LyingOutLoud - Of Sweaters And Heartache

LyingOutLoud - Of Sweaters And Heartache
1.
I hate his sweater.
He just comes waltzing into my favourite coffee bar, strutting around like he owns
the place, and my first thought isn't about what he's doing here. It isn't about how
long it's been since I've seen him. It isn't even about how much I hoped to never see
him again. No, it's about his stupid fucking sweater.
The damn thing looks to be some kind of wool. The expensive soft stuff, not the
prickly shit my bitch of a grandmother - may she rest in peace - used to use to knit
me scarves. It looks soft and cuddly and it has blue and grey stripes and fits him
perfectly and fuck him. Seriously, fuck him. Arrogant bastard, walking in here as if
he has any right to come and fuck up my life, looking all perfect and happy and
here.And of course he spots me, just as I duck behind my paper. So, great. He's
here and now I have to talk to him and I look like a fucking idiot who wants to
avoid him. Which I don't, obviously. God, I wish I were somewhere else. I wish  he
were somewhere else. I wish my mental rambling won't translate to vocal rambling.
It's bad enough to look like an idiot, I don't have to sound like one as well. Here he
comes. Jesus.
"Lucas?" No, you blind stupid fucker, it's the fucking pope. Yes, Lucas. Seriously,
we fucked for years, do you really have to confirm it's me? You came on my face
often enough that you should be able to remember it.
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Okay, I'm a grown-up. I can take the high road. I'm taking it. I'm cruising along the
high road.
"Matt," I acknowledge his presence. And if my cool, non-resentful tone sounds
more like blind panic, he'd better not mention it.
"Oh god, it's so good to see you," he gushes. Gushes."How are you? It's been ag..."
"Why the fuck aren't you in Paris?" So, I may have taken the first exit off the high
road  and  am  now  driving  straight  through  the  middle  of  Resentment  County.
Population: me. Bite me. The high road is for losers anyway.
The fucker has the nerve to laugh.
"Straight to the point as always, I see." And you know what? It's a free world. I
don't have to put up with this. If I don't want to deal with him being here and
looking great and laughing at me, I don't have to. So I share my thoughts with him
- fuck you- and stomp out of the place. It feels great. A weight has been lifted from
my shoulders, knowing that I won't ever have to deal with him ever agai...
Well, fuck.
I forgot my phone.
2.
"Lucas's phone," the voice on the other end cheerfully announces.
"Give me my fucking phone back." I tell it. I think it's a rather courteous reaction
considering  I'm  dealing  with  a  phone  thief  who  takes  other  people's  calls  and
doesn't have the decency to stay the hell away when he's damn well not wanted.
Anyone who feels like pointing out that I forgot the thing myself, called it for the
sole purpose of having him answer it so I can have it back and that there actually  is
a tiny bit of wanting left is going to get socked in the face.
"I'm  sorry,"  the  little  shit  answers,  "who's  this?"  Because  obviously  it  wasn't
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enough that he comes back into my life and makes fun of me in person, now he has
to make fun of me using my own damn phone. If we were still together I'd dump
him. I'd cheat on him, set his clothes on fire, buy him a cat just so I could kill it and
then I'd dump him. On general principle. My need for vengeance isn't really about
the phone. Much. The chuckle on the other end tells me I've been lost in my little
fantasy for too long.
"It's Lucas, you ass." I decide to play along for a bit, because I really, really need
my  phone  back.  There  are  important  phone  numbers  stored  on  it,  and,  more
importantly, I've managed to get some very impressive high scores in those little
games that it came with. It's pertinentthat I get it back.
"I'm sorry, Lucas can't come to the phone right now. Can I take a message?" And
now I'm really not interested in playing along any further, so I yell, "Just give my
fucking phone back and get the fuck back out of my life!" The bitch next door starts
banging on the wall because of my screaming, so I hope I was loud enough to pierce
Matt's  eardrum  or  something.  "You  stupid  fucker,"  I  add,  to  make  sure  he
understands I don't like talking to him at all.
"I just want to talk to you," he says, showing that he doesn't understand shit. He
has no business talking to me in that tone, all soft and hurt. I don't care. I don't
want to care. I don't have to care, because we're not together anymore. Which is the
only thing standing between an adorable little kitten and a gruesome death right
now.
"I don't want to talk to you." I don't know how to make it any clearer.
"You're talking to me now," Captain Obvious states.
"Yes," I tell him, "because I want my phone back."
"So you don't want to talk to me unless it's to get your phone back?" I can hear in
his voice that he thinks he's got me now, but I'm so fucking angry that I don't know
why and I don't really care. So "Yes," I say. And then I get it, because I just told him
I'd agree to talk to him if he'd give me back my phone. So I change my answer to
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"No!" But that's not right either, because that's not going to get me my my cell
back. That leaves me with "Fuck." Which about sums it up, really.
"Look," I try, and my righteous anger seems to have been driven out of me, "can't
you just leave it with the barman at the coffee house? I'll pick it up and we'll never
have to see each other again." But of course it's not going to be that easy. He
probably knows I've realised that, because he stays silent and waits. Maybe he's
died. God, I hope he's died. But I think I can hear him breathing, so no luck.
"I don't want to talk to you," I repeat, though my voice is not so much determined
and furious right now as it is desperate and cajoling. "I really, really don't. Please
don't make me. I don't want to sit there and see you and your stupid sweater and
listen to you making fun of me for being incoherently angry when we both know I
have every fucking rightto be." Hey, welcome back, fury and determination, I've
missed you. "This is fucking extortion. That's myphone, myproperty and you have
no  right to make me relive all that old shit just to get something back when it's
actually rightfully mine. So drop my fucking property off at the bar, you big sack of
shit."
"I'll see you there tomorrow at noon," he tells me, and hangs up.
3.
So he wants a showdown at noon? Interesting. Maybe I'll tell him that this town
isn't big enough for the both of us. Then I'll kick him in the nuts, take my phone
back and leave. Asshole. Seriously, who does he think he is, stealing my stuff and
then just bossing me around? I'm going to be late at our little meeting. That'll show
him. I'll let him stew in his own juices for a while, desperately wondering whether
or not his nefarious plan worked and thenI'll come in, kick him in the nuts, take
my phone back and leave. It's the perfect plan.
I wish my perfect plan wouldn't mean I'm going to have to stand out here in the
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rain for at least another ten minutes. The dry warmth of the coffee bar is calling out
to me, but I will resist its temptation. If I go in now I will be on time. Two minutes
early even! And I can't let him have the satisfaction of having me show up on time.
It's not being petty, it's being principled.
From now on my principles will include carrying an umbrella with me where ever I
go.
One not unlike the one Matt is carrying as he leaves the bar. Oh yeah, I've won!
Take that, you fucker! You can't just order me to come running whenever you
please. Now you can just go back to fucking Paris and know for the rest of your
days that I out-waited you and won.
Ah, fuck it, who am I kidding? He's coming straight towards me. I've been spotted
and now I look like the idiot I am. A wet one.
"Lucas, you've been standing there for the last fifteen minutes, are you sure you
wouldn't be more comfortable inside?" Sure enough, he's laughing at me and I'm so
wet, cold and miserable that I can't even think of a good profanity-laden rant. Still,
I refuse to admit that yes, I  would be more comfortable inside, so I settle for
glaring at him and marching in.
I find his table by his coat hanging from a chair - why do I recognise his coat? - and
sit  down.  There  are  a  towel  and  a  hot  chocolate  waiting  for  me.  Coddling,
condescending son of a bitch. He settles in front of me and has the gall to just look
amused as I ignore the towel and order an espresso instead of the drink he got me.
I decide to cut to the chase.
"Are you going to give me my phone back now?"
"I haven't even talked to you yet" he laughs. "Why are you so fixated on that thing
anyway?" Is he stupid? Has he fallen on his head at some point in the past six
years? Maybe I should be nicer to him if he has some kind of mental disability.
