Lying in bed, she didn't want to move, to get up, to eat, to shower, oblivious to her parents at the door, concerned looks on their faces. 'Are you okay honey? Do you want some lunch?' She turned away, greasy hair lank on the pillow.
She was struggling to forget, to accept, to remember who she was. Why she was important. Why anything was important.
She'd cut herself again last night. To see the blood well in the darkness, pain shooting through her arm, it helped her cope. There was no other way. I have to deal with this on my own. It's not as if he's going to help me.
She kept trying to push away the memories she just wanted to forget, but the harder she pushed, the harder they pushed back . . .
She sat in the armchair sideways, legs hanging over the arm - the comfiest position in her opinion – idly daydreaming about the previous weekend. They'd spent all of it together, a first since he'd had a rare weekend off. They'd made the most of it too, holding a family barbecue on Saturday, talking and making love all night, before visiting his grandparents the following day. She loved being at his house, out in the middle of nowhere surrounded by fields and gum trees, sitting out on the back verandah with his dog Max on one side, him on the other, the hens and cows going about their business in the neighbouring paddock. She felt as if she'd belonged.
He was different from the other guys she dated - caring, considerate, and generous to a fault. He wasn't overly affectionate, but he had his little personality quirks that she came to love very quickly. Like the way he smiled at her, head cocked slightly to the side - a secret smile, especially for her. The way he was so vain about his appearance. His love of chick flicks. There were lots of things she loved about him.
A sudden vibration of her phone startled her out of her daydream. He needed to talk. Puzzled – she'd only seen him this morning, a quick kiss before work – she dialled his number.
'I think we should break up.' His voice was soft down the phone line as he explained that he hadn't been himself the last few months, and he didn't feel as if he were being fair to her. Their relationship wasn't what he'd imagined it to be because he couldn't devote enough time to it. Tears began to trickle down her cheeks.
'Surely we could just have a break?'
'I can't do that. I don't like the person I'm turning into, I'm going somewhere inside myself where no one else can follow. I don't want to push you away.'
'But you won't, I'll always be here for you – '
'No, I will, I've done it before. I need you to be here for me, but I can't be with you. I need to sort this out on my own.'
At work, she wrote up the final details of the customer's refund in the returns book. She hated refunds, they affected the figures for the daily takings, and things were harder to sell when there was only one size or colour left on the shelf. She straightened the blouse on its coat hanger. Damned things never hang straight. She tugged at its hem, frowning. Immersing herself in her work helped her forget, to cope. At least that’s what she wanted to believe.
'How are you my duck?'
She looked up in surprise to see Julie standing before her. Initially, she'd been wary of his mother as she'd been told how close she was to her son, and how protective she was of her only child. How critical she was of his girlfriends – apparently she refused to talk to one because of a thoughtless remark that had been made about him. But Julie had never been anything but kind to her. She took a deep breath, emotions goading her from the sidelines.
'I'm worried about him.' She burst into tears. They hugged over the sales counter as Julie tried to calm her down.
'Come on sweetheart, don't cry. I know how strongly he feels about you, and I know how much he wants to be with you. You mustn't give up on him. I know how much you need one another. As far as I'm was concerned, you're still together, and everything will soon be okay, you'll see.'
She had no intention on ever giving up on him as Julie feared, but it was so hard to know how he felt about her. Hard to keep going.
She rose to meet him, a smile on her face. 'Was the traffic bad? I've got the movie tickets already – The Number 23, right?'
'Terrible, you wouldn't believe it. Here, Happy Easter. Sorry its so late, I've managed to forget it every week until now.' He kissed her cheek, placing a small black box in her hand.
'Oh, you didn't have to do that! Come on, the movie will be starting soon.' She tucked the box safely in her bag.
Standing outside the cinema, she was waiting for him to return from the toilets when she remembered his gift.
It took her breath away, nestled amongst the black velvet lining of the box. A square faced watch with fine silver details with a black leather strap. It was small enough not to dwarf her tiny wrist and hand, and the leather would prevent her having an allergic reaction as she'd had with her last watch.
He came out of the toilets already talking – he always did – but she didn't hear a word of it. She kissed him on the cheek in thanks, tempted to say “You spoil me”, much as she had done on Valentine's Day when he'd bought her half a dozen visits to a luxury day spa and a bunch of roses. But she stilled her tongue. It's not something I can say now. But her kiss lingered too long, as well as her hands, intertwined with his.
