After The Fall

by Sarah Goodwin

  I’d watched enough of the porn on my computer to know that Nate wasn’t exactly practiced at this, but he did it the way he did everything, with boisterous enthusiasm. So much so that in no time at all I couldn’t stop my toes from curling on the mattress, my hands grasped handfuls of sheet, and I came, unaware if I shouted or cried out, only feeling the shuddering pleasure of it, as Nate stroked me with his hand until I had nothing left to give.

  Sedated by pleasure, I let him roll me onto my side and cuddle up behind me. I could feel his dick, hard and hot, against my lower back, and then against my arse. Nate rocked his hips against me, breathing hard near my ear, his hands reaching around to clutch at my chest, feeling me all over as he thrust his hard-on against me. Despite the fact that my orgasm was still humming through me, being clutched like that still felt exciting, and when Nate jerked against me, exhaling through clenched teeth as he came over my thighs, I felt as close to him as if he was inside me.

  Nate got out of bed and went to the bathroom, returning with a towel, which he used to gently wipe me off before coming back to bed and lying down beside me. I turned over to face him, and he kissed me, surprisingly, I couldn’t taste anything of myself on him, just skin and the clean wetness of his mouth. His fingers tugged lightly at my hair, and he let out a long, satisfied breath.

  “I know it’s a shitty thing to say,” he began, “but, I’m really glad you left her.” The arm around my waist squeezed lightly, “I’m glad you’re here with me.”

  “Me too.”

  And I was. Not just that I’d left Emma, that I was no longer stuck between the home that made me feel estranged, and the job that I hated, but that I was with someone who I actually liked spending time with, someone who made me feel the way Nate had made me feel - special, welcome, desired. He made me feel like being me was enough for him.

  He made me feel at home.

  Chapter Twelve

  I was a creature of routine, and I’d never claimed to be otherwise. Provided a rut was comfortable enough, I wouldn’t hesitate to make myself at home in it. I suppose that for some people, the idea of doing the same thing every day, with the same person, might seem dull, the kind of thing that they’d itch to break out of, to escape.

  Myself, I’d been there, with no roots to hold me down, no memories to define me, no place that really felt like a home. I was in no hurry to go back.

  Nate and I found our routine after a week, and it was comfortable, warm as the bed we shared every night. We ate our breakfast together, went out to the library to job search at neighbouring terminals, tapping away at the greying keyboards and scuffing our feet on the brown carpet like bored school boys. We bought lunch at the bakers around the corner, pasties and sausage rolls, which we took to the Unemployed Men’s Club (where we pretended we didn’t know how the pool table had come to be broken) and in the evenings we watched DVDs from the selection I’d given him, or which he’d rented from the library.

  I also began to read again. It was a small thing, but it changed me as much as my relationship with Nate had. I hadn’t thought of myself as being particularly clever, given my work history and what I knew about my life before the accident, I’d assumed that I was average. To an extent I was, but once I started picking books out at the library, I found that I was a born reader, hungry for the next novel. I found myself making lists of books and working my way through them – Stoker, Steinbeck, Ward, Elliot, Vonnegut, Orwell. I read my way through each author and each book was finished quicker than the last. I was relieved to have found something that I loved doing. Something that was mine.

  For two weeks Nate and I coexisted as if we’d always done so, less like lovers and more like brothers. We became used to each other quickly, and that made us bolder. I thought nothing of resting my hand on Nate’s back as we sat in a café, or kissing him goodbye when we had to go to separate meetings at the job centre, or with estate agents, because I was still looking for a place of my own, even if I liked living with Nate.

  It couldn’t stay secret for long, especially in a small town. Most of the guys from the UMC were OK with us being a couple, as long as we kept it to ourselves. They made a few jokes, but that was it, and Gregory seemed actively happy for us. I hadn’t been to a meeting in a while, but I knew when I went back that Sal would want to ask about us, and that put me off even more than the dull meetings I’d already been too.