"Are you fucking retarded?" Okay, maybe that wasn't exactly nice  per se, but it gets
the point across. "That goddamn phone is the only reason I'm even here. And
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you've talked to me now, so if you could just hand it over I can go home. Do you
understand that? Do I need to draw you pictures? You give me my phone, I go
home. Phone, home. And I swear, if you make even  onejoke about E.T. I'm going
to knock the fucking brain damage right out of you."
He closes his mouth, cutting off something that I'm  sure was an E.T. joke and
starts a new sentence.
"I don't have..."
Brain damage? My phone? A heart? I'll probably never know, because the arrival of
my espresso interrupts him and now neither of us seems to be able to think of
something  to  say.  This  has  got  to  be  the  most  awkward  silence  I've  ever
participated in.
"God," I blurt out, "moments like this, I wish I still smoked."
Shit, what have I done? I've given him something to respond to, something to talk
about. Now he can talk to me, like he wanted, like I don't want. Fuck. And of
course, he disappoints me by not disappointing.
"You've quit? I always thought you'd have to be surgically separated from that pack
of Marlboros. That's awesome, Lucas, I'm so proud of you!"
***
It had been about three weeks since he left. I'd spent the last two of those three
weeks drinking, smoking and fucking every guy who'd say yes. Now I was sitting at
my - no longer our– kitchen table, nursing a hangover and a cup of coffee at three
in the afternoon. The sunlight fell in patches on the floor, highlighting the dust and
dirt that had accumulated. I watched as the blue-tinted smoke from my cigarette
mingled with the grey damp that rose from my coffee. I'd never realised before just
how bluecigarette smoke was. That wouldn't do. With a disgusted snort, I put out
the cigarette and threw away the carton. The months after that were still filled with
drinking and fucking, but I was done with smoking.
***
6
"I'm not yours to be proud of," I tell him. And that's really all there is to say, isn't it?
I'm no longer his. He's no longer mine. My phone, however,  ismine and he's going
to give it back if have to fucking kick him in the face to get it. God, I hope I have to
kick him in the face.
"Tough shit," he answers, "I'm going to be proud of you anyway. Now you're going
to talk to me, civilly, for at least half an hour and then you'll get your cell phone
back. I broke your high scores, by the way."
Fuck, fuck, and fuck.
4.
"This is creepy, stalker-like behaviour, you know," I tell him. "Holding my stuff
hostage so I will fulfil your pathetic need for interaction. Why can't you just accept
the fact that I don't want any contact with you?"
"Look," he sighs, rubbing the space between his eyebrows. He's always done that
when he's upset. It gives me a pang of something I don't want to look at too closely,
so I stubbornly ignore it. "I'm sorry, okay? I just want to talk to you, find out how
you are, how you've been. I've worried about you these past few years. Just give me
my half hour and I'll never bother you again." Aww, poor baby. He's been worried.
And now  I have to reassure him. Because  obviously his mental well-being is my
responsibility. Still, half an hour isn't that long, and if it means I'll never have to
deal with him again...
"Never?" I ask, because it can't hurt to be sure.
"Never," he confirms. Well, okay then. I'll suffer for thirty minutes to ensure a
lifetime of peace. I nod and his face lights up.
"Great! So, how are you? What do you do these days?"
"I'm fine. I work at a small architectural firm. How about that weather, huh?" So
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sue me, I have no interest in what his life is like and I don't have to make this easy
on him.
"Yeah, it's horrendous," he agrees, "do you like your job? What are the people like?"
"I like it well enough. I don't plan on spending the rest of my life there, but it's good
for now. The people are okay. Read any good books lately?"
"Nothing special," he tells me, and from the way he shifts nervously in his chair I
can tell he's moving towards the big stuff. "Are you seeing anyone?" Yup, there it is,
the big stuff. I lean back and take a sip of my coffee before replying. Hopefully it'll
give me the nonchalant air I'm aiming for.
"Nah, but I don't really do relationships anymore."
***
"I don't think casual sex is really my thing," I told him, "I guess I'm one of those
people who need to be in a relationship. So do you think we could maybe date?" I
shifted nervously from foot to foot as he looked at me.
"Okay," he said, "I guess maybe we could."
***
Jesus Christ, he doesn't have to look so sad and shocked about it. It's my life, my
dick and I'll use either of them however I want. He seems to have run out of
questions and I'm sure as fuck not going to help him to keep the conversation
flowing, so we sit in silence for a while. I drink my coffee and he fidgets. He never
used to fidget.
"So," he tries after a few uncomfortable minutes, "I take it you're not 'incoherently
angry' with me because I took your phone?" Seriously? Seriously?
"No, you dumb dick, I'm not incoherently angry with you over that stupid phone.
Seriously, didn't you use to be intelligent?"
"Then what..."
"I'm incoherently angry with you because you left me."
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"But..." he starts.
"For a job" I add.
"Look," he tries, but fuck him if he thinks I'm going to let him finish that. I'm not
done yet.
"In another country."
"I..."
"When we'd been together for over three years." And nowI'm finished and nowhe
gets his say and I honestly can't wait to hear how he's going to justify himself.
"I asked you to come with me!" Is he angry? What does he have to be angry about?
"So I had a choice between leaving my entire life and quitting my education or
losing you and you're upset that I didn't follow you? What reality do you you live
in?"
"They have universities in France," he states, and yes, he does sound angry. I can't
fucking believe this.
"They  have  jobs  right  here!  You  should  know,  you  had  one!  We  were  living
together, and you didn't have the common fucking courtesy to make this decision
together. So you give me an ultimatum and you just expect me to trail after you as
you move across the globe and you're  angry with me for having my own life?
You'rethe one who chose a job over me.  You're the one who left me.You don't get
to be angry with me!" I shout. People are looking at me and they're probably never
going to let me in here ever again. One more thing I get to hate him for, I guess.
"I thought I meant enough to you that you would want to stay with me! I thought
we were in it for the long run! And instead you just dropped me and blamed me for
taking the best goddamn opportunity I had ever had in my life!" He's shouting too,
now, and from the way the employees are looking at us I'll definitely need to find a
new place for coffee. Fucking great.
"Oh my god. I'm never going to get through to you. You know what, keep the
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phone, I'll buy another one. Fuck you, I hope you choke on a croissant and die."
And with that, I leave.
5.
"How the fuck did you get my home number?" I demand as soon as I pick up.
"Um," he hesitates, "it's listed on your cell, under 'home'?" Oh. Well, new subject.
And let's remember, the best defence is a good offence.
"You said you'd never bother me again! 'Never' you said. This is not never! This is
ever, a moment in time, an occurrence. This does not fit the definition of 'never'.
That's it, I'm getting a restraining order. What the fuck is  wrongwith you?" Hey, I
have a point here. Go, me! I shake an imaginary pompom in my honour.
"You owe me twenty-two minutes," he responds. What? Seriously, what?
"What?" It bears repeating out loud. "I owe you shit. You owe memy phone and
three years of my life!"
"You said I cold keep the phone." Smartass.
"Well, then there's not really any point in talking to you, is there?" But hey, so am I.
"I'm hanging up now."
"I'm sorry!" he blurts out.
"What's that now?"
"I'm sorry," he repeats.
"For stalking me? For stealing my phone and blackmailing me? Or for taking that
fucking job and leaving me?"
"The job. Well. Yes. No. Not exactly. Sort of, but... shit."
"Look, maybe those years in France have made you forget a thing or two about the
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English language, but none of that actually made sense. It's either yes or no. Can't
be both. Look it up, they're sort of opposites."
"I'm not sorry for taking the job. It was a great opportunity and I learned a lot. I
amsorry it cost me you."
"You know," I tell him, "that's a really shitty apology. It's right up there with the
'I'm sorry you had to see that' that my ex spouted when I caught him blowing his
neighbour as far as lame apologies go."