Standing in line at Gloria Jeans, he turned back to face her. 'What would you like? Tea, hot chocolate? Or are you going to have one of those ghastly coconut smoothies like you had last week?' His blue eyes danced at her.
'Oi you!' She playfully pushed at him. 'I quite liked that smoothie thank you very much! But I'll just get a tea, thanks. With milk!'
As he turned back to place their order, she noticed a yellow thread caught up in the links of his necklace, and reached up to retrieve it. 'Hold still, you.'
The girl at the counter – her name tag read Wendy – laughed at her. 'Whatever would you do without your girlfriend?'
He chuckled, 'I really don't know.'
She pondered his words as he paid for their drinks. He never denied it when they were mistaken for a couple – it didn't even seem to bother him. He always simply laughed it off, nonchalant. She ached to ask him how he felt, but she was afraid of upsetting him, complicating things; being rejected. It would only make things worse.
Sitting in the car, they fell silent after one of their conversations. Usually, they began with quite a serious topic, like how she could go about tackling her latest assignment for university, and would finish up on something obscure and completely unrelated, like why garlic bread was the best food ever conceived, or that it was globalisation's fault that kids were fat worldwide.
She was thinking about him and how much she missed him, and she started to cry. The tears poured from her eyes and she couldn't get them to stop.
'Hey, what’s wrong gorgeous? Come on, don't cry.' He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her to him, making her cry harder. He stroked her hair, crooning softly in her ear. His shirt was soon soaked with her tears.
'I'm so sorry.' She rubbed at the wet material in effort to dry it, but it was pointless. He chuckled, smiling kindly at her. 'Don't stress your little head over it.'
'I'm sorry to dump all of this on you, to get upset like this, this isn't what I wanted.'
'Isn't that what I'm here for?'
She hugged him tight, kissing his cheek. 'Thank you,' she said softly, 'I don't know what I'd do without you.'
'Now, you have a good night, you hear me?' He looked at her expectantly.
She looked deep into his eyes as he awaited her answer. There was only one thing, half a dozen words spoken by the right person that could make her enjoy the rest of her night, but he didn't say them. So she said her final goodbyes and he drove away.
The next morning she woke feeling drained and depressed. It wasn't fair of me to dump all my problems on him like that. He has problems of his own to deal with, he doesn't need the added stress of mine. He's always thought of me as a strong person – not anymore that's for sure. Why couldn't I have just held it all in, like I always do? And surely he knows why I struggled to leave. He's not stupid. I'm a fool. She buried her face in her pillow.
Later that day she messaged him, apologetic. But he'd simply brushed it off – had she expected anything else? – ‘Don’t be silly, that's what I'm here for. By the way, I've been given some time off work, I'm going away to Jervis Bay. I leave in a few days; I'll message you when I arrive ok? Should be back by May. X.'
Time froze. She was barely coping at the moment, their time together was the only thing she had to look forward to in her week.
And now she wouldn't see him for almost a month.
Sitting at the computer one night she surfed the internet, browsing websites for an upcoming university essay, but her heart wasn't really in it. Her phone beeped at her from the bedside table.
'I've just sent you an email. Don't worry, just read it carefully. Promise that you won't call me, just read the email.'
Blood drained from her face. She'd been worrying about him going away, there were times that he seemed as depressed as she did at the moment, things he said that set the alarm bells ringing in her head. She was scared of what might happen if he was left on his own.
Could it . . . maybe its . . . No. It can't be. I won't believe it.
Heartbeats echoing through her, blood pumping, mind racing, she logged into her email account. She waited impatiently for the page to load, trying to convince herself that the contents of the email were not what she suspected.
A slab of text appeared on the screen. One line leapt at her.
'I think I'm gay. I've struggled with it for so long but I get so down and depressed by it...'
A cry burst from her and she struggled to breathe. Tears poured down her face, leaving mascara streaks on her cheek and forearms. At the back of her mind, in the deep, dark, rational recesses, a thought:
You already knew this.
Some time ago, when their relationship had begun, he texted her. The contents had been unexpected. He'd kissed a guy once before, but she needn't worry, it wasn't something he did often – he just felt like she should know.
She'd simply stared at the tiny screen in disbelief, her hands scrabbling for the chair she knew was behind her, eyes never leaving the text on the screen as she read and re-read it. But the more she'd turned it over in her mind, the less it had bothered her. He's always been a little effeminate, and plenty of people experiment and are still heterosexual.
