All the Lonely People

by Jen Marie Hawkins

  “I had something extraordinary at the tip of my fingers. Possible proof of… something. But I left empty-handed. There was no conversation, no proof, no earth-shattering discovery. Just more questions.”

  “You’re describing everything I’ve felt over the past few weeks. All the excitement and hope that just led to heartbreaking disappointment.” He nods. I’m suddenly convinced that nobody on earth has ever experienced this kind of pain except us. The connection between us feels stronger by the minute, and I don’t know what to do with my feelings. My pulse hammers in my chest, my knees, my scalp.

  “That’s not even the worst part.” I watch his lips as he talks. “There was a fresh layer of snow by the time I left. I couldn’t remember where the path was because my footprints were covered, so I made a best guess. I guessed wrong. My foot slipped and I tumbled all the way down.” I gasp, peering down the hill into town, and become instantly woozy at the thought of a fall like that. He motions below. “I finally stopped tumbling when I got to that patch of trees just there. I lay there for a while, on my stomach, certain I was badly injured. But nothing was broken except my glasses. That wouldn’t have been too bad, except when I stood up, a piece of one of the shattered lenses was sticking straight out of my chest.” He puts his hand on his chest, above his left pec. “Impaled me.”

  “That’s where you got the scar.” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop it.

  His eyes widen. “How did you…”

  I fight as hard as I can against temptation and lie backwards against the grassy hill, breaking eye contact. “How did you get help?”

  He’s quiet for a while. I feel him staring at me, but I just lie there and burn.

  “I hobbled into town, bloody and bruised. An old lady gave me a lift to the health centre, where they removed the shard, sewed me up, and gave me painkillers. My dad freaked out completely when I got home. He assumed I’d been in some pub brawl since it was nearly three in the morning by then.”

  “You don’t really strike me as a pub brawler.” I glance over at him. He smiles.

  “I did punch Mons once. Or twice.”

  “He probably deserved it.”

  We both laugh, and it’s a relief.

  Birds chitter in the distance, and the breeze blows grass around us in a way that makes each blade look like lit candles in the sunbeams. If there’s any place on earth that could lead to another dimension, a multiverse, a series of parallel universes, I’d have trouble believing that it’s anywhere but here. That giddy feeling rises up inside me again, electricity on my skin, exploding colors all around.

  “If you could say anything to them now, what would it be?”

  It takes him a moment to respond. “I’d tell them I’m buried under the questions they left behind, and I wish things had been different.” He pauses. “What would you say to your dad?”

  I blow out a shaky breath. “Pretty much the same thing.”

  The clouds above us shift and change. I concentrate on their movement, on the sound of his breathing. The energy between us, all around us, is palpable.

  “I haven’t been the same since he died. Mentally, I mean. I’ve been on and off medications, in and out of therapy. Nothing makes it better.”

  It feels good to say this aloud to someone.

  “It was the same for me. For a long time.”

  His admission makes me feel more accepted than I’ve felt maybe ever. We’re quiet for a few moments. I concentrate on my breathing, calming little by little.

  “How’d you know about my scar?”

  The adrenalin roars to life again. “Your what?”

  He shifts onto his side, facing me, and props his head in his hand. “C’mon, Jo. You heard me.”

  A low hum emanates from the top of my head and trickles down until it’s in the tips of my fingers, my toes, my lips. I feel as though I could stand and leap onto the wind. Effortlessly fly the distance back to London.

  “I noticed it,” I say, in a voice that’s meant to be chill, but is decidedly not. “That night in the bathroom.” I turn on my side and mirror his position. So close that I can feel every molecule in my body buzzing.

  “Really? We were only in there for like five seconds before you practically barreled through the wall to escape.”

  “I did not.”

  “You did!” He laughs. “You ran off like you’d never seen a half-naked man before.”

