Chapter 14
Apparently, starting with embarrassments can open up an entire world of conversation.
As a therapist I get handed people’s deepest secrets all the time. But the mundane fragments of life can often be the most illuminating.
Up on a roof with nothing to do and nowhere to go, we allow our conversation to wind around, plucking small pieces from each other’s tapestry. It’s a way to pass the time, but in doing so we’re weaving something new—and the more we talk, the further away I can push that earlier sensation of being physically on guard around Eli.
Instead, sitting dutifully distant, we hand over small irrelevant intimacies, like how when he’s alone, he’ll order a particular cider called Strongbow that he loved as a teenager, but he would now get ruthlessly mocked by any fellow Brit, who would see it as a ridiculous watered-down drink. Or how his mother made him take ballet class as a kid and how he stuck with it until he was eight. How he broke his left arm as a teenager and had to wear his watch on his right wrist, but then he got used to it, so now it’s the only way he can wear a watch.
And I tell him how I got George because of the trip after my breakup, and he howls with laughter that my big takeaway was deciding I wanted an old cranky dog. Or how as a kid I never realized it was weird that my brother would eat all the cream from inside the Oreos before handing them to me. Or the fact that I still know a song—that names every country in the world—from a random cartoon VHS I had as a kid, and it’s the song I sing to myself whenever I get nervous. He makes me do a demonstration, and I love how much the absurdity of it delights him.
“Do you get nervous a lot?” he asks, once he’s made me sing this ridiculous song three separate times. “I would think at this point you’d be unshakable, having to listen to so much of people’s lives. It’s like, most people are told to imagine everyone in their underwear, but you sort of get the verbal version of that from your patients every single day.”
I consider it. “It’s not the same when it’s about you, though.”
He nods but still seems skeptical. “I just think you get to know people so much more than most of the other people in their lives.”
“Yeah, but they don’t know me ,” I reply.
I can see that land.
“Is that ...” He pauses, as though we’re teetering on some precipice of conversation. We’ve shared a lot in however many hours have gone by since we got locked up here. Our drawbridges have been lowered from their usual battle-ready position. We’re hungry, tired, and uncomfortable. That’s certainly made for a feeling of being in something together. But we haven’t really gone too deep yet. And I’m not sure whether I’m wishing that he would.
But, as with anything with Eli, he doesn’t wait on a precipice for long. He just jumps. “Is that lonely?”
I blow out the breath I’m holding in. It’s a heavy question. “I do wonder sometimes if holding everyone else’s problems makes me less likely to discuss my own. Or rather, have space with others to even want to talk about myself.”
“And them? Like if your friends complain about their lives to you, do you feel like you’re at work?”
“I don’t have that many friends,” I admit before I can stop myself. It’s strange how easily that honest assessment simply slipped out. “I operate better with just one best friend. I talk to Dane a lot, and maybe that’s why we get along—we’re both sort of inherently unable to abide personal complication. She’s the most straightforward person I know.”
“But does that mean she never asks you about yourself?”
I consider that. I talk to Dane about my day as it goes along, and she’s not afraid to call me out. But we don’t exactly delve into my hopes and dreams. I can’t help but think about J and wonder how he’s become the one person in my life that actually probes deeper.
“She does, although we don’t get into it a lot. But I feel totally supported by her. And I have another friend lately that I can get into weightier things with more,” I admit. “Having two people seems almost extravagant.” I laugh softly.
“I have one friend like that,” he says, stirring to readjust his position. Sitting on the ground for hours on end is not going to feel great tomorrow, but there really isn’t another option. “I feel less lonely when I can talk to her.”
“You feel lonely?” I ask, surprised.
It’s not that I don’t know that the way someone presents themselves often hides something underneath. That’s sort of psychology 101. Yet maybe with Eli, it’s been easier to place him in a box and believe the extroverted man wasn’t introspective enough to pinpoint his own loneliness.
But it’s clear from how he shifts uncomfortably that maybe this conversation has scratched too close to the surface.
“Sorry,” I say. “Therapist habit to pry.”
It’s not a totally honest statement. I’m actually pretty good at separating work from life. But I don’t want to admit that I’m curious more than anything.
He just shakes his head, though. “No, it’s okay. I mean ... what else have we got to do, right?” He chuckles.
“Right,” I say, one of many reminders that the last few hours haven’t been a choice, but that we’re stuck here with nothing but conversation to keep us away from wondering how long we’ll be trapped.
