EZRA
‘ N o . Y OU ’ RE KIDDING .’
‘I’m not!’ Audrey laughs. ‘It was my favourite movie when I was a kid.’
‘Were you not watching actual kids’ films?’
‘It’s not not a kids’ film.’
‘The entire family gets chased out of the country by the Nazis! They have to leave their entire lives behind!’
‘But they have each other! It’s a nice ending!’
‘If you say so. Honestly, I’m more interested in why you deemed Captain von Trapp crush-worthy.’
‘I’m not elaborating! Not until you tell me who your first crush was.’
‘Have you ever seen 10 Things I Hate About You ?’
‘Oh my God. Julia Stiles?’
‘Kat, yeah. She was pretty and mean. I was into that.’
‘That’s very telling.’
‘By all means, psychoanalyse me. I’m into that, too.’
Audrey elbows me in the ribs and I clutch my chest in fake-agony, half-moaning, half-laughing. I have no idea how we stumbled on to the topic of formative crushes – we were talking about what we’d choose for our last-ever meals, beforehand. And before that – I don’t know. Music, maybe? It’s early, early morning and aside from an incipient hangover, everything is pleasantly hazy. And Audrey is in my bed. I’m still struggling to wrap my head around that one.
‘You’re not actually hurt, are you?’ she says, peering over at me.
‘Maybe,’ I say, prodding myself. ‘I heard a crunching noise. Is that normal?’
‘Very funny.’ She smiles, looking so adorable that I automatically glance away. Given the context, it doesn’t feel ethical to be this happy about her being here. But she’s so close and sweet and beautiful , pale hair mussed, a pillow crease imprinted on her flushed cheek. She smells like mint, too – I felt her stir, heard her creep to the bathroom and back to brush her teeth while she (presumably) thought I was sleeping. I almost definitely should’ve done the same.
‘What are you thinking?’ she asks. ‘Your face just went all serious.’
‘I’m a serious guy,’ I say, glancing back at her. ‘But … that this is nice, I guess.’
‘Yeah?’ she says, voice lilting upwards.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry if that’s fucked up.’
‘Oh. Because I’m fucked up?’
‘No,’ I say quickly. Then – ‘Are you?’
‘I’ve been better.’ She smiles faintly. ‘It doesn’t justify me leeching off you, though.’
‘Leeching?’ I laugh. ‘That’s strong.’
‘Not really. I’m always falling apart all over you. Crashing here. Wearing your clothes. Eating your food …’
‘Wear whatever. Eat everything. Steal every towel in the place.’
‘I’m bringing them back!’
‘I don’t care. I told you, you can stay for ever. I hate living alone.’
‘Really?’
‘Uh-huh. I’m used to having roommates. I lived with a guy called Dev, at school. Then a Hugo.’
‘Oh. I knew a Hugo.’
‘Yeah? Was he the worst person in the world?’
‘No!’ She laughs. ‘He was sweet.’
‘Must have been a different Hugo, then. Was yours a boyfriend?’
‘Definitely not,’ she says, but the colour in her cheeks suggests otherwise.
‘Was it love?’ I press. ‘Did he look like Captain von Trapp?’
‘We kissed once, and he didn’t look like anyone! Does it matter?’
‘No,’ I lie, like I’m not burning with hatred for this faceless stranger. ‘I’m just curious.’
‘It was a long time ago. Or – it feels like a long time ago, at least.’
‘I guess it’s all relative. I mean – it feels like you’ve been here a long time.’
‘Yeah,’ she says, brow puckering slightly. ‘And it’s been incredible. There’s so much that I love about this city.’
‘Including me.’
‘Right.’ She smiles. ‘Glad you said it, so I didn’t have to.’
‘I sense a but coming, though.’
‘ But … I know it’s not my real life.’ She sighs. ‘And back home, my parents – honestly, I’ve barely spoken to them since I got here. It makes me feel awful, but then it’s like this weird paradox, because talking to them makes me feel even worse – my mum especially. She …’
Audrey falls silent mid-sentence, then, pressing her lips together like she’s just said something terrible.
‘She what?’ I prompt, curious.
Audrey glances over at me with big, worried eyes. ‘It doesn’t matter. I didn’t – I’m sorry. We can change the subject.’
Ah. This is a misconception I’ve run into a few times – people think that because my mum is dead, I’ll find any reference to the broad concept of motherhood inexorably painful. But it doesn’t work like that – not for me, anyway. It’s more complicated – she was more complicated, which I suppose is true of every parent.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I say lightly. ‘My mum being gone doesn’t mean that everyone else’s is immune to criticism.’
‘Still,’ Audrey says softly. ‘I can’t imagine it ever gets much easier.’
‘No,’ I concede. ‘Not particularly.’
‘Do you – is it something you want to talk about?’
‘I mean – sometimes,’ I admit. ‘But it’s not easy. Like – even on a semantics level. A lot of people have pretty strong opinions about what terms you should and shouldn’t use – not that that’s not valid. Just – yeah. It’s difficult to navigate in a few different ways.’