"Don't say 'lame'" he says, and it sounds so automatic and familiar that I can't help
but fall back into the old pattern as well.
"I can't say 'lame'? What the fuck is wrong with 'lame'?"
"It's ableist," he tells me and God Almighty, are you shitting me?
"Ableist? What the flying fuck does that even  mean?No, don't tell me," I add as I
hear him starting to respond, "I seriously don't want to know. So, let's see: I can't
say someone gypped me 'cause that's racist, I can't call someone a cocksucker
because  it's  homophobic,  which  is  ironic  by  the  way,  pussy  and  sissy  are  out
because they quote unquote 'associate perceived negative traits with femininity',
girls shouldn't be called sluts because the term implies that female sexuality is bad,
'hysterical' is sexist, 'retard' is discriminatory to those who are differently abled and
now I can't use 'lame' anymore? Did I leave something out?"
"Gendered insults like 'bitch' or 'cunt'?" He's laughing at me. Fucker calls me on my
language, which is  none of his fucking business, by the way, and then he has the
nerve to laugh at me?
"Fuck you." That's right, fear my sharp, witty rhetoric!
"Wait,  your  ex?"  Sure,  change  the  subject  when  you're  outmanoeuvred  by  my
superior debating skills. "I thought you said you didn't do relationships anymore?"
"Not after that, I don't," I snort, "between you, Elliot-the-cheater and Leon who
thought stealing from me was a great way to finance his drug habit, I'm pretty
much all relationshipped out."
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"I thought..." he trails off.
"What, that it was all your fault? Get over yourself," I laugh, and somehow it's not
entirely  malicious.  What's  going  on  here?  Are  we  having  a  somewhat  civil
conversation? Are we being friendly? Fuck.
"I guess I should," he agrees, "Just tell me they didn't get away with it."
"Are you kidding?" And okay, I want to be angry and bitchy, but this is just too
great a story not to tell, "Hell, no. I called the cops on Leon's little, um, herb garden
and told them that he was probably armed and dangerous. And I left a message
with Elliot's gossiping cu... erm, bit... oh fuck it,  bitchcunt of a secretary that he
gave me herpes and should probably get himself checked out. And then Lois called
and left a message asking if he could please call Joanna from last month, he had
her number, she was pregnant and she didn't know what to do. And then we egged
his house."
"You always were a vengeful little bastard," he laughs.
"Don't say bastard," I admonish, "it diminishes the plight of illegitimate children."
"Oh, fuck off. God, remember that time you were angry that I had the nerve to fall
asleep straight after sex?"
"It was right in the middleof sex!" I yell, the old indignation roaring through me as
if it were fresh. "I was nowhere  near finished. And you know, what happened
wasn't really my fault. You were the one who left me to finish things myself and
you were the one who'd laid out your suit for your Very Important Meeting the next
day. So, not my fault."
"That suit was hanging almost three meters from the bed! There was no way you
could have hit it without going out of your way to do it."
I shrug, even though he can't see it. "What can I say? I was young and virile."
"More like young and a mean little fucker."
"Now, surely you still remember what it was like to be young and able to shoot a
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bird from the sky? Or is your memory getting worse with age? I mean, you're what?
Nearing your forties now?"
"I'm thirty-two, you bitch!" he yelps and victory is mine!
"Is that a gendered insult I hear? You know," I must try and sound thoughtful, not
filled with  wicked  glee,  "your fear  of  ageing  really  brings out  the  stereotypical
queen in you." I am rewarded with much indignant spluttering coming from the
other end.
"You could try and make an effort to be nice," he finally manages. "like I did."
"When did you make an effort to be nice?" Seriously, when?
"You said you didn't like my sweater, so I didn't wear it to our meeting." That's not
being nice, that's just good common sense.
"Okay, first of all, you were wearing the damn thing the day before, so  ew to
wearing it again, and secondly, you shouldn't wear it anywhere, ever. It's ugly. Burn
it."
"That sweater is notugly. It's not! How is it ugly?"
"The colours don't go together," I tell him and fuck, that was not supposed to come
out. I don't know how he can make a silence seem thoughtful over the telephone,
but he does.
"I think blue and grey are perfect together," he says in a soft voice.
I hang up. We've been talking for twenty-eight minutes.
6.
There used to be a picture sitting on one of our bookshelves.
We had been hanging with friends at the park. Matt and I had still been giddy with
infatuation and had been all over each other that day. One of his friends had been
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taking pictures.
"Look," he called me over after she brought him the prints. It was your standard
mushy picture. In it we were smiling at each other, his blue eyes locked onto my
grey. He ran a finger over the image of our faces, right below our eyes. "See?" he
asked, "we're perfect for each other. Even our eye colours go great together."
At some point in our relationship he found a set of bedsheets that combined our
exact eye colours. It was the sappiest thing ever. It was amazing.
After he left I burned both the picture and the sheets.
7.
Oh God, this can't be happening. He's been back in my life for three days and from
the looks of it, I'll never get rid of him. When did my life become a bad horror
movie? Do I have to slay him under a full moon with a blessed knife to be left
alone? Because I will. In a heartbeat. I've been finefor the past six years. I've got
my friends, my family and great sex whenever I want. I've got a steady job, an
apartment and a state of the art cell phone. Except I've traded in that last one for a
stalker. Who is now hanging out in front of the office building I work in, leaning
against the brick wall as if he does it every day. Maybe if I go the other way I'll be
able to go home undetected. It'll add abut ten minutes to my commute, but fuck it,
it's  almost  worth  it.  Jesus  Christ.  I'm  hyperventilating.  I'm  actually
hyperventilating.
And of course he chooses now to look up and spot me. Of course. And of course he
sees me gasping for air and clinging to the door like a crazy person. Of course.
"Lucas!" He comes rushing at me and that makes it only worse. I'm seeing spots,
my heart is beating like mad and I'm pretty sure I'm dying. I'm not exactly sure
what happens next, but when I'm starting to become aware of my surroundings
again I'm sitting in the lobby of my workplace, with my head between my legs,
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breathing into a paper bag that smells like tuna. A quick look around tells me just
about all my co-workers are standing around me. Great. Fucking  great. I have to
waste good money on a new phone, I am being stalked by my ex-love-of-my-life
and now all my co-workers have seen me in the throes of the worst panic attack in
the history of ever. Kill me now.
"Lucas?" Or better yet, kill him. That would solve everything that's wrong with my
life at the moment. I ignore him and instead focus on trying to figure out all the
ingredients of the sandwich that used to occupy my friend the paper bag by smell
alone. So far I've got tuna, mayo and pickles. Gross.
"Lucas," he tries again. And god damn it, but tears actually well up in my eyes. Fuck
that, I'm not crying. Not in front of my co-workers. Not over the dickwad who
didn't think highly enough of me to discuss a life changing decision  beforehe made
it. I'm notcrying.
Okay, yeah, I'm crying.
"Let's go somewhere a little more private," I hear before I'm taken by the hand and
pulled away from my gaping colleagues. Then there is sunlight, a crowd of strange
bodies and finally a comfy car seat. I hear Matt closing the door and then suddenly
but still an eternity later he settles in the seat next to me.
"Are you okay?" he asks quietly. I'm not sure, so I shrug. I feel run over, but at least
I'm not dying anymore. That should count for something.
"How..." my voice is so hoarse I can barely hear it myself so I clear my throat and
try again. "How did you find me at work?"
He at least has the grace to look a little embarrassed. "I Googled you." Oh. Fuck
you, internet.
"You have to stop doing this," I tell him, even though he hasn't listened to me any
of the previous times I told him to leave me alone. "This isn't healthy. Not for you
and definitely not for me. You keep breaking little pieces off me, Matt. Every time
we talk it's so familiar and so good and you're still so  youand I almost feel like me
15
and then it all turns to shit and it  hurtsme because I am constantly reminded of
how you broke me. I don't want to be this angry all the time. I need you to leave me
alone. Please, please, leave me alone."
