The Overthinkers

by Lisa Portolan

  A deep voice brought me back to my surroundings, Ryan was waving his hand in front of me.

  “You vagued out again.”

  “Sorry, I was having a moment with myself.” I winked at him to lighten the mood.

  “That’s fine,” he muttered as he glanced towards the bar. “I’m going to fix another drink.” He squeezed passed me awkwardly and I realised he was a little drunk.

  “I need to use the bathroom, I’ll see you in a bit,” I responded.

  I got up and noticed he left what I assume was his hotel key. Surry Hills eh? Not too far away from my place. I tucked it in my pocket intending on returning it.

  I waited for her to turn up to my piece of shit apartment in Enmore. Thankfully, Harry had been in his room for hours, and would unlikely resurface.

  I’d been watching some documentary on Trump when my phone had started buzzing. I had completely given up on her calling, so when I saw her name on the screen, I almost had a tiny stroke. Was I imagining this? How was this even possible? My senses went into overdrive. I suddenly felt intensely alive, like I could feel the hair on my head quivering, and the blood cursing through my veins.

  I didn’t think about not answering, just what I would say.

  Hey, seemed to be the only plausible option.

  Hey, she’d responded after a second. That breathy tone had been converted into an electrical signal, transmitted via a radio wave to the nearest cell tower, and decoded by my mind.

  There had been a pause, like she was expecting me to say something, but I wasn’t quite sure what that could be. Instead, I just waited.

  “Do you mind if I come over?” she’d asked.

  I didn’t need a single second to consider my response. “Yeah, of course.” I’d managed.

  “Text me the address – I’m just getting an Uber.”

  And that was the end of it.

  Now, I waited – overthinking. In the time that had transpired I’d showered, changed my outfit, considered my appearance in the mirror on multiple occasions, collected any stray clothes in the living room (and shoved them in the wardrobe), stacked the dishwasher, and tidied my room – strategically placing signs of my depth and intellect within view.

  Milan Kundera’s, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, on the bedside table.

  A couple of times I considered how much of a doormat I might seem to her. She had been ghosting me for a while now. She had walked passed me without acknowledging my presence at university, and repeatedly ignored texts I had sent her. Yes, I’d sent her texts. Like I said I was weak.

  I should be angry, even furious, about the way she had treated me.

  But I couldn’t summon the stamina.

  All I really wanted was her here now with me. Ignoring the rest was harmless, right?

  She arrived in the shortest of skirts, barefoot.

  “What happened to your shoes?” I asked her.

  “I left them at the party,” she responded, as she wandered passed me. “They were unlucky,” she added after a second.

  I didn’t know shoes could be lucky or unlucky – perhaps this had been my issue this whole while. The shoes I’d been wearing.

  She’d glanced around the room quickly, and then turned on those bare-feet and smiled brightly at me. Because I was a fool, I couldn’t help but return that smile.

  “So, how have you been?” she said taking a seat on my couch, and sweeping her legs up to the side of her elegantly, like she’d been on vacation, or I had, and this was our first catch-up since. She propped her arm up on the couch and rested her head in her palm. It was a gesture she often adopted.

  I thought about how I had imagined this moment before. Her casually lounging on my couch. Completely nonchalant. Like we knew each other intimately. Like she was here all the time.

  I told her I’d been well. Even though I hadn’t.

  I remained standing, watching her, like I had to memorise this view because I was quite sure it would never be duplicated again.

  Have a seat, she’d said to me, patting the space next to her.

  “What happened at the party?” I asked and sat next to her.

  She fixed her eyes on me, like she was considering her response. The machinations of her mind were stuck between truth or lie.

  “Nothing ... standard party.” She went with the lie.

  Yeah, I was obsessed with Francesca Moore, but I wasn’t an idiot. A series of occurrences had led up to this moment – I was sure of it. I just wasn’t sure what they were – and if they were good ones or bad ones.

