Chapter 27
We stand half naked in the shower.
We are meant to wait for it to fill up with steam before stepping inside but I don’t want it to be over before it’s already begun. Don’t want him to change his mind, to acknowledge that this is extremely … possibly … definitely … a bad idea.
One that will, as Mum would say, ‘end in tears’.
The tears being mine. Obviously.
It’s a new function,the plumber worked on Mum, a shower and a steam room in one; everyone’s getting them these days.
And it’s all leading to THIS moment.
This is close to the edge for us. I’ve never seen Lowe this naked. Sweat glitters, soft focus, moisture, the bathroom light. I want to touch him but I can’t because my hands might shake. He is wearing boxer shorts that are jersey soft fabric in a muted grey. Probably from some multipack. I’m not sure what I was expecting but I’m glad, good, nothing too intimidating. Nothing that screams he’s some experienced person at spontaneous shower-steams with girls. Or expecting anything.
But at the same time, I also want him to have made an effort: I’m seeing Ella tonight; I should wear some nice boxers.
I think of Heather, a pang of guilt, but my nipples, this close to Lowe, go stiff.
OK, body. Thanks for totally giving the game away.
I don’t want to look in his direction; I don’t want to know what the roomy boxers are doing. If he’s interested, I will get nervous and feel sick; if he’s not, I’ll take it personally. I don’t know if I’m ready to look at him like that. But what if he doesn’t look at me at all? I want him to respect me and be the most courteous anybody’s ever been in their life. But I also want him to want me – to push me up against the tiled wall and kiss me like people kiss when they’ve spent months resisting and they have no choice but to inhale and exhale, both, through their dragon flaring nostrils.
Ella, calm the fuck down.
We’re just two best friends who happen to be a boy and girl who get half naked and have steams together. We’re just letting off steam.
WHERE THE FUCK IS THE STEAM?
‘It’s not broken, is it?’ He looks into the steam-making contraption as if he might try and fix it himself.
‘No, it’s new. It can’t be.’
My confidence in the technology dwindling, panic sets in, as if the steam function is a new machine gun that has let me down mid zombie attack. PLEASE, DON’T LET ME DOWN. NOT NOW.
YOU ARE SO FUCKING HOT, LOWE. YOU ARE A BEAUTIFUL RARE CREATURE IN MY GRASP. An exotic bird that has flown into my open window by mistake. And I’m worried you’ll wake from this dream and you’ll be butting your head against the glass, wanting to leave…
Come on, Ella, deep down, you know he isn’t better than you. I’m nineteen years old and I am on form, boy. I am magnetic. Electric. Kinetic. Scalextric? Whatever. I’m not the chubby one who friend-zones herself with knotty hair, who wears oversized baggy jeans and Limp Bizkit t-shirts and bitten-down nails any more. I’m on the cusp of womanhood. I’m almost at peace with my stretch marks and bumpy skin. The spots on my bum and in-grown hairs. My sharp, characterful nose. And wonky boobs. And touching thighs. I know the word vulva is not a brand of car; I have looked at my vulva face on in the mirror more than once and I am trying to be OK with the view. Even though she looks like a snarling human-eating plant and nothing like Georgia O’Keeffe’s Orchid.
In the shower there is a little fold-down seat like the jump seats on planes.
Lowe sits.
And suddenly I have one thigh between his knees. Did I put myself there or did he bring me closer? I test it, pull away a little to see if he’ll draw me back in, and he does, but with a touch so light it could also not have happened.
What is this?
I try to catch glimpses of him. Secret photographs with my eyes. His shoulders. Snap. His wrists that I’ve watched so closely I could draw them by heart. Snap. His knuckles, that I’ve watched wrap around the handlebars of a bike, the neck of a guitar. Lovely fingernails, hands, near my jelly-scared legs. The fabric of his grey boxers dampens with condensation. I’m too scared of what happens next. I’d only been with Nile before and it was love, yes, it was sweet, honest, wholesome, I got lucky – sure, but it wasn’t this. It wasn’t Lowe.
Nobody ever is. That’s the problem.
And eventually, the steam creeps in.
You took your time.
Before I know it, we’re hot boxed in.
OH SHIT!
A flaming flamingo-pink hot high voltage, drumming through me like a marching band, firing off alarm bells. I’m a lolloping pi?ata mid-smash. Not butterflies but albatrosses fly here. The dull thump in my knickers when I’d make my Barbies kiss. Is this what it feels like to fly?
No, this islove.
It’s not normal for a heart to stop and start as much as this without it being considered a medical emergency, surely?