  I narrow my eyes. “I’ve seen plenty of half-naked men.” The blood drains from my face when I realize what I’ve said. “I mean, not like that, but—”

  He cracks up laughing and I shove him. As he goes backwards, he grabs my arm and pulls me with him. We roll a few times down the slope of the hill, laughing and squealing, until he digs his heels in and we come to a stop. I don’t know if I control the moment or if the moment controls me, but I sit up and swing a leg over his hips. My knees dig into the grass, and my hands splay over his chest. A steady staccato thumps under my fingers. Neither of us moves. The memory of the dream sizzles around the edge of reality. Things begin to shift. Henry’s Adam’s apple slides up and down.

  Before I can blink, we’re two magnets flipping end over end to meet at our mouths.

  His fingers press little dots of pressure into my hips, through the fabric of my dress. His hair is soft in my hands, just like I knew it would be. I’m terrified by how good it feels. Whatever I did before—that wasn’t kissing. This is kissing. It’s like the dream, but better because it’s real. And I want more of it. I want all of it. I want every sensation from the dream, and I know I won’t be satisfied until I have it all. I slide my hands under his shirt, searching for the scar.

  But then suddenly, his grip on me loosens. He grabs my wrists and pulls them out of his shirt.

  “Jo,” he breathes against my lips, rolling me over onto my back. He pulls away and looks down at me. “We… we really shouldn’t.”

  It takes me a moment, but I slide out from under him and sit up. He studies me, eyes hazy and cautious. I’m so horrified that he stopped me, I can’t speak or breathe.

  “It’s just that,” he starts again, fidgeting with his hands. He won’t look at me. “You and me, we’re… I can’t… You’re just…”

  The rejection stings. It more than stings. It guts me. I’ve told him things that I’ve never told anyone. I’ve let him in. Worn my crazy for him like a technicolor dream-coat. And he doesn’t even have to finish his sentence for me to know that’s precisely why. People like me can’t be honest about who we are. There’s too much risk. My humiliation morphs into anger, like some shape-shifting monster from an Arthurian legend.

  “I’m just imagining things? Is that what you’re going to say?” I narrow my eyes at him, trying to keep any hint of tears inside. He looks up.

  “No, that’s not—”

  “You’ve flirted with me this entire trip. Been Mr. Perfect and acted like you care or something. And now you’re insinuating I’m some silly girl with a crush because I kissed you? I have a boyfriend, Henry!” The guilt of that last thing occurs to me for the first time.

  “—not it at all…”

  Henry’s aura darkens as he stands. He rubs his hands on the hips of his jeans, less composed than usual. “I do care.”

  I stand and brush the grass off my dress, trying not to cry. “All these years since my father died, I’ve taken people for granted. I would’ve traded my connections with all of them for even one more conversation with Pop. Dylan. Lexie and Maddie. Maybe even my mom. But this?” I point between Henry and me. “This connection felt like something different. Am I wrong?”

  “It’s just that I don’t want you to do something you’ll regret later,” Henry says quietly. Notably not answering my question. He’s pushing me away the way I’ve pushed away everyone else. Poetic justice, perhaps. His expression is clouded, his forehead tensed.

  “What does it matter? I regret everything I do, eventually. What’s one more thing? Everything I touch, I ruin. Every relati
onship in my life. It’s what I do.”

  “Don’t say that.” He sighs and steps closer to me. “It isn’t true.”

  I take a step back, eyes stinging. “It is true! The only person I’ve even tried to repair my relationship with is my father. After he was dead. And I ruined that, too! I dropped his urn in the Thames.”

  Henry opens his mouth to say something, but it just hangs there in shock.

  I laugh as a tear rolls down my cheek. “Yep. I sure did. That night in the alley? When I was soaking wet and wrapped in a towel? I accidentally dropped it in the river near Tower Bridge. I tried to jump in after it and almost drowned. It’s gone now.”

  He stares at me helplessly as I zip my backpack and throw it over my shoulders.

