I grab the phone and silence Dylan’s call. What would he do if he knew what I was doing at this very moment?
Just the thought of him sitting at home in his comfortable little world, with two parents who are present, completely oblivious to the hell I’m in right now—it makes me churn with rage. If there’s a baby in there, it’s a rage baby. How could he have been so reckless? And then it hits me… how could I have been?
If I’d told him how he was making me feel when I first started feeling that way, that last time would’ve never even happened. I should’ve had the guts to be honest and break up with him. What’s more, I should’ve had the guts to tell him the first time was the only time instead of allowing myself to be guilt-tripped into a physical relationship I didn’t want and wasn’t ready for in the first place. Maybe we would’ve had a chance if I’d just found the courage to be honest.
I go into settings and change his ringtone to Nowhere Man while I wait on results.
One line is clearly visible now. I don’t know how long it’s been, but I stare at it, praying a second line doesn’t appear. I’m frozen, just watching.
The second line never appears.
Relief washes over me, but I can’t stop shaking. I start to cry. I cry when I’m happy, I cry when I’m sad. I cry when I’m angry. Maybe this is my default now. Another seal broken.
Google says that it’s likely the sudden discontinuation of medication—and the weight loss coinciding with it—that sent my cycle haywire. Once again, my meds are to blame for my psychological spiral.
Chapter 40
: Nowhere Man :
IT’S MIDNIGHT BEFORE I get the courage to call Dylan.
He answers on the first ring, but he doesn’t say hello. Just,
“What?”
Well then. “Hey.”
“Do you want to FaceTime?”
“Not really.”
He stays quiet for a moment. “Okay.”
“Things haven’t been the best lately,” I finally say.
“Understatement.” Hurt quivers in his voice and it almost makes me chicken out. Almost.
“I think we should break up.”
His breath whooshes into the speaker. “What?”
“You’re surprised?”
“Don’t make this decision right now. You aren’t yourself.”
I start to argue with him, but then stop. Am I myself? I can’t tell anymore.
“You were off your meds. Give it time to feel like yourself again and—”
“That’s just it, Dylan. You don’t get to say when I am or am not myself.” And I’m still off my meds, for his information. Or rather, not for his information.
“Why don’t I? I know you better than anyone.” The assumption in his tone rings haughty. Controlling. But above all, misinformed. Somewhere deep inside, something snaps.
“You don’t know me as well as you think you do.”
“Don’t do this over the phone.”
My voice cracks. “It can’t wait. I hate the way you’ve been since I got here.”
“Oh, you hate that I miss talking to you? You hate that it upsets me when you don’t have any time for me? You hate that I don’t like to see you with some other dude? I see all these pictures show up on his social media of you. What am I supposed to think? You think it’s unreasonable for me to be upset?”
I swallow. He’s right. “It isn’t unreasonable. But it’s not that. I can’t confide in you. When I try, you tell me that my feelings are wrong.”
He breathes on the line for a minute. “Well then give me a chance to be better. I’ll try harder.”
I pick a spot on the ceiling and stare at it, gathering my wits to tell him about the pregnancy scare. That’s all it took, really, for me to know this is the right thing to do. The thought of being permanently attached to him in that way made me realize I don’t want to be attached to him at all.
“We’re being tested. Long distance is hard.”
“But long distance isn’t the reason—”
“Trust me,” he interrupts. “You’ll be glad we gave it another chance when you’re feeling like yourself again.”
This. This is why I know I won’t be glad. Maybe it’s cruel, but I know what will change his mind for good.
“I kissed him.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long time. I barely hear him breathing.
“The guy you told me you don’t even like?”
We are silent for a few long moments.
“You’re going to need me. You’ll wish I was still here.” There’s a long pause and then a click. The line goes dead.
I toss my phone on the desk and flip the light out. No, Dylan. I won’t.
* * *
: : : : :
* * *
My eyes are wet.
I clutch a blue notebook binder against my chest, heart thudding against the smooth surface. Henry towers over me. There’s a fading yellow bruise around his left eye.
“Will you come some place with me?” It sounds far away, even though the vibrations of his words swim through my veins like a tranquilizer.
“Two hours. That’s it.”
My fingers uncurl around the binder in slow motion. Before I can look down and see what’s inside, my eyes snap open in the dark.
Rain putters against the window in Patrick’s room. Henry isn’t here. It’s just me.
Alone.
Chapter 41
: I Want to Tell You :
ON TUESDAY MORNING, I take the other test. It’s negative.
It gives me a sense of finality and relief, so I put on my big girl pants and head down to the store for my shift. I’m surprised to find that Henry isn’t there. George is sitting behind the counter.
“Where’s Henry?”
He smiles. “Moping.”
“Moping?”
“Yes, well. Technically he’s off mudlarking with Sanjay, but I suspect he’s still moping.”
I don’t ask why he’s moping, and I refuse to let myself hope it’s because of me. Before I can ask what mudlarking is, George sidetracks me.
“Do you think you can handle helping him open and close the store for the rest of the week? I have to go away and sort some things out for our vendor spot at the Boomtown Festival in the fall. I’ll be back this weekend.”
