Chapter Fourteen
Juliette
“Nice earrings,” says Cam’s mum, Kathy.
I touch the diamond lotus flowers in my ears. “Thank you.”
“Where did you get them?”
“We had a Secret Santa at work, and someone bought me these. I think they’re only cubic zirconia, but they’re really pretty.”
“They are,” she agrees. “Would you like another glass of wine?”
“No, thank you.”
“Well you’re a cheap date this Christmas,” she jokes, because I only had the one glass with my dinner.
“I’ve got a bit of a headache,” I admit.
“I’m not surprised,” she says, glancing with amusement at her husband and sons. They’re playing Call of Duty on the PlayStation, and they’re accompanying the firing of the guns and the commands of the soldiers with their own ramped-up yelling and laughing.
“Still,” she says, “they’re having a good time.”
I glance at Cam, who looks the most relaxed I’ve seen him in months. Today, he’s happy, here with his family, unplagued by the fears and doubts that normally shadow his thoughts.
I’m getting through the hours as well as I can. Kathy’s nice enough, but she suffers from depression that’s not well managed, and when it’s bad she struggles even to get out of bed. Today she’s bubbly enough, but I know that when her boys leave she’s going to crash and be unable to do even the most basic tasks, and I’m not looking forward to that.
Alan and Peter’s wives seem unfazed by the fact that their husbands have regressed to fourteen-year-olds, and they’re sitting together, talking about some soap opera they both watch. Both of them are pregnant, and they talk incessantly about babies, making no effort at all to draw me into the conversation.
Normally I wouldn’t care. I’d read a book, or talk to Kathy, relaxed enough in my own skin not to mind that I don’t feel like a part of this family. But today I feel agitated and unhappy. I miss my friends—Alex, James, Tyson, Gaby, and Aroha. And I miss Henry. Oh God, Henry.
I’m not resentful because Cam and the boys are playing video games—all the guys I know have consoles and play regularly—I often play with them, for God’s sake! But my friends are all educated, and they have a great sense of humor. They’re constantly making clever jokes, and I’m always in stitches when we play.
I know how snobbish that sounds, but I can’t help it. Peter is also a delivery driver, and Alan works in a hardware store. I shouldn’t mock them—they have jobs, and I’m sure they work hard. But we played Trivial Pursuit once, and the only questions they came remotely close to getting right were in the sports category, and then only the most recent ones. They have no idea about or interest in other countries, other cultures, politics, or the arts. In fact they laugh at people who enjoy classical music or art history or literature.
Cam is different in that he did go to university, and he’s an accountant, so he’s pretty smart, but when he gets with his brothers, who are both older than him, he reverts to their childhood relationship and joins in with their mocking until I want to scream.
I think of the trivia night and what fun we had once Cam and Cassie left. About how we bickered about the answers, and all the jokes we told. Cam hates our banter, and thinks the guys are elitist and trying to shut him out. They’re not, because they’re all decent, kind men who’ve done their best to welcome him into our group of friends, but Cam has shut himself out, then complains when he can only look in from the outside.
I watch the guys playing now, and the two women sitting talking to Kathy, and wonder if I’ve done the same. I have tried to fit in here. I really have. But I just don’t.
I’m the misfit. I’m the one who wanders through the corridors of these relationships like a ghost.
I want to go home, but I know that after they’ve finished playing, they’ll want to watch a movie, and there’ll be turkey sandwiches and more drinking and awful, obvious jokes until everyone stumbles to bed blind drunk. We’re staying here tonight, but I can’t go to bed at seven p.m., and I can’t sit and read a book on my own because that’ll look rude, so instead I have to join in with the conversation, and watch the movie, and just hang in there until the day’s finally over.
Cam finally wins whatever battle they were playing, and he whoops and punches the air.
“Aw, Pete,” his wife complains. “You suck.”
“Only my girl knows what it’s like to be with a real man,” Cam teases.
“Yeah, well, it runs in her family,” Pete says. It’s a reference to Antony being gay.
Alan and their father snigger. Cam sends me an apologetic look, but he doesn’t berate his brother, and Pete just glances at the others, who try not to laugh, and fail.
