Chapter 10
Ryan
I take a few deep breaths before finally deciding to knock at the door. Mum’s face appears at the living room window, then disappears for her to open the front door for me.
“Ryan, finally!” she throws her arms around my neck and squeezes tightly, making me feel guilty for not having been to see them for the past few days.
“Come in, your father’s in the living room,” she says, before heading inside.
I look around, and sadness overwhelms me in an instant, mixed with anger and disappointment: feelings I’ve lived with for years, but ones that I’m not quite used to yet.
Their garden is always the same, apart from the lawn, which is currently covered in items from an outdoor play session: toys scattered all over the place, a ball, a Peppa Pig wheelbarrow.
Inanimate objects that kill me slowly, reminding me that these toys should’ve been in another house, in another street, not far from here.
“Ryan,” Mum calls, sympathetically, shaking off the emptiness weighing down on my chest. “Sorry about that, the neighbours’ grandchild’s been staying with them for a few days.”
I knew it.
“Don’t do it.”
“What?” I ask her, still distracted.
“Don’t torture yourself,” she says softly, slowly stroking my arm.
I clench my jaw and convince myself to go inside, despite my legs’ desire to run away, to avoid seeing my family.
I stop in the doorway, closing my fists tightly and keeping my gaze down, cursing myself for my weakness, for letting my memories keep hurting me. For my life. For my terrible choices.
“Honey…”
“I can’t. Not today,” I tell her, lacking the courage to even look at her. “Please, Mum. Don’t ask me to stay.”
“Ryan…”
“I’m sorry. I’ll come back another day, okay?
Say hi to Dad from me.” I open the front door and run outside.
I throw myself hurriedly into the car, trying avoid looking back one last time at that damn garden – at all the things that should’ve been part of my life, but instead are filling up someone else’s life.
I park the car in one of the bays next to the supermarket, on the high street. I switch off the engine and climb out of the driver’s side. I look around, lost, trying to work out what to do with the rest of my day, when I realise that it’s already past two o’clock and I haven’t eaten anything yet.
Not wanting to go back to my apartment, which contains nothing but silence and an empty fridge, and also not wanting to see my brother, I walk along the road, trying to find something to eat.
I distractedly scan the shops along the high street, but I feel so confused that the images are blurred. I turn left, ready to retrace my steps, when something grabs my attention.
Christine is sitting alone at one of the tables in her café. I can see her through the glass, her elbow leaning on the wooden surface, her chin in her hand, her gaze distant.
Her hair is tied back, a tense expression on her face, her eyes empty and tired. Loneliness hangs over her.
A strange tingling sensation fills my stomach – it’s so frustrating and unexpected that it turns me upside-down, but freezes me in place at the same time, preventing me from getting as far away as possible from the situation.
She turns slowly, her hair slipping from its ponytail, letting a few dark red strands fall onto her shoulders which are lightly covered by a soft, figure-hugging shirt.
Her eyes meet mine and hold my gaze.
It’s nothing exceptional, nothing fantastical. Just a look. One of those looks that makes you believe in perfect moments, where the world around you is suspended, waiting for something both magnificent and terrifying, waiting anxiously. One that scares the fuck out of you.
I tear my gaze away as soon as I can, but I still can’t move. I just stand there, frozen in the middle of the street, attracted to her damn loneliness. Without realising it, my legs start to move, closing the distance between us.
I keep my eyes down as I make my way through the door and head towards her table.
Even though I can’t see it, I can still feel her eyes on me.
I place a hand on the back of a chair and she straightens up in hers, waiting for me to say something.
I slowly lift my head, ready for another slap, a punch or a flurry of insults, but none of that happens.
She nods hello at me, then calls over a waitress, telling her we’re ready to order. She speaks for both of us, confident and casual, and I don’t interrupt her, don’t ask for any explanations. I don’t do anything but sit there, next to her, in silence.
She doesn’t ask and I don’t answer.
We’re both alone – but we’re alone together.
It’s irrational, but I like it. It’s comforting, intimate. And the most surprising thing of all is that it doesn’t frustrate me, or scare me.
I start to feel relieved, calm, grateful for the situation, for having saved myself from an hour of loneliness and emptiness, without trying to fill it up with something else – something sterile and superficial, which would probably have ended up causing me even more trouble.
I watch her eat, without lifting my head; but my eyes don’t miss a crumb.
I watch her cut the meat with her delicate hands, her nails bitten down as if she were a little girl.
I watch her face change expression with every bite.
I almost smile with relief when her face lights up at the sight of our coffee arriving, as if it could save her.
Watching the delight in her eyes when she takes the first sip nearly makes me choke on my own coffee, and it takes everything I have not to burst out of my jeans watching her lick her lips, not wanting to waste a single drop.
When she’s done, she simply gets up and goes through the back. I follow her with my eyes glued to the small of her back, her figure hugged by her skin-tight jeans.
As soon as I realise I can move again, I get up too, not sure whether to offer to pay for my half.
But I tell myself that it’s best to just leave things the way they are, to imagine this strange connection between us never really existed.
To pretend that I never studied each of her movements like a stalker, and that I didn’t have an awkward erection like an overexcited teenager.
I head towards the door, my heart feeling slightly lighter than before, but with a strange commotion stirring in my body – as much as I try to hate that woman, she bursts her way into my thoughts. This definitely won’t lead to anything good.
I tell myself that I have to keep hating her, that there’s no reason to change my mind now. It won’t be difficult, given my temper – and hers.
I won’t let today change anything.
I won’t let her reassuring silence change my mind. Or her unexpected kindness. Or her intimacy, her pleasant nature. Or the way she made me feel less alone, even though her loneliness runs much deeper than mine.