CHAPTER 16 #2
I complete my shift on autopilot, staring at everything and nothing, probably not being particularly helpful to anyone at all.
From one cocktail table out on the deck, I collect three of the six empty glasses.
And I’m aware of that, somewhere in my brain, but my head turns away and my legs take me to the next table.
My head is crowded with Bee, taking up all the space.
Trying so hard to be friends with someone who just isn’t very interested.
At first, I am confused. I want to step into her reality and see because it seems so different from mine. I try to remember trying. I struggle to remember lack of interest. I wonder where I was if I wasn’t present. I think of empty, dark homes, of half-started conversations, of creaking bed frames.
I pick up some discarded bamboo cones containing the remnants of fries and Kewpie mayo.
At the bin, Bee speaks to me again. An imbalance of effort in our friendship.
My mind conjures images of cinemas, restaurants, rock-climbing walls, long dresses that push Bee out of the picture.
My hands are shaking as I place the cones in the bin.
Jealous. Slam down a glass on the tray.
Projecting. Kick a stool out of my path.
Toxic. Consider knocking over a plant but think better of it because I’m not an animal.
Dissatisfied. Damn fucking right.
I think I hear someone screaming, but then I realise it’s me.
And the glasses and tray I was holding are on the ground.
I stare at my reflection in the dark floor-to-ceiling windows, alone, face contorted in pain, surrounded by broken glass, covered in sticky red premixed cosmo.
The lights of the city bounce off the window and illuminate me in a ghostly glow.
Behind my reflection, partygoers dance, unbothered; the music has swallowed my cries, and the tinted windows shield me from view.
‘I see you’ve finally reached anger,’ Nicole says. She has a broom.
‘Good work. I thought it would take longer,’ Reg adds, because he doesn’t know that I’ve been halfway there for days. He has a dustpan. He holds out his free hand to guide me out from the centre of my shattered control.
I can’t quite fathom how at one point I thought myself empty, a shell, a void.
But maybe resentment is like those little sponge things that grow when you get them wet.
I thought I was angry with Bee before, but this text has tipped me over the edge.
I’m full to bursting, bubbling over. I stay in the back for the rest of my shift because there is absolutely no guarantee that I won’t yell at some unsuspecting soul for looking at me funny or saying the word ‘anxiety’ in my proximity.
I’m not going to be okay. Not until we have a conversation and I can let the steam out of my pressure-cooker body. I can’t avoid it anymore, and I don’t want to.
I have the conversation at least a dozen times in my head, and I wish I could relocate it there.
In my head I’m assertive, I’m direct. I don’t trip over my words, and my genius doesn’t get lost between my brain and my mouth.
My words flow effortlessly, and Bee doesn’t interrupt me.
And her reactions! God, her reactions to my words.
Sometimes she’s stiff and contrite; other times she cries and begs for forgiveness. I like those ones.
One particular version has her screaming back at me and storming out, and I’m the one crying.
I think you need to take some time to really reflect on why you’re being like this.
Time probably means days, even weeks, to Bee. But I’ve had time. Years really, if we’re counting the years I spent as a frog in hot water, not noticing how close it was to boiling. This time, we’re doing this on my terms; we’re having the conversation the moment I see her tomorrow.
Once our shift is over, I clear out my locker and pass the team as they collect a stack of bottles. A few wary eyes clock me, but there is no invitation to stay. I don’t need one anymore.
‘She’s not staying for discarded champagne,’ Nicole says, eyes never leaving mine.
‘She has things to sort out at home tonight. Right, Gertie?’ Her words say it’s a question; her eyes and tone are telling me to get out now.
Everyone accepts Nicole’s dismissal of me, turning back to the bottles as I wave goodbye.
I don’t wonder if she’s going to tell everyone because I know she cares about me.
She’ll probably just text me later to see if I’m all right.
Alone in my car, the panic sets in. I’ve got nothing to do but think about what I’m driving towards.
It’s all well and good to craft perfectly executed slow-clap moments while doing hundreds of dishes, but every turn of the wheel brings it closer, makes it more real, and there won’t be any inspirational backing track to keep me going.
But no, I am going to be different. I have to be different. One deep breath. Two. Three. Hold it. Let it out. I won’t run from this.
