The Overthinkers

by Lisa Portolan

  He looked really rough.

  Really rough.

  Like he’d been dragged over shattered glass last night.

  “I’ll go get myself another glass,” he said, heading towards the kitchen cupboards to retrieve a glass, like he knew this place intimately. He knew a lot of places too well, it would seem.

  He poured himself a heavy slug of what was probably an incredibly expensive whisky. I had no idea. My mum kept Jack Daniels in the house, but rarely had a nip. It wasn’t the kind of detail that you wanted to let slip in a crowd like this.

  He sat next to me again, resting a hand intimately on my shoulder. I didn’t mind Hamish touching me. I made the assumption that Hamish was kind of like me when it came to touch. We weren’t used to it. We went untouched most of the time because we didn’t really understand intimacy. So we had to make up ground when we could just to feel human. We took our fill when it was available ... from whoever we trusted, and that group was growing smaller by the minute.

  “What happened last night?” I asked him – it looked like it had been a big one. That shorn head made him look more like a junkie than usual. I wasn’t sure why he’d clipped off all those beautiful locks. He’d had curls. Unusual, barrel curls. They had softened him around the edges. But now he was just hard. Abrupt.

  “Nothing. I just couldn’t sleep ... anxiety ... you know how it is. So I called you, and you didn’t answer. Don’t worry I knew you were asleep. So I went out.” There was something weird about his tone and delivery. I was quite sure he was leaving something out. But I didn’t know what it was.

  Enter Maddison. The most annoying human being alive. Hang on, that was too much of a description – she was the most non-descript person to have ever walked the planet. She sauntered in, heading towards the fridge, wearing a white t-shirt and shorts. Her hair was pulled into a white scrunchie.

  A scrunchie for God’s sake. This was the type of girl I was dealing with.

  She completely ignored Hamish and I. I could sense Hamish stiffening slightly, like he’d been hit by a cold wind. Something had gone on between them. Not their usual transaction. Maybe, that’s why Hamish had spun out. But you know what? It wasn’t even worth inquiring about. Hamish was a well-seasoned liar, and if he didn’t want to tell you something, there was no extricating that detail from him. Even when he was high. He still had immense secret control. Glass of Pinot Grigio in hand, she sauntered straight on past. “I literally hate her,” I said. It was almost like a reflex.

  It brought a smile to Hamish’s face.

  “I just don’t get why,” he said with a little laugh. “The hatred is so intense. Like a full on vendetta.”

  “Is it that hard to understand? It’s kind of obvious to me ... I mean she’s this kid that was born with a silver spoon in her mouth. Never had to struggle not in the slightest. Went to the best school, had the right friends, lives in some mansion ...”

  “You know where she lives?”

  “Yeah, the fucking sand sculpture house. I know where she lives.” He smiled at me.

  “She gets it all – even though she’s so incredibly uninteresting. She even gets your attention. Even you. And she treats you badly. And she gets away with it. All of it. Because of her sense of entitlement. Of privilege. She is like, the living embodiment of everything that is wrong in the world. Like some of us try so hard and get nowhere, and she doesn’t try at all, and she gets everything.”

  “So maybe you should try less?” Hamish said, slugging down the whisky in one clean move.

  “So we’re back to this?”

  He didn’t respond.

  “I don’t think that’s the reason you hate her.”

  He raised an eyebrow like he didn’t quite believe me.

  “I mean it couldn’t possibly be because she made out with your pretty boy or anything?” he said, eyeballing me closely.

  He was such a shit-stirrer.

  “Like I’m not going to pretend it’s not a factor ... but it’s clearly not the only one.”

  He suddenly laughed raucously – like I had said the funniest thing in the world.

  “I’m sure you weren’t overly pleased by that outcome either,” I added.

  “I mean obviously it wasn’t ideal.”

  Not even close.

  He asked me if I was still ghosting Benji. I wasn’t sure why he’d taken a sudden interest in my romantic pursuits. Hamish didn’t care about anything usually. To be honest, I was kind of tired of talking about him. Benji, I mean. Why were we all fixated with him? Leo, me ... and now Hamish. Surely, we could have focussed our attention on something more relevant and pressing? Why was love somehow always at the centre of all things?