“I thought about that a lot when Sarah and I broke up,” he says, not looking at me again, as though the admittance can’t be said straight on. “I thought being in a relationship meant someone knew me, and so I was terrified to lose that. But after she left, I didn’t really miss her so much as having someone pottering around the flat. And then I’d chat to this friend of mine, and I realized I’d always told her a thousand times more than I ever told Sarah. I felt less lonely talking to a friend than I had through my entire relationship.” He puts his head in his hands and blows out all the air from his lungs. “Christ, that’s a sad-sack thing to say,” he mumbles. “I think being stuck on a roof is making me morose.”
I hate that in describing his life in a real way, he’s programmed to believe it’s pathetic. I know a lot of men feel that way, but it’s heartbreaking to see. This live wire, this ball of charisma, this surety can hide so much. I’ve always felt it’s more natural for lonely people to be introverts. But maybe that’s just because I am one. Extroverts can be seeking that connection even more and desperately hanging on to whatever comes along.
It shouldn’t be surprising that either of us has turned morose—we’re stuck on a roof with no end in sight, and as time goes on, the lack of food and water feels more and more dismal. But for all that baggage in front of us, it’s strange that I don’t feel more scared. His presence has, shockingly, brought comfort instead of panic. And as surprised as I am that he’s unexpectedly wormed his way in, that admission of his sadness shifts something even more and makes me want to fix whatever small things I can control in this moment. And perhaps that means letting down my guard a little bit too.
After the thumb war, I’ve kept a safe distance all night. But I push past the nervous invisible fence I’ve set up for myself and scoot over. The ingrained need to soothe him in this moment is overriding the physical trepidation I get when he’s close. I rest my head on his shoulder. I can feel the surprise in his posture at the movement, but then he relaxes.
And instead of it making me feel on edge again, I find that now it’s easy to sink into him, easy to fit next to him. It’s natural in a way I would never have expected. And after hours of leaning against brick walls and planters, there’s something especially reassuring about warm humanity.
“It’s not a sad-sack thing,” I say quietly. “I think it’s lucky to even have one friend who you feel actually knows you. Loneliness exists in so many relationships—more than you would imagine. I don’t think being in a relationship is a barometer for that. Some people are naturally lonelier than others, some people haven’t found someone they can be themselves with, and others just are going through a phase where they feel disconnected. But I’d lean into the relationships and friendships that do feel real—even if it isn’t necessarily the person you would’ve expected it to be, if it’s bringing you some peace, I wouldn’t question it.”
I imagine what J would say, if this was one of my columns. He’s really become that person for me, the one who I can tell anything to. It occurs to me that he might’ve texted tonight and is wondering why I haven’t texted back. I hate that whatever tentative move we’ve made toward reality is potentially being questioned by my inadvertent silence.
But the worry over J is interrupted by the very real sigh of the person whose shoulder I’m currently resting on.
“Thank you,” he says quietly. “I hate that we got stuck up here, but I’m glad at least that maybe now we can be ... friends?”
“I’d like that,” I whisper back.
Because at this point, after the hours of being up here, it’s actually true.
“Okay, this is both funny as hell and deeply sad for your backs.”
I hear Dane’s voice, and I’m confused. But then I open my eyes, and suddenly it all comes back to me. The roof. The door. The night spent talking.
There’s a crick in my neck that feels like the worst kind of punishment. I must’ve fallen asleep resting my head on Eli’s shoulder, and he in turn tilted his onto mine. I don’t know how we slept like that, or when we even fell asleep, but at least I’m comforted by the fact that there probably wouldn’t have been any better option.
I lift my head and stretch, pulling my arms up and trying to get my body to stop screaming. I feel Eli shift next to me, and I wish he weren’t so close that I can catch the dreamy scent of sleep wafting off him. I can still feel the warmth of his shoulder pressed on my cheek.
I know we said we’d be friends now, but ugh, I can’t keep lusting after this man. I’m glad he opened up, and I’m glad I saw a different side to him. But I need to shake the inconvenient attraction, because this isn’t a place where my mind needs to go or ever could go.
“This must be the famous Dane,” I hear him croak beside me.
Dane looks exceptionally pleased that her reputation precedes her. She’s standing over both of us, her Pacers hat backward and her Doc Martens unlaced, as though she ran over here in a rush.
“Yeah, sorry it took me this long to put two and two together,” she says, with her typical casual air that implies she’s not really that sorry. “I figured you were just avoiding coming out, since, you know, that’s something you often try to do, especially on a weekday.”
“Fair,” I mumble, mildly hating being called out so effectively.