"I'm sorry," he says and his voice breaks a little. I don't have the energy to look up,
but I'm fairly certain that he is now the one who is crying. "I'm so sorry. I didn't
realise. You were always such a difficult little shit," if I didn't feel so pooped out I'd
scowl, "and I didn't realise, didn't want to realise, that it was different this time. I
never wanted to hurt you. You must think I'm the cruelest asshole ever to do this to
you, but I swear I didn't mean to."
I want to rejoice in this. Man, do I ever. Here I finally have Matt where I wanted
him – stressed, sorry and crying – and instead of feeling satisfied with a goal
accomplished I feel upset that he's upset. What the hell is wrong with me?
"I kind of did my best not to show you," I admit grudgingly. "I don't think I even
fully realised it myself until just now. I am still so,  so  angry with you that it was
easier to focus on that." I stare at the floor mat for a while while he calms down a
little, judging from what I can hear.
"I'm sorry," he says again. "I'll, I'll take you home or something. I won't bother you
again."
Which is great. It's what I asked for.
It's great.
So why don't I feel great?
8.
The drive to my place is silent, apart from my muttered directions every now and
again. Apparently Google didn't include my home address in its handy little Lucasdossier. Though I've looked up from the floor so I can see where we're going, I've
16
yet to look at Matt. This ride really is wildly uncomfortable. I ponder the wisdom of
letting myself be driven home by my stalker, but I'm honestly in no shape to face
public transport right now.
As we pull up to my apartment building, Matt lets out a sad little sigh. There is
some regret and a little bit of frustration in there as well. Apparently I haven't lost
my  ability  to  read  his  sighs.  The  man  has  developed  sighing  into  an  entire
language, complete with its own grammar and all. I look at him for the first time
since I started losing my mind and Jesus, does he look haggard. I might feel a little
guilty but, you know, it's his own fucking fault. It is. He has nothing to blame but
his own actions and that's my final answer.
Maybe I feel just the tiniest bit guilty.
Which is stupid, but still.
"I really am sorry," he says. "I hope you can forgive me someday, for all of it. Just...
Never doubt that I loved you, okay?" I swallow, my throat too dry to speak. He
closes his eyes. "Goodbye, Lucas."
I  want  to  get  out  of  this  car.  Really,  I  do.  The  tension  is  so  heavy  that  it  is
threatening to crush me to death and that is not the way I want to go. So I'll get out
as soon as my ass doesn't seem to be fused to the seat anymore. Why can't I move?
"Lucas, get out of the car," he orders, with a bit of frustration in his voice.
"No," someone says. Well shit. I think that was me.
"What?" Heturns to stare at me incredulously.
"No," I repeat. "I'm hurting, you're hurting. And while I don't really give a flying
fuck about how youfeel," - liar - "I am personally not a fan of hurting. You wanted
to talk? Get your francophile ass upstairs and we'll talk."
"I don't think..." he starts, but I've decided he's not calling the shots anymore. I've
let him push me around too much these past couple of days.
"Upstairs, now," I tell him and get out. He follows. Good puppy.
17
He looks decidedly strange in my living room, out of place and anachronistic, but at
the  same  time  right  at  home.  When  I  first  moved  in  here,  I  put  up  my  old
Transformersposters in my bedroom. The effect was almost the same. They were
part of who I was and who I used to be, but they still didn't fit into my new life
quite  right.  I  solved  that  problem  by  putting  them  in  horrendously  expensive
frames and hanging them by the bookcase. They look  vintagenow instead of old
and childish. I find myself wondering how I can fit Matt into my life and squash
that thought as soon as I'm aware of it.
"Sit down," I point at the couch and go to make tea. Fuck him if doesn't want it. I'd
like a cup and making it gives me the time and opportunity to get myself together.
He is sitting uncomfortably on the edge of the couch when I return with two mugs
of Ceylon. I wordlessly hand him one and take a seat myself. And I here thought the
tension in the car was bad. This may not have been one of my brightest ideas.
"Oh," he says suddenly and reaches into his pocket.
For all the trouble and emotional turmoil losing the stupid thing cost me, it feels
strangely anticlimactic to get my cell phone back.
"Better get that out of the way, right?" It's not really a question, but I nod anyway.
"Did I miss any calls?" I ask, even while I'm checking the menu.
"Just your mum and Lois. And some guy from the game store to tell you your order
came in. Your mum says hi, she'll call you next week, be sure to eat your vegetables
and I am the lowest life form that has ever crawled the earth. Lois agrees, though
she didn't mention any vegetables unless I missed them in her litany of things I
should shove up my ass. You have a bunch of texts, but I didn't read those."
Mum knows how much I hate the emotional stuff, so she probably figured it was
best to give me some time to get my head straight before calling me at home and if
I'm not mistaken there will be a very long email from Lois in my inbox next time I
start up my computer. She may even have included a powerpoint presentation on
all the reasons Matt sucks ass. I'm already gleefully looking forward to it.
18
Though I'm not exactly relaxed, I suddenly realise that I'm much more centred
than in our previous conversations. We're in my home, on my territory so to speak,
and for once I have the upper hand. I can afford to be generous, cut him a bit of
slack.
"So, do you have anything to say or are we just going to make fucking small talk all
evening?"
I said I can, doesn't mean I will. That shithead didleave me, steal from me, stalk
me and humiliate me in front of the people I work with. Strangely, my bitchiness
seems to make him more at ease. Must be the familiarity.
"You're the one who ordered me up here," he points out. "Why don't you start?" I
don't do sassy, but if I did, I'd respond with an 'oh no you didn't'.
"Fuck you, Matthew.You're the one who wouldn't leave me alone for days because
you wanted to talk. Here's your chance. Talk."
He keeps silent and instead chooses to stare into his tea mug. Oh, Christ almighty.
He still has his coat on.
"Give me your coat," I demand. "I'm giving you tea, the least you could do is be a
gracious guest and not sit there as if you're going to bolt at any second. Didn't your
mother teach you fucking manners? You know, take your coat off when you enter
someone's home, don't stalk people, don't move to another country without at least
consulting your live-in boyfriend?"
He looks even more miserable now – good– and shrugs off his coat.
"Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me!" I shout. He blushes.
"I like this sweater," he says, defensively.
"I don't," I state. "Take it off." His head whips up so fast it's a wonder he doesn't
tear all the muscles in his neck.
"What?" he squeaks. I gesture impatiently at the monstrosity. I get how my request
might sound a bit strange, honestly I do, but I don't see why I should have to look
19
at that abomination.
"Take that fucking thing off. I won't have you wearing it in my home. It's warm
enough in here but I can lend you something of mine if you're that much of a
pussy."
"Don't say..." he starts, but I cut him off right there.
"This is my apartment and I'll say anything I damn well want. Take that thing off."
Finally, he complies. Oh. I swallow as he lifts it over his head, the t-shirt he's
wearing underneath riding up a little and showing just a sliver of skin.  Oh. I did not
think this through. I now have my ex sitting on my couch in a very form-fitting tshirt. And apparently it's not as warm in here as I thought because  holy crap,
nipples.
"I," I croak, "I'll get you something warmer to wear, shall I?" I turn on my heel and
make for my bedroom. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit. How did I forget just how fit
that man is? This is not good. Not good at all. When I'm in the hallway I hear him
behind me.
"Lucas." There's no sadness in his voice, now. Just assurance and warmth and lust
and ohmygod. I freeze.
"Lucas." He's much closer now. This is not happening. Fingers curl around my
hipbones and warm breath stirs the hair around my ear.
"Lukes, you okay?" he whispers. I close my eyes and shiver.
***
"Hey, buddy, you okay?" he asked me, a worried little crease between his eyebrows.
I nodded, though my panic must have shown on my face, rendering my answer
somewhat unbelievable. This had been sucha bad idea and now this guy probably
believed I was a total freak. And not in a good way, either.
