He stops in front of me and lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “I wanted to see if you’re okay.”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
“Are you still upset because I dared you to speak to those people?” he asks. “Look, you pushed me to face my fear when we were up on that mountain, so I figured I’d push you to face yours. But I guess it wasn’t the right time for you.”
I shake my head and pretend to examine the oversized teeth inside the ancient sea monster’s jaw. “It’s not just that.”
“Then what?”
I let out a frustrated breath. “Are you trying to get me in trouble with Matt?”
“I don’t know. Are you trying to let your boyfriend control every aspect of your life?”
I look at him, my mouth dropping open the same way it did after Livi’s little speech. And just like then, my first instinct is to run. I don’t want to have this argument. I don’t want to fight with Aiden. I don’t want to fight with anyone. I bite my lip, then say, “We don’t need to talk about this.”
“Actually, I think we do. Or you do, at least. If not with me, then with someone else.”
I start walking. “I’m going to the car.”
“Do you run away from every form of confrontation?” he demands, his words stopping me in my tracks. “Because God, that is annoying.”
I turn back to him. My hands are shaking, but I manage to keep myself composed. “Thanks, but my name’s not God.”
“I—it—that’s just something people say, okay?”
“I know. There are a whole lot of people talking to God and they don’t even know it. Don’t you think that’s weird?”
His tanned face turns slightly red. “That’s not the point!”
“I know. Your point is that you think I do everything my boyfriend tells me to do, and I’m trying to distract you from that because I don’t want to argue about it. You have to admit, though,” I continue before he can get another word in, “that it’s weird how so many people talk to a God they don’t even believe exists. But you know what would be even weirder? If he spoke back. Like real, audible words. Just imagine it: A guy is walking down the street and he stops to light a cigarette. He accidentally burns himself and yells, ‘God, that hurt!’ And the clouds part above him and a great, booming voice says, ‘I know, son. You know what else hurts? Dying from lung cancer. This is a sign for you. Stop smoking.’”
Aiden stares at me as though tentacles are sprouting from my forehead. He shakes his head. “You can come up with as many stories as you like, but that doesn’t change the fact that you don’t have a clue what you want in life and you’re happy to sit back and let other people tell you what you should want.”
“Excuse me?” I shout, anger slipping past my calm facade.
“You couldn’t even figure out what you wanted for lunch! Your boyfriend had to tell you what to eat.”
“Oh, for crap’s sake, that was just lunch, Aiden. It means nothing.”
“It’s not just lunch. It’s everything. You had to ask your boyfriend’s permission just to walk a little further up the mountain. He drove you to and from the Drakensberg because he didn’t think you could handle the drive on your own.”
“Hey, that was not the only reason he—”
“You didn’t want to go to that restaurant today, but Matt wanted to, so that’s where we went. I bet the only reason you’re studying in Pietermaritzburg is because Matt suggested you go there with him. And you don’t want a career in science, Sarah, so why are you studying science? Is it because that’s what both your parents do?”
“Stop it!” I yell at him. “Maybe it’s okay not to know what I want yet. Not everyone has their whole life figured out at age nineteen.”
“No, they don’t. But most people have the sense to let go of the things they don’t want.”
“What exactly are you trying to say?”
“You don’t want to be with Matt,” he shouts, “so why are you hanging onto him?”
“I … maybe I do.” My voice comes out all wobbly, and I hope I don’t start crying now. “He … he takes care of me. He makes me feel safe. How is that possibly wrong?”
“Because it’s not the right kind of safe, Sarah. A bird is safe when it’s closed in a cage, but it isn’t living. It isn’t flying. You have beautiful wings desperate to stretch out and catch the wind.” He steps closer to me. “Don’t. Let. Anyone. Stop you.”
“And what happens,” I whisper, “when I fall?”
“Then you have someone waiting to catch you,” he says gently. “That’s the right kind of safe.”
I bite my lip, trying desperately to figure out who it is that’s supposed to catch me if it isn’t Matt.