  I know better than to do the things I do sometimes, but I can’t seem to stop myself. Ever since Pop died, I’ve made one bad decision after the next. I think maybe I’ve been waiting for him to come back and save me. But now I know he isn’t going to.

  “Forget it,” I say, brushing past him. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 37

  : Get Back :

  WE SIT TOGETHER on the bus back to London, but Henry keeps his AirPods in and doesn’t speak.

  I power on my phone for a distraction. I was able to charge it at the bus station for half an hour before we boarded: 23% probably won’t last until we get back. As soon as the home screen appears, the notifications start. It’s an unending series of dings that makes Henry stir and look over.

  Fifty-one missed texts, most of them from Dylan—all some variation of I’m worried about you and Why won’t you talk to me. I can’t process my feelings about it because my guilt is mudding it up. As I scroll, the phone rings in my hand. I jump and try to silence it, but accidentally answer instead. I hang up as soon as I realize what I’ve done.

  It rings again immediately. But I send it to voicemail and turn the ringer off.

  What?!

  I switch to Instagram and search for Henry’s page, careful not to let him see my screen. Not that he’s paying attention. He fixes his stare out the window. I didn’t follow him before because I didn’t want him to know I was looking at his page.

  I click on it, and there they are: pictures of the trip. I scroll. There’s a picture of the Eleanor Rigby headstone in the dark. The Paul McCartney mural on the bus station wall that I sent to him. Storm clouds sitting over the city of Liverpool like a shelf. But then there are three pictures with me in them.

  First is the picture of us that we took when we left The Dovey. We’re smiling from ear to ear, like we’re not pretending to be friends at all. We’re actually friends.

  The next is of us at Strawberry Field. Dylan doesn’t know we almost kissed there, but I do, and it’s written on both of our faces in the picture. Under the umbrella with the rain misting around us.

  The post is only an hour old, according to the time stamp. He must’ve posted it while we waited at the bus station.

  I wasn’t wrong. He feels it, too. But for whatever reason, he’s resisting.

  The last picture is the one of me on my knees in the grass at Glastonbury. My hands are entrenched in the flowers, my hair flyaways are blowing in the breeze, and the sunlight illuminates a telling smile. My stomach twists.

  I have a secret hate for selfies, because they never look like the me I see inside my head. I have to edit them like the rough drafts they are with whatever editing software I have before I find them remotely acceptable. This picture, though—the one Henry took—is me.

  She’s a girl who is sad. She’s been weighed down so excruciatingly that she’s lost her way, forgotten who she is. In this moment, though, she’s beginning to remember. The light in her eyes and the expression on her face indicate obvious things, things she’s known a long time but hasn’t acknowledged until this trip.

  Her father is dead.

  Her determination is alive.

  And her relationship with her boyfriend is over.

  Chapter 38

  : Run for Your Life :

  THE SUN HIDES like a sulking child when our bus stops on Blackfriar Road.

  I’ve had three hours to think about what I would say to Henry when he removed the AirPods from his ears, but I abandon all the planned rehearsals in my head and go for a safer, “I guess it’s been raining here.”

  Nothing like breaking your own small talk rules. He nods his head and gives me a half-hearted yeah in response. We walk toward the side street of Fox Den, feet tapping the puddles as we go. I stand back as he unlocks the alley-entrance door and we step into the quiet. Felix rouses from the landing on the stairs as we pass him, and he follows behind Henry’s feet. We part ways in the hallway outside our rooms with mumbled see you laters.

  I close myself into the solitude of Patrick’s room.

  On the bed, a cherry-apple red Samsonite covered in sewn-on patches awaits. It smells like an airport. I open my texts. There are messages from Lexie and Maddie waiting, but none from Dylan. It gives me a cold feeling, like I’m already sensing the void where he won’t be soon.

  I feel guilty every time she makes some reference to virginity. I’m not sure why I didn’t tell her about Dylan and me. She’d be so upset if she knew I kept that from her. But when I think about telling someone, all I feel is shame. I flip over and read Maddie’s texts.

