Chapter 19 #2
Without thinking, he wraps his arms around my trembling being.
Instinctively, I do the same to him and slot myself into his body.
It’s like we’re two lost jigsaw pieces, reunited to create a wonderous image.
What we’re doing, hugging, it feels right, like it’s supposed to happen.
If it feels so right, then why do I feel so bad for doing it?
Seconds later, like we’ve just realised what we’re doing, we let go and scramble to pull away from each other. There’s a busy silence after that, where both of us stutter for words to say.
“Uh… eh…”
“I… um… Ye—”
“Your bags?” Tom manages to spit out.
“Oh, yes… My bags,” I repeat, smoothing down my torso. “I didn’t bring any, didn’t really see the need to when I’ll only be here a few hours.”
Tom’s brow wrinkles. “A few hours? What do you mean ‘a few hours’? Aren’t you staying up here for the night?”
I return his bewildered look. “Why would I be staying up here tonight?”
Tom shrugs, defensive. “I just thought you’d prefer to drive back tomorrow after a good sleep, that’s all,” Tom subtly suggests.
I smile, but it’s as fake as the marriage between the couple in house number twelve. “That’s very kind of you.” To stop him from trying to convince me further, I say, “I’ll see how I’m feeling later tonight if that’s okay with you?”
“That’s more than okay.” Tom beams.
He extends his arm to guide me towards the house. While he does so, he takes care to not brush my sleeve with the tips of his fingers.
When I step into the house, the first thing that hits me is the familiar feeling of cold. A chill runs through me, just like it always did. I wish I’d worn more layers. Instead of commenting on the cold – I’m a visitor now, not a cohabitant – I take one of my fleeces off the coatrack and put it on.
Tom lingers behind me as I make my way around downstairs.
I’m taking in what my life used to look like.
There’s the rocky kitchen table where together Tom and I ate three meals a day; the cracked kitchen tile that irritated Tom, but not so much that he’d replace it; and the comfy leather couch that we cuddled on every night.
Now, this moment, will likely be the last time I ever see these.
A lump is forming in my throat, and my eyes are starting to sting with tears at the thought.
I can’t let Tom see me like this; he doesn’t need to see what the end of us has done to me. I swallow the lump and refuse to open my eyes until the sting goes away.
“I suppose I’ll leave you to it,” Tom suggests. “Give me a shout if you need my help.”
“Thank you,” I choke out. With that, I get to work.
I empty my side of the bedroom wardrobe, carefully rolling items of clothing before I stuff them into a gear bag.
I do not place my suits in gear bags. Thankfully, they’re still carefully stored in the carriers I bought them in.
I try not to look at the bed – our bed; I try even harder to not think about who’s most recently lain there with Tom.
I’m shocked by the amount of clothes I own.
When I see some of them, I hold them to my heart and breathe them in.
I cherish the memories they bring. Like the little black T-shirt that still smells like Tom’s aftershave from a night out many months ago, or the baggy hoodie that Tom gifted to me after I started wearing it more than he did.
When I’m finished packing away my clothes, I’ve filled two gear bags.
Next, I sort out the books we displayed in the sitting room.
This proves to be more difficult than the clothes.
Over time, Tom’s and my literary collections merged into one, so it’s hard to remember which books belong to me and which belong to Tom.
We shared a lot of titles by encouraging each other to branch out into different genres.
For instance, Tom introduced me to the world of heavy science fiction, notably Dune, while I showed him the epic fantasy worlds of The Witcher and A Game of Thrones.
I start with the easy ones. Tom was never a fan of literary fiction or romance, no matter how hard I tried to convince him.
I pack titles like Conversations with Friends, The Love Hypothesis, and Beach Read into a cardboard moving box.
Large gaps start to appear in the bookshelves.
I resist the urge to put all the titles back to where they were.
Just as I’m about to wrestle my Complete Works of Jane Austen free from beneath Tom’s magazines about classic cars, I hear a door closing and carefully placed footsteps behind me.
I turn around immediately, all of Jane Austen’s works in my hand.
“It’s 4:30, Nick,” Tom points out, eyeballing the watch I bought for him. “We should really start thinking about heading to the restaurant.”
I cast my gaze over the mess I’ve created. Tom looks at it too. I hear him sigh.
“Sorry,” I whisper to him.
He laughs, but just like my smile earlier, it isn’t real. “I’m sorry too,” he whispers back. Before anything else can be said, Tom claps his hands and announces, “Anyway, let’s go.”
