Chapter Thirty-Nine
I wake up on my second day as a thirty-one-year-old and decide that the call with Steven was an appropriate bookend to the last few months.
It was the final loop-de-loop on my emotional roller coaster, and I made it through without yarfing all over the seat.
No more “one step forward, two steps back,” no more stress-eating through emotional turmoil, no more wallowing.
It’s strange to realize, given it’s been the bulk of my activity since January, but I actually hate wallowing.
It’s nice for the first little while, self-indulgent in a way that feels good and righteous.
But then you notice the shoulders of your friends creep steadily upward, see their jaws set as they steel themselves against another day of dealing with you, and that sucks.
Yes, when you’re being dragged deeper and deeper down by the slings and arrows of who- or whatever has wronged you, it is so much easier to let it happen.
But at some point, you’ve got to pull yourself out of it, and that’s what I’m doing.
They say it takes half the length of the relationship to get over it once it’s ended; I handily beat that metric with Steven.
Assuming the rule applies to unrequited love too, I’m approaching the limit for Lachlan.
So, okay, yeah. I had my three months of wallowing, but I’m over it now. Really, I am.
And then I see my desk, and what’s on it: an envelope bearing my name, a plate of cookies, and a Tupperware of what looks suspiciously like lobster risotto.
My breath hitches in my throat and I look around, like Lachlan might be hiding behind the coat rack, but I’m alone.
I sink into my chair and open the envelope with trembling hands, already feeling more in these ten seconds than in the entirety of my call with Steven.
Before the end of the first line, I’m crying.
Abby—
There’s no universe where you owe me a second of your time, so I understand if you crumple this up before even finishing this sentence.
I would deserve that. But I have so many things that I need to say to you—things I’ve needed to say for months, but never found the courage to.
I know I might be shouting into the wind, but I hope you read this.
First of all, happy belated birthday. Months ago, you said that since the lads sing “Mr. Brightside” so much, you thought it would be fun to see the Killers perform.
As fate would have it, they were playing in London this weekend, so I got tickets and backstage passes and planned this massive night out for us.
I thought it was a sign from the universe, and I was so excited to keep that secret from you and couldn’t wait to see the look on your face as I drove us down.
I didn’t think for one minute that you might have other plans, I just assumed that we would be together on your big day.
I assumed we would be together on all our big days, because that’s what I wanted.
I made a lot of assumptions like that. Selfish assumptions about you and me and what we meant to each other.
I fucked up. I can’t put it any clearer than that. Not a day goes by where I don’t think of what I said to you that night at the club and regret every single word.
I’ve always known deep down that I’m a coward.
I was too scared to figure out what I really wanted in my life, beyond football.
Too scared to do the right thing for everyone and end it with Claire.
I shoved it all down under layers of aggression on the pitch and loads of shit banter off of it and thought that would be enough.
But I was wrong, and now it’s hurt someone I care deeply about, which is the worst thing that can happen to a coward.
(Sorry, this is turning into a therapy session.
There’s a reason I earn my living with my feet and not with my brain—this letter is absolute dogshite.)
I don’t know what to say to you. I don’t know how to convince you how sorry I am, and I’m aware that a container of lobster risotto and a few scribbled paragraphs is not even close to being enough.
You have changed my life, so much and in such a short amount of time, and I hate that you’re not in it anymore, though I understand why.
I hate that you’re not on the coach with the lads with your carefully chosen shirt and your wee hoodie.
I don’t want to live without you, and I know I fucked up any chance of that.
But still, I miss you. We miss you. The boys are dying from lack of banter. And it’s my fault.
I don’t know where we go from here, because I totally get it if you never want to speak to me again. But I hope that’s not the case. I’ll do whatever you want to get us back to where we were, or to some other acceptable future.
So let me leave you with one final truth or dare: I dare you to forgive me.
Please.
Lach xx
P.S. The biscuits are from Moira, who sends her love. Because who wouldn’t love you, if given the chance?
I dab away my tears with the sleeve of my shirt and try to get my breathing back to normal.
I don’t know what the world would dictate I do in this situation.
Am I an antifeminist pushover if I forgive him immediately?
Am I a heartless bitch if I don’t? Am I a psychopath if I pretend I never got the note but still eat the risotto?
I reread it, taking in his horrible handwriting, the scratched-out bits, the heartfelt apologies.
And, God, I don’t know what the world wants me to do, but I know what I want to do: It’s what I’ve wanted to do since Kieran scraped me off of that bathroom floor.
I want to see Lachlan. I want to talk to him.
Yes, I might want to give him a good smack or two, but mostly I want my friend back.
There’s no Abby in Liverpool without Lachlan; even when I think I can build something here without him in it, I know he’ll always be a looming presence, an unanswered question.
I can’t ignore him forever, and I don’t want to.
I push my chair back to go try to find him, but as I look up, he’s there, loitering nervously at the door. “I’ve been hovering here for an hour debating whether to grab that risotto and get it into the fridge before it goes off.”
I could never have predicted this, not in a million years, but…
I just laugh. Against all odds, I laugh.
It rolls out of me in waves, laughter and relief, but it’s tinged with anger.
Real anger. Because I am furious at this man, despite also being so happy to have him here.
And my body can’t process these conflicting emotions, making the sound coming out of me confusing at best, maniacal at worst. He stands back and lets it happen, and when I’ve finally finished, I just look at him.
“So. Where do we go from here?”