Page 26 of A Wistful Symphony

Rollercoaster Rhapsody

B eing friends with my ex is a risky choice, but one I’m familiar with.

When I broke up with Ollie, we already had a decade of friendship to use as a mould, so it wasn’t that hard.

A month of weird exchanges and tiptoeing manoeuvres was inevitable, but we eventually found our way back to how things were.

With you, it’s far more complicated. We were never friends per se , and there are too many emotional wounds in our past, as both my therapist and friends are keen on reminding me.

That’s why I need a plan. Sizable steps that will gradually make us relax in each other’s presence, enough that the past turns into a forgotten side note in the history of us.

First step: texting. If our last encounter has taught me anything, it’s that we’re not yet ready to see each other face to face.

And the subject must be light. Nothing political, emotional, or resembling our past in any way.

Second step: being around other friends.

Having the backup of a third party will surely make things less awkward and give us something to talk about.

Third step: going out just the two of us.

If we can stand being in the same room, comfortable in each other’s company, then we’re close to our goal.

Which brings me to the last step: visiting.

There are few things more intimate than being at one’s home, and if we manage to do that without rousing any feelings, then we’ve made it.

Yep. Sounds like a plan.

Step one is the easiest. I was planning on texting you once a day—not enough to make me look creepy—but you surprise me by messaging first. Every time I think about sending you something, there’s already a text from you, asking about my day or sharing some silly thing the kids from your class did.

And memes. So many they should be their own form of conversation.

Ive found the perfect mug for u

You send me a picture of a mug that reads ‘# This is a sharp, not a hashtag.’

Actually, I own a mug just like that.

no way!

Yep. Here it is.

I send you a picture of the mug on my desk.

You fill the screen with laughing emojis, and I giggle at my phone, making the people at work stare in disbelief.

On another day, I send you a picture of a half-eaten takeaway.

BEST. LEMON. PIE. EVER.

shut up! where is it from?

A bakery near my place.

They don’t deliver to North London though.

that’s cruel eric. very cruel

Joke’s on you for living across the river.

the next time im at your place

well have to get it

Next time … what? No, absolutely not, Andrew.

We’re barely at phase one. You don’t get to skip all the way to phase four.

Is being at my place not that big of a deal to you, or are you actually inviting yourself over?

No. I don’t think so. You’re usually quite upfront when you flirt, and you’ve never been one for games.

But it’s been ten years. Perhaps you’ve learned how to play.

Quit it, Eric. Would you overthink like that about your friends?

I rest my fork on the plate and pace around the sitting room. My thumbs hover over the phone’s keyboard and I groan, afraid I’m taking too long to answer.

For sure.

Maybe I’ll order it on my next birthday.

You send a drooling emoji and that ends the exchange.

There. Bomb dismantled.

On the next day, you send me a meme like nothing’s happened. I ask about your work, and the conversation flows without further ado. It goes on for a week, and not once I am bothered by conflicted feelings. That’s how it should be. Easy. Effortless.

And so, when you ask me:

Hey danny n I r going to the cinema next saturday

wanna join us?

I answer with a prompt:

Sure. May I bring Delia?

We’re ready for phase two, I guess.

When Saturday arrives, the butterflies in my stomach catch up with me.

Fluttering, flailing against the walls of my guts and turning them lighter than air.

As I change my clothes—for the third time that afternoon—I push down the nagging sensation with a dose of reality.

It’s a mere matinee amongst friends. You, me, Danny and Delia.

Between those two and their disposition for chatter, I doubt we’ll even be able to watch the film.

If we find the opportunity to flirt, it will be a freaking miracle.

Not that I’m thinking of flirting. I’m not. Not in the slightest.

I finally select a pair of dark jeans, a baby blue shirt, and a matching set of belt and shoes.

A black jacket tops the whole outfit. I turn in the doorway to take one last look at the mirror and fix a stubborn strand of hair.

Not too shabby, if I may say so. Even if I shouldn’t be worrying about my looks when I’m going out with friends.

Quit overthinking it, Eric. Just walk out the door.

My earbuds stay on for the entire tube ride, and music lulls me into dissociation.

If I lose myself in Carole King’s mellow chords, there’s no room to think about how it’s been two months since we last saw each other.

How my heart cartwheels every time we text.