  Most people knew Nate by name, he was the kind of bloke that got into everything, and who never let a chance to chat pass him by. Somehow it must have gotten back to one of my former friends, because a letter arrived at his flat, addressed to me, from Emma, asking me to come back and pick up my things. I suppose she must have realised that I wasn’t coming back.

  I went on my own, it was just too much to imagine turning up there with Nate at my side. I didn’t want to make things worse for her.

  I went over there in the evening, and knocked on the door. Emma took her time in answering, I suppose she wanted to make sure she had herself together before letting me in.

  “Hey,” I said, stepping inside and noticing the empty cardboard boxes in the hall, “how’ve you been?”

  “Fine,” she sniffed, “Mikkie came over to help me out, and I’ve been at work most of the time. Extra shifts.”

  “Sorry,” I said, realising that the extra work was down to my leaving.

  She shrugged. “The money from the leisure centre helped,” she paused, then, with an effort said, “thank you.”

  “Least I could do.”

  She didn’t say anything to that, just stepped away from the stairs and nodded up them, “I got the boxes for you to pack. If you don’t know if something’s yours, ask.”

  “OK.”

  I took the boxes upstairs. There was a pile of books and random bits of junk on the floor in the study, gloves, a few Xbox games, a resin skull, Law and Order box sets, a box with some cufflinks and two watches in it, and other bits and pieces. I packed the lot into one box, though really, I didn’t feel like they belonged to me any more than Emma’s things. Then I looked through some of the paperwork that had been left next to them.

  It was standard stuff, my birth certificate, tax forms, bills. Underneath the shelves next to me was a black tin lock box, with the lid open. I pulled it towards me and went through it. Mostly there were just mementos, the cards from my parent’s funeral, a wedding invitation with mine and Emma’s names on it, a small bag of sugared almonds, holiday pictures in paper wallets. These at least made me feel something, even if it was a deep clench of loss in my gut. I’d sat on a beach with my arm around a women that I’d loved. I had stood between my parents and smiled at the camera, not knowing that, too soon, they would be dead, and I would forget them entirely.

  It was in one of these wallets that I found a piece of folded paper. A letter.

  Emma,

  I’m so sorry it had to be like this, I guess I’m not as brave as I’d like to think, or as good, or I’d be telling you this to your face. The thing is, I can’t bear the thought of seeing you when I tell you that I just can’t be married to you anymore. I do love you, and I want you to be happy, but understand that I can’t stay with you. I won’t blame you if you hate me, and I am so very sorry to have wasted so much of your time.

  I’m telling you this next part because you’re going to find out sooner or later, and I’d rather it was here and now, than from a stranger, or one of our friends, without warning.

  It’s Simon, Emma. I’m going to be with Simon. I never wanted to lie to you, but...I was scared, and I didn’t know what I was going through.

  I will always care for you, and if you need anything, money, help with the house, you can call me on the old mobile.

  Sorry sweetheart.

  Connor.

  I stared at the words for a long time. My mind was trying so hard to make sense of them that I half convinced myself that it was a letter from a different Connor, to a different Emma, that just happened to be here by mistake. But no,
it was my handwriting. My letter. Dated two days before the accident. There was an envelope in the box, postmarked, our address on it, again in my writing. I must have posted it to her before I left, and it had arrived afterwards. After the bridge collapse.

  I hadn’t realised how long I’d been sitting there, until Emma came in and stood over me.

  “How long does it take to fill a few boxes? I want you out in the next ten minutes, alright? I’ve people coming over.”

  I stood up, holding the letter in my hand.

  “What’s that?” she asked, reaching out. Her hand froze, and I knew then that she’d recognised it.

  “That’s what I’d like to know.”

  “Connor-”

  “No, you, lied to me, again,” I was struck hard by the betrayal, irrationally. More than that, the realisation that my dull little life of self doubt these past weeks had not been concrete at all. It was as unstable as a sand dune, a sticky molasses mess of lies. “You told me that I had an affair, once. Not this. Nothing about this.”

