21
Over the next few days, I picked my phone up hundreds of times, intending to apologise to Nick. But every time, before I could finish typing out the word ‘sorry’, anger would wash over me, and I’d delete the message. Even more maddening was the fact he hadn’t texted me.
Sometimes, I understood why he’d been upset.
Other times, I thought he overreacted.
Then there was his flat really . That word replayed over and over in my mind. I’d spilt my guts, and he’d replied like that.
Didn’t he have any compassion? Why was he so callous? Was I the idiot? I knew he could be cold and mean, but I’d thought things were different now. And even if things weren’t different, even if I was still a mildly annoying stranger to him, couldn’t he accept my confession with more grace? Why did he have to react in the most dickish way possible? Why didn’t he have a modicum of civility?
But maybe he was right to be angry. I had lied to him. It was a lie of omission, but a lie nonetheless.
But also, how could he touch and look at me like that, and say the things he said, and not expect me to fall in love with him? Did he think I was made of ice?
Maybe he did. Maybe he thought that because he was made of ice.
On Wednesday, I’d failed to distract myself with university, despite all the end-of-semester exams I needed to study for. I should’ve been answering practise questions. I’d even moved from my bedroom to the dining table to focus, because if I looked at my bed, I’d think of Nick.
Of his really .
Of the previous night, his leg slung over me, his hands gripping me tight.
I read one practise question.
Using the data in the table, is allele 73 increasing or decreasing the fitness of the Tasmanian devil population? (2 marks)
I picked up my phone and clicked on Nick’s contact. I set my phone down and returned my focus to the practise question when the front door opened. Elena stepped inside cautiously, like if she moved too quickly, I’d shatter.
I’d given Elena a brief summary of what happened with Nick: I told him I was falling in love with him, and he got mad at me. She hadn’t had much to say on the topic, freely admitting she wasn’t an expert in romantic relationships, but she had been weirdly nice around me ever since.
Atticus stepped into the apartment behind Elena. “Hello, Hayden,” he said in the same affect as usual, so I couldn’t tell whether or not he knew.
Elena held up a grocery bag. “Got you a present.”
“What is it?” I closed my laptop as Elena walked over and took out a packet of pistachios.
“Thanks,” I said, staring down at the packet.
“You like them, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but they’re annoying to eat.”
“We thought it might do you some good to keep your hands busy,” Atticus said. Elena gave him a look.
“You know about the fight then?” I asked.
“I know that you confessed to Nick and he got angry and you’ve been dejected ever since,” he said.
“Thank you for your ever-constant bluntness,” I said with a sigh, grabbing a bowl from one of the nearby cupboards. I poured the nuts into the bowl, cracked one of the pistachio shells, and popped the light-green nut into my mouth. I had to admit the delicious taste made me feel marginally better.
“We’re blunt people,” Atticus said. “If Nick likes you, he probably appreciates your bluntness too.”
“But Nick doesn’t like me. That’s the problem.”
“Did he say he doesn’t like you?” Elena asked.
“No, but walking out conveys that pretty clearly.”
We sat around the dining table, cracking pistachio shells.
“He’s kind of a dickhead,” I said after a few minutes.
“I thought he was quite polite,” Elena said. “He complimented my cooking.”
“And he was enthusiastic about playing board games,” Atticus pointed out.
“He drank the night before your disagreement,” Elena said. “Maybe he was just in a bad mood.”
“That’s not an excuse to just walk away. I thought we were friends. Don’t I deserve to at least be heard out?”
Atticus tilted his head and nodded. “You’re right. He should’ve given you the opportunity to speak.”
“Maybe he’s afraid,” Elena mused, holding up a pistachio and inspecting it as if it held an answer.
“Afraid of what?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe he’s one of those afraid-of-confrontation types.”
“He’s not afraid of confrontation,” I said impatiently. “He speaks his mind all the time. I don’t know what he could be afraid of. Unless he was embarrassed…” I trailed off.
“People do tend to make a fool of themselves when drunk,” Elena agreed.
“But nothing he did was that embarrassing,” I said, mostly to myself.
Then again, Nick wasn’t like me. I was used to embarrassing myself, but Nick was icy and nonchalant and above it all. He wasn’t human. He didn’t need things.
“I told him that I knew he liked me too,” I murmured.
“Did he laugh in your face?” Atticus asked.
The question made me flinch. “He might as well have.”
“I think you should talk to him,” Elena announced.
Slowly, I turned my head to her. Elena, suggesting I talk to someone? That sounded far too reasonable for my older sister.