God, what the fuck am I even talking about – a ‘semantics level’? I sound like a psychopath, and that was a pretty drawn-out speech considering I managed to sidestep the one thing that I was actually trying to say. I’m sure Audrey realises what I’m alluding to, but …
‘Did she … was she unwell for a long time?’ she ventures. I swallow – this is harder than I’d anticipated. I never talked about any of this with Edie. She knew, of course, but when we first started getting close I told her that I didn’t want to get into it. Then, further down the line when I started to wonder if maybe I did want to get into it, it seemed too late.
‘Uh – yeah,’ I manage, though I’m starting to feel distinctly off-kilter. ‘Since she was young, I think. There was a post-partum element, apparently, but – I don’t know. It ebbed and flowed. She tried a lot of doctors, a lot of meds. And she had some really long stretches where everything was good, but …’
My breath catches in my throat, then, trapping my words. I bolt upwards, suddenly seized by an overwhelming sense of panic.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Audrey says quickly, sitting up beside me. ‘We don’t have to talk about it. I’m sorry if I pushed you.’
‘It’s fine,’ I say quickly, absentmindedly pressing my knuckles against my sternum. It’s slightly painful, which is good – a sensation totally separate to whatever the hell just happened.
‘Can I get you anything? A glass of water?’
‘I’m good. I should be able to talk about this shit,’ I say firmly, embarrassed. Audrey bites her lip. ‘I’m good,’ I repeat. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
I’m not good. I feel terrible, sick with unease – like I’ve somehow spoken it into existence despite the fact that it happened more than six years ago. God, I’m such a hypocrite – here I am wanting to know every minute detail about Audrey’s life, but the moment I try and share something with her I have a total fucking meltdown. I’m not even sure why I want her to know so badly, but I do. I really fucking do.
I lie back down on the bed, only now I feel like I’m on a therapist’s couch. But Audrey settles back besides me, shifting on to her side – I do the same and we’re facing each other, closer than we were. I’m still too embarrassed to meet her eyes, but then she reaches out and puts a hand against my chest, same as she did last night.
‘Is this okay?’ she asks quietly, splaying her fingers where mine were just moments before.
‘Yeah,’ I say hoarsely. ‘Yeah, uh – that’s good.’
Good is an understatement. It’s like a hush has fallen in my brain, her touch forcing my focus on to breathing normally.
‘I haven’t talked about this stuff with anyone,’ I confess then. ‘Not family. Not friends. Not licenced professionals, even.’
‘Not Caroline? I thought you guys were close.’
‘Close-ish. We’re all pretty disparate, honestly. I almost didn’t come back, after school.’
‘Do you miss it?’
‘School?’
‘England.’
‘Oh. Yeah, actually. Will you put me in your carry-on?’
‘If only you weren’t so tall.’
‘I’m serious.’
‘You’re not.’ She smiles sadly, glancing down. ‘You’ve got too much to keep you here.’
‘For now, maybe,’ I concede. ‘But maybe that doesn’t matter.’
‘No?’
‘No. Not to me, anyway. You have this way this way of making the ocean feel like a minor detail.’
Her eyes return to mine then, pupils blown so wide I can barely see her irises. I realise what I’ve said, then – that for all my questioning about her leaving, I’ve never actually admitted that it won’t matter if she does. I mean – I’d rather she didn’t, obviously, but she could set off tomorrow for a colony on the moon and I’d still suggest long-distance. Hell, I’d be chartering the next rocket out of here to join her.
‘Well – maybe the ocean doesn’t need to come into it,’ she says, voice soft and hesitant. ‘Marika wants to stay – I thought it sounded crazy when she first said it, but now – I’m not so sure, now.’ Marika. The jolt of dread I feel when I hear her name doesn’t make sense, at first. I like Marika. Marika more or less likes me. But then I remember – I remember what she knows, now. What she knows because I told her, and what she’ll inevitably tell Audrey the moment she sees her.
Audrey, lying beside me, so close that I can count her freckles. I was so stupid to think that I could protect her, because it’s painfully clear to me now that all I’ve done is betray her trust. I know that – I’ve known that, and yet in these little pockets of happiness I let myself forget. But it has to end. I have to tell her everything.
Every moment between us will be poisoned until I do.
She’s looking up at me, lips slightly parted. My heart is still hammering, seemingly intent on propelling me forward to meet them—
‘Are you hungry?’ I blurt out instead. Her expression flickers, and something behind her eyes seems to shrink, flatten.
‘Sure,’ she says after a beat, offering a tight little smile as she withdraws her hand. I’ve hurt her. I’ve hurt her feelings, and it takes every molecule of willpower I have not reach out, pull her into me, press my lips to hers and beg for forgiveness –
She’s turned away from me now, staring up at the ceiling. I study her profile in silence, hoping to God that this is the right thing to do.
And if it isn’t, that she’ll find a way to forgive me.