4. Sophia
SOPHIA
I leave the tattoo studio with my emotions in a whirl. The past hour has felt like a dream. Had I really bumped into the boy from my childhood? Not just bumped into him, but had his hands on my skin?
The guilt I feel for not contacting him again after I’d moved sweeps over me as fresh as it had been back then.
I’d thought it had been the right thing at the time—and it had been, as he’d gone to university and got a degree and lived his life—but nothing had changed.
All the things that held me back all those years ago are still with me.
If anything, they’re even worse now. I don’t want him to feel tied to me out of obligation and guilt.
Yes, we’d grown up together, but we’d been kids back then.
How could anyone not have fallen in love during those magical summers on the beach?
But life is cruel and it’s messy, and my parents had moved away.
Maybe if they hadn’t things would also be different, but I couldn’t have asked him to give his youth to a long-distance relationship with a girl who was sick.
I press my fingers to where the long sleeves of my top hide my arm.
That’s where I’ll be spending the afternoon, and is the reason I’ve moved back in with my parents.
I’ll be at the hospital three days a week from now on.
At least it’ll give me plenty of time to read.
That’s the only silver lining I can find in this whole situation.
I try not to be bitter about things, knowing some people have it even worse, but staying positive all the time is hard.
I’d been so humiliated when Rich—Rocco, I have to start thinking of him as Rocco—had asked what I’ve been up to all these years.
He’s accomplished so much, especially as he hadn’t exactly come from the best upbringing with his dad, but he hadn’t let it hold him back.
What had I been able to tell him? That I have no job to speak of, having moved from position to position, but needing to leave each time my illness got worse, and I live with my parents.
Christ. He must think I’m a total loser and is probably thanking God for his lucky escape.
Will he contact me again? My phone has suddenly taken on a new form—a device which holds the potential for either elated joy or heartbreak.
I’m not sure how I feel about either situation.
If he does contact me, what will I do? The same reasons why I’d allowed him to get on with his life all those years ago still apply.
True, he’s a grown man now and able to make his own decisions, but the obligation still remains.
I walk down the high street, weaving between all the students, business people, and mothers with prams. My gaze catches the eye of one chubby little baby waving her fists in the air as her mother pushes her along, and the baby gives me a wide, toothy grin.
My heart clenches, my eyes pricking with tears and a painful lump tightening my throat.
There’s never going to be a baby in my future.
I know I’m jumping well ahead of myself, but these were the things I need to consider.
Rocco had been everything to me back when we’d been seventeen, and before that, too, for as long as I remember.
It would be easy to convince myself the two of us could just be friends again, but I’d felt the way sparks had jumped between us when he’d touched my ankle, had watched his brown eyes darken with desire.
I’d lain back on the bed while he’d tattooed my skin, and in my mind I imagined him laying down the needle and pressing kisses to my ankle, working his way up my calf and to my thigh, before settling between my legs.
My core pulses at the image. He’d been a beautiful boy—all tousled hair and chocolate-brown eyes and long limbs—but he’d become a striking man.
The beard, shaved head, and tattoos make him appear hard, but his lips are soft and full, and his eyes soulful.
There’s no doubting that I’m just as attracted to him as I had been ten years ago, maybe even more so now.
Does he feel the same way about me? Does he see the years on my face, the changes in my body?
Time hasn’t been kind to me, and though I’m still relatively young, I certainly don’t look the way I had when I was seventeen.
I reach the Tube station and trot down the stairs to take me to the tunnels below.
I swipe my Oyster card at the gate and slip through to join the thousands of other passengers waiting to catch trains.
I wait on the platform and, within minutes, the roar of the train signals its arrival, followed by a blast of hot air, and then everyone’s moving, bodies streaming out, while others pile in.
I look around for a seat, but there are none.
I’ve been lucky to escape some of the side effects of my treatment, but fatigue is an issue for me when I get this close to the next session.
Sometimes I wish I could wear a badge that tells people I’m ill so I can do things like claim a seat on the train when I feel like my legs are going to give out from under me, and other times I’m happy no one can tell what’s wrong with me.
Eventually, someone who’d occupied one of the seats gets off the train, and I’m able to slide into the person’s spot.
