Chapter 5 Then
Then
My palms are always itchy when I’m nervous, and they’re practically on fire as I make my way over to James’s flat.
It’s only a short walk across London Fields from my own.
A fortunate proximity, as I have already turned back on myself five times.
This is stupid. Reckless, even. At first, it was just that one night.
A friendly couple of drinks without so much as a goodbye kiss on the cheek.
And yet, something shifted that evening.
Suddenly, it felt like James saw me. I’d taken one of the equally old and useless backup laptops at work to replace my now dead one, but when the gift-wrapped MacBook landed on my desk, I’d looked up to see James watching me from his office, a gentle smile on his face, and knew what he’d done.
Sometimes, I’d glance up from my desk and catch him doing that, one ear to his receiver, deep in doubtless important conversation, but still watching.
He’d smile, shake his head, and then go about what he was doing.
The first sign that we were slipping from something known into the unknowable was the Friday after Christmas, when he caught me by the lifts on the way out of the office, the shadow of a fading bruise under one eye.
“Hold the doors!”
My guts clenched at the thought of our bodies penned into the same space, lungs breathing the same air. There was something intimate about sucking in the clouds of vapor he puffed out. Like I got to hold a little piece of him inside me. I held the doors.
“Wow—leaving before six. That’s almost skiving by your standards,” I said.
He laughed, slipping into the lift a moment before the doors slid shut. “Well, if you don’t tell the boss, I won’t.”
It had been a surprise to me when James hadn’t made some excuse to peel off or hang back as we headed in the aligned direction of our respective homes; does the MD really want to be stuck talking to the office manager for his entire commute?
But as we paced along the chilly East London streets, squeezing together and breaking apart in narrowing and widening pathways, he stuck with me, face bright and engaged.
He had this new zest for life since Christmas that was infectious.
And I was outwardly engaged, too—delightful even, I’m sure—but inside was sheer panic.
I wanted him desperately. I wanted to hand in my resignation and never speak to him again.
My pocket started buzzing a notification.
When I checked the screen, I saw the round photo in its center.
The white text that floated above it: Melissa Doe.
It’s perhaps a quirk of mine that I save her contact info under her full name, rather than just “Mother” or “Mom.” It’s been this way forever.
All my contacts are saved like that. There’s just something about having the full name saved that soothes me.
I suppose it’s a reminder to look at the whole picture of who people are, rather than taking them in parts.
In any case, I did what I had done for the past few years and quietly declined the call. I knew I was damaged. Wrong. I didn’t need her reminders of that fact. Didn’t need to hear the unspoken insult beneath: You’re so like your father. Didn’t need to feel like any more of a freak. A monster.
My therapist once asked me why I’d not blocked the number. Sometimes I considered it, but I was at once terrified of and drawn to my mother. She was a bottle of vodka and I an alcoholic who couldn’t live without it, even if I knew it was slowly killing me.
I shook all thoughts of her away, eyes latching on to the black-shuttered bar coming up beside James and me as we walked.
“I love this place,” I said, nodding toward it.
“Oh really? I’ve never been.”
“Never? They do this thing called a beer and a bump for only seven quid.” I suddenly felt silly and childish for extolling the virtues of cheap alcohol to this clearly wealthy man. “It’s, um…It’s their house lager with a shot of liquor of your choice. I know it sounds silly, but—”
“It sounds like a hangover waiting to happen.” The laughter in his eyes told me that this wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
Something shifted in my periphery. A guy in a suit was hurtling toward us down the pavement, phone to ear, yelling obscenities. For a moment, I thought he might barrel into me, but James stepped between us, hand firmly pointing Phone Guy toward the clear stretch of pavement. “Watch it, mate.”
I thought Phone Guy might turn his puce-colored rage on James, but he simply sidestepped, throwing an angry look over his shoulder.
We were stopped now, James and I. It felt like fate.
Words fought each other in my mouth. I found myself blurting out, “No worries if you have plans, but d’you want to stop in and try one?”