  “What’s wrong with ghosting someone? It’s easier that way. Besides ... isn’t it something guys do all the time?”

  “I don’t. It’s a bit gutless, isn’t it? Like not being able to tell someone that you’re not interested, or not acknowledging that you are?”

  Maddison strode past again on her way to the fridge for another Pinot. She must have been downing those glasses like a fish. She didn’t strike me as the type of girl that got sloppy. Ever. Too much self-control. Maybe she wanted to talk to Hamish. Maybe she wanted another exchange. After all it was that moment in the evening, where you either called it and went home, or went on to party.

  I watched her for a second. Her eyes met mine as she poured the glass of Pinot, and then she looked away scornfully. Like she didn’t even let her eyes associate with a person like me.

  Whatever.

  “Maybe it is gutless. Sometimes you’ve got to opt for selfpreservation,” I finally responded, as she simpered past.

  “Why are you so afraid of living your life?” he asked. Sometimes when Hamish was most drunk, he made the most sense. It was like he could access a part of human consciousness only at the very end of a bottle.

  This was the part of him that I hated the most. I hated when he was that real. And suddenly everything was getting too real.

  “Why are you so afraid of living your life?” I countered.

  He snickered slightly, knowing that he had been caught out. Silence settled between us, even though in the background the party was in full swing. The music pumped and the sounds of hundreds of mashed conversations filled the space creating an intense and chaotic symphony.

  “Do you want to get deep Francesca?” he asked leaning in close. It was a strangely intimate gesture from Hamish. His face was so close to mine, and he searched my eyes with his. It wasn’t a look that was usually in his repertoire ... I had seen them all before. His dark eyes peering into my own, fossicking inside me, was not familiar.

  “I am always deep Hamish,” I responded. What was wrong with everything at the moment? Why were all of my friendships train wrecks?

  The thing was I knew him too well. It was like staring into the eyes of a much-loved sibling, or parent. There was nothing between us. We understood each other, and now, he was just trying to corner me. I wasn’t quite sure why. It could have been the alcohol. Or maybe it had something to do with Maddison.

  Fucking Maddison.

  “Please, you’re never deep. Don’t get me wrong, you’re smart, wickedly smart – but you only ever let people see the surface. The very, very, very top part of the surface. Nothing more. What are you afraid of? That he’s going to figure out you’re anorexic and run away? Or make you stop? Or try to change you? What are you afraid of?”

  The words tumbled out of him, like some sort of Shakespearean soliloquy. And by then he sort of had an audience. People around us were starting to listen to his nonsense. His voice was rising, that’s why. It always did when he got in a mood like this. Everything about him became elevated.

  “I’m not anorexic Hamish,” I said coldly. I mean, what was he even saying? Both of us knew that discussion was off limits. That word was off limits. Just like his dealing. What was he even playing at?

  “Sure you are. I know it ... he knows it too.”

>   People were starting to quieten down in the room. Like our conversation was being captured. Like we were on some sitcom that meant nothing to anyone. Spectators could eat popcorn in the background and even shed a tiny tear.

  But it wasn’t. This was my life. And I was personal about my life.

  “Fuck off Hamish,” I said, getting to my feet, and gathering my not so lucky blue shoes.

  I couldn’t deal with him right now. He was totally whacked. And I couldn’t trust him either.

  “Oh please Cesky! I tell you a few home truths and you run away? That is kind of gutless, right?”

  “Hamish, how would it make you feel if I told you some truths in front of an audience?” I said gesturing about at the little group that had aggregated around us listening to our tête-å-tête. Our spat. Our lover’s quarrel.

  He looked panicked for a moment, and made a motion to grab at me and sit me back down.

  He was worried. I could see her. Maddison, that is, hovering in the background. Out of the corner of my eye. Shivering and shimmering lightly, like she knew her secret was about to be exposed.