  “I didn’t have a choice,” she said, quietly, like I was a dog about to bite. “You don’t know how horrible it was, after the accident, finding that letter,” her mouth thinned, “I was worried out of my mind about you, and then I found out why you were in that car, why you had a suitcase. How could you do that to me? After all the years we’ve been married, after everything I’ve done to support us.”

  “I don’t know why, because I don’t remember!” I shouted, “but you lied to me, you made me think we were married, that we loved each other,” my voice cracked, so I lowered its volume, “you let me feel guilty for leaving you, when I’d already done it.”

  “Because I love you, because you were confused, and he took advantage of that. Because you were hurt and you needed me.”

  And then I remembered, such a small thing, something that I’d let slip through the cracks.

  “Have they told you about Simon?”

  “No.”

  “He was in the car with you. You played golf together every other weekend.”

  No one had told me that I played golf.

  “Is he alright?”

  She looked down at her hands. “He died in the crash.”

  Two things filled my body all at once. The cold nausea that accompanied the brief dreams I’d had, about the blood tainted water closing over me, rolling over me like thunder, and anger as hot as lightning and caustic as acid.

  It took me several seconds to speak, my mouth wouldn’t cooperate.

  “How...could you not tell me, about him?” I finally managed.

  Beneath her brittle blonde hair, Emma was pale as paper, two spots of pink the only colour on her cheeks. Blusher, and furious denial.

  “I don’t owe him anything,” she said, “least of all my husband.”

  “He’s dead!” I spat, “he’s dead and you took him away from me, you pretended he didn’t exist.”

  “And he pretended to be my friend!” she shouted back, “a nice guy from the Caesar Circuit cycle place. He came to our parties, he charmed all our friends...and then he fucked my husband!”

  Laurels. The green crown of laurels on a white shirt.

  Simon.

  Grief, grief without a focus, filled my chest. I felt, and I knew that a man I had loved was dead, and still I didn’t understand, because I had never known him. Not that I remembered.

  “And then you left me again,” she said, “even after I took you back, took care of you. You have no idea what it’s cost me to pretend like nothing happened. All our friends know, they thought I was stupid, taking you back. Well, they were right.” She picked up a book from the top of a cabinet and flung it at me. “Get out! Go on, get out!”

  I avoided the book, grabbed my box, and with the letter still scrumpled in my hand I thudded down the stairs and into the hall. Emma pursued me, another book smacking fatly against the wall and tumbling after me, something small and fragile broke into pieces against the ceiling, scattering me with plaster.

  I turned on the threshold, looked up at her flushed face, shiny with tears. I don’t think I’ve ever hated anyone more than I hated her in that moment. She’d lied to my face, tried to control me, to force me into a life that I’d already escaped. Now, as I looked at her, it was as if she was the physical face of my memory loss. As if it were she, and not the bridge collapse, that had stolen my life from me.

  “Fuck you,” I muttered, “Fuck you!” It came out as a bark, the words barely recognisable.

  Still, I think she understood. As I stepped outside, she crumpled on the stairs and screamed after me.

  But it was just noise.

  I arrived back at Nate’s in a shaking, sweating heap. I’d run most of the way, ran until my legs were trembling, my face burning, and my smokers lungs felt heavy and hot. The box in my arms was bent, and I’d lost some of its contents as I ran. Not the letter though. That was firmly clenched in my sweating hand, and the first thing that I did when Nate opened the door was thrust it at him.

  I staggered past him into the flat, dropped the box on the bed, and sprawled next to it.

  “Con, what...”

  I waved a hand at him and wheezed, “read it.”

  I waited, my heart drumming in my chest, throbbing in my ears, while Nate read the note. It seemed to last forever.

  “Shit,” he said finally. “Shit. Connor, what the hell?”