My face flames. If it was just the two brothers, I’d have called them out on their rudeness. But it’s Christmas Day, and I’m in his parents’ house, and I know that if I make a fuss, everyone’s going to blame me for spoiling the atmosphere, not Pete.
My heart aches with resentment and frustration. I think of Henry with his family, and wonder if he’s having a better time. I miss him so much.
Today I’m wearing jeans and a red tee with a white Christmas bauble. It’s unusual for me—normally I’d wear a sari on a special day like this—but I wanted to wear something with a pocket so I could keep my phone in it. Now, it buzzes against my butt, announcing the arrival of a text.
It could be anyone. But somehow, I know it’s Henry, our thoughts reaching out through the ether, finding each other.
“Just going to the bathroom,” I announce.
Nobody reacts. I’m not sure anyone even heard me.
I walk through the house to our bedroom at the other end, go into the en suite, and close and lock the door. I take my phone out of my pocket, put down the lid of the toilet seat, and sit. I tap the screen. The green banner pops up with a small photo of Henry’s face that I took earlier this year at Tyson’s wedding. He’s looking at me, his lips twisted and his eyes gleaming, which I’m sure now means he was thinking about what I look like naked.
I tap the banner and read his message.
When I’m done, I put the phone down, lean my elbows on my knees, and cover my face with my hands.
My heart hurts. It feels as if someone is squeezing my brain in their hand.
His message is heartfelt, and full of hurt and pain. He doesn’t sound as if he’s forgetting about me while he has a great time at his family’s. He sounds drunk, miserable, and lonely.
And it’s all my fault.
I’m not to blame for his infertility, for his marriage ending, or for the fact that he hasn’t dated in two years. I’ve never led him on, or promised him anything—Jesus, I wasn’t even convinced he was into me until the trivia night. But when I slept with him, I opened Pandora’s Box, and now neither of us can get our obsessive thoughts back inside it.
I miss you, I yearn for you, I burn for you…
You’re in my heart, my body, my soul…
I love you, I want you, I need you…
Hot tears prick my eyes so badly it hurts. I fight not to let them fall—I’m wearing kohl and I don’t want to go out looking like a panda—but it makes my throat hurt to hold the emotion back.
How does he know exactly what to say to make me hunger for him?
I look at the message again, my thumb hovering over the keypad. I shouldn’t message back. I shouldn’t encourage him. I’m here with my partner, and it’s Christmas Day, and I hate myself for cheating on him again.
I believe that if you’re contacting someone who isn’t your partner with a message that you wouldn’t want to show them, it’s inappropriate. It’s how I’ve been brought up, and it’s almost impossible to change the way you were programmed when you were a kid.
Messaging Henry back would be cheating on Cam. Because if I showed Cam what Henry has just sent me, it would hurt him terribly. And I still love him. At least I think I do. Don’t I? Or do I love Henry? Is it possible to love two men at the same time? In different ways?
My love for Cam is—or at least, has been up until this point—solid, dependable, protective, comfortable, content, supportive, affectionate, and committed.
My love for Henry is… electrifying. Passionate. Exciting. Obsessive. All-consuming. Maybe even feverish. It’s new love, which isn’t the same as old love. I know that. And it’s unfair to compare one with the other.
But it’s too simplistic, because that’s not all I feel for Henry. I trust him more than I do Cam. Is that a strange thing to say about my partner? I respect Henry more, too. I know he’d never cheat on his girl. And whatever Cam says about the sex surrogate being a therapist, I can still only see what he did as cheating.
Cam is like the moon—he only reflects back the love I give him. I’m not sure he’s ever shown me any love of his own.
Henry is like the sun. He sears me with blistering heat—but that’s not all. He brings me warmth and brightness, and makes me feel positive, enthusiastic, and joyful. He gives me solace and support. He nourishes my soul, which, I realize with some surprise, Cam has never done.
And then I think about the fact that Henry can’t give me children, and press my hand over my heart. I know he doesn’t want to go through IVF. He had two years of monthly disappointments, and I know he’s afraid a repeat of that experience could kill whatever feelings we have for one another. But it doesn’t have to be like that, right? If we were to support one another, and deal with it together, we could get through it.