“Be brave,” Aiden says. “Take a chance. Spread your wings.”
I shake my head and back away from him. “That isn’t me. I’ve never been brave.” I turn and run down the steps towards the car.
My throat is scratchy and sore, and my nose won’t stop dripping. At first I thought it was due to all the crying I did this evening, but the two jerseys I’m wearing and the five gazillion sneezes that have attacked me in the past hour have led me to a different conclusion: I’m getting sick.
I climb beneath my duvet and close the window next to my bed so the sound of bucketing rain isn’t so loud. I find my phone amidst the folds of blanket and search for the number of the one person I want to speak to right now. I snuggle against my pillows and listen to the ringing. Please answer, I think. Please answer, please answer, please—
“Hello? Sarah?” Livi says breathlessly, as though she had to run to get to her phone.
“Hey,” I say, picturing her having a fantastically fun evening without me. That would explain why her phone was far away and she had to run to it. Maybe I should end the call right now before we have a conversation that makes me feel even worse.
“Um, hi,” she says. “I was starting to think you weren’t going to return my call.”
My forehead creases. “Uh … what call?”
“Oh.” There’s a pause. “Didn’t Sophie give you the message?”
“No. She’s been out all evening. I haven’t seen her.”
“Oh. Well, I called you on the landline earlier. Because, um, I thought it might end up being a long conversation, and, you know, free landline calls on weekends and all that.”
“Oh yeah. You’re right.” With the gaping hole in my bank account, I should have thought of that. “That’s a good idea. I’ll call you back.” I end the call and climb out of bed. I shuffle down the passage in my slippers and fetch the cordless landline phone.
A minute later, I’m back in bed dialling Livi’s home number, which I’ve known by heart since we were in Grade Eight. She answers after one ring. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I rush straight into the apology before I can chicken out. “I’m really sorry about the other day. I shouldn’t have overreacted and run off like that.”
“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things.”
“You were right, though.”
“Well, yeah, I was,” she says. “But I shouldn’t have said it like that. I could have been a lot more—Wait, did you say I was right? Ohmygosh, did you break up with Matt? SARAH! You can’t go for so long without talking to me! I’ve been dying here trying to figure out if I should call you or not. What happened? What did I miss?”
I start laughing, then grab a tissue from my bedside table to mop up my continuous nose-dripping. “No, I didn’t break up with Matt. But today someone told me pretty much the same thing you told me—well, he actually shouted it at me—and I figured that if it’s obvious to someone I’ve known forever, and it’s obvious to someone I just met, then maybe it should be obvious to me too. So I started thinking about it, like really thinking about it, and … I guess Matt is super controlling. And … maybe a little possessive and …” Probably a few other things too, but Livi doesn’t need to know what happened the night before I left for Londo
n. “Anyway, it’s probably all stuff we could work through together if I actually wanted to be with him, but I’m not sure I do.”
“Really? So what are you going to do? And wait, who is this ‘he’ you just met who was shouting at you about Matt?”
I let out a long sigh. “I think I need to tell you what happened on my flight back from London.”
“Ooh, yes, please do. Is this a good story?”
“Yes,” I say with a smile.
“Great. I’ve got popcorn.”
I start laughing again. “Seriously?”
“Yes. I was watching a movie before you called, so I’m all ready with the snacks.”
I slide down a little further in my bed and start telling Livi all about Aiden. Popcorn crunches in my ear, punctuated by the occasional ‘What?’, ‘Seriously?’ and ‘Ooh!’.”
“Okay, so this Aiden guy sounds pretty amazing,” Livi says when I’m done telling my story.
“Yeah, but … I don’t know. I think he might have some relationship complications of his own—” I still need to find out more about the ‘she’ Emily and Aunt Hannah were referring to “—and he’s returning to England next Friday, so then what? Even if he wants to be more than friends, it would all be long distance, and that sucks. And why am I even saying any of this, because I’m technically still dating Matt!”