I stare at him. What am I supposed to say? No, please don’t leave me here alone with him?
“Of course we can handle it.” I give him my best smile. I guess we’ll do what we’ve been doing: ignoring each other.
He beams. “I have some things to take care of in the office this afternoon. I won’t leave until he gets back.”
I nod as he stands from his spot and goes into his office.
Instead of obsessing about the coming forced proximity, I spend the day helping customers and doing whatever busy work will distract me. Today, that means being extremely creative since the inventory crew left things pristine. Once I’ve cleaned the glass on the listening stations, swept the floor, and pounced on every customer in an overzealous car salesman way, I go in search of more busy work.
I’m re-sorting albums when Henry jogs down the stairs. I never even heard him come in.
My heart plunks down, through my feet, through the floor, all the way to the earth’s mantle at the sight of him. Dark jeans. Blue Henley. His hair is damp as if he’s just showered. He pulls out the counter stool and plops down, flipping through the pages of the inventory report. I’m halfway across the store, but I swear I smell his soap. He glances up at me over the rim of his glasses. I look away quickly and stumble into an endcap.
How did I ever function around him before?
A few minutes later, as I’m dusting shelves for the hundredth time, George emerges from his office with a rolling suitcase.
“I’ll have my cell if you need anything,” he tells us. “Behave yourselves.” He points at Henry when he says this, but Henry ignores him. I wave to him as he disappears into the hallway. The ba
ck door shuts behind him with a thud that shakes the building.
After that, the quiet becomes deafening.
I spend the rest of the afternoon re-alphabetizing the punk rock section. It’s already pretty alphabetized, though, so that only consists of me finding a misplaced Gorillas album between The Chefs and Chaotic Discord, and putting it back in the correct section.
Ten minutes before close, I’m out of things to do, so I close myself inside a listening station at the front of the store. I pull the folded green flyer from Saint Catherine’s out of my back pocket, where it’s been since I put it there.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what it would be like to take a photography class and extend my time in London for the remainder of the summer. Not that everything is going swimmingly here or anything, but I’m also in no hurry to get home. Nothing waits for me there but drama.
I google neighborhoods near Saint Catherine’s and think about where I’d even stay if I did the workshop. With Patrick ready to come home now, it’s not like I can ask him to come back to London and sleep on the couch in his own house. I’d have to find someplace else. I could use the rest of my cash to stay in a hostel, maybe. Or a cheap hotel.
As I’m checking the area for accommodations, a text dings in my hand. My heart skips a beat when I read it.
The ludicrousness of texting him from the same room—the empty room we’re alone in—isn’t lost on me. But he’s talking to me again, so I’m not complaining.
I open the door to the listening station and walk over to him. His expression loosens with every step I take towards him. I stop on the opposite side of the sales counter. We stare for a moment. He doesn’t say I’m a dick for not responding to your text the other day. And I don’t say Yes, you sure are. Not out loud, anyway.
I hand him the flyer. My heart won’t stop beating itself bloody in my chest. If I can barely get through wordless conversations like this, we can never, ever speak of what happened at Glastonbury.
He peers at me through his lashes. “This is a good opportunity.”
“I have to leave before it starts, though. My mom probably wouldn’t let me stay longer. And Patrick will be home by then, anyway, so I won’t have a place—”
He cuts me off. “You could stay in my room.”
My eyebrows shoot into orbit.
“I won’t be here then,” he quickly adds. “I’m moving back to Bristol after Patrick gets back. My classes start in a couple of weeks.”
Though I’m floored by his offer, I’m still a little doubtful I could make it work.
“I only have my cell phone camera,” I say. “So I’d have to buy a camera. And I wouldn’t really even know what I’m doing.”
He smiles. “That’s the point of taking a class, love. To learn.”
I balk at the softness in his voice. Love?
“I guess I just hate being the only person in the room with no talent.”
“You have talent. I’ve seen your shots.”
I shrug. He studies me for a moment, like he’s deciding something. “I have an extra camera. Let’s close up shop here and go shoot some stuff. If you want to.”
All the moisture in my mouth evaporates. “Actually, I was going to check in with Nigel this evening and see if he and Walter can meet.”
“Oh.” Henry’s face falls.
I weigh my options. Which would I rather do? Take pictures with Henry? Or go sit in a puddle of my own snot and tears and talk about my dead dad? It’s not like Nigel ever bothered to call me back.
“You know what?” I amend. “That can wait until tomorrow.”
A smile dawns over his face. “Brilliant. I know exactly where we can go.”
Chapter 42
: What You’re Doing :
THE FANCY NIKON hanging on a strap around my neck swings back and forth as I leave my bus seat.
I grab it and press it against my middle as I move. It’s preloaded with 35mm film and a bulky zoom lens. When the bus doors swish open and I see our destination, in all its legendary glory, my eyes well up with tears.