  But by then I was furious. Furious and humiliated.

  “What if I told you that shagging Maddison in exchange for drugs is not going to get you anywhere with Maddison? She’s not interested in you mate. She never will be. Because you’re a junkie dealer. That’s why. How did you like that? I mean: anorexic, junkie dealer – let’s just get it all out there then.”

  He looked like I’d hit him hard in the stomach. Like I’d taken the wind out of him. To be honest, the expression on his face made me feel good. Real good. Because he had just unearthed my biggest secret and thrown it to the wolves. Thrown it to these vultures, who were probably taking secret pictures of us right now and uploading them to their stories. Our public demise. The junkie and the anorexic.

  I didn’t give a shit if he was hurt. I wanted him to be hurt.

  But his eyes had shifted from me to something a couple of metres behind me, and kind of to my left. I was curious to see what had caught his attention at such a crucial moment.

  Maddison. Maddison and Chloe, and her other merry band of eastern suburbs psychos.

  Of course he would worry about her in this moment.

  Here’s how it worked. Leo had taken his rage out on me. Then Hamish. And now ... well now I was taking my rage out on Hamish.

  It was a fucking circle of damage.

  Damaged people.

  Mic-drop bitches.

  If my secret was out, then everyone else could deal with their skeletons being out too. I’d put a gash in this place if I needed to, and let all that hot mass of lies and deception ooze straight out.

  Bag and shoes collected. I walked past the tiny crowd that had accrued. Down the corridor. Past the Jeffrey Smart painting and out the door.

  It was still hot and muggy outside. But it was quiet. Super quiet.

  Fuck. I pressed my fingers to my closed eyes hard, I wished I could just disappear.

  Fuck.

  I felt like I was on a trip. The worst kind.

  What the fuck had just gone on?

  Maddison had stormed out of the room, leaving me standing here. The quiet titters of laughter had passed after a couple of minutes, and then everyone had just returned to normal. Like nothing had ever happened. Like they didn’t even care.

  My skin felt hot, and I knew my face was red. I was blushing. I never blushed. I wasn’t the type of person that was ever embarrassed.

  I wasn’t even embarrassed for myself. I was embarrassed for her. For Maddison.

  The fact that everyone knew she had been shagging a screw-up like me was vile.

  It occurred to me that I had done the worst possible thing, I had ruined her reputation.

  Me. Any association with me tended to have that impact. It had a sullying effect.

  It was like coming into contact with me would dirty your clothes.

  Or maybe your soul.

  I could hear my ears ringing. This terrible symphony, which overtook everything else in the room. For a couple more minutes I just continued like that, struck completely dumb. And then the ringing subsided.

  Where was she? I needed to know she was okay.

  I texted her:

  Where are you? Are you okay?

  I didn’t expect that she would respond. She never did.

  The words seen appeared underneath the text.

  I felt the familiar pain of knowing that she had received something from me but couldn’t be bothered responding. A casual infliction of pain. The worst kind.

  I stuck the phone back in my pocket, unwilling to watch and wait.

  I needed to get out of here. I fucking had to get out of here. I needed to go somewhere which was out of my head.

  I just didn’t know where. Or what drug would get me there. Ice. I could almost taste the rush that came after injecting it. The sudden surge of your heartbeat and pulse. The sense of feeling alive. The feeling of pleasure, of confidence.

  Euphoria.

  Fuck, yeah.

  My dearest.

  No. I couldn’t. Even though I loved it. More than anything. I couldn’t deal with the rest of it ...

  The crash worried even me. But not at this moment. Not at all. I would do anything to get out of my head. To feel good again.

  My phone buzzed. Probably Leo or Dan or someone utterly irrelevant at this point in time.

  I almost let it go, but I decided to check before I made my get away.

  It was Maddison.

  I’m upstairs, second room on the right.

  I felt the air go out of me.

  She wanted me to find her. She never wanted me to find her.

  I didn’t hesitate.