His eyebrows shot up. I wonder if he knew what I was doing, what I wanted, despite every reasonable bone in my body knowing I shouldn’t.
He made a show of looking at his watch and then looking back at me.
I could almost see his mind sorting through where he felt the lines of propriety were.
How close to those lines he was comfortable coloring.
“I guess one wouldn’t hurt.”
Inside it was dark and close, tables and chairs pushed up against each other in low light.
It was busy, and James and I found ourselves equally pushed up together.
It could have just been in my head, but I was sure I could feel the warmth of his leg seeping through his jeans and into mine.
It was loud, so we found ourselves having to speak into each other’s ears.
I liked the feeling of his warm breath condensing on my neck.
I felt myself slipping into Cool Girl mode.
Easy laughs, bright, engaged eyes. But never too engaged.
Always just charming enough and aloof enough to seem worth liking.
To seem desirable but not easily attainable.
It’s not that I wanted him to like me. I needed him to.
People only tend to give you what you want when they like you.
And what I wanted from him was to be allowed to exist within his sphere of handsome normalcy, even if it was a fleeting bubble that I’d enjoy before it burst.
As we spoke about inconsequential things—office gossip, Netflix binges, weekend plans—I could feel lines blurring, boundaries demolished by the promise of “just one more drink,” pints disappearing as quickly as they came.
I plucked up the courage to ask about the fading shiner, unsure which of the office rumors were true.
Nothing that exciting, I’m afraid; just an enthusiastic nephew with a new ball and terrible aim.
And then the conversation shifted, our words stumbling through the shallows and over an unseen precipice that plunged us somewhere deep.
“I just sometimes wish she’d see me,” James said, removing his tortoiseshell glasses to rub at his eyes. He’d never looked so boyish. “She funnels so much into Will that sometimes it feels like there’s nothing left for me.”
Emboldened by booze, I took hold of his knee. “He’s great, but I can’t imagine it’s always easy having an older sibling like him.”
“I feel like a traitor for agreeing with you, but it’s true.”
“I mean, even at work, he’s a bit of a loose cannon. More so, lately.”
My mind was flooded with recent memories of sour hangover breath fogging the air; alcoholic vapors steaming from mugs of coffee; overloud sentences with wild gesticulations drawing attention across the office; knocked-over files; knocked-over screens; an office sitting empty, unexplained, for two days that week.
Will’s fondness for a drink seemed to have mutated into something ugly that everyone in the office could see.
I wanted to ask more about it, but my questions caught in my throat. It didn’t feel like my place.
James gave out an exasperated sigh. “Yeah, I don’t know how much longer he’ll stick around.
Please don’t repeat this to anyone. But Will’s the kind of person who’s interested in something until he’s not.
And I think the business is prime to join the growing pile of his discarded hobbies.
” He paused to take a sip of his drink. “I get why she worries about him. My mother. I get why she doesn’t always take him seriously.
But I don’t know why she takes me even less seriously.
If she’d just pay attention, then maybe… God, listen to me going on.”
“No. It’s nice to hear you open up. And funny to hear everyone else’s problems. As for me, I’d love my mother to see me less…”
“Oh really? How come?”
“You really want to get into it?”
“I do. If you’re happy to, that is. You mentioned it’s not your favorite subject.”
And so I went on to give him the sanitized version of my life story.
He blew his cheeks out, laughed. “No way did an argument that big erupt over some dishes.”
“My inability to leave dirty plates by the sink is genuinely a trauma response—my therapist had a field day trying to unpick that. Me and my sister learned our lesson with the dishes, although Claire rebelled in other ways.”
He paused, looking down at me through thick lashes. “Your sister sounds like quite the firecracker. You should bring her along to the summer party. I’d like to meet her.”
I realized my mistake too late. “Oh, um…” I forced myself to look away from his stare. “My sister…well, we had a big falling-out before she moved to LA. I kept dating assholes, kept dragging her into my mess…. I guess the main reason she moved was to escape our mother, though…. It’s complicated.”
