Page 99 of Darling
“You did the right thing, baby,” she says sagely. “One-sided love isn’t it.”
“But it didn’t feel like that,” I say as I wipe at the tears. “He’s scared. He got his heart broken when his wife died, and I think… he’s just scared it’ll happen again. He’s good, Am. And decent.And I could have been good and decent for him.”
“Gael said he’s a good guy, one of the best.”
“It’s true. Which just makes everything that much worse.” I sniff and sit up. “You wanna talk about Gael? What happened?”
She shrugs, but there’s light in her eyes. “He was a perfect gentleman. Got me a cab and kissed me good night—on the cheek. We’re gonna go for a drink and see what happens.”
From somewhere, I pull up a smile. “He gave you his number?”
“I gave him mine, and he texted about an hour ago.”
“I love this for you.”
“Me too. And he knows. I told him while we waited on the cab, so I don’t have that to stress about.”
“His reaction was okay?”
She nods. “Yeah, I was like: ‘By the way, I’m trans, so if that’s gonna be a problem for you, then let me know now.’ He said: ‘Doesn’t change anything for me, but thanks for the heads up.’ And then gave me this fucking smile, Ash. I swear to god, I almost buckled. Guy has the prettiest smile I’ve ever seen.”
“God, your one weakness.”
“Outside of chocolate-covered pistachios, yes. I’m ruined.” I even manage a laugh at this.
“I’m happy for you, babe. You deserve this. Theo will be devastated though…”
“Eh, it’s a drink, chill. Anyway, back to you. What now?”
I settle back down on her lap and let her go back to stroking my hair. “I wish I knew. Maybe I need to get out of DC for a bit.”
“Where would you go?” Her voice has gone a little tight around the idea.
“Maybe LA. Leah’s going on tour, so I’d have the place to myself. She’s been desperate to get me there.” As soon as I say it aloud, I know I’m going to do it. The thought of sun, sea, sand,sex—of the work variety—gives me a burst of hope that maybe I’m not broken. “I could just paint and fuck.”
“Sounds heavenly,” says Amata.
Later, after Am has gone home, after she’d made sure I wasn’t a danger to myself or others, I pull up my bank and check my savings. Cover off this month’s rent and total up the next couple months’ income. I’m doing alright, and the Cole video is going to do well when it drops next week, so that’s also a cushion. I’d sold a couple pieces of art this month, too, private sales through my Instagram. I glance over at the new, unfinished one hanging on the wall, the one we’d started on my birthday. There was absolutely nothing that could identify him as the subject. It was fragmented, geometric planes, layered textures, and bold colour juxtaposition—I know it’s about to undertake a transformation. I’m seeing reds, yellows and oranges, a story of desire, lust, heartbreak and hope. It might be my most favourite piece by the time I’m done. Resolved, I pick up my phone and dial my sister’s number.
Thirty two
Christian
The night Stella died, I left the hospital and walked to the south bank and stared deep into the dark depths of the Thames, wondering what it would feel like to drown. The idea of it filled me with a strange mix of relief and calm, because just the thought of the years of loneliness and grief that stretched out before me was unfathomable. I wasn’t sure I could survive that. To wake up each morning in a world without her in it, to live every single day from now on without her smile or her laugh or the warmth of her body. I couldn’t do it. Iwouldn’tdo it.
The river that night looked welcoming, city lights shimmering on the surface like fireflies, and a warmth below the inky depths that I was certain I’d never again find above it. It would be so easy. Over quickly. Quickly enough, at least. Quicker than it had been for Stella. She didn’t even like skiing. I’d been the one to insist we went each bloody year. I’d gripped the metal balustrade in a determined white fist, imagining the cold, which would likely knock me unconscious before any real damage was done, imagining the silence, imagining the peace, a few moments, and it would all be over.
Then my phone rang.
“Sweet Child O’ Mine” bursting into the murky night air.
Leo.
I’d been living with the guilt of those thoughts for years. I’d come so close to leaving him behind, alone at barely eighteen—a year out from losing his future and his friends and almost his life. He’d just lost his mother, and I was going to take his father away from him, too. I was a selfish, cowardly man, and six years on, I had barely changed. I’d let the guilt and the shame and the grief set up a home inside me and then carried on as though I lived alone. As I stare into the Potomac now, it’s not to those same kinds of thoughts; Iwantto live. I want to love—I want to love Asher—and I want to do it without being afraid every second of my bloody life. I suspect that I already love Asher, that it happened slowly and then all at once, and I only understood it for what it was when he’d uttered the words himself. When he’d been as brave and bold as ever and spoken them aloud, against his better judgement.
As soon as he said them, I recognised their shape and tone and voice, the way I might recognise an old friend. I hadn’t lied to Asher when I told him I was terrified—I was. I was terrified of myself, what I might do were I to lose someone else I loved as deeply as I loved Stella. And Christ, Leo. I’d failed him every day since she died because I’d been determined to ignore the pain and the loss; I was afraid to look at it. Afraid that if I looked at it too hard, I might find myself back there by the south bank.
In the years since that night, I’ve used work, Felix, and then Asher to stop me from having to look at the great and terrible monster that is grief. It isn’t fair to them. It is time to look at it. It is time.