Day Forty-Three Sober #2
“Did you figure out what’s going on with Red?” I asked into the silence.
“No. She’d pulled herself together by the time I got there. She says she’s fine. I’ll get to the bottom of it eventually. I mean—we will.”
Her voice wobbled a little. I couldn’t help it: I looked at her then.
I thought of Marly laughing at me, telling me I wouldn’t care so much about the Rog thing if I wasn’t obsessed with her.
Charlie had her hair pulled up in a clasp, and there was a little worried frown just visible beneath her fringe.
Despite the day we’d had, I wanted to smooth it away with a kiss.
It occurred to me that I’m so rarely angry, and when I am, it’s almost always with myself.
What had hurt about Charlie’s behavior was the fact she’d confirmed something I loathe about myself.
And that it had been Charlie, of all people, to do this—the person whose opinion I have apparently come to care about immensely.
The woman I am—look, let’s be honest—obsessed with.
Fuck.
Charlie met my eyes and took a deep breath in and out.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have assumed the worst about Rog. And I shouldn’t have tried to handle it without you. I thought I was being mature and taking responsibility. Challenging the anxiety by taking on something everyone would dislike me for.”
“There’re two of us. You don’t have to take all the responsibility,” I said, but in truth the anger had gone out of me. And I liked that she’d apologized like that, without messing around or diluting it. Just a sorry and an explanation.
She moved around the sofa and perched on the arm. I could smell her perfume—it’s rich and floral, too complicated to pick out one particular scent, and it lingers around this place all the time. Getting a proper hit of it made me close my eyes for a moment.
“It’s just been so nice seeing you happy lately,” she said. “I didn’t want to wreck that. Though…I did, in the end.”
“I don’t need you to look after me, Charlie. I actually need to know I can cope, I think, without any crutches at all. No alcohol, nobody who I lean on to keep me going…”
“There’s a big difference between leaning on alcohol and leaning on a friend. And I never thought you couldn’t cope, I just wanted things to be good for you, that’s all.”
I felt a little shot of pleasure when she said that.
“Good, for me, is being someone who’s an equal, not someone who needs babying, or looking after,” I said, resisting the urge to ask, Why do you want things to be good for me? Do you find yourself thinking about me all the time, the way I find myself thinking about you?
She nodded. “I get that. I’m sorry.”
Again, there was a lovely simplicity to that. I’ve never had an argument end quite like this one. I tried to give her back the same.
“I’m sorry for what I said about Galoshes. That doesn’t have to be on you—it’s not your fault she’s so unreasonable with you.”
“No, you were right, though. It’s such an obstacle for us. I need to find a way to make her like me.”
“No, you don’t. You need to find a way to show her she should respect you. You’re a pretty impressive person,” I said softly. “Shouldn’t be hard.”
“Ha. I don’t feel it when I’m around her. I just feel…” She pulled a face. “Anxious.”
“Still feel new saying that?”
“Still new. Speaking of.” She slid her foot across the sofa to nudge the empty bottle of lemonade in my hand. “Well done.”
“Thank you. I’ve had four, and two mocktails at Marly’s.”
“Wow. You’re well hydrated.”
I told her yes, I was, and also high on sugar, and possibly lemons.
She laughed. “Does it help? The lemony sugar?”
“Sort of. You can’t avoid yourself with a bottle of lemonade. Not that alcohol really lets you do that. It’s just a trick of the light. You still end up face-to-face with yourself in the end, you’re just doing it with a hangover and no idea what you did last night.”
“Ah, sitting with the uncomfortable sensations instead of avoiding them. Yes. I’m trying this. I’ve been reading about anxiety.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s good. I feel hopeful. Maybe I won’t always feel so afraid.”
“Have you thought about medication?”
“I have. I think it’s not for me right now. But I’m not ruling it out. I’m trying the Ormer method of managing the mind.”
“Which is?”
“Fresh air, proper food and talking the bad stuff out loud to anyone who’ll listen, which is probably everyone because this is an island full of eavesdroppers. And if those tricks fail you, go and pet one of the cart horses.”
“I’m sure the National Health Service will be prescribing cart horses in no time.”
She smiled, and then yawned, covering her mouth with her hand. “I should get to bed. Sleep is part of the Ormer method, too. I’m in the little room, right?”
I didn’t want her to go to bed. I wanted her to stay here and talk to me all night, or at the very least to go to my bed, to slip into the double with me tonight. Every night.
Completely fucking obsessed.
“Before you go…Coming back to the trusting-each-other thing,” I said, trying to gather myself.
She paused on her way toward the bedroom door. “Yeah?”
“It would be a lot easier if you didn’t lie to me.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “I didn’t lie to you.”
“You didn’t tell me what you saw Rog doing. If you had…”
“I get I did the wrong thing. But I wasn’t being dishonest. There’s a difference between withholding something and lying, Jones.”
I let her go with that, but I pondered it for a while. Is there a difference between withholding and lying? I’d have said yes, once, but now I’m not so sure. A lie is a lie, right? However you tell it, or don’t.
Which makes me a total hypocrite, doesn’t it?
CJ