I was seventeen and nearly virginal, but a fake ID and trousers that were way too
tight had given me the confidence to pretend I was older, more experienced and
20
more jaded. It hadn't taken me long that night to find a guy who wasolder, more
experienced, more jaded  and more than willing to believe my little charade. And
here we were, not even an hour later and he was about to put his cock up my ass
and this was moving waytoo quickly for me.
Cue me panicking, rolling out of his bed and scrambling for my clothes.
"Hey," he protested, "hey, what the fuck?"
"I'm sorry!" I babbled. "I'm so, so sorry. I, I don't do this very often. Or at all. Look,
I'd better go, this was a mistake. Don't be angry. I mean, I wouldn't blame you if
you were angry, but I'm really sorry. I can jerk you off or something if you like, but
that 'fucking' thing? Not going to happen, man. Really,  sosorry." He stood there,
bare-assed naked except for a condom and evidently completely bewildered, just
looking at me before combing a hand through his hair and sighing.
"Calm down, Lucas. Lucas, right?" I nodded. Oh god. I'd been about to give up my
anal virginity to a guy who wasn't even sure of my name.
"Yeah, okay. Lucas, calm down for a bit. Do me a favour, will you? Go into the
kitchen  and  put  on  some  water  for  tea.  I'll  be  there  in  a  minute.  I,  uh,  have
something to take care of first." I blushed and tried to ignore the massive hard-on
he was sporting. Buttoning up my trousers, I walked off in search of the kitchen.
After a couple of minutes he came in, nodding at me in silent thanks as he picked
up his tea.
"Well, that was a bit of a disaster," he stated. "It's a good thing you're cute, or you'd
be walking home by now. Want to tell me what happened back there?" No, I really
didn't. He sighed at me, taking a sip of his tea. Dude sighed a lot.
"Fine, don't. Look, public transport is unavailable this time of night and I'm not
fucking driving anywhere. You can crash on my couch if you like, but I want you
gone before I get up."
Telling what went wrong might be humiliating, but not as humiliating as having to
sneak out of this guy's apartment at the crack of dawn like some kind of cheap slut.
21
So I told him, shame staining my face red. And then we talked. And talked some
more. And by morning, we'd agreed to date.
***
"This will be a one-time thing," I tell him, not opening my eyes. "I'm not moving to
fucking France." His fingers tighten on my hips.
"Good," he says, "because I don't live there anymore."
9.
I turn to face him.
"What." It's not a question, not even a rhetorical one. I'm not sure you can even call
it a statement. It expresses nothing more or less than the absolute shock to my core
his announcement has caused.
By the way Matt sets his jaw and looks me straight in the eyes I can tell he has at
least  an  inkling  of  how  much  this  changes  everything.  He  smiles  tightly  and
elaborates, "I moved back about two months ago."
Two months? Two months? I've been living in the same town as the guy who first
broke my heart for two fucking  months? Two months of going about my business,
blissfully unaware that at any moment, he could show up and turn my entire world
upside down? This whole drama has been in the making for two months and I
never got a warning, never got a chance to prepare.
(Two months and he never once contacted me.)
I stare at him, struggling to find the words I need since my ability to speak English
seems to have escaped me. There are a million thoughts and emotions swirling
around in me but I can't articulate a single one of them, except for
"Fuck."
22
Seriously, sometimes it's like profanity is my native language.
I don't realise I've started shaking until Matt gently guides me backwards to lean
against my bedroom door. Even with the anchoring press of solid wood against my
back I don't have the presence of mind to protest when he lifts up my shirt and
starts rubbing slow circles on my stomach with his knuckles. I do nothing but close
my eyes. Yeah, it's more intimate than I should allow, but belly rubs calm me down,
okay? They have since I was a baby. And may I just say it's more than a little
frustrating that after all these years he still knows me so well?
Trapped between the door and and Matt's warm hand I finally find the freedom to
think.
Two months. It's strange that somehow these two months are more meaningful
than the six years that preceded it. All this time, we weren't together. All this time,
we had no contact. All this time, I was able to pretend he never existed. Yet, when
he was in France, he was gone. For the past two months, he's been within my reach
and I never even knew. Our lives could have intersected at any given moment. On
the street, in a supermarket, in a coffee house as they eventually did, in a club,
wherever.
Why haven't I seen him clubbing?
I open my eyes.
"Are  you  seeing  someone?"  I  ask.  His  hand  never  even  falters  in  its  soothing
pattern.
"No," he says.
Oh. I close my eyes again.
Why haven'tI seen him in that time? Maybe he hasn't gone clubbing because he's
old  now,  not  because  some  guy  is  keeping  him  home,  but  there  was  a  pride
celebration five weeks ago and I didn't see him there. I have never known Matt to
miss  one  of  those.  That  guy  has  always  been  super activist.  When  I  was  still
figuring out whether to wax my chest hair or to cherish those three hairs as a sign
23
of manhood, he was out marching for marriage equality and volunteering as a
patient escort at family planning clinics. (For those who care, I experimentally
plucked one hair and then decided to let that shit grow where it might because
Jesus  Christ,  why  would  anyone  willingly  do  that  to  themselves?)  I  mean,  he
dragged me to my first Pride Week, all the while lecturing me on the importance of
standing up for who you are and celebrating it. Why would he miss it?
I open my eyes again.
"Fucking  Pride  Week,  man,"  I  tell  him.  My  voice  has  raised  an  octave  in
bewilderment,  making  me  sound  nearly  hysterical.  He  blinks  at  me,  looking
decidedly nonplussed. His hand stills and now simply rests against my skin. I really
should say something about that. I will. In a minute.
"Uh, what?" he asks. Okay, maybe my statement needed a bit more context.
"Why haven't I ever seen you these past months?" I ask him, carefully forcing the
pitch of my voice down. His expression shifts to a more understanding one.
"I don’t know." He shrugs, "Coincidence, mostly. Different circles, different parts of
town, different rhythms. As for Pride Week, I was still painting and unpacking and
I was tired as hell. I'll be there next year."
"Why haven't I seen you?" There's a tension in the air now that suggests we both
know I'm not just repeating my question. He sighs – o h God, I don't know how to
read this sigh - and shifts his hands to the wall. We're no longer in contact, but
being boxed in by his arms is just as intimate as being skin to skin. And that's
before he steps forward and rests his forehead against mine.
Um, what the actual fuck?
"I went to our old apartment," he reveals, "the third day I was back. I even rang the
bell. And then, after all my worrying about how you would react to my being back,
some stranger opened the door." He laughs. "It never even occurred to me that you
might have moved. How stupid is that? And you know, after all these years and all
that misery, it took the sight of  strangers living in  our hometo make me realise
24
that we were well and truly over. And I didn't quite know how to handle that. So
yeah, I've been avoiding you. That's what you wanted to know, wasn't it?"
No. I only thought it was. I've changed my mind. I definitely don't want to know all
this. What am I supposed to do with this knowledge?
He suddenly takes a step backwards and it takes all that is in me not to follow.
"And then I ran into you," he continues, seemingly unaware of how much his words
have left me reeling. "And all common sense just flew out the window. And here we
are."
This is all too much. It's too big. If I don't step back I will plunge in head first and
never  resurface.  Who  was  I  kidding?  This  could  never  be  a  one  time  thing,
especially not when he's back in town. Because I have no doubt that, with all this
on the table, we willbe running into each other. Not in the current, stalkery sense,
but because Matt is done hiding from me. So he will be at the clubs I frequent, he
will  be  at  Pride  Week,  we  will  have  mutual  acquaintances.  I  shudder  at  the
enormity of the situation.
"I can't do this," I tell him, helplessly. He smiles, and it's the saddest, most hopeful,
most victorious, most gloriousthing I have ever seen.
"Let's go back to the living room," he suggests, "I think we need to talk some
more."