I drop what I’m doing and follow Tom outside. Expectedly, Tom shoos me into his car with fussy hands and starts reversing out of his parking spot before I’ve fastened my seatbelt. Some things will never change.
The drive to the restaurant is tense. It’s like there’s a balloon swelling between Tom and me, and it’s seconds away from exploding.
As expected, Tom drives way too fast, runs through suggestive amber-red lights, and scowls at the cars in front that dare to travel below the speed limit.
Every so often, I feel Tom peek at me out of the corner of his eye; as soon as he realises what he’s doing, he turns his gaze back to the road.
He lifts his hand off the gearstick a few times too – just like he always did before placing his soft palm on my thigh – but always stops himself before he goes too far.
The silence between us is stiff. Whenever either of us try to break it, it’s only to say something mundane like ‘Hasn’t the price of petrol gone up into the heavens?
’ or ‘Oh, looks like that house is after selling. Wonder how much it went for?’
When we park outside the restaurant, Tom is fidgeting like we’re an hour late. In fact, we’re ten minutes early. As I step into the drizzling rain, I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m glad to be out of the confined space of Tom’s car.
The inside of the restaurant is gorgeous.
It’s generously warm, the smell is striking, and there aren’t too many people inside.
We’re led to a single table right beside the window.
Sadly, the view isn’t that great. While some restaurants overlook the beauty of Dún Laoghaire Harbour, this one overlooks the DART station and a Dublin Bus stop.
Just as the waitress is about to take our order, Tom butts in. “Let me guess. You’ll have the chicken tenders.” He waits for my response with a worried smile.
I quickly contemplate selecting a different, more exotic dish to surprise him, show him that I’m not the same Nick that he fell out of love with. Yet I don’t want my dinner to be ruined just to prove a point. My stomach is gurgling.
I sigh. “Yes.” I close my menu and look at the waitress with defeat in my eyes.
“And a Coke,” Tom adds.
The waitress looks at me to confirm this. I give a slow single nod. Tom claps and laughs a little too loudly; it’s a laugh I’ve missed hearing.
“You never change, Nick,” he says teasingly. “And that’s what I love about you.”
Immediately I look up to study Tom. He’s just as surprised by what he said as I am to hear it. His eyes are large, his mouth is unhinged, and his cheeks are reddening. Neither of us says anything.
That’s what he loves about me. Not loved. Loves. Present tense. What does this mean? If it wasn’t for the waitress mindlessly probing Tom for his dinner order, we would’ve likely stayed in silence for another five minutes. When the waitress leaves, the silence returns.
“How’s Brendan?” Tom asks after a few minutes.
“He’s good.”
Tom takes a sip of water. “How did he take hearing about…”
He doesn’t need to finish. It’s obvious that he means ‘us’. I shift in my seat. “Obviously he was sad to hear about it.” I want to say more, tell him about the coffee machine, but I cannot put it into words.
“Right,” Tom says, nodding.
Uncontrollably, vicious words that I’d been sitting on for our entire relationship fall from my mouth. “I’d ask how your parents took it, but they never even knew I existed. Well, one of them didn’t know. The other just refused to accept my existence.”
I don’t regret speaking these words. They may not have been fair words, but at least they were truthful.
Tom falls back in his seat, reeling in horror. It’s like I’ve just stabbed him. “Ouch.”
Desperate to pull the knife out of him, I blurt out, “I’m sorry.”
Tom changes the subject, like he always did. “How’s work?”
“Fine.” I don’t offer any more than that.
“I’m sorry about the Murray case. But I heard you’re putting through an appeal. How’s that going?”
“Still waiting on the Court of Appeal to get back to me. God knows when that will be.” There’s malice in my delivery. I’m unsure if it’s directed at the Court of Appeal, Tom, or both.
“Do you know who the appeal judges are yet?”
“Judge Kennedy, Judge Murphy, and Judge Barry.” Mr O’Leary informed me of this on Friday evening.
Humming, satisfied, Tom says, “I might be able to speed up the process.”
I wrinkle my nose. “How?”
“Judge Kennedy plays golf with my dad. I might be able to get him to speed things along.”
“Thanks, Tom. That’s very kind of you.” I remember Ben’s words: ‘Not unless you know the judge outside of work’.
Instead of accepting my gratitude, Tom starts to waffle. “Obviously, I won’t be able to tell my dad who it’s for. I’ll just say it’s a very important case, and there will be lots of media scrutiny or something.”