  “I left her on the day I crashed the car. But the letter wasn’t delivered for a few days. So...I suppose Emma was worried about me, emotional...and she lied to me. Lied to everyone at the hospital.” It was like being underwater, I couldn’t feel anything around me. Shock cushioned me from reality, until it was like I was telling a story, something that had happened to someone else, some made-up person.

  Nate shook his head. “I can’t believe this, I can’t believe she would do this to you.” He looked down at the note in his hand again and then at me. He came to sit beside me on the saggy mattress.

  “Are you alright?”

  “I don’t feel like anything,” I confessed, “I was angry, there. But...I don’t understand how this could happen. It’s like...I don’t know anything about who I was, not really, and now this chunk of what I thought I knew is gone. I’ve got nothing all over again.” I sat up. “I cheated on her. I didn’t tell you that, did I?”

  Nate shook his head.

  “I had affairs. One of them, it turned serious, and I left her. Just packed up and left that note...and now he’s dead. The guy I left with. The one who was in the car with me. He’s dead.”

  Nate touched my shoulder, a hesitant touch, like he wanted to make me feel better, but had no idea how. I didn’t know either. That one touch went like an ember into the gaping hole inside me. I’d never felt so cut off before. So empty.

  “Nate...” I asked, then stopped, thinking. “Do you...do you think I deserved this? That I made this happen by being so terrible?”

  Nate’s arm went fully around me and he squeezed me tightly. “Connor, you’re not terrible. You didn’t make any of this happen, OK? It was just an accident. Accidents happen, that’s what they say, isn’t it? Accidents happen all the time, every day.”

  “But he’s dead because of me.”

  “He’s dead because of a bridge. Big difference.” Nate rubbed my back and pressed his nose to my hair. “And you’re alive. If he loved you he wouldn’t want you to blame yourself, and I tell you something else, he wouldn’t make excuses for the cow that lied to you.”

  “She was desperate-”

  “Name one of us that isn’t,” Nate said witheringly, “we’re all clawing at a life worth having. Every bloke at the job centre, everyone working for minimum wage at bloody ASDA, but I tell you something, I bet none of them would lie to your face, persuade you that you loved ‘em, and take you to bed, just so they’ve got a double income to keep up with the rent.” He caught himself mid-rant and settled. “At least now you don’t have to feel guilty about leaving her.”r />
  “Why? Because doing it twice is better than only leaving her once?”

  “Because marrying her was clearly the mistake here, and it made you both crazy.”

  I sighed, and Nate got up and went into the kitchen. A moment later I heard the pop of the kettle lid opening, the splutter-gush of water from the tap, then the pok-pok-pok of it boiling. He came back with coffee and a crinkly packet of bourbons under his arm.

  Sitting next to me on the bed, he put the mugs on a book that I’d left on the floor, and offered me a biscuit. We munched our way through the packet in silence, sipping tea and dipping biscuits. When they were all gone, Nate tossed the plastic wrapping into the bin by the bed, and we both got undressed without speaking.

  In bed, Nate lay away from me, the light was off, the flat quiet, and after a while I felt the tension in me ease a little, like a clenched fist slackening in exhaustion. I rolled over and placed my head on his chest, falling asleep minutes later.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next morning was another story.

  Nate slid out of bed and slipped into grey boxers, throwing on his green dressing gown and heading for the kitchen. I heard him clattering bowls and boiling the kettle. He set out Wheetabix, the milk bottle and the cow shaped mug he kept the sugar in.

  “Come on, up you get. Breakfast.”

  I stayed where I was, lying twisted up in the duvet, which still held the warmth of Nate’s body. I didn’t want to move. What was I going to do with my day? Look for yet more jobs that I would apply for and then hear nothing about? Or trawl the sites online for flats and bedsits that I’d call up about and be told that not one of them took DSS money? If I got up, there was no way I’d achieve anything worth doing in the interminable hours between breakfast and going to bed again. Why bother?

  “Connor? I made tea.”

  “I’m not getting up.” Even as I said it I felt like a petulant child, but that didn’t change the fact that I wasn’t getting up.