And if he were to decide he couldn’t do it, what then? Do I turn my back on a relationship with him to have one with Cam—or some other man—just because I want to be pregnant one day? Is having a child more important than having a loving, supportive relationship? Oh God, what a question to have to ask myself.
He knows how hard this decision is for me. I know I shouldn’t message you, I know I should leave you alone. He understands. And it’s in my hands. If I were to tell him now that I’m not leaving Cam and it’s over, he wouldn’t contact me like this again.
I think about us sitting next to each other in board meetings, me mixing up the Rubik’s Cube, him doing it again and passing it back. Those silent conversations we’ve had for years, telling each other we’re thinking of one another, although we’ve been unable to voice our feelings.
Cam is my partner, my lover, my confidante, but I’ve never felt about him the way I feel about Henry. And he’s never felt about me the way Henry feels about me, I’m sure of it.
Duty. Responsibility. Coulda, shoulda, woulda.
Passion. Warmth. Solace. Support. Love.
I’m not a Hindu. Or a Christian. Or a Pagan. I don’t worship Brahma or Vishnu or Shiva or Jesus or Hecate or Papatūānuku. I pick and choose what I want from different religions to form my own belief system based on moral codes like love, peace, wisdom, and truth. I don’t care what other people think about that. Physically, socially, I’m a mishmash of cultures, and my belief system is the same.
I’ve read some of the Vedas, a good portion of the Bible, researched a lot about Māori gods, and also about Paganism. And from everything I’ve learned and read, one image jumps into my mind right now. It’s from the Tarot—card sixteen of the major arcana, called The Tower in most decks. The picture shows a tower that’s been struck by lightning, tumbling down, shaken to its foundations, with people falling to their doom. It symbolizes change, upheaval, and chaos, which I’m certainly experiencing right now.
But it also refers to the rebuilding after a catastrophe. Christchurch itself has suffered several horrendous earthquakes. One caused its magnificent cathedral to crumble, and I’ve never seen such a sad sight as the remnants of that sacred site. When a building has been so badly damaged, you have to destroy it, right down to its foundations. Only then can you start to rebuild it. You’ll never be able to recreate the original. You can only hope to construct something new, maybe even better, in its place.
That’s what’s happening to me now. The night of the summer solstice was the lightning strike, and now it feels as if everything is falling down around my ears. But I realize it has to, in order to create a better future. I have to destroy, in order to rebuild.
I sit with my hand over my mouth for a while, letting that thought sink in.
I read the message one more time. Then I type a reply.
Me: Hey, sweetie.
He replies almost immediately. Hey! I didn’t expect to hear from you tonight.
Me: How could I not, after that message?
Henry: Ah, shit. I regretted it as soon as I pressed send. I know you don’t need all that right now.
Me: It was exactly what I needed.
Then, quickly, I add:
Me: I miss you so, so much.
Me: And just so you know, you’re not the only one who’s obsessed.
Me: I think about you night and day, with all my heart.
Henry: Are you trying to make me cry?
I give a short laugh.
Me: Maybe!
Henry: I don’t need much provocation tonight.
Me: Why? Has something happened? Where are you?
Henry: Home. I had an argument with Philip. It ended badly.
Me: Oh no, Henry.
Henry: Ah, it’s done. It’s just sad. All endings are sad, aren’t they?
Me: They are.
Henry: I wasn’t implying anything with that or trying to force your hand.
Me: I know.
Henry: How are you doing?
Me: I have a headache, and it’s been a rotten, awful day.
Henry: I’m sorry.
Me: But soon it’ll be tomorrow, and tomorrow is another day, right?
Henry: Yeah.
I hear movement outside, and someone tries the door handle.
“Honey, I’m sorry about what Pete said,” Cam calls out. “Come on, don’t turn it into a big thing.”
“I’m on the toilet,” I call back. “Give me a minute.”
His footsteps walk away.
I look back at my phone.
Me: I’ve got to go. I just wanted to say thank you for the message, and please, hang in there. I’m nearly done.
Henry: Ah, baby.
Me: I love you.
Henry: I love you too.
Me: See you soon.
I turn my phone off, and slide it back into my jeans.