“But then I texted you this morning, and you didn’t answer, and that felt like a red flag. And then I called , and you didn’t answer, which is not something you ever do.” I like the grateful look she sends me. It’s true what I said to Eli—I feel seen by Dane, even if we don’t often delve into words. If Dane calls, I always pick up, and vice versa. So I can imagine she was probably alarmed a bit by my silence. “You weren’t in your apartment, but your phone was. And the last thing you said to me was that you were going up to the roof, so ...” She waves her arms out, like Here we are, and I imagine the scene in front of her looks fairly absurd. Two pathetic grown-ups who got themselves locked out. “I’m glad to see that my fear of a potential murder didn’t come to fruition.”
Eli chuckles next to me, and I’m grateful he finds Dane amusing rather than too much. A lot of people think Dane is a lot, and it’s usually a good barometer for me disliking someone.
“I considered it,” he says slyly. “But too obvious once I was caught.”
“Yeah, you wouldn’t beat that rap,” Dane concurs. “And probably not great for your amusement at riling this one up if she wasn’t around to torture.”
I scoff, because what a ridiculous theory. But looking over at Eli, he’s gone a bit red. Has he been riling me up more than he would have otherwise because he finds it amusing? Surely that’s a stretch.
“Well, I think after a night of starvation and forced proximity, there’s a détente anyway,” he says, turning to look at me. “Wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes,” I admit. “I certainly agree we got off on the wrong foot, to say the least.”
He laughs as he stands up and stretches again. A small sliver of his stomach shows as his shirt lifts, and I immediately move to look back at Dane, as though staring at Eli’s body is going to burn me. She lifts an eyebrow, because she catches every damn thing. Great.
He holds out a hand to help me up, and when I put mine in his, I can’t help but be reminded of every second of the thumb war last night. I thought I’d effectively tamped down whatever touching him had done to me, but apparently I needed to keep not touching him in order to shake it off.
He pulls me up, and it takes a second to feel normal after sitting so long. One leg is asleep, and the other is cramped. I’m definitely ready to get down from this roof, even if the morning light off the buildings and the glow behind the water towers dotted across the skyline make for a beautiful view.
“You okay?” he asks, and I nod, even as I hop around and twist to try and get my body back to some semblance of normalcy.
We all walk downstairs, and I immediately fling open my door to an ecstatic George. For a moody little gremlin, he’s all love right now, his tiny stub of a tail wagging so hard the entire back half of his body is in motion. I flop to the ground, and he jumps into my lap, licking my face like it’s his job, leaving no inch dry.
“I’m so sorry, George,” I choke out, trying to pet him and squeeze him as much as I can even as he jumps and wiggles with excitement. “I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean to leave you. You know I’d never leave you alone on purpose. It was so stupid of me. I’m so sorry.”
Dane pushes past me, shaking her head like she’s disappointed in my maudlin display. She starts getting eggs out of the fridge and puts a pan on the stove, prioritizing getting me some food after a long night of unintentional fasting.
When George has practically licked me clean, I lift him so I can stand up as well. I look behind me and see Eli is still there, watching the scene unfold.
“Do you think Paws and Whiskers will launch themselves at you when they see you?” I ask as I try to wipe all the dog drool from my face.
“Not a cat’s style.” He shrugs, a small grin blooming.
There’s something strange sitting between us. Not necessarily bad, but different. We’ve been through a weird thing together, and now we’re on the other side, but perhaps not quite used to the idea yet that it’s over. He looks like he has something to say, but doesn’t. We watch each other, a pause in the air, something left unsaid even after so much was said. So many small things were shared; in the light of day it seems like they added up to something large.
“See you around then,” I say, unsure of what to do now. “I hope you don’t have any other neighborly escapades that lock you out.”
“I don’t know.” He furrows his brow like he’s lost in thought. “Gladys might have some shenanigans up her sleeve.”
“Oh yeah, she’s a real party animal,” I snort.
“I know you’re taking the piss, but back in the day she and my nan were probably the coolest cats around.”
“‘Coolest cats’?” I say with a laugh. “You really have been hanging out with octogenarians too much.”
But Dane’s voice cuts through the moment. “Nora, stop flirting and come eat something before you pass out!”
I can feel my face heat up. Goddamn it, Dane. Why does she have to make any interaction as awkward as humanly possible for me. And was I flirting? Shit. Does he think I’m ... flirting?
He puts a hand on my shoulder and shakes his head with a small smile on his lips, a wordless commiseration that acknowledges my friend is razzing me. I appreciate him letting my embarrassment go unsaid.
“I’ll see you soon, Nora,” he says with a squeeze. “Thanks for the lovely if unintentional evening.”
And with that, he turns around and opens the door to the stairwell. Leaving me to round on a smirking Dane and give her the hell she’s expecting.