“So … here’s how I see it,” Livi says. “The decision isn’t ‘Matt or Aiden.’ The decision is ‘Matt or no Matt.’”
“Yes. Wow. That makes a lot of sense, actually. How did you become so wise, Liv?”
“I have my moments.”
“It seems obvious what I should do, but then …” I groan. “Then I start thinking about Matt’s family and how awesome they are, especially his grandparents, and if I break up with him, I’ll never see them again, and—”
“Like I said,” Livi interrupts. “Matt or no Matt. That’s it. Leave his family out of it. As nice as they may be, they’re not the ones you’re dating. And it might be sad if you can’t see them anymore, but you can’t stay in a relationship with Matt just because you want to see his grandparents.”
With a sigh, I say, “I know. You’re right.”
We chill out in silence for a while—well, as silent as it can get with Livi munching popcorn in my ear—before I say, “So now that Adam isn’t around, are you going to tell me your story about the foreign guy?”
“No way. I’m saving that story for when I have your full attention, not your Matt-confused brain.”
I chuckle, then shove the tissue up my nose again at the dribbles that threaten to escape. “Well, I’m looking forward to a non-Matt-confused conversation about your foreign romance sometime in the near future.”
I spend Sunday and Monday in bed, snivelling, shaking, dosing myself with all the flu medication I can find in the bathroom cabinet, and tossing the ‘Matt or no Matt’ question around my head. By the time Tuesday arrives, I’m dreading it for more than one reason. One, I hate New Year’s Eve because I’m always pressured into going to some great big social event I feel one hundred and fifty percent awkward at. Two, I’ve decided what to do about Matt—and I’m pretty sure it’s going to land me in the middle of another massive argument before I get to finally say goodbye. I know Matt, and he is not the type to go down without a fight.
Now that my body’s functioning normally again and recognises that we’re still in the middle of a hellishly hot summer, I stuff all my germ-covered winter pyjamas into the wash basket and pull on some shorts and a tank top. I rush through my breakfast, then struggle to keep it down. I’m terrified of the conversation I have to have with Matt, and it’s messing with my stomach. The sooner I talk to him, the sooner I’ll feel better. And it has to happen before tonight so I don’t have to be dragged to a New Year’s Eve party as awful as last year’s.
I climb into my oven of a car and wind the window down. “Okay, I can do this,” I tell myself. “I can do this.” I reverse out of the driveway and hit the button on my remote to close the gate. After making sure it closes all the way, I head off down the road. Part of me hopes that Matt won’t be at home—I didn’t tell him I was coming—but the rest of me just wants to get this over with.
As I reach the corner, a car turns into our road, and it’s only after the driver flashes his lights at me that I realise it’s Matt. My heart hammers in my chest as he drives past me, and my car jerks as it stalls. “Fabulous,” I mutter under my breath as I turn the key in the ignition. I do a U-turn and follow Matt back towards my house. Great. Looks like this break-up is gonna happen in our driveway.
I open the gate and drive back in. Matt parks in the road, but instead of walking through the gate, he waits beside his car for me. Are we supposed to be going somewhere? Did we make plans that I’ve forgotten about?
“Hey,” I call out as I walk towards him. He doesn’t respond, which is a little weird. He’s staring at the ground, and as I reach him, he looks up. The sight of his red eyes shocks me.
Wait a freaking second. Does he know I’m about to break up with him? Is that why he’s been crying?
“Um, what’s wrong?” I ask tentatively.
He reaches out and takes my hand. He sniffs, then says, “Grandpa died last night.”
***
It’s a shock to everyone, because it’s not like he was sick or anything, but he was old and frail, and I guess it was his time to go. Someone suggests that he was weaker than we all knew, and perhaps he was just hanging on for that birthday and family reunion celebration so he could see all the people he loved one last time. He went quietly in his sleep, and everyone keeps reminding everyone else how fortunate he was that he didn’t have to suffer through a long and painful end. But I can’t help thinking how traumatising it must have been for Nan to wake up and find him like that in the morning.