I start to protest, but he simply holds out his hand.
"Come with me?" he asks.
***
"Come with me."
"Fuck you."
***
I take his hand. God help me; I'm going under.
25
10.
"Sit down, I'll get you a drink," he says and I feel I should be angrier about him
ordering me about in my own home. Instead I numbly do as he says. My tea is cold,
anyway,  so  I  could  do  with  another  drink.  Maybe  not  tea,  this  time.  Maybe
something in a tumbler, with ice. Or a bottle would do just as fine, really.
"Here."
Something is being held in front of my face. It turns out to be a steaming mug. I eye
my liquor shelf longingly as he sits down next to me.
"Well, this is almost tradition," Matt says. His tone seems to imply he just made a
joke that I'm supposed to get. I stare into my tea. He fidgets. Really though, when
did he start fidgeting? I swear he never used to do that.
"You know," a little more insecure now, "drinking tea after not having sex."
***
"Um..."
He looked back at me, expectantly. Unfortunately, this was all the explanation I
had thought up.
"Yes?" He prodded. I desperately tried to find my answer in the tea mug, but it
wasn't there.
"Um..." I tried again. "So, um."
"So  you  said,"  he  said.  His  expectant  look  was  now  punctuated  with  a  raised
eyebrow.
"Yeah. Um. Well, the thing is. Er. I haven't, like, not really. So, right. I, okay. I
haven't, I mean, technically, I haven't ever done, you know, that before."
Well,  he  didn't  have  to  look  so  puzzled.  I  really  didn't  see  how  I  could  have
26
explained that any more clearly.
"Um," he said, "you mean a one-night stand?"
"Yeah," I confirmed. "That. And also, you know, the rest of it." If his eyebrows rose
any further, they ran the risk of detaching from his face.
"Like sex?"
"What? No!" I sputtered. "I've had sex. Just not, well, the cock-in-ass kind."
"And you thought a hook-up with a guy you don't know and who was unaware
you've never done anal before would be a great way to do that for the first time?
Really?" Okay, his incredulity was bordering on condescending and I, for one, did
not like it.
"I just wanted to get  laid, man," I whined. "I didn't know you wanted to fuck.
Besides, not many prospects for a deep, meaningful relationship in my life. So if I
wait  for  the  whole  hearts  and  candles  and  soft,  crappy  music  experience,  I'll
probably be a virgin until way after graduation."
He laughed.
"You mean to tell me," he said, still grinning, "that there isn't a single gay guy at the
entireuniversity you'd be able to date?"
Oh. Oh, right. Yeah, I could see where he would get thatidea,
"Uh." I said, intelligently. The grin faded.
"Uh?"
"Yeah. Uh, so. I, um. I wouldn't really know about the guys at the university."
"You said," he argued, "you said you are studying architecture."
"Oh, I am," I assured him. "As soon as I, uh, graduate."
"Graduate, like, high school?" His voice rose two whole octaves throughout those
four words. Okay, so he seemed to be a little agitated. Understandable, really, but
still not a good sign. He took a deep breath. An then another one. When he finally
27
spoke, he visibly struggled to keep his calm.
"Lucas? Just how fu-, how old, exactly, areyou?"
"Well, uh," I hedged.
"Jesus Christ!" he exploded. Tenuous grip on control: gone. All gone. This was not
good. "Just tell me if I could've gone to jail for this!" Oh. I hadn't even thought
about that. Thankfully, I had good news for him.
"Oh, no, I'm seventeen," I assured him. Wait, why did he start hyperventilating?
"Dude, it's okay. Age of consent is sixteen. You're fine."
"Not for anal, it isn't!" he squeaked. "Oh god, oh god, oh Jesus fuck."
Wait, what? Oh fuck, yeah, that'd be something to panic over. I silently got up and
got him a glass of water.
"Hey, guy," I crouched next to him, rubbing his back, but he flinched away from my
touch, still continuing his litany. (I would later find out he was an atheist and it's
not  like  God  has  a  well-documented  love  for  sodomites,  so  in  hindsight  his
religious moment was a bit baffling.) "Hey, um, Matt. Matt, it's okay. Nothing
happened. You're fine. Okay? You're fine. I'm really sorry, I guess that was selfish
of me, but I swear I didn't know. Still, shitty thing to do to you. So, yeah. I'm sorry."
Wait, how did I get to be the pulled-together one all of a sudden? I handed him the
water, which he gulped down. He didn't even flinch when our fingers brushed.
Progress.
"I'm sorry," I repeated when he appeared calmer. He nodded weakly.
We sat in awkward silence for a while, sipping our tea even though it had cooled.
"Okay," he said, all of a sudden. "Okay, so it's still impractical for you to go home
and there's no way I'll be able to sleep now. You want to shoot aliens together or
something?"
We found out that talking is much easier when you're facing a TV instead of each
other. Matt turned out to be a pretty chill guy when he wasn't freaking out or trying
28
to fuck me and after my own little meltdown I didn't see the need to try and
impress him with my bullshit. In the next few hours we grew to like each other and
by sunrise I had fallen hopelessly in love.
***
I'm not sure how long I've been silent when he sighs.
"Lucas?" he tries.
Fuck, I can't take this. I stand up and help myself to a nice full glass of my best
scotch. Matt declines when I hold up the bottle in a silent question. Fine. More for
me.
"Lucas," he says again as I sit down and take a big gulp. The burning in my throat
helps to distract me from the painful awkwardness.
"Lucas, we needto talk."
***
"Lucas! Lucas, you home? I need to talk to you!" Matt started to yell for me even
before the front door closed. I looked up from the project on my laptop screen.
"That can't be good," I joked, trying to hide my nervousness. Fuck, no good ever
came from any variation on 'we need to talk'. He smiled wider than I had ever seen
him smile before.
"No, no it's good. It's verygood. I got offered a job, Lukes, an actual, real, job! At a
university.  I  can  actually  start  doing  research  instead  of  trying  to  explain
pointillism to disinterested highschoolers in a second rate museum!" He lifted me
from  my  chair  and  set  me  on  the  kitchen  table,  wasting  no  time  to  start
unbuttoning my shirt. Wow, but he was really excited about his news. "They read
that paper I got published last March, emailed me to congratulate me and debate
some of the points I made. I guess I impressed them with my responses because
they asked if I wanted to apply for a junior professorship." By now, it was a little
hard for me to concentrate on his words because of how contagious his giddiness
29
was and because of the way his hands were roaming over my body. "I didn't want to
jinx it, but today I had a phone interview and they offered me the job right after!"
He fell to his knees to divest me of my socks and trousers. I laid back on the table,
the wood cold against my heated skin.
"That's so great," I gasped, "see, I always told you you can do better than a job that
makes you miserable."
"You haven't heard the best of it yet," he said and came back up, licking along my
left leg as he did so.
"Whuh?" was the only thing I could ask as he grinned at me and wet his fingers. I
looked on breathlessly as he stuck his hand op the leg of my boxers. Oh god,  yes.
"It's in Paris," he said, right as his finger entered me. I sat op, ignoring the not-soslight discomfort that caused with his hand so intimately joined with my body.
"Oh baby," I consoled him, trailing a hand along his jaw, "I'm so sorry."
"Why?" he trailed his lips along mine. "It's going to be so great. We can walk along
the Seine by moonlight, drink wine in seedy little bars. It'll be amazing."
"You're actually considering taking the job?" It was a little hard to think with the
things his finger was doing inside of me, but I was pretty sure I understood that
right.
"I did," he grinned into my neck and took the lube from one of the drawers in the
table. As I stared at the wall in incomprehension, he took his finger from my body
and dragged down my underwear, licking slow, lazy trails up and down my neck. It
wasn't until he entered me that I came back to myself.
"Wait," I sat back, pushing him slightly away from me so we saw eye to eye. I
must've understood him wrong, because there was no way... "You already took the
job?"
