The Places I've Cried in Public

by Holly Bourne

  But Reese didn’t look delighted like I’d expected. In fact, he winced. I struck a bum note instantly, as Gut-wrenching Anxiety and WTF Confusion swooped in like a seagull dive-bombing me for some chips.

  I’ve got it wrong, I’ve got it wrong, I’ve got it wrong. I’ve ruined it, I’ve ruined it, I’ve ruined it.

  And even though my brain was shouting DISASTER, DISASTER, I couldn’t stop singing as that would’ve made it even stranger and too awkward. So I had to continue dueting with the busker, despite it being a huge mistake. A few people noticed us and smiled as they walked past, dropping a coin in. I pushed down the sick feeling in my throat and finished what I’d started. I could no longer sing to Reese though. Not now his arms were crossed, his head tipped at an angle, a look of repulsion on his face. So I turned back to the busker and sang to him, like we were a duo who’d been doing this for years. He was in his late sixties and wearing this rainbow jacket. By the end of the song there was even a little crowd around us, and we got a scattering of appreciative applause and more coins were lobbed into the busker’s case. He nodded his head at me, sensing it was a one-song thing.

  “You can really sing, little lady.”

  I smiled, even though I felt sick and like I was going to cry and that my universe had imploded.

  “Thank you.”

  I turned back to my boyfriend. He had his phone out and was immersed in his screen, ignoring me and my song. I felt the busker watch me watching him.

  “Be careful of Mr Grumpypants over there,” he warned, before strumming the opening chord of “Wonderwall”.

  Oh, what your life has come to when you wish you’d taken the advice of an elderly busker wearing tie-dye.

  I shuffled towards Reese, my face sheepish, my throat tight. I felt so, so embarrassed. What was I thinking? Why had I done that? Why did I need to show off? It had just felt so right in the moment, when I should’ve known it was stupid and wrong. He reluctantly looked up.

  “Y’alright?” he asked.

  “Yes.” I didn’t know what else to say.

  “What was all that about?” He nodded his head towards the hippie singing Oasis.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. I thought…” I could hardly form words. My throat felt like it had been snatched out. I literally couldn’t talk. My brain was foggy from wine, yes, but it was more than that. It was like he’d trodden on my vocal cords, like they were an escaping mouse he needed to trap by stamping on its tail. “Are you angry?” I managed.

  He screwed up his face. “Why would I be angry?”

  “I don’t know. You seem…off. You’re being weird.”

  He shook his head. “I’m being weird? You’re the one who just randomly started busking with an old mental.”

  “I just thought you’d like it…” My voice sounded so pathetic. I was so pathetic.

  Even now, standing on this bridge all these months afterwards, I cringe at myself.

  No wonder he left you. You are so stupid and weird and embarrassing. No wonder you are on your own now. You will always be on your own because you’re so needy and desperate and odd.

  He started walking towards the north side of the river. He didn’t take my hand or put his arm around me. All I could do was scuttle after him. I knew I shouldn’t push it. I knew I’d messed up somehow but also sensed that talking about it would make it worse and would annoy him more. Disgust him more. Put him off me more.

  Don’t say anything, don’t say anything, I chanted to myself. Leave it be, leave it be. You’ll be rewarded if you just leave it be.

  And yet I couldn’t. My brain was going so nuts, the need for relief from him was so strong, that I poked it, despite myself.

  Also, I was quite drunk, which didn’t help.

  I stopped on the bridge and burst into tears, just like that. It took him a moment to sense me not following. He turned around, and I swear I saw him roll his eyes at my tears.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “I know you’re mad at me,” I sobbed.

  “I’m not mad at you.”

  “I’m sorry I sang with that man. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “‘It’s nothing. I don’t care. Come on, let’s get some ramen or something.”

  I tried to push the tears back in, but they wouldn’t stop falling. Tears because I was so mad at myself for ruining the day. Tears of shock that it had all fallen apart again so quickly. Tears because he was looking at my tears like they were made of shit.

  “Just tell me if you’re upset. Please. It will make it easier.”

  “For fuck’s sake, I’m not upset! Why are you being so crazy?”

  That was the first time.

  The moment we lost our calling-me-crazy virginity.

  And, a bit like after having sex for the first time, once you’ve lost it, you just keep doing it.

  I sniffed and I paused. Was I being crazy?

  “So you’re not angry at me?”

  He sighed. “No! I’m just cold and drunk and hungry for noodles.” He held out his hand. “Can we go?”

  I sniffed again and I nodded, feeling so silly, feeling so crazy.

  I took his hand and we walked over the bridge, dodging passers-by. I should’ve felt better. He had told me that he wasn’t angry, he had told me that I was imagining it. I should’ve believed him. I should’ve trusted him. And yet… I could sense that he was still angry. That, for some reason or other, I’d pissed him off. Because he was gripping my hand a bit too tightly, and he wasn’t looking at me. His mouth was set in this thin, firm line. We merged into the crowds around Embankment and found somewhere to eat noodles. We sat on high stools at a table adorned with tinsel, sobering up and slurping our soup. He got out his phone again.

  “Is your ramen good?” I asked.

  “What? Yeah. It’s fine.”

  More silence.

  “I had a really nice day today.”

  He half glanced up. “Huh? Yeah. It was alright, wasn’t it?”

  More silence.

  “Thank you so much for taking me out. It really cheered me up.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  More silence.

  “Reese?”

  No reply.

  “Reese?”

  A look. One of mild irritation.

  “Yes?” A question of mild resentment.

  “I love you.”

  A full ten seconds before he replied. Even when it came back my way, I knew he didn’t mean it. Not in that moment. Not a jot.

  “Yeah, Amelie. I love you too,” he told his phone.

  I’m here again and eating ramen again. The soup’s warming me up slowly. They’ve sat me at the counter because I’m alone. I look over at our former table where we sat mostly in silence – me unravelling, you not seeming to mind, or even notice.

  I slurp at some noodles and think about what it means to be crazy.

  How do you know if your reactions are crazy or not? Who’s in charge of deciding that? In our relationship, it was you, Reese. And, after that day in London, you started calling me crazy a lot. And the not-hilarious consequence of that was that I did start to go a little crazy. It became self-fulfilling.

  Amelie: Where are you? I’ve been waiting at the corner for half an hour now.

  Reese: Didn’t I tell you? I’ve got band practice tonight.

  Amelie: No, you didn’t tell me…thus why I’ve been waiting.

  Reese: I did tell you! God, you’re not going to get all crazy now, are you?

  Or…

  “I feel like we never see each other any more.”

  “We see each other loads. We’re seeing each other right now.”

  “This is the first time we’ve been alone together all week. And you’re about to head off to rehearsal.”

  “So you want my band to fail, is that it