Chapter 5
Then there he is, smiling back at me: Jonathan Sanderson. In the first picture, which he posted last Wednesday, he’s shiny with sweat and wearing workout clothes, clinging to a fake rock face in a rock-climbing gym with Baxter.
I glance to the right, to a picture of us together from just two weeks ago.
We’re sitting on the stones of Brighton Beach, the tangerine of the setting sun giving us a warm glow.
I’m wearing huge sunglasses, and his cheeks are pink from the cold air and he’s holding onto me so tight—our first night away.
We stayed up until three am, just talking about everything and making love.
Then right beside that is another picture, from just three weeks ago: we’re in the dark of an arthouse movie theatre, and the photo is blurred, his eyes bright and my hair falling over my face as we laugh.
We’d gone to see a screening of Dirty Dancing, and as he went to take the photo, Jonathan had whispered, ‘Nobody puts Baby in a corner.’ Someone had hissed, ‘Shut up,’ and we couldn’t stop laughing.
But I was wrong, looking at his profile isn’t helping at all.
And look, I know it wasn’t all perfect. Jonathan works too much and was always saying things like smoking will kill you every time I lit a cigarette, so I gave them up just for him, but being with him was the first time I believed I might not always be alone.
Because sure, I have friends, but they’d all run screaming if they ever found out the truth about me.
But Jonathan would have stayed if I’d given him a chance, if I’d just trusted him enough to tell him the whole truth.
But I was too scared. It felt too soon. So instead, I sent him 104 texts and now he thinks I’m unhinged, and he’s gone, and I can smell rust and my lower lip is quivering . . .
My breath gets quicker and quicker and finally, those fat tears I’ve been holding back roll down my cheeks. I wipe them away; now there are blood tears on my hands. It’s disgusting—I’m disgusting.
My phone pings with a message from my hand and I almost drop it.
Hope floods my veins—what if it’s him?
But it’s not him.
Daphne: How did the date go? X
I sniff back tears and stare at her message. Daphne told me not to double-text, triple-text Jonathan, she told me we were going too fast and to play it cool or something like this would happen. But I didn’t listen, I was following my fucking heart.
I swallow hard, take a deep breath and type back: He said he thought we should have a break . . . am so sad.
Typing bubbles flare . . . They stop, then start again.
As I watch them, I need Daphne to write back with Oh that’s not so bad or give him a week, he’ll be back.
Beep.
Daphne: Argh. Are you okay? You can do better anyway! Xxx
And I know she’s trying to make me feel better, but the problem is, I can’t do better.
It’s Jonathan or nobody.
So, as the boiler bubbles and hisses from the kitchen and Cat purrs, I quickly reply to Daphne: Can you help me get him back?
Typing bubbles flare again . . .
I bite down on my lower lip as I watch them flare, then: Beep.
I squint down at her reply, almost scared to read it.
Daphne: Maybe. Let’s talk tomorrow. But Aubs stay chill ffs. DO NOT TEXT. DO NOT CALL. I MEAN IT!!!
And thus, sitting in my darkened living room, staring down at the blue-white light of my phone screen, I think: Okay. Because she’s right. I tried listening to my heart, and look where it got me. From now on, I will listen to my head. Or, at the very least, I will listen to Daphne.