort to clean myself up. Since Amos’ funeral I’ve lived in tracksuits that are faded or stained. I have enough pride to pull myself out of my grief-lethargy, even if it is only for one night.
The knock at the door startles me and the lipstick I am attempting to apply jolts a fat pink line up my cheek. My jeans and jumper are a pitiful attempt to be normal: the smeared lipstick seems to suit my state of mind so much better. For a moment I consider leaving it, answering the door just like that. Pete wouldn’t mind. He’s seen me worse.
No he hasn’t.
Tears run down my face. I dab them with a tissue, using the damp fibres to wipe off the lipstick.
Opening the door, we look at each other and hug awkwardly. Already I know something has changed between us.
In the kitchen, I put on the kettle. Pete opens the fridge and plucks out a bottle of wine. He chooses glasses from the cabinet – two of them – and pours them to the rim. I let the kettle boil.
‘How’s Sandra?’ I ask. ‘Did she mind you dropping everything to come rescue me?’
‘Sandra doesn’t mind what I do these days. Since she moved out I haven’t been up the top of her list.’
There is a snag of guilt in my gut: I’ve been a bad friend.
‘Pete, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’
‘Hey, it’s okay. You’ve had bigger stuff on your mind.’
We both take a gulp of wine.
‘So Riley said to me the other day, “Do I still belong to Daddy, Mum?”. And I said, “Yes, of course, darling, you always will”. And then he said, “Are you still my grown-up, Mum?”’
Pete reaches out and touches my shoulder. I feel his hand cold from the wineglass, through my jumper.
‘I don’t feel like the grown-up anymore. I don’t want to be.’
‘I don’t remember ever hurting much as a kid. Apart from when I broke my arm...’ Pete says.
We move to the lounge room. We choose opposite couches. People often got the wrong idea about the two of us so it was easier for all concerned – especially our partners – if we just kept our distance. Now our habits are embedded.
I curl my legs up, uncomfortable in my jeans.
‘You know this is the first time I’ve been out of tracky dacks since the funeral,’ I say.
‘Lia, you don’t have to be together, no one expects you to be.’
‘Riley and Ethan do.’
‘Do you think they care what you wear?’
‘It’s symbolic, Pete.’
‘It’s just clothes.’
Somewhere in that exchange is a weak echo of how Pete and I used to be.
‘Do you know why I wanted you to come over tonight, Pete?’
‘I assume it’s because you want to fuck me.’
Our standard joke. People think men and women can’t be friends. Pete and I relished ambushing that idea by calling their bluff. Amos and Sandra had been in on the joke.
But tonight it isn’t a joke. I need to feel something other than grief and all I can think about is fucking. There is no one else I trust enough. Pete and I have never so much as kissed before, but tonight I want him. It is selfish and I don’t like to admit it to myself, but I’ve orchestrated this whole thing. The boys sleeping over, the wine in the fridge, the condoms by the bed. Somewhere in my muddled mind I’d planned this when I couldn’t even plan getting out of my tracksuit. The guilt feels like a hypodermic needle to my heart. I can’t feed my boys more than toast and jam. Did I actually leave the house to buy condoms? I should be steaming vegetables and talking about Daddy always being with us in our memories.
The tears ransack my whole body. Pete comes to me and holds me tight. He is rocking me gently and whispering, ‘I’m sorry, it was our joke, I’m sorry.’
I stop crying. His arms are strong, his back thick with muscle. I’ve never noticed his smell before. It is a combination of faded aftershave and something garlicky.
Maybe this is enough, I think. I will just hold him. I haven’t been held by a man for so long and it feels so good it almost hurts. The tide is ebbing away, for now at least.
He stops whispering and starts stroking my hair. It was something my mother used to do when I was a kid, and Pete knows it soothes me. He’s never done it to me before, but we’ve talked about it. We’ve talked about everything.
I don’t want to be soothed. I take his hand and stop him, pull back just far enough to see his face. His brown eyes are bloodshot and that only makes me want him more.
I kiss him, tentatively because I don’t know how to kiss another man and I don’t want to kiss Pete the way I had kissed Amos. With Amos it had become perfunctory towards the end, when it was hard for him even to offer me his lips.
Pete doesn’t respond. I can feel him subtly pulling away, not wanting to kiss me but too fearful to stop my madness. There are no words for it so I keep kissing him, drawing him, thread by thread, into my need.
And then kissing him stops working. I need to be lost, engulfed, subsumed. He lets me take off his shirt. His chest is smooth and then that delicate skin on my hands isn’t enough. I take off his pants and feel the coarse hair on his legs. It gives me a moment of satisfaction, but then it is gone. I feel like an addict, clawing for more even as I get more. He doesn’t stop me, but he doesn’t do anything either. Is he going to perform a sacrificial function? Do me a favour? This isn’t right, I need a connection. I stop kissing him and force him to look at me. He’s crying.
He finally touches me and too soon it is done and we lay down, face to face, breathing each other’s air as we sleep.
When I wake, crumpled and cramped on the narrow ledge of the couch, I am alone. Pete has returned to the other couch, curled into a tight ball, and turned away from me.