Say it. Don’t say it. Go on. No, don’t fucking say it. Ella, this is your chance. Think about it – you’re drunk. Ella, you’re not drunk but you can pretend you are if it goes wrong. Don’t do it. You’ve only just got close again. But if you don’t, it will be too late and you’ll regret it like before. You’ve grown up – look at you! You wear bikinis – you’re cool now. We’re cool.
Do it.
Somewhere, a lioness is about to lunge at an antelope. Someone is about to cuff a Wanted Man, take the final penalty, pull the table cloth at a magic show. About to take that leap. And so am I …
‘Lowe?’
He doesn’t look up; his fingers gently brush my legs, sweeping past my thighs so gently.
Don’t ruin the moment, Ella; you don’t have to talk. See how he’s speaking with his hands; can’t you do that?But the words are detoxing from my pores with the steam; the confession is bacteria.
‘Lowe, I know you’ve just met somebody; I know you’re really into her but I just have to tell you that … ’
A long moment passes.
…
‘I love you.’
…
There.
I said it.
I’m numb and stinging at the same time, I’ve been feasted on by leeches, rolled around in nettles. It’s like I’ve unpacked a box and everything just won’t go back in its place, the lid won’t close. The physical withdrawal kicks in, like a thorn has been removed from my side. But could the procedure be fatal? The feeling boils down to a hot burning gnarl. My bright-red heart is clanging, beating outside of my chest like a cartoon.
Did the words even leave my mouth or did I dream it?
Did he hear me?
Should I say it again?
Have I got this all wrong?
Am I dead?
I feel the words retreat now, afraid; they’re hiding in the trenches of my throat.
He looks up now so I can’t take it back. He suddenly doesn’t seem one bit drunk but immediately lucid, present and stone-cold sober. His big eyes clap on mine. He licks his full lips. I can’t see his reaction through the continuous clouds of steam pumping out like a dry ice machine at a teenage disco, pssstttttt. This isn’t sexy any more; there isn’t sexual tension or chemistry. I just need an answer. DO YOU LOVE ME BACK OR … ? I mean, he must know.
‘What?’ he asks, with a smile that’s about to break into laughter, like it’s a prank.
‘I love you,’ I say, firmly this time. ‘I’ve always loved you.’
And then he laughs. Why are you laughing? Please don’t laugh at me; I’ll cry if you laugh. He shakes his head like I’m winding him up. Like this can’t be real. He needs further convincing. I go in harder.
‘Since we were kids,’ I try. ‘How did you not know?’
Like it’s his fault for not helping me out with this freight in my heart.
‘Did you really not know?’
‘No.’ More seriousness now. He’s in shock. Total disbelief.
I see it hit him for the first time.
‘I didn’t know,’ he says. ‘I thought you wanted to be just friends. I honestly had no idea.’
‘Well … ’ I gulp. ‘You do now.’ OH GOD. ‘And I know you’ve just got into this new thing with this girl Heather and obviously like I’m SO happy for you.’
I stand with my back against the cool dripping tiles, hands behind me like I’ve been cuffed. Like I’m in trouble. I speak almost defensively, apologetically.
‘ … And I would never normally get in the way of anybody’s relationship, especially yours – I want you to be happy, Lowe – but I feel that if I don’t say this now, I might never and the idea of … I don’t know … let’s say dying without saying it … will be ironic … actually … because that could … very well be the very thing that in fact kills me.’
THAT’S ENOUGH, ELLA!
‘In the autopsy, my cause of death will be keeping in the secret that I love you as much as I do.’
He is too shocked to laugh at my terrible humour.
‘Look, I don’t want to cause any harm. You’ve not been with her long, so before it gets too serious with her’ – it’s rude to say her – ‘With Heather —’
He interrupts. Is he angry? Hurt? This is the least calm I’ve seen him. ‘You told Ryan you didn’t feel like that about me. The next thing I know Ryan’s going around telling the world and his mates that you’re going on some date with him and then you go on holiday!’
Ryan? That JESTER? What kind of Shakespearian tragedy is this?
‘Ella, I honestly thought you just wanted to be friends.’
‘And then you met Heather?’
He says nothing. He hunches over with his elbows on his knees, face in his hands. Then he puts his hands over his mouth and stares out into space.
‘I’m not looking to have an affair.’
Affair – please, girl, you’re nineteen.
‘But – I just had to finally tell you that I love you.’
YOU’VE ONLY SAID THAT TWENTY-FIVE TIMES.
‘And so … if there’s any chance – then … then please tell me … ’