  She shifted in her seat, so that she was closer to me. Her thigh grazed mine, and she put a hand on my arm. So, this was the version of Francesca Moore that I would be getting this evening. I see. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted this exact scenario to happen, but it felt ... strange. Contrived. Dishonest.

  She tasted like smoke and whisky – and I kind of forgot about the inauthentic part. The further we dropped into making out the more hazy the recollection of that feeling was. But it came back to me at an awkward moment ... as I unbuttoned my jeans ... there it was.

  Impossible to ignore.

  There was the odd repulsive flavour to it all.

  Hang on, I’d said to her, pulling away from her kiss.

  “What?” she’d asked, annoyed.

  “I don’t know ... This feels weird.”

  She sighed loudly and rolled her eyes.

  She was sitting on me at that point in time, and slumped backwards, propping her hands up on my knees.

  “What feels weird about it?” she’d asked.

  Why couldn’t I just go with this? Why did I have to create some drama in my mind? I wasn’t sure, but it couldn’t be stopped. It was a fucking juggernaut.

  “I feel like ... I feel like you’re always lying to me,” I finally said.

  Yeah, that was part of it. I also felt like she wasn’t particularly nice to me – but for some reason, that seemed somewhat irrelevant.

  “What?” She scrunched her face up at me, like she couldn’t believe I was raising this. Now.

  “You never tell me the truth.”

  “Give me an example,” she’d stalled.

  “Like just then when you said the party you were at was just standard ...”

  “It was – standard.”

  “But why did you leave? Why did you call me – after you ghosted me for weeks?”

  She sighed again, even louder, and got off me, pulling down her skirt ... this was oddly reminiscent of another similar scene.

  “Why does everything need an answer ... or critical analysis?” She said angrily, taking a seat next to me again.

  “I don’t know,” I said putting my head briefly in my hands.

  A moment passed.

  “Do you want me to go?” she asked finally.

  “No,” I responded shaking my head. “Not at all.” That would have been the worst possible outcome. I wanted an explanation – but I knew that was never going to happen. Francesca Moore didn’t do any explaining. It was the people around her that did.

  “What do you want?” she asked. Like I said – the problem was now mine.

  I scoured my mind for what would make this seem less contrived, and more authentic. Like she hadn’t just turned up at my place, because she’d broken-up with Hamish, or had some run in with someone else. Something that might make me feel like I was the person she went to first, not the person she went to after she had been to everyone else.

  “Tell me something real,” I said finally.

  She scoffed. “Like something that’s not a lie?” Followed by that little laugh. Quickly snuffed out.

  “Something that nobody else knows,” I added.

  She smiled and looked up at the ceiling, as she mentally sifted between those truths and lies, and then her grin widened, and her eyes snapped back down to me like rubber bands.

  “My name isn’t Francesca,” she said.

  “What?”

  “My name isn’t Francesca.�
�

  “What is it?”

  “It’s Fran. Just plain and simple Fran. That’s what was on my birth certificate – and what my mum calls me, and what I went by my entire life before I got to uni. Then someone just called me Francesca the first day of uni and I went with it.” She finished with a flourish, and a little laugh.

  “That’s crazy ...” I mumbled. “Why did you go along with it?”

  “Because it was one of those fancy names – like all the right girls have, the Gracey’s and Chloe’s and Maddison’s. I thought it was a great rebrand.”

  “A great rebrand?” I repeated.

  “Yeah.”

  That’s when I started laughing, really laughing, like this was the funniest thing I’d ever heard – and she did too. Suddenly we were in hysterics on the lounge, laughing so hard, we were almost crying. In that moment, there was a levity to her, a buoyancy. Like she’d been filled up with helium and might start floating at any moment. And I felt the same.

  And I felt like I knew. Her.

  After we stopped laughing, we kissed again, and things felt – real.

  I pulled her into my room conscious that Harry might emerge at any moment.

  In the semi-darkness of that space I asked her one last question, “Are you going to hate me again tomorrow?”

  She considered it for a moment.

  “Probably,” she responded.