"Yeeeah," he dragged out the word as finally realisation dawned that I wasn't as
excited as he was and his slightly glazed eyes grew alert.
30
I sat there on my kitchen table, naked as the day I was born and with my boyfriend
of  over  three  years  balls  deep  inside  me  and  felt  my  heart  break  into  pieces.
Through my constricted throat I managed to ask for confirmation.
"You're leavingme?"
***
"You left me."
Only a few days ago, it was an accusation. Today, it's heartbreak.
"I didn't want to," he says softly. For the first time since we entered the living room,
I look at him.
"Then why did you?" I ask. And would you believe this is is the first time I've even
asked myself? All these years I've been so angry, so hurt, that I never even stopped
to ask myself why.
But now, I desperately need to know.
11.
"You have to realise," Matt tells the coffee table, "that I was young and stupid. I
mean, it seems that everyone always forgets that because I was older than you, but
I was still pretty young myself. When I left, I was just twenty-six. People will always
do stupid things, but even more so when they're young. Like, I don't know what you
were doing last year - "
"I wonder why," I mutter, also at the coffee table, and carefully keep myself from
thinking about the couple of months I spent ignoring how there always was less
money in my wallet than expected whenever Leon had slept over.
"Because I wasn't fucking  here, Lucas. We've established that. Now can I finish?"
Prickly little shit, acting like Iwronged himsomehow. I glare at the stupid fucking
31
table and take a swig from my glass. Maybe getting drunk isn't the best course of
action here. Whatever is going to happen here tonight, I will have to keep my wits
about me. After setting the glass down, I turn on the couch to face Matt.
"Fine, but don't forget that you've been the one who wanted to talk all this time. I'm
hurt, and I'm uncomfortable, and I'm fucking tired of feeling this way. And you
may not remember this, but I'm a bitch and a half when I'm unhappy. You brought
this upon yourself, really, so don't whine about it when I react exactly like you
should've expected me to."
I gesture benevolently at him, like a king giving his permission to a lowly servant to
speak in his presence.
"Now, please doenlighten me."
He stares at me for a few seconds before he shakes his head.
"You know, maybe this was a mistake after all. I shouldn't have come up here." He
gets up, takes his coat. Wait, what? "I'll leave you alone from now. I'm really sorry
for hurting you. Take care of yourself, okay?" Oh, no. He's not supposed to leave.
He's supposed to stay hereand feel miserable and contrite. He's supposed to stay
here and make it all better.
He's supposed to stay.
He's already opened the front door when I take a deep shuddering breath.
"Matt."
My voice sounds so small, I have to wonder if he's heard me. The door doesn't
close, so maybe he has.
"Don't leave."
"I should," he says, still from the hallway. I hurry towards it.
"No, wait," I say, looking at him across the darkened hallway. Separated by three
meters and six years. "I'm sorry. Don't go." It's not going to be enough; I've pushed
him away too many times. Finally, finally I realise that I don't want to lose him
32
again and it's too late. I close my eyes when he looks out the door, undecided. The
words slip out before I can stop them.
"Don't leave me."
When I hear the front door close, I grow cold for the half-second before I hear his
footsteps coming towards me. I open my eyes to see him standing right in front of
me, face inscrutable. Three meters bridged. Now for the six years.
He walks past me back into the living room, drops his coat onto a chair and sits
down on the couch again. I stand in the doorway, nervously staring at him, and he
sighs. Sighs and opens his arms for me.
I'm not sure how I've suddenly crossed the room, but I'm falling against his side
and (manfully!) sniffling into his shoulder. I'm just so tired. And after all those
days of trying to get him out of my life, I can't stand the thought of seeing him walk
away again.
"Fuck," he murmurs after a while, pressing a kiss into my hair, "I broke you."
"Hey, what?" I look up from his extremely comfy shoulder. (Note to self: find out
where he got that t-shirt. Surely that's what makes him so comfortable.) "I'm not
broken. Fuck you." Unfortunately, I'm a little congested, so my denial lacks the bite
I was going for.
He  smiles  a  little  at  me.  "Why  don't  you  try  and  nap  a  little?  I'll  go  find  us
something to eat."
There's absolutely no way I'll be able to sleep I think, and then I wake up when the
delivery guy rings the doorbell.
When Matt walks into the room with our food, he seems pleasantly surprised to
find me sitting up.
"I ordered out," he says, unnecessarily, "you have absolutely nothing to eat here."
"I was going to get groceries after work today," I defend myself. Really, I'm not
some sort of helpless bachelor. It's just that today's entertainment didn't give me a
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chance to restock the pantry.
We eat our curry in comfortable silence, but once everything is cleared away, Matt
seems determined. He leans towards me, focused, intent. Dangerous.
"Okay Lucas, from here on out, no games. No pretensions. No hiding. No running
away. All cards on the table and whatever happens after this will have happened in
complete honesty. Agreed?"
I'm not so sure, but do I really have a choice? I need to get past this and I'm
guessing, so does he. I nod.
"Well," he says, and falls silent.
"Yeah," I agree.
"So."
"Uh-uh."
"Okay," he concludes.
Well, I'm glad we had this heart-to-heart. Really cleared the air.
I'm pretty sure we can do better than this, so to get the conversation moving I say,
"So, uh, young and stupid?"
"Yes," he latches onto my conversation starter while he moves a little closer. "I
was."
I find myself leaning into his warmth and desperately try to focus on the topic at
hand.
"Tell me."
Matt's breathed "Yes" tickles my lips a split second before his mouth burns them.
Not good. Not good at all. But so good. So verygood.
My fingers desperately claw into his shoulders for purchase as he pulls me under
him. His hand under my shirt once more, but not calming me down this time. Not
by a long shot.
34
"Tell me to stop," he pleads, and I press my hips upwards and into his.
"We shouldn't," he argues, and grinds back.
"We need to talk," he reminds me as he unbuttons my trousers.
"We need to fuck," I growl around a mouthful of his skin.
"No."
He sits back, leaving me suddenly cold and aching. The unexpected disconnection
makes me gasp.
"No," he repeats, looking away. "That is the last thing we need to do right now."
I'm still too overwhelmed to think right, so I ask, "Later, though?" Young and
stupid, indeed.
The fire in his gaze belies the caution in his tone when he says,  "If you still want
to."
"Maybe," I say, standing up and buttoning my trousers with a little effort, "maybe I
should sit in that chair over there." See, I can make responsible decisions. I'm a
bonafide grownup, yes I am.
After we've taken a minute to regain our bearings, Matt breaks the silence once
more.
"Right, so about young and stupid. I never meant to leave you, you know. I just
thought, stupidly, selfishly so, that you would come with me. No, wait," he says,
holding up a hand to still the protest that was already making its way out of my
throat, "I know that was a stupid assumption of me. Believe me, I  know. It's just,
you'd always said you wanted to live abroad, and you'd specifically mentioned
France, and here was this amazing opportunity, and I thought, 'hey, this is great,
it's exactly what we both want' and I kept it to myself because I was too afraid that
speaking about it would ruin things and that it would be a wonderful surprise for
you. Like I said, stupid. And then the job offer came and I was so excited that I
didn't stop to think about it and I rushed home and found out that you assumed it
35
would be the end of us when it was always something I wanted to share with you.
And somehow that made me think that you weren't considering our relationship as
a 'forever' thing like I was, which hurt. And then, well, I guess you're not the only
one who's too stubborn for his own good."
Those are a lot of words and I need a moment to digest them. The crux of the
matter, however, is this:
"You  say  you  wanted  to  share  it  with  me,  but  you  didn't.  You  gave  me  an
ultimatum. Leave my life or lose you," I say. He nods earnestly, like he's already
realised that, so I continue, "Would you do things differently now?" He considers
the question for a minute.