It could be worse. I could have just spent forty thousand dollars on a marriage that’s already doomed.
I’m not expecting Bee to be home—let alone awake—on a Saturday night when I get back. Her light is on, and her door is open, and she pokes her head out when she hears me lock the door. ‘Would you mind coming in here for a moment?’
It’s the first play, and she already has me on the back foot.
None of my scenarios went this way. If she was here, she was asleep.
If she wasn’t, I would be. Either way, the conversation would happen tomorrow.
I’d have the rest of the night to pretend to sleep and run this over again and again, hyping myself up.
And now I feel like a naughty child called in to see the principal.
Bee is sitting on her bed, cross-legged, sipping from a mug, face very severe.
‘I wasn’t expecting you home tonight.’ I say, sitting down on the edge of the bed and cocooning myself in the safety of inane small talk.
‘William is attending a wedding and had the invite before we started seeing each other. He asked if I could come, but the bride hasn’t met me, so she said no.’
Sounds like there’s more to that story.
‘Oh. Okay.’
Silence. I don’t really know where to look. To my right, I see the neatly folded pile of clothes I placed in here the other day.
‘I’m sure you’ve read my message by now.’ I nod once in confirmation, my mouth pressed into a thin line. ‘I look forward to an open and productive discussion when you’ve had more time to consider it.’ I still don’t say anything.
‘Maybe we can book in a time in a week or two.’ She’s all business now, like she’s setting a first appointment with a new bride. ‘And I’m sure you’ll want to really map out a path forward for us to use as a launch point for the discussion.’
Oh, goodie. Will my performance review and personal improvement plan be conducted in person or will it be virtual with you at William’s? ‘Jesus, didn’t we do this already?’
Shit. I said that out loud, didn’t I? The shock on Bee’s face says yes.
Then Bee crosses her arms over her chest, a sneer on her face. I aspire to this level of unflappability. Whatever else Bee might be, she is certainly hard to flap. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’
Do it tomorrow. Do it tomorrow. Do it tomorrow.
When I look back on this conversation later, I’ll be able to identify this as the moment.
The last moment I could turn back. Smooth over my little outburst, promise to give the matter considerable thought.
Mollify her with soft half-true platitudes and go to the sweet, sweet haven of my bed.
You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m a shit friend. I’ll figure out how to be better.
I know that’s what she wants to hear, and it might even be the better option: it’s late. We really have no business having this conversation after midnight without even stretching first.
But I can’t do it. I can’t cave to what Bee wants this one time.
Maybe I’m high off the endorphins of the last few days.
Maybe Arthur fucked some bravado into me.
Maybe I actually believe what Nicole told me earlier.
Maybe I’ve finally opened my eyes to the absolute audacity of Bee lecturing me about not being a good enough friend. Maybe I’m just tired.
Too tired to hold up the dam walls containing half a lifetime’s resentment.
Resentment that until tonight I wasn’t even aware of.
But it’s here, and it’s welling behind my heart, and tonight it cracked, and I don’t know if either of us are going to survive the deluge.
Apparently this cannot, in fact, wait until tomorrow.
I guess we’re doing this now.
I turn to sit on the bed fully and face Bee head on.
‘I’ve got déjà bloody vu from the last time you gave me a stern talking-to about not being a present-enough friend for you.’
‘Perhaps you need to take some time to reflect on why we haven’t seen an improvement in your behaviour, resulting in a follow-up discussion.’
I want to slap the condescending look off her face. ‘No. I simply disagree with the premise of either discussion.’
‘How so?’
‘I have made you the centre of my universe for years, to my own detriment. You can accuse me of a lot of things, but I’ve been nowhere else but fucking present.’
A perfectly formed tear tracks down Bee’s cheek. ‘I feel as though you’re invalidating my lived experience.’
‘Yes, I am. Because these particular feelings are not valid.’
‘You’re being so defensive. I’m just speaking my truth.’
Way to dodge the substance of what I actually said, Bee. I get up off the bed. I can’t sit still anymore. Her eyes, narrowed, follow me as I pace around the room, stepping around little mounds of clothing.
‘You want to talk about present? Where the hell have you been since you met William? Because as far as I’m aware, I no longer live with you—I live with your stuff. Your stuff that I washed and put away after you just dumped it in the kitchen; thanks for noticing.’