  The queue to the bathroom was five deep when I joined. As I stood there, I thought about Ryan – a great kisser, handsome, and he seemed to have a bit more substance than most guys I’d met. Maybe I should invite him back to my place? I never invited anyone over to my place. It felt strangely intimate, and important.

  The line became steadily shorter – I assumed everyone was doing lines, because I hadn’t heard the toilet flush once. By the time I got inside there was a perfectly set mirror on the bench, facing up with remnants scattered across. What was I even doing here anyway? I didn't need to go. I'd only headed to the bathroom because my sexy stranger had gone to fix himself a drink, and I hadn't wanted to sit there alone.

  I think I’m going to do it, I should really just put myself out there. You’re not going to get anywhere if you’re constantly held back by doubt. For once the internal dialogue was useful, and kinder.

  I should also be kinder to Francessca, I felt bad for leaving things the way I had.

  I tried to use the lonely moments constructively. Plucking out my mobile, I started to construct a message to Francesca.

  Hey hun, sorry about today ...

  Then I pressed delete. That didn’t seem right. Hey hun? Too flippant. I mean, I had said some serious stuff to her, but then so had she, to me. It didn’t matter, we were more than friends. We had a real connection – even if we hated each-other sometimes. And that was ok, people hated each other and loved each other all at the same time.

  I’m sorry about earlier. I was a douche. Do you forgive me? Can we talk tomorrow?

  I thought about adding, ‘After I’ve banged this hot foreigner’, but thought that might be a touch on the nose. Too soon. Maybe an emoji? A weepy face, or a purple heart? Nope, too trite.

  There was a loud bang on the door, “Hurry up! You’ve been in there for ages!” A random guy yelled in. Fuck, I vagued out again.

  I hit send on the message.

  And quickly unlocked the door, “Sorry guys!” I chirped as a blonde haired twink rolled his eyes and stormed into the bathroom.

  The guy behind gave me an apologetic look, “Sorry love, he’s got a hook-up tonight and he’s keen to freshen up.” We both laughed, and I decided to move back into the party to find my hook-up. The gays were out in full force tonight. For once the hetero/homo ratio was in a favour. I suspected it had less to do with Gracey and more to do with Dan.

  I waded through people, keeping my eyes peeled for his tanned skin, and pert physique. Instead, I happened upon Dan.

  “I’m looking for Ryan – I’ve got his hotel key.”

  “Ohhhhhh,” he winked. “Well you’re excused for leaving early,” he said even though it wasn’t his party and wandered in the other direction.

  I headed to the kitchen – jostling between half-caked and drunk, immensely attractive people.

  I thought about how to ask him, maybe I should just come out with it? Or maybe I should suggest another place to drink first? My eyes fossicked across the room trying to find him – they snagged on him next to the drinks, leaning into a massive set of shoulders, his hand on Adonis man’s ass.

  Okay – so not okay. Had I done something wrong? One moment he had his tongue in my mouth, and next he had his fingers practically inserted into Adonis man’s sphincter.

  What do I do? Do I say hello? What the fuck? Throw my drink on him? He clearly hadn’t seen me as he went for Adonis man with his mouth. I watched as it happened, almost in slow motion – his jaw egregiously open, like he was trying to swallow Adonis man’s face. Is that what we looked like when we kissed?

  Fucking asshole, I turned around to the front door. I had only met the guy this evening, but it was still a kick to the guts. I felt foolish for letting myself get excited. That I’d felt validated by him. That’s not something I’d be doing again anytime soon.

  You idiot, Leo.

  As I was leaving the building, I felt around for my phone, but also for Ryan’s hotel card. Looking at the keycard, I imagined the brief moment we had. He had seemed so warm, and something about him made me feel seen, but now he was going to take Adonis man back to his hotel and fuck his brains out instead of me. Out on the street now, I gulped for fresh air.

  I flung the keycard into some nearby bushes.

  “Real mature Leo,” I muttered to myself aloud.

  I pulled out my phone, and dialled Benji. The phone rang out to his voicemail.

  I was alone.

  Nothing had changed.