The memorial service happens a week later at a church about half an hour from the farm. It’s full of laughter and tears and happy stories about the life Grandpa lived. My cheeks are wet along with almost everyone else’s. Afterwards, everyone drives back to the farm, and the family—which I’m told I’m part of today—gathers around the bench beside the lake where Nan and Grandpa used to sit on warm evenings. Nan takes the urn and scatters the ashes around the bench and into the water.
I sit with Matt for the rest of the afternoon. Matt, who is quieter today than I’ve ever seen him before. He puts his arm around my shoulders several times and tells me how glad he is to have me. How glad he is that he doesn’t have to go through this alone. How glad he is that I’m always there for him.
***
I spend the whole of Wednesday lying on the couch with my laptop perched on top of me. Mom’s back at work this week, and Dad’s closed up in his study doing something incredibly boring like lesson planning since he’ll be spending most of next week at teacher development workshops, and the week after that, school starts. I’ve got a month left before university classes begin, and the thought of that looming date circled on the calendar hanging in the kitchen makes me feel ill. It’s the main reason I’ve got my laptop set up on top of me and about a thousand browser windows open: I’m researching my options.
I always figured I’d just carry on with my BSc, and somewhere along the line I’d become wildly excited about chemistry and atoms and the structure of amino acids and everything else that makes the world work at its tiniest level. As if my parents’ love for this stuff might somehow seep into me as time went by. But the truth is, I hate it now, and I’m probably going to hate it more the longer I continue with it. So even though I’m nowhere near the point where I can say, ‘Hey, Mom and Dad, I made a mistake. I’m never going to be a scientist. I just want to make up stories for the rest of my life. I’m sorry for wasting your money. Can I start again?’, I’m at least looking into what I might be able to do if I’m ever brave enough to tell them something like that.
The movie playing in the background ends, and Sophie flicks to another channel. I click on a lin
k to read about the English courses offered by my university. Ugh, why are they all so boring? Why can’t I get a degree by simply writing stories all day long for three years? I click on another link that takes me to a page listing a whole lot of short story competitions I can enter throughout the coming year. Hmm, I wonder if I could make a living by doing nothing else but entering writing competitions? No, that doesn’t exactly sound feasible. I’d have to be the best—every single time. And I doubt all the prizes would be large enough to live off. Still, competitions are probably something I should try out, just to see if I’m any good. I can’t exactly trust Aiden’s opinion after he was caught sneaking my notebook out of my desk. He probably would have said anything to get himself out of trouble at that point.
After a little more Googling, I come across a popular site called The Hippy Writer’s Guide to the Galaxy. The Hippy Writer, whose real name appears to be Felicity, hosts a monthly writing competition called Write It or Bite It. In the first week of the month, people can send in the first three pages of a story. Felicity randomly selects twelve entries, posts all the first pages on her site without the writers’ names attached, and readers vote for their favourite. At the end of the second week, the bottom half of the entrants ‘bite it,’ and the top half of the entrants get to ‘write it’ by having the second page of their stories added to their entry. After the third week, the bottom three entries get cut, and the final three entries go through to the fourth week with the third page added onto their stories. After the fourth week of voting, a winner is announced.
Cool. I can do that.
I check the date. Dammit, it’s the 8th today. But it’s the first full week of January, so maybe the Hippy Writer is still accepting entries.
I open a new document, chew on my lip for a few minutes, then start writing. This story is going to be good. It’s going to be epic. It’s going to knock the socks off every other entry.
On the other end of the couch, Sophie groans and changes the channel again. “Why are chick flicks so pathetic?” she moans. “There’s always some helpless woman who doesn’t know what’s missing in her life until some hot guy shows up and basically makes her feel like her life is worthless without him. He gets all macho if another guy shows any interest in the woman, which is apparently attractive instead of being, you know, creepy, and the woman falls all over him thinking how lucky she is that he picked her.” Sophie throws the remote onto the couch and stands up. “Ugh. Puke.”
The Trouble with Flying Page 13