There are a lot of questions on his face, but the next one out of his mouth surprises me. “Is there much of a culture clash there? With your mother, I mean.”
I looked at him quizzically.
He continued. “Just for people growing up in the diaspora, I hear there can be some intergenerational friction between what parents are used to and what’s the new norm for their kids.”
“You sound like you’ve swallowed a stack of journal articles.”
He blushed and I realized that my joke may have accidentally hit the mark.
“Sorry. I just wanted to read up a bit. Educate myself, y’know?”
I took another moment to consider him. The earnestness made him bashful, dipping his head toward his beer. “I didn’t mean to be disparaging. It’s cool you want to learn more. Although, I mean…have you dated Black girls before?”
“No. Not that I wouldn’t. But why? D’you think I’d only be interested in your history because I was trying to get laid?” A vulpine smile now sat on his lips. I smiled back.
“Maybe. That’s usually the reason.”
He simply shrugged. “Sorry to disappoint. But if you ever want to chat decolonization, I’m down.”
It elicits a genuine cackle from me.
“Seriously, though,” he continued, “we only have to talk about things you’re comfortable with. I know you don’t like talking about the past, your family, in particular. We don’t have to go there again.”
“Is that a promise?” I nudged him with my shoulder, a grin on my face. His was deadly solemn.
“It can be.” His earnest gaze set my heart fluttering. He reached out a finger. “Let’s make a pact to leave the past where it belongs. Focus on the future.”
And my pinky slid around his, the promise made.
A soft heat pulsed at the edges of the evening as we talked.
I could tell that the guy waiting tables—dangly earring, two phones in use behind the bar, clear fuckboy—was trying to flirt with me, not believing James and I could be on a date.
On another approach to ask an inane question about my hair, James was curt: We’ll tell you if we need something, thank you.
I found myself reaching for his hand across the table and squeezing it.
His palms were soft. Large. I felt small in his touch.
Needing of his protection. From what, exactly, I’m not sure.
Myself, perhaps, my therapist would say.
When the hours had worn on too long and we had to make our way home, we were both unmistakably drunk. More so than on that Christmas Eve we’d spent together.
“I’m just going to quickly use the loo,” I said.
I found myself in the poky bathroom, panic high in my chest, phone to my lips, recording a voice note for my sister.
“Claire, I know I promised no more relationships, but I think I want to hook up with my boss. And I think maybe he wants it, too. I don’t know…
. Is this…I mean…Like, I know it’s stupid and risky and it terrifies me…
and I know what happened with the last guy.
But this is okay, right? It’s been years. What’s the worst that could—”
Someone was banging on the door. I let the voice note send half-finished.
Outside, James took me in with a deep spark of curiosity behind a slightly glazed look. I wasn’t going to let this spark of interest die. I pulled him to me.
“I want you to forget about this tomorrow, but I know I’ll regret it if I don’t do this tonight.”
And I kissed him. It was warm and wet, and I think he was startled at first. After a moment, he pulled away.
“Natalie, I really shouldn’t. You’re my— This is—”
“Do you want me to stop?” I asked.
“Not even a little bit.”
I kissed him again, his hands soon on me, steady and strong.
The kiss was at once tender and firm. It felt like a kiss on a leash.
There was a restraint in the meeting of our lips and the light pressure of his fingertips on my flesh.
But the restraint soon came loose, James’s hands reaching for my waist, pulling our bodies together.
A sharp pain suddenly bloomed on my lip, a metallic taste in my mouth. It didn’t take me long to realize that he’d bitten me. Hard enough to break the skin. I pulled back, our eyes connecting. There was a challenge in his. My pulse raced quicker.
Perhaps this should have been a warning that James might hurt me more significantly down the line. That he might even enjoy it. But in this moment, I was so consumed by want, blood rushing through my ears and creeping across my tongue, that there wasn’t any room for fear.
And I wish I could say that this was where things ended between us, but as I walked over to his apartment, the promise of a home-cooked dinner and perhaps something more ahead of me, I’m ashamed to admit that this felt like the beginning of something new.