Chapter 24 – Simo
‘You did what?’
I must have misheard.
‘I-I put our names on the town noticeboard.’
If the repetition wasn’t enough, it’s the panic written all over his face.
He looks faint, with a green tinge around the nose.
Meanwhile, my body is shutting down. It might be going into shock, while my mind is still catching up.
I can’t even speak. ‘Or at least I submitted them to the webpage. I didn’t think they’d make it up there. I was as shocked as you.’
‘I doubt that.’
He shrinks back, like I’ve punched him. He has no right to look this hurt.
All I’ve endured these past few months, the sickly-sweet comments, the probing questions into the most private parts of myself from people I’ve never even talked to, all because of Luca?
I’ve been choking on my own fear – of being found out, of losing what I love – this entire time, because of him?
‘How could you?’ I say, but my voice breaks on the last word, bursting into a sob. I swallow it back, because I can’t let him see me like this. I’ve never let myself be so vulnerable with anyone, and he goes and exploits that trust.
‘Simo . . .’ he starts and reaches out, but I jump back.
‘Do you know how sick that is? Creating those posters, the hearts all over town, and as if that’s not enough, you put on this whole big act and pretend you had no idea?’ As I say it out loud, the scope of his betrayal hits me. I think I might pass out.
‘No! That wasn’t me!’ he shouts with terror in his eyes. ‘That first message on the noticeboard, yes, but the posters and hearts and baubles, that wasn’t me!’
‘As if I’m going to believe you!’ I shout back, ‘As if it matters now!’
‘Simo, I had no idea it would snowball like that! By the time the message was up, it was too late to take it back, but the rest of it is nothing to do with me!’
‘Of course it is; without you, none of it would have happened!’
‘But I needed something to happen!’
‘What the fuck does that mean?’
He’s breathing hard and holding back tears, which is good, because I can barely stand to look at him. He doesn’t deserve self-pity.
‘Why did you do it?’ I press him.
It takes him several attempts to get the words out, but when they fall, his voice is clear.
‘Because I’ve been in love with you for as long as I can remember.’
I shut my eyes. Here are the words I’ve longed to hear, delivered as a final blow. I focus on the fabric of the seat beneath my palms, the rattle of the train, because I don’t want to feel anything.
‘I can’t do this.’ I get up and grab my bag. ‘Don’t follow me,’ I say without looking at him. ‘Don’t call me. I don’t want to speak to you.’
The floor jolts beneath my feet as I walk away, or maybe I’m the one shaking, barely able to keep it together.
I lurch ahead, into the next carriage and the one after that.
When there’s nowhere else to go, I drop into an empty seat.
I can’t break down yet, so I hollow myself out, don’t allow any emotions.
I barely breathe until the train pulls in at Lombard.
I do my best to ignore the dozens of hearts smeared on the wall of the bike shed by the platform.
When I finally get home and close the door to my room, I bury my head in a pillow and scream until my throat is raw.
I do what I always do when I can’t listen to my own thoughts.
I escape into someone else’s mind. I get through two books in the first night, despite the sleep deprivation.
I need to stay distracted, otherwise I’ll have to face all that’s broken within me, and I’m not prepared for the hurt.
I can’t think about Luca’s confession, because that means thinking about the night in the pool, and those memories combined will tear me apart.
I drift off early in the morning, from the lines of a sad French novel directly into fitful sleep.
For two days, I only leave my room to pee or steal into the kitchen when my parents are out. I must look as shit as I feel, because Mum accepts my excuse to skip school without a fight. They don’t ask questions, and for once I’m glad that they leave me to wallow.
Still, fiction can only keep thoughts of Luca at bay for so long.
He’s more powerful. He sneaks up on me when I turn a page, and suddenly I’m back in the water, his legs around my hips.
He stares back at me from the poems in my notebook, when I open it out of habit.
He’s in my dreams, pressing his lips against mine, and I wake with a racing heart and sweat-soaked sheets.
I didn’t know you could miss someone, hate someone and want them at the same time.
Luca is inescapable, even in the refuge of my room.
I’ve taken the corkboard off the wall and stashed it behind the wardrobe, because I can’t stand looking at pictures of us; memories tainted by his lies.
There’s a drawer with Luca-items, socks and other stuff collected over time.
Now it’s empty for the first time in years, the contents dumped in the kitchen bin.