"I would still very much like to take the job," he says finally, "but I wouldn't go
about it the same way. I'd discuss it with you, beforehand. I mean, I would do my
very best to convince you, but in the end, it was about our life together and I
shouldn't have made that decision alone. We would've come to some solution that
would have made both of us happy, I'm sure of it."
Well then. All cards on the table. I take a deep breath.
"I wish you hadn't left," I say, "but you did. And you hurt me so very deeply that I'm
not sure I can ever completely get over it. But you're back."
I meet his gaze. Lay the last card down.
"Don't leave me like that again."
And I believe him when he says, "I won't."
I crawl out of my chair, into his lap, into his mouth. No desperation, no hurry, no
'shouldn't'. This time, our kiss is healing, or at least soothing, old hurts.
This time, it is me who holds out a hand and asks "Come with me?"
He does.
For the second time this evening, we stand in front of my bedroom door. This time,
however, I open it.
36
Behind me, Matt asks "Are you sure?" And there's really only one answer to that.
"No. But I am sure I don't want notto."
***
"No," I stated s soon as I saw what lay behind the door. "No, absolutely not. No way
in hell. Nuh-uh. Not going to happen. I'm not having our first time," I gestured
around the Cottage of Doom, "here. So grab that bag, mister, we're going back
home."
He looked around the room in amazement.
"It has," he tried, "a certain charm."
I understood his willingness to find some redeeming feature in this thing. Boy, did
I understand it. Matt had remained steadfast in his refusal to engage in  anybelowthe-belt action whatsoever until my eighteenth birthday. I'd turned eighteen two
days  ago,  and  he'd  booked  us  a  weekend  away.  To  make  it  special.  So  yes,  I
understood  wanting  to  ignore  the  hideousness  around  us,  because  I  was  so
frustrated that if I wasn't going to get some soon, I'd murder someone. But this
cottage was an irredeemable monstrosity and I would not stand for it. There's only
so much 'special' a guy needs for his first time.
"No," I repeated, "no, it does not have a certain charm. I'm not staying here, dude.
Seriously, what if there is a terrorist attack, or an alien invasion or something, and
someone has to tell my  mother that I died in a cottage that looks  like it  was
decorated by Liberace's redneck cousin. Fuck you, I'm going home. Hey!" I shouted
after him, as he happily ignored me and started to explore the cottage, "didn't you
hear me? I'm not staying here and if you force me to, I'm not putting out. I'm  so
serious. I'm not fucking in this eyesore."
"Hey," he called out from another room, "the bedroom's not so bad."
"Oh fuck, someone shoot me." I trailed after him and peeked into the bedroom. It
actually wasso bad. In the centre of the room, however, stood a giant, four-poster
bed. I whirled around to face Matt.
37
"Oh god, can you imagine the things we can doon that thing?"
When we left the cottage, I was well divested of any shreds of virginity I had arrived
with. The day after we got back, Matt went out and bought a four-poster.
***
"What happened to our bed?" he asks, eyeing my decidedly non-four-poster bed.
"Sold it," I tell him. He nods slowly.
"Those sheets I got us?" he continues. Really,  thisis the conversation he wants to
have right now?
"Look," I say, a little more harshly than I intended, "let me nip this delightful little
conversation in the bud. I either sold or threw away everything in that apartment
that I didn't bring with me when I moved in. Some things that were particularly
offensive to me, I burned."
"That's a little over-dramatic, don't you think?" That fucker has the gall to be
indignant about this. I shrug.
"I  was  twenty-one  and  the  love  of  my  life  had  just  left  me.  I  felt  it  was  an
appropriate time for dramatics."
Things are tense and uncomfortable for a few seconds. He looks at the bed. I look
at his shoes.
And then there are suddenly lips on lips, skin touching skin and, eventually, his
body  in  mine.  There  are  things  remembered,  things  rediscovered  and  things
entirely new. Our bodies instantly recognise each other, even though they are not
the same as they were before. We explore all the differences six years make: the
normal changes time inflicts on a man's body, the subtle shifts caused by changes
in diet, climate and workout regimes, the reminders of traumatic or important
events. I let my fingers wander over the appendectomy scar that wasn't there when
he left and I wonder who took care of him after the surgery. He licks my tattoos and
laughs at himself for half-believing the inked skin would taste different.
38
("What, you never fucked a guy with tattoos before?" I ask, incredulously. "No, I
have," he tells me, "but it's kind of intimate, isn't it? You don't just go licking some
random dude's ink.")
It's not perfect. We'renot perfect. I'm pushy. He's a bit of an asshole.
("I swear, baby," he murmurs into the small of my back, "I'm clean." "I don't give a
fuck," I tell him, and fish the condoms from the night stand.)
There are faltering rhythms, cramping muscles, bites that are too hard, touches
that are not nearly hard enough.
But in the end, all that matters is that there's him, and there's me, and there we are.
"So I guess I'm no longer your first and only," he says later, his fingers drowsily
tracing abstract  patterns  on  my  skin  and  his  voice  thick  with  sleep.  Good  sex
always knocked him out faster than a blow to the head, hence the stained suit
incident. I'm surprised he's even still awake. By my count, he should have been out
about four minutes ago.
I snort.
"You were never my first and only, you moron. I had sex before I met you, you
know."
"Yeah, but," he argues, "there were so many thing you hadn't done yet. I was your
first for all of those."
"So you were," I acknowledge.
"I liked that," he admits, sounding wistful. I can't help it, I have to laugh at this.
"Hey, dork, you still are my first for all of those things. I could hardly go and have
my first fuck with some other guy after I'd done it with you."
"Oh. Yeah." He sounds happier now. And even sleepier. "I like that."
"I gathered," I state drily.
"I," he starts.
39
"If you're going to tell me you'd like being my last, I'm kicking you out," I threaten,
"That kind of sappy shit is inexcusable."
"Oh,"  he  says,  and  falls  silent  for  a  while.  I  politely  pretend  not  to  hear  his
mumbled "I would, though."
I lie awake for what seems like  hours but a glance at my alarmclock tells me it's
only been twenty minutes. I never possessed Matt's post-coital sleeping skills and
today's rollercoaster of emotions doesn't help either. I have shit to work through
before I can go to sleep. I quietly get out of bed and wander into my living room.
It's a bit chilly, so I grab a random sweater that I find before I go and start up my
laptop. May as well get some work done while I'm thinking.
Of all my new emails, I only open Lois's.
Darling,
What the hell?
xoxo, L.
1 attached file: MatthewshouldDIAF.mm
Oh crap, she mindmappedher hate. That's how you know she's serious. I download
the file and chuckle at her well-organised rage. Strangely enough, this diagram of
Matt's horrible points has made me wistful and nostalgic. I wantall of that. I want
to make fun of his irrational hate of pizza. I  wantto argue about his horrible taste
in music. I want to fight over him leaving his filthy fucking socks wherever. And it's
more that a little daunting to realise that I can have all of that back. It will take a lot
of effort on both of our parts, and we'll have to learn how to communicate, but we
can have a second chance at that 'forever' thing. I refuse to call it 'happily ever
after', because that is bullshit. Let's face it, the whole concept completely disregards
the ugly little realities of day-to-day life. 'Happily ever after' doesn't exist, but if you
40
work  damned  hard  at  it,  you  can  have  something  even  better.  You  can  have
something solid, something that works, something  real. And I want that. With
Matt. So, I decide, we're going to work at that. And keep working at it. We're going
to talk, and fight, and fuck, and support each other and grow old together. And
we'll make it work. Because this time, we're older and maybe even a little wiser,
and we know what life looks like without the other in it.
With that decided, I realise that I actually feel tired now. I type a quick response to
Lois before I head back to bed.
"Hey," I hear behind me as I hit 'send'. I turn my chair around to see a sleeprumpled Matt leaning against the doorpost. He smiles at me.
"You're wearing my sweater."
I look down at the grey-and-blue horror. Well, I'll be damned.
I shrug.
"I guess it's not so bad, after all."
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