  What did you expect? My internal voice asked with contempt, kindness extinguished by humiliation.

  Acceptance. To be seen. To have someone.

  Thoughts collided in my head.

  I didn't know exactly what I wanted ... just that it was more than I got.

  And it wasn't enough anymore.

  I caught an Uber back home from Benji’s the next day.

  We hadn’t said much that morning. In fact, I’d sorted of avoided making eye contact and skirted out of the apartment as quickly as I could. The thing is – love was complicated. There was always someone who gave, and someone who took. There was a permanent struggle, and an uneven spread of power – and I abhorred that idea. I hated the notion that I was surrendering my power potentially to someone else, and conversely, I equally hated the idea that I had hurt someone like Benji in my attempt to not yield.

  Was it possible to find a space in-between?

  The ride back home was unremarkable. The Uber driver didn’t say a word, and neither did I. The city felt quiet and sleepy. Drowsy almost.

  I slipped into the terrace noiselessly. I closed the door tightly behind me and headed upstairs to get some more rest.

  On the right-hand side was my room, on the left Leo’s. I paused for a moment – considering which door I should open.

  I could head into my room, tuck into bed, and sleep. I could ignore all the messages I’d received from Leo and Hamish the night before – after the shit had really hit the fan. I could close Benji down completely, and forget about trying to navigate some sort of intimate relationship with him.

  That would be smart.

  That would be a solid move from Francesca. It would have aligned to the plan.

  I hesitated ... I just couldn’t go through it. Francesca was cold and clever. Fran was cold and clever, but also impossibly messy. Like the smudged nail polish on my fingernails, and the lost satin blue shoes.

  Instead, I tiptoed into Leo’s room. He had his blinds pulled tight, and it was virtually pitch black, but I could make out his form tucked under the duvet. It reeked of alcohol in here. Where had he been last
night?

  I soundlessly made my way across the room, and lay next to him.

  Quickly I tapped out a text to Hamish:

  I love you, stop apologising.

  Funny how I could say I love you to Hamish, who I’d never slept with, or even been intimate with, and yet with Benji things were infinitely more complex. Last night he’d asked me if I would hate him today. After everything was said and done – would I ghost him for a few weeks to feel in control again? The thing is I’d exposed vulnerability, and so now was the moment to retreat.

  My fingers hovered over his name – five letters.

  I started a text as Leo shifted in bed.

  I don’t hate you. Not even close.

  I paused for a moment. Leo shifted in bed, throwing an arm around my waist,

  “Who are you texting?” he said sleepily.

  “Benji,” I replied.

  “Well hurry up ... people texting in bed is a trigger for me now.”

  “I’m not even going to ask,” I responded.

  “Grinding ... they’re usually grinding while I’m still sleeping next to them.”

  “Oh ... I see. Well this is not the case.”

  “Hurry up anyway. The sound of your fingers tapping is too much for my hangover.”

  “Fine,” I responded.

  I hit send.

  “Tell that bitch he didn’t answer my phone call last night, and I’m still cut.”

  “Tell him yourself.” I retorted rudely.

  Turning on my side, I snuggled in next to him.

  His body felt warm and familiar, and comforting – my eyes fluttered closed.

  Fran was that type of girl – messy. Maybe she always would be.

  It wasn’t lost on me – that was the best kind.

  Lisa Portolan is a journalist and author from Sydney. She has previously published two books, including bestseller, Happy As (Echo, Melbourne). She has written for publications like the Australian Financial Review, The Guardian, The Conversation and The New Daily, and appeared on the Today Show and The Drum.

  Ben Cheong is a PR consultant and accidental first-time author of The Overthinkers. An openly-gay, cis man, and son of first-generation Chinese Malay immigrants, Ben grew up in suburbia as an outlier in both the ‘Aussie’ and Chinese communities. Instead, Ben attempted to make connections in a very closeted, young LGBT+ community. As a young adult, Ben felt embarrassed when talking about mental health issues, and heard similar stories from his close friends, which drove him to write his debut novel with Lisa Portolan.