As if sensing my disbelief, she waved a hand. “I don’t mean have a grown-up conversation, although you could do that too. But if you wanted to yell at him, then do that. He hurt your feelings. Don’t let him get away with it.”
“Hang on,” Atticus said. “Maybe this isn’t the best advice.”
“It’s not the best advice, but it’ll make Hayden feel better,” Elena countered.
“That’s like saying morphine’s not the best treatment, but it’ll make you feel better.”
“Oh, get off your high horse,” Elena said. “You know what you’re like when someone’s wronged you.”
Elena and Atticus had a silent argument conveyed through eye contact, and I would have been curious if I hadn’t been distracted.
Because the thing was, I was angry. And I wanted to see Nick again.
But mostly, I wanted to feel better.
When I imagined having my movie moment, it was me calling to my lover on their balcony, the way Romeo called out to Juliet. I’d have a speaker playing our song or maybe a bouquet of roses, and I’d say, I love you , and you’re perfect , and we’re meant to be .
I always thought my movie moment would fit neatly into a romantic comedy.
Instead, this resembled a psychological thriller.
Okay, I wasn’t going to break into Nick’s studio or anything. I wasn’t completely unhinged. But I did feel a little stalker-ish as I stormed down the street towards Carlton Student Living and punched the button for his apartment number.
The intercom rang and rang. Through the glass doors, I saw the receptionist sitting at his desk and wondered whether he thought I was a crazy person.
What if Nick wasn’t home? I’d have to walk all the way back to my apartment, which wasn’t far, but would be depressing.
What if he just refused to let me in? Then I’d seem like even more of a stalker. But also, it would be another punch in the gut.
Finally, the intercom answered. “Hello?”
The intercom was old, so it didn’t have a camera.
“It’s Hayden. Pleasedon’thangup.”
A pause. “Why are you here?”
It was hard to gauge his emotions when I couldn’t see his face. It might’ve been my optimism talking, but he didn’t sound as flat as he had the last time we spoke.
“I need to talk to you.” I hesitated, because despite my anger, I didn’t want to barge in when he was in the middle of something. “Is this a good time?”
Another pause. Then there was a beep. For one heart-stopping second, I thought he’d hung up on me.
But no. He was opening the front door.
I walked through before it shut. One of the elevators still needed repair, so I waited for the other to arrive, jiggling my leg. Okay, time to rehearse my speech. I was going to be clear, calm and collected. In high school, English had been my worst subject, but for my persuasive speech assignment, I’d drilled it until I sounded like a bona fide politician.
The elevator arrived, and I got in, pressing the button for Nick’s level.
Dear Nick—
No, this wasn’t a letter.
Nick, I understand why you’re upset…
Did that sound patronising?
The elevator opened, and I wandered down the hallway to his door. This time, seeing it lacking all decoration struck me as sad rather than amusing.
I knocked, and it swung open immediately as if he had been waiting for me.
He looked… fine.
Better than fine. Sure, he was wearing his usual jeans and plain jumper, but he didn’t look haggard or tired. In fact, he looked as gorgeous as ever, which was profoundly irritating.
“Hayden,” he said.
“Nick.” I walked in, he shut the door behind me, and I pointed at the bed. “Sit.”
To my mild surprise, he did. I stood in front of him.
“I want to talk about what happened Saturday night.”
“I gathered that,” he replied dryly, and annoyance burbled within me.
“I told you that I was falling in love with you, not that I was thinking about cutting out your kidneys and selling them on the black market. Why did you react like that?”
He was silent for so long I genuinely wondered whether he would refuse to answer. This time, instead of feeling furious, a pit formed deep in my gut, feeling like a black hole, sucking in every happy memory.
“Why do you like me?” he asked quietly.
I blinked at him. “Where do I even start? You’re gorgeous, for one.”
He let out a barely audible sigh.
“I’m sorry,” I said, frowning at him. “Do you hear that too often? Does it get boring for you? Because some of us are born looking like this.” I pointed at myself.
Nick looked at me, and for a moment, his face softened, his mouth parting as if to say something. He seemed to think better of it. “What else?”
“What else?” I repeated, flailing for a second. “I—I thought you were so cool from the moment I met you—”
“Yeah, this is what I thought,” he interrupted, standing up and crossing his arms. “Every time someone claims to have feelings for me, they mean they have feelings for the idea of me. All they see is someone they find attractive and ‘cool’—whatever the fuck ‘cool’ means—and I’m supposed to run into their arms, completely blind to the fact that they’ll get sick of me in two weeks when they realise I’m a person, not an ideal.”