I breathe a sigh of relief. As well as the fatigue, I often get hit with bouts of dizziness as well, and I can never quite tell when one is going to strike.
The Tube gets cramped and hot and stuffy, too, which is never a good combination for me.
My parents had offered to drive me, but I can’t stand the idea of giving up my last little bit of independence of being able to get around on my own.
Maybe I’m silly, but I’ve lost everything else.
The train arrives at the stop for the hospital, and I leave the station with numerous other passengers, many of which seem to be heading the same way. I’ve done this routine enough times now, I probably could make it to the ward with my eyes shut.
“Hi, Linda,” I say to the staff nurse as I approach the reception desk.
Linda’s a slightly overweight woman in her late forties, who’s one of my favourites. Some of the other nurses can be a bit snappish and impatient, but Linda never fails to take time to come and sit with me and make me laugh during the long, boring stints.
“Hi, Sophia. All ready for today?”
“I guess I have to be. I’d rather be outside in the sunshine, though.”
“Wouldn’t we all.” She smiles, flashing a couple of matching dimples in each cheek.
“True.”
I pull off my long-sleeved top, revealing the tank top I deliberately wore beneath for this purpose.
Over the last few months, I’ve discovered it’s easier and more comfortable to wear short sleeves rather than have longer sleeves rolled up for hours.
But I won’t leave the house in a short-sleeved top, no matter how warm it is outside.
I know I’ll get too many questioning stares at the state of my arm.
I get everything I’ll need ready and within arm’s reach— my phone, my book, my AirPods.
I have drinks and snacks if needed, too.
Then I take a seat in the comfortable, padded chair, and sit with my arm out to allow Linda to thread two needles into the special blood vessel—the fistula—that’s been created to allow easier blood flow between me and the machine I’m connected to.
There are several other people sitting around the room, and I recognise a couple of them, and exchange nods and smiles.
Some people strike up friendships during the long hours here, but I tend to keep to myself.
I know it’s my own issues that prevent me from starting conversations, but they always seem to go the same way and revolve around our illnesses.
I’d rather forget that I’m sick than have to talk about it all the time.
It already takes up such a huge part of my life.
“So, how have the side effects been since last time?” Linda asks me as she sets up the machine that will clean my blood.
I shrug. “Not too bad, I guess. I get a bit of itching sometimes, but I can handle it.”
The itching gets worse the closer I get to the next dialysis session.
My non-functioning, remaining kidney can’t filter out the toxins in my blood, and that’s what causes the itchy skin.
Sometimes it drives me crazy, keeping me awake all night, so I’m crabby and frustrated the next morning, but I don’t want to make a fuss. I want to be strong—like my tattoo.
“We can always get you a topical cream to help, if you need it.”
“I know, but I’m fine for the moment, I promise.”
The nurse catches sight of the cling film wrapped around my ankle and lifts her eyebrows. “And what’s that, young lady?”
I grin. “You sound like my mother.”
Her lips purse. “You know we don’t recommend tattoos for dialysis patients. What if the needle was dirty and you contracted Hepatitis B or C? You know that would put you off the waiting list for a new kidney.”
I exhale a sigh. “If I lived my life around waiting for a kidney that never seems to be coming, then I’d never do anything I wanted. Anyway, the place was reputable. I did my research, and actually, the guy who did it was my best friend from childhood.” A smile creeps across my face as I remember.
Linda studies my expression. “Was he now? From the way you’re blushing, I’d say he was more than a friend.”
The heat in my face deepens. “Yeah, he was actually. He was my first boyfriend—my only real boyfriend. He was my first everything, really.”
“But the two of you stayed friends all this time? How come you never mentioned him before?”
I flap a hand. “Oh, we lost touch. I moved away suddenly with my family, and then I started getting sick. I didn’t want to burden him with all that.”
“So are you staying in touch now?”
I shrug. “I’m not sure. We swapped numbers, but I didn’t tell him about all of this. It’s a bit much to dump on someone you haven’t seen for ten years.”
Her voice softens. “Not if that someone cares about you, Sophia.”
I shrug and glance away. “Maybe.”
He can’t still care about me after all these years. Perhaps he had, once upon a time, but not anymore. Even if he does, I’m not sure I’ll even let him.