It didn’t feel as good as I hoped. If anything, the empty drawer adds to the misery.
What remains is the frame with Hamza’s picture, because I can’t bring myself to remove it.
I’m in a timeless state, because I refuse to move on.
I lock myself in this room, because I can’t face the future.
Moving on would mean grieving, would mean rethinking every aspect of my life without Luca, and I wasn’t lying when I said that I don’t know how to cope without him.
Feelings aside, he’s so integral to who I am as a person that I’d have to change myself in every way.
On top of everything, an identity crisis is brewing, and I’m resisting it for as long as I can.
Here’s the most ironic thing: I feared admitting my feelings for Luca would end us, but he pulled the trigger all by himself. We were going to be fine. Now, thanks to him, we’re nothing at all.
My parents last until day three, before Dad tells me to shower and join them for dinner. Sick of myself and the gloom of my room, I’m almost relieved to sit down at the dining table.
Dad dishes up, and I eat with a hunger I didn’t know I had.
Except for the clink of cutlery on china, the room is quiet, though I can sense that they keep throwing each other looks.
Having two painfully non-confrontational parents means neither of them wants to speak first. I eat quickly and hope to escape the table unscathed, but when she lets out a frustrated huff, I know Mum’s lost the silent battle.
‘Simo, are you and Luca . . . together?’
I freeze. Adrenaline jump-starts my flight instinct, setting my body on high alert. From zero to escape mode in under a second.
‘I’m sorry, what?’ I manage.
‘Are you boys a couple? Are you . . .’ She wrinkles her brow, grasping for the right word.
‘Dating,’ Dad offers.
‘Dating. Are you dating?’
‘Wha— What makes you say that?’ I ask, to buy time.
For years, they tiptoed around the topic of Luca’s sexuality and our relationship.
Now, with a single question, they’re toppling our well-established dynamic.
Half of me wants to run, freaked out that what I’ve always feared is finally happening.
The other half remains glued to the chair.
The moment has arrived, for better or worse.
‘It’s hard to not notice,’ Dad says almost apologetically. ‘With everything that’s going on.’
It’s a weird way to describe my emotional breakdown, but I don’t exactly want to linger on the specifics.
Though Mum is spending more time looking at her plate than at me, and Dad wears a worried expression, it’s not the nasty reaction I dreaded.
Yet. My parents have always treated anything outside the norm as something they don’t want to touch with a stick, and I don’t expect a sudden change in attitude.
‘So?’ Mum says when I remain silent. ‘Are you dating?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say, cold sweat running down my spine.
‘What do you mean? How can you not know?’
Seriously, out of all the moments to bring it up, this is the one they pick? The timing is abysmal. If they know that Luca and I aren’t talking, why ask?
‘I mean,’ I begin, and try to breathe evenly while also attempting to translate my tangled emotions, ‘I mean we’re not a couple, and we’re not dating, and we’re not together, but maybe . . . there recently was a moment.’
Saying it makes me feel sick, and not just because I’m finally admitting something I’ve been keeping from them for years. I’m so painfully aware of the fact that there was one night with Luca where everything fell into place, only for it to crumble within a matter of hours.
‘That’s good, no?’ Dad asks with genuine sincerity. I only stare at him, confused at which bit he means. ‘I mean, we like Luca, right?’ he follows up, looking from Mum to me and back again.
‘Of course, we like Luca,’ Mum says matter-of-factly.
They’re starting to piss me off. Why are they so goddamn nonchalant?
‘Well, I don’t,’ I say and slam my cutlery on the table. It earns me a reprimanding eyebrow lift from Mum, but I currently don’t give a shit.
‘I’m confused. I thought you had a moment?’ she asks.
‘No, I’m confused! Why are you acting so chill?’
‘How would you like us to act?’
It’s the tone she uses – like she’s speaking at a parents’ evening – that drives me up a wall. Angry tears threaten to flood my eyes.
‘You hate all that! That Luca is gay and that I could be gay too!’
Dad reaches across the table. I flinch back, but he takes my hand and doesn’t let go, even when I pull away. Instead, he wraps both his hands around mine and forces me to face him.
‘Simo, listen to me. We could never hate you. Never, you hear me? You’re the most precious thing we have.’
We stare at each other, and I could be wrong, because my sight is all blurry, but I think Dad’s crying too.
Mum pulls out the chair next to mine and hands me a tissue. ‘What makes you think all that?’