  I headed out of the kitchen, and up the stairs that led from the living room to the next floor. Nobody even spared a glance in my direction. Everyone was so wrapped up in their own shit, they couldn’t have cared less about me. Or Maddison. Or Francesca. We only imagined that they did. Or hoped.

  I found the room she was referring to, and paused. My chest clenched. What would I find on the other side? What would she say to me? How would I react? She’d be angry. I knew that much. That I’d told Francesca. That her friends knew. She might say she never wanted to see me again.

  That was okay, I supposed.

  It wasn’t really, but what was I supposed to do about it?

  I knocked lightly on the door. No response.

  I walked in.

  It was a master bedroom. I’d never been up here. Only downstairs. A four-poster bed, and a massive big screen television. One wall was covered in obnoxious leafy, green wallpaper.

  She was sitting on the edge of the bed. Her blonde hair braided carefully, tied in a silk scrunchie.

  She didn’t turn towards me.

  I closed the door behind me, and took a seat next to her on the edge of the bed. It seemed like a sensible thing to do.

  For a second I couldn’t look at her. I’d breached our agreement ... and now, I could only assume, the agreement couldn’t continue. But I didn’t want it to end. I didn’t want it to be an agreement either. I didn’t want it to be an exchange of anything at all.

  I cleared my throat.

  A moment passed. I had to do something. The silence was starting to reach straight into my nostrils. It was swanning up my nose and through to my head. Making me feel strange and lightheaded.

  “I’m sorry about what Francesca said. I should never have told her.”

  I stared at the big screen television in front of us, still afraid to look at her. I could almost make out her reflection on the television. Our bodies sitting side-by-side – impassive.

  “I don’t know ... I guess I had to tell someone, and she’s my best friend in a way ... I just never thought she would say anything.”

  Still nothing. Just her slow and steady intake of breath.

  “She doesn’t usually do things like that. I suppose she was sort of provoked.”

  Silen
ce.

  “Are you going to say anything?” I asked.

  “Hmmm,” she finally murmured. I liked the sound of that. She was still here and listening and that was the important part.

  “I don’t think anyone really cares to be honest,” I continued not sure if it was the right thing to say. “They’ve just gone back to gossiping and drinking.”

  The longest of pauses.

  And then finally she spoke: “I don’t suppose they do.”

  Her voice was intensely calm. There was no trace of tears, or anxiety, or panic ... or anything at all, in it.

  Finally, I felt like I could look at her. Like this was reassurance enough that I could do that.

  “They don’t really care about me at all,” she said. “They hardly know I exist.” Her green eyes rested on mine. So cool, and inexplicably beautiful.

  There was a strange calm when Maddison was around. It made me feel ... still.

  “But I do,” I said.

  She continued staring at me.

  “I know you exist. I care.” I gulped, swallowing the words quickly. I gobbled them down. Erasing them as soon as they had been said. But they lingered in that space between us.

  “Yeah, I know,” she responded. “I appreciate that.”

  She smiled sadly.

  I took her hand in mine. It was warm and small.

  And we sat there for a while in silence.

  I lay in bed. I’d been in bed for most of this week. My night with public servant guy (and my last ever attempt) at archery was still ricocheting around in my mind. I wonder what that photo of me would have looked like. Stark naked in bad lighting, high as a kite, with no idea. Leo was officially in the corner. Defeated.

  I could hear a house-party in full-swing. The barely muffled sounds of laughter and highly animated voices invading my space. It made me ache a little inside. I envied their carefree happiness. I didn’t seem the type of person that would ever get to experience that. I was dropping into the void.

  This dark hole was familiar. I’d been here before, years ago, straight after high school ended. Sustained by a sense of worthlessness, I’d dropped deep. Spent weeks in bed, maybe more. Eventually my parents had convinced me to see a doctor, who had prescribed me anti-depressants and recommended a psychologist. I’d dutifully taken them, and seen the psych. The drugs made me feel weird, like I was stuck on the same frequency. But I’d gotten through it. The hardest part was getting off the meds; nobody tells you about the withdrawals. The shaking and sweating, and feelings of being exposed in the worst kind of way when you weened yourself off.