  * * *

  * * *

  I don’t answer either of them, because what can I say? Neither of them know even the most basic details about my relationship with Dylan. Instead of keeping them in the loop, I shut them out, even when I was home. Dylan talks to them more than I do now. They hear his side before they hear mine. Who knows if my life at home will even look the same when I get back.

  I switch over to another text thread and send one of my own.

  I’m tired of dancing around things. Maybe I can do things the right way with him, the way I failed to do with everyone else. Maybe if I’m honest, things will be okay. I stare at the screen for a long while, heart in my throat, but Henry doesn’t respond.

  To kill time, I unzip and unpack my vagabond suitcase. It spent weeks traveling to exotic destinations without me. Once it’s empty of my clothes and shoes, I put the plastic bag of my medication on the dresser and then unzip the last inside pouch. One glance at the contents makes my body go cold.

  There, in a small pink box, are the tampons I should’ve needed a while ago. Warm saliva pools in my mouth. Math has never been my strong suit, but I do it furiously in my head now. I count on my trembling fingers. I’m not just a little bit late.

  I’m a lot late.

  The last time Dylan and I were together was the Sunday before I left for London. We were in his room on his tidy bed that his mother still makes for him every morning. His parents were golfing with friends, so we had the house to ourselves. I was trying to take a nap, exhausted from a morning hike in Pisgah, but he was interested in other things. He took my shoes and socks off, then moved up to my waist and undressed me.

  I let it happen more than anything, because sometimes that’s easier. He didn’t seem to care that I was on the edge of sleep the whole time. I think he used protection. I think. Sometimes I have to remind him, but he’s usually pretty responsible. Thinking back on it now, though, I can’t be sure.

  Dread bubbles up at the back of my throat. I run for the bathroom and fall on my knees in front of the toilet.

  I barely make it in time.

  Chapter 39

  : I’ll Cry Instead :

  I GET UP early Monday morning and go for a walk through the quiet pre-dawn streets, three blocks over to the drug store.

  Do I feel different? I slip a hand over my stomach and press down. Is there a bump? I don’t think so, but I’ve never been pregnant before, so I have no idea how it’s supposed to feel. Other than the fibers of my shirt, I feel nothing.

  On aisle 13 (of course it’s aisle 13), I find what I’m looking for. The box is oblong and hot pink, about as subtle as a car horn. They’re bu
y one, get one free. Why not, I guess.

  The cashier eyeballs me, judgy-pants as hell, while she rings it up.

  Before I make it back to the Fox Den, a light rain begins. I think back to that line in Pop’s letter. We’ll forget our umbrellas on purpose. It was a stupid line and it makes me angry. There’s nothing special about rain. It’s a scientific process. Henry could explain it in lofty terms that might make it sound magical, but it isn’t. It’s just recycled water.

  I sneak inside the alley door, after struggling with the handle again. George steps out into the hallway as I start up the stairs. His eyes widen. I tuck the bag under my arms so he doesn’t see the bright pink box.

  “Are you all right, love?”

  I shake my head and avoid eye contact. “I’m not feeling well. Girl stuff.”

  He shifts uneasily. That’s the quickest way to get a man to stop asking you questions.

  “Why don’t you skip your shift today and rest, then?”

  I give him a grateful nod and move past him. “Thanks.”

  It’s chicken, I know. But I might finally lose it completely if I have to address this complicated situation with Henry today. Or not address it—which is how things tend to go with us. He never even responded to my text.

  * * *

  : : : : :

  * * *

  I stare at the box for a long time before I get the nerve to open it.

  One line is negative. Two is positive.

  I follow the directions and then sink to the sterile chill of the bathroom floor. I stare a laser beam into the results window, waiting. One little pink line begins to populate the tiny square. I hold my breath. Suddenly a blast of music roars in my back pocket.