A few weeks later, another. He had been with four guys, not just one. He thought he may be bisexual.
But if this makes him who he is, the person I'm attracted to, it doesn't matter. He's treated me better than anyone else ever has, and if this is the reason why, I'm glad for it.
And he's attracted to me - out of all the male and female competition - surely that’s saying something?
So she'd pushed it to the back of her mind, telling no one and simply reassuring him that it didn't change the way she felt. But every now and then, she found herself questioning his personality traits, the very same ones that she'd come to love, the things he did and the clothes he wore, judging him. Wondering. But she'd push the thoughts away, I'm just being silly. And he can't be gay, he's with me.
But when she received the text, she knew.
Numbly, she typed her reply, reassuring him of her friendship and support, her body quivering uncontrollably, eyes raw beneath their lids. She was happy that he'd confided in her. But thoughts tumbled through her head in wild spirals that she struggled to control.
Why did he encourage our relationship if he'd felt like this? But did he? Maybe I got it completely wrong...
Did I push him into something he didn't want, put him in a situation he didn't want to be in? Made it awkward for him?
But he slept with me. Why would he do that?
Was I just a test? If he didn't want a relationship me, he wouldn't want one with any woman? If he didn't enjoy having sex with me?
What if he doesn't want to see me anymore? Doesn't need me anymore, because I'm female? I'm wrong?
What if he got a boyfriend? How would they fuck? In the same bed we did?
This isn't something that's come up overnight. So how long has he thought this? When did this all start?
Is this why he dumped me? Why didn't I realise? Am I so blind, so stupid?
And I still fucking love him.
They saw a lot of each other over the next few days, the trip to Jervis Bay forgotten. They went on long drives to places with walking tracks – the beach, the botanic gardens, the national park – places they could go and talk without having to meet each other's eyes.
She struggled to support him, pushing her thoughts and feelings far away, blocking them out just so she could be there for him. He asked her once, awkwardly, how she felt about the matter, but she evaded the question and he didn't pursue it. She felt both relieved and hurt. It would upset him to hear it and her to say it, but it hurt more that he didn't want to know. Still, now he didn't have to know how she felt. It would only be embarrassing.
Over the coming weeks she saw a change in him. They never raised the issue again, but he was happier, brighter. He smiled and laughed that little bit more, and it was natural, loud laughter. It put in sharp relief just how dispirited he'd been in recent weeks. He spoke about all the changes he wanted to make in his life with enthusiasm and energy. In time, he even told Julie, and she could almost see the weight lift from his shoulders.
But she continued to slip down the slippery slope, sinking into a pit of depression. She felt used, taken advantage of even. He knew how badly she'd been hurt in the past, and she'd trusted him with her heart. It felt as though he'd flung it back in her face.
She noticed a name had been cropping up lately in their recent conversations.
'Justin told me that A Perfect Stranger was a really good, we should go and see it . . . '
' . . . I asked Justin about it – he's doing politics at Sydney University you know – and he said . . . '
'Justin's having a party this weekend, I'm really looking forward to it! I'd ask you to come but you're working, aren't you?'
Justin, Justin, Justin. If I hear that name one more time I'm going to explode . . .
. . . he likes him. He fucking likes him.
Is he his new boyfriend? Has he replaced me already, just like that? “Whoops, wrong gender, my mistake!” Is that it?
Am I supposed to be happy for him?
It hurt even more that she knew him – she had been checking him out in the local supermarket earlier in the week. Justin had reminded her of him. No bloody wonder.
Nobody knew how she was feeling. His sexuality, his boyfriend, was his story to tell, not hers, so she told no one, bottling it all up inside. Julie came to see her at work, and gushed about how happy he'd been lately, oblivious to the misery that painted her face. Her doctor failed in all his attempts at getting her to talk to somebody, anybody. The anti-depressant medication he prescribed went down the sink, just like all her hopes and dreams before it.
Her thoughts drifted to the blade she had hidden in her underwear drawer. Too late - she closed her eyes as she struggled to fight the compulsion, but it was too strong.
Come on. It'll help. It always does.
'No.' She mumbled, writhing in the bed, constrained by invisible bonds. 'No, I don't need it.'
Yes.
She screwed up her face as she tried to push the thought away, tried to think of something else. But failed.
I liked your description of the interaction between the characters. There's nothing specific that I dislike, so I feel somewhat unhelpful