*
True to form, we watch a movie—some action flick that takes no brain power at all—while we eat our turkey sandwiches. Afterward, the guys decide they want to play another PlayStation game.
I say that my headache is quite bad, and I’m going to bed. Nobody—least of all Cam—bats an eyelid.
Actually, I do have a headache, and I am quite tired. I take off my makeup, get into bed, and fall asleep quickly.
I jerk awake when the bedroom door opens. I don’t move, though, but lie with my eyes closed, listening.
Cam has slept in our spare room for the last three nights. That’s not possible tonight because all the spare rooms are taken in this house, so we have to share a bed. I didn’t tell Henry that.
I lie still, waiting. I can’t hear him moving about, though. Like most guys, he normally bangs about opening cupboards and drawers, even though he thinks he’s being quiet.
A whole minute passes. I count the seconds in my head, fighting the urge to turn over.
Then, eventually, I hear the door close again.
I wait for him to go into the bathroom. But I don’t hear anything, and something about the way the air in the room is still tells me he’s not there.
I turn over. He’s gone out again. Probably back to the living room, to sleep on the sofa.
I roll onto my back and look up at the ceiling. My eyes prick with tears. I’m upset that I’m relieved, and also because I feel a deep, overwhelming sense of sadness.
All endings are sad, aren’t they?
Turning onto my tummy, I bury my face in the pillow, and close my eyes.
*
The next day, after breakfast during which Cam and I don’t meet each other’s gazes, we Uber back to the apartment.
We don’t say much in the car. Cam looks out of his window, and I look out the other side, watching the shops and apartments flash by.
When we get home, we let ourselves in, and he takes the bags through to the bedroom. I go into the kitchen, feeling suddenly nervous. I put on the kettle, more for something to do than because I want a drink.
Cam comes back out and leans a hip on the worktop.
“Do you want a cuppa?” I ask.
“No, thanks.”
I study the kettle, then switch it off. Finally, I turn and look at him.
“I think we should talk,” he says.
“Okay.”
He doesn’t say anything, though, and we look at each other for a long time.
“Why did you sleep on the sofa?” I ask eventually.
He slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I know you were upset about what Pete said. I didn’t think you wanted me in the bed.”
“It wasn’t just what Pete said. It was the fact that you didn’t stand up for me. You should have told him it’s not acceptable to make fun of my brother. Of anyone who’s gay, in fact. Christ, Cam, this is the twenty-first century. How can you just keep quiet when someone says things like that?”
He studies the floor. I still think he’s handsome, in a softer, less rugged way than Henry. He looks tired, though, and worn down.
“I think we need to be honest,” he says.
“Okay.”
“I don’t know how to put right whatever is wrong between us.” He takes a deep breath. “I know I fucked up by seeing Vanessa, because even though I feel that she helped me, I know you see it as cheating. And I get why. I just wish you could understand my motivations.”
“I do.”
“Then why can’t you deal with it? Why do I feel as if you’re accusing me, every time you look at me?”
It suddenly seems very quiet. I can’t hear anything—no traffic, no voices. It’s as if all that exists is me and him, in this room.
There’s no place to hide anymore. We can’t paper over the cracks any longer. They’re getting too wide and too deep.
“Honestly?” I say eventually. “Because I don’t know that I can get over what you did.”
His frustration boils over. “Just because you’re so fucking perfect. You never put a foot wrong. You don’t understand what it’s like for us lesser mortals to have to deal with the shit that life throws at us.”
“I’m not perfect, Cam.”
“You act like you are, and it’s incredibly hard to live with sometimes.”
“I’m not perfect.” I take a deep breath. It’s time. “On the trivia night, when you left… I went back to Henry’s hotel.”
Finally, after coping with days of fallout, the nuclear bomb explodes.
Cam stares at me. “What?”
“I stayed the night with him.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then he says, “You mean on the sofa?”
“No. We slept together.”
His jaw drops. “You had sex?”
“Yes.”
He turns and walks into the living room, and stands by the sliding doors, staring down at the street.
After a while, I follow him in. I feel better now it’s out in the open. I don’t have to hide it anymore.
“Were you drunk?” he asks eventually.