“Now hang on a second—”
“No,” Nick said, stepping forward, forcing me to stumble back. “No offence, Hayden, but how was I supposed to react? You’re naive. You’re clueless. It’s like hearing a kindergartener say they want to marry you. Am I supposed to take that seriously?”
“I’m not a child. I’m nineteen.”
“And it’s not only that,” Nick said over me, “you tell me that you’ve felt this way for a while, but you hid it from me, because you knew I’d react the way I did. That’s lying. Not only that, you told me you were trying to change my mind, pretending to be the perfect guy—”
“I wasn’t pretending!” I shouted, then winced. I didn’t want to disturb Nick’s neighbours. “Can you let me talk for a bit? Uninterrupted?”
I thought he’d refuse, but after a long moment, he nodded, though he didn’t seem happy about it.
I took a moment to compose myself, then sat down on his bed, because there was nowhere else to sit, and I thought standing made things too tense. Nick whirled around to face me, his arms still crossed.
“Alright. You know what? For the sake of argument, you’re not gorgeous, and you’re not cool. Actually, there’s a whole heap of shitty things about you, Nick. Our first few interactions, you insulted me, like, twenty times. You’re bossy, and you’re mean, and you’re rude. You don’t like accepting help from strangers. When I helped you find your key, you looked like you were in physical pain. You don’t like to feel indebted to someone. You’re not very friendly. I had to carry all our conversations. I had to get you to open up.
“But you know what? You agreed to help me be better at sex, even though, frankly, it was ridiculous. You never wanted to take too much. You never tried to use me for money or whatever. You might occasionally be a dick to me, but you never disrespected my friends or my family. You’re actually very sweet when you think no one’s paying attention or when you’re drunk, and also you’re clever, and I would listen to you talk about anything, even tax reform, which you have talked about, on multiple occasions.
“I don’t know why you insist on presenting yourself as some blank, boring slate. You’re so much more than that. And if I had seen it earlier, I would’ve fallen in love earlier. But perversely, I feel special that only a few people see who you really are. I feel privileged when you open up to me. I wish I could see it more. I wish you didn’t have your guard up half the time or disguise your kindness with nonchalance or prickly comments. So, I promise you, when I say I’m falling in love with you, I’m not talking about some icy, stylish version of you.”
He stared at me, and his crossed arms had loosened. His mouth opened, then closed.
When it became clear he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—respond, I carried on.
“And I know that I ignored your no-relationship thing and hoped that I could change your mind. I see now that it looks like I didn’t respect your ability to decide things for yourself. I am sorry for that. But at the same time, what was I supposed to do? Walk away? Distance myself? Even if nothing happened, I wanted to remain your friend. I know you think I was putting on an act, but I never acted nicer than I normally would have, just to get on your good side. Why wouldn’t I be nice to you? In fact, if anything, I was restraining myself. Because if I could have, I would have complimented you and hugged you and kissed you a hundred times more often.
“But also—and you can correct me if I’m wrong—I thought you might feel the same way. Then again, it’s hard to know because sometimes you’re hot, and sometimes you’re cold.
“And you know what? Even if you did have feelings for me, I don’t think I can date someone who’s only sweet half the time. Maybe I’m just saying this because I’m pissed at you, and have been for the past few days, so I’ve been stewing on all the downsides. But maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m naive because I can’t date someone who is so honest and affectionate when they’re drunk but withdraws once they’re sober. It’s like you’re afraid of intimacy. I don’t know. I don’t know what’s happening in your mind. And maybe I’ll regret saying all of this.”
I stood up. “Basically, to summarise, I want to be with you. I thought you might want to be with me. Maybe I’m totally wrong. But if I’m not, then this can only work if you stop being scared.”
Nick didn’t say anything for a long time. There were two pink dots on his cheeks, but I couldn’t tell whether they were from embarrassment or anger.
“I’m not scared ,” he said eventually, in a small, petulant voice.
I blinked and inhaled a sharp breath. It felt like my speech was a blow-up castle, and that single sentence had poked a hole in it, making the air whistle out as it deflated and sunk in on itself.
That was his response? I’d just ripped my heart out and offered it to him, and it hurt, and it was scary, but I’d done it anyway.
“Well,” I said, swallowing because my throat felt dry. “I think that’s my cue to leave.” I thought about thanking him for hearing me out, but I didn’t feel very grateful in that moment.
In fact, fuck being polite. A wash of fury—at him, at myself for being stupid enough to think this would work—came over me like a thunderstorm.
I left.