Abbey Road Studios sits in an unassuming white building, trimmed in gray. Just down the street from it, the zebra-like crosswalk where the famous album cover was taken winks at me through beams of sunlight. Tourists take turns walking the length of the crosswalk, snapping photos of each other with their cell phones.
We disembark and I glance up at Henry. “Why here?”
He grins like he’s very proud of himself. “Two reasons, really. First, because look at how perfect the evening light is here. And second, because there’s an abundance of people. Watch and learn.” With that, he saunters over to the crosswalk and gets the attention of a lady who is just about to snap a picture of her husband.
“Pardon me, ma’am.” He gives her his dimpled, winning smile—the one that could hush crying babies and usher in world peace. “My friend and I are taking photographs for a project. Would it be all right if we took yours crossing the street here? We’d be happy to give you a print once the film is developed.”
“Oh,” she giggles, a little flustered. “That’s so nice of you! Did you hear that, honey? This nice young man wants to take our picture.” Her deep south accent gives her away. Georgia. Maybe Alabama.
“Actually” —Henry points over his shoulder at me— “she’s going to take it.”
On the bus ride over, he gave me a crash course in how to use the older camera, along with the science behind how it works. There’s no digital screen preview, only a viewfinder where I’ll snap the photo once I’m satisfied with what I see.
Henry makes suggestions for where they should stand, and I pull the camera to my eye and move quickly to get an angle that’s similar to the album cover. I snap a few pictures, rewinding the film after each click.
“Slow it down,” Henry says over his shoulder. “I won’t let any cars bowl you over.”
I laugh a little and take a deep breath, watching the way the older couple interacts. He’s doing it all for her benefit. If I had to guess, based on his protruding gut and orthopedic shoes, he’d much rather be sitting at home in his recliner watching Antiques Roadshow. The lady is giddy, though. Full of herself. This trip was clearly her idea.
Some of the people on the surrounding sidewalks stop to watch.
When I’m satisfied that at least one picture will be acceptable, Henry motions them over and writes something on a Fox Den business card from his wallet. “Come by tomorrow and pick up your photo,” he says.
“You sure there’s no charge?” the husband asks, crotchety as I suspected.
“None at all.” Henry smiles again to reassure him.
Our evening proceeds this way, recruiting willing volunteers. Some uni students give us enthusiastic poses. A family visiting from Japan does, too. On this goes until the street grows too dim under the shadow of the trees to take any more satisfactory photos without a flash. (Flash photography is a lesson for another day, Henry tells me.)
While we wait for the bus, we stroll back down Abbey Road together, where the last sliver of daylight is projected on the front steps of the old studio. The angle of light is so beautiful that I don’t want to miss an opportunity to capture it.
“Sit on the steps,” I say. “Let me get a shot while the light is good.”
He hesitates at first, but then concedes without a word.
“Move to the left a little. Okay, closer to the middle. Lean forward a bit. Tilt your chin up. There.” I peer through the viewfinder and click, click, click away. Forgetting everything he told me about what to look for.
I can only see him.
Before I get to the end of the roll, the bus pulls up to the stop on the sidewalk. We both scramble towards it before we get left behind. When we take our seats inside, I hand him his camera back. “That was fun. Thank you.”
“Look, there’s one picture left.” He points to the counter on the top. He leans over the armrest, into my personal space, then turns the camera backwards
and points the lens at us. I guess this is how they did selfies in the old days. “Smile,” he says.
I do. And I mean it.
Chapter 43
: I Want You (She’s so Heavy) :
EMPTY PIZZA BOXES pile on the table in the darkroom.
We’ve spent the evening bingeing on junk food and developing the fruits of our labor. Film developer, agitator, enlarger, projection onto photo paper, developer again, stop bath, fixer.
“This is an oddly satisfying process,” I say, taking a swig of Vimto, a weird soft drink that Henry swore was delicious. The jury is still out. It tastes like a raspberry burp.
Henry nods as he pulls the last photo out of the chemical fixer and hangs it on the line to dry. He mouths the words to Octopus’s Garden as it plays from my phone on the counter.
Abbey Road is on its second rotation. Playing the album while we developed the photos from Abbey Road was 100% my idea, but he didn’t exactly protest. I’m starting to think he’s full of shit about not liking the Beatles. One can hope.
“So what’s mudlarking?” I ask him. He looks up from where he’s hanging the photos to dry. “Your dad said you were mudlarking earlier today.”
He smiles. “History nerds digging through the mud.”
“Oh?”
“There are lots of buried artifacts on the city’s riverbanks. Sanjay started doing it because the group guide is a classmate of his.” He smiles. “A girl he’s keen on.”
Did he also go for a girl, I wonder, or was he just there to be the wing man? I decide I don’t want to know, so I focus on helping him hang photos on the line.
The first few of the older couple have a giant shadow over one side. That turned out to be my thumb. Thankfully, I moved it at some point and got one really good shot of them. Her silver hair is blowing in the breeze and she’s smiling so big that it confirms her teeth are real—false ones would fall out of her mouth. Her husband is looking off to the side, bored. Fake smile. But at least he’s smiling, even if his heart isn’t in it.
All the Lonely People Page 17