“Yeah, a little bit. But that wasn’t why I slept with him. I was upset, and angry, and sad, and lonely. And he made me feel better.”
He turns from the window. “Are you paying me back? Is that what this is? Tit for tat?”
“Did I want you to understand how hurt I feel? Maybe. But that was only a small part of it. I like him. He makes me feel good about myself. He wants to be with me.”
“Do you want to be with him?”
I swallow hard. “I think so. Yes.”
He presses his hand on his chest. “Fuck,” he says. “Jesus. I swear, I heard a crack just then. You’ve actually broken my fucking heart.”
I press my fingers to my mouth. It’s an unfair thing to say, because he cheated first. But I know then that he doesn’t see what he did as cheating. He really thought he was trying to get help for himself, and for our relationship.
I’m not sure what I expect him to do. Yell at me, I guess. Scream. Cry. Throw accusations at me. Call me names.
But he doesn’t do any of that. Instead, he sinks into one of the armchairs, puts his face in his hands, and starts crying.
For a moment, I just stand there, shocked. I’ve seen him display a whole range of emotions, from fury to resentment to embarrassment to being curled up with laughter. But he’s never cried in front of me. Not once. Not when his dog died a year after we met. Not when his grandfather died a year later. Not after any of our arguments. Not even when he told me about his abuse.
But now he’s crying for real—not just a tear trickling over his lashes, but full-grown, heart-rending sobs.
“Cam…” I go over to him and put a hand on his head. “Come on, don’t cry…”
He doesn’t stop, though, and eventually I lower down onto my knees and put my arms around him.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice hoarse.
“It’s okay.”
“I can’t bear it,” he whispers. “I don’t want to lose you.”
My own eyes prick with tears. “Aw, come on…”
“I love you so much.”
Tears run down my cheeks. “I know.”
“I don’t tell you enough. I find it so hard, I don’t know why. The words just won’t come out. When you say I love you, you’re giving the other person the power to hurt you.”
“That’s true, but that’s the beauty of a relationship. Trusting that the other person won’t hurt you.”
“I know, but it’s so hard. I’ve built this wall around myself, around my heart, and I’m too afraid to let anyone in. It’s the only way I can cope.”
I move back as he lowers his hands and wipes his cheeks. His green eyes glisten.
“I understand,” I say. “I know how hard it is for you. But the thing is, I need someone who will tell me he loves me. Who’ll respond when I touch him. Who isn’t afraid to hold me and show affection. I’m sorry, but I’ve tried so hard, and I just feel so lonely.”
“I know.” He meets my eyes. “But what if I was to try harder?”
“Cam… come on. We’ve tried so many times to make this work.”
“I know, but this is the first time I’ve really understood that I’m going to lose you if I don’t change.”
I don’t say anything, brushing a hand over my face. Oh God, this is so hard.
“I love you,” he says. “For Christ’s sake, don’t throw away seven years for a fucking one-night stand.”
I bristle, just a little. I suppose it was a one-night stand. But it felt so much more than that. A culmination of years of hope and longing.
“I don’t think we can get over the problems we have,” I say. “Maybe we could try if it was just about communicating better, but I think the issues we have in the bedroom are too hard to overcome.”
“Don’t say that. I’ll change.”
“Cam…”
“I swear, I’ll change. I won’t ask you to do any of those things. I shouldn’t have gone to see Vanessa, I shouldn’t ask you to change for me. I know that. We’ll work together. We’ll talk about it, and spend more time on foreplay. I’ll work really hard.”
I think about Henry. How easy it was with him. We didn’t have to work at anything. It just happened, and it was such a relief.
“I’m not going to let him take you,” Cam says fiercely, and I know then that he could see I was thinking about Henry.
“It’s not up to you,” I say desperately.
“You’re my girl,” he says. “And he’s a thief who’s snuck in during the night. I’m not going to let him steal you away from me. I’m going to fight for you, Juliette. I’m not just going to let you go.”
I didn’t expect this. I thought he’d be mad that I’d slept with someone else, and that he’d either ask me to leave, or walk out. I thought once I told him that it’d be easy. Oh God, I was so wrong.
It’s my turn to cry then.