How I’ve fooled myself into a doomed task I can never fulfil.

But I have to, if I mean to keep you in my life.

When I get off at Holloway Road station, a chilly breeze gusts across my cheeks, and I put my hands inside my pockets to ward them from both the cold and the wave of people walking down the street.

The nearing spring comes with a truce in the weather, and I bask in the muted sunbeams peeking through a curtain of greyish clouds.

Close to my destination, my phone vibrates between my fingers, and I trade the earbuds for my hearing aids before picking up.

“Delia, are you close? Remember, the film starts at four.”

“Yeah, about that …,” she starts.

“Oh, come on, don’t tell me you’re going to be late.”

“Don’t kill me, okay? But I forgot I had a test on Monday, and I really need to study.”

“And when did a test ever stop you from going out?”

“Fair point. But if I don’t get at least a B on this one, I’m going to fail. Please? Forgive me?” Her voice goes to a falsetto pitch that’s often accompanied by a pout.

I sigh and run a hand through my hair. I desperately need her backup today, but I won’t make my sister fail a subject because I can’t get a grip on my personal life. “Fine, I forgive you.”

“I’m going to make it up to you, okay? Bye!”

I hang up and keep staring at the dark screen.

This is not a nightmare. I invited Delia for the sole purpose of being my backup, but Danny is still going to be there.

A loud, warm and chummy company all on his own.

And I don’t need to worry about him being a third wheel, since this is not a date. Right?

No worries, as you would say.

The cinema sits on a street corner, a huge cream-coloured building with a silver signboard on top.

I pass through a line of posters displayed on the outer walls and find you waiting in front of the glazed doors.

Wavy hair billowing in the wind, fingers fidgeting with the hem of a denim jacket.

When you turn in my direction, a smile widens your bow-shaped lips, and you wave gingerly. Only then do I notice you’re alone.

“Hey, Andrew.” I peek at my watch. A quarter to four. “Is Danny running late?”

“Oh, he’s not coming.” You flatten your lips apologetically. “There was this nasty case at work, and he’s pulling an extra shift. Sorry not to have told you sooner.”

The butterflies drift relentlessly, making my stomach rise all the way to my throat. It’s just the two of us. In a cinema. Sitting next to each other in the dark. It has all the elements of a date.

“That’s alright. Delia also bailed on me today. The silly goose remembered she has to study for a test.” I roll my eyes, trying to mask my unease. “Hope it’s okay if it’s just the two of us.”

Please say no. Make up some excuse.

“No worries.” You shrug, quite unconcerned. “I was looking forward to seeing you, anyway.”

Shit.

“Although,” you continue. “Could we do something else? Danny picked the film, and I just rolled with it. I’m not much of a comedy fan, to be honest.”

Yes. Thank you.

“Absolutely.” I smile back. “What do you want to do?”

“We could take a walk in the park and catch up.” Your brows rise, like something’s just struck you. “What’s your favourite park?”

“Greenwich Park, but it’s an hour from here. Which is nonsense when Finsbury Park is so close.”

“Nah, I’ve been to Finsbury Park a million times. And I’ve never been to Greenwich.” You bounce on your toes. “Come on, it’s not that far.”

I chuckle at your obvious show of excitement and give up. “If you say so.”

We make our way back to the station talking about silly topics, like the last films we saw and the books we’ve read.

Soon, you tell me about the latest fantasy novel you picked.

You narrate the plot in vivid and thorough detail, adding your remarks on every little thing, and I let you, because it’s adorable to see you this excited about something.

You’re happy. Healthy. Full of life. Such a stark contrast from our last days that I keep quiet for most of the train ride, simply basking in your light. Before we realise it, Maze Hill station approaches.

“Tell me,” you say when we make a turn at Park Vista, “what makes Greenwich your favourite park?”

“Have you ever walked up to the Royal Observatory? Best free vista this side of the river. Sometimes I go up there when I’m searching for inspiration.”

You observe something in my countenance for a moment, and a tiny smirk twists your lips. “Okay, now you have to show me.”

We cross the park’s gates and keep to the right, where a paved path leads us between the ornamented iron fences and a brick wall caked in dewy moss. The sundial lays its shadow over the Roman number five, and we follow the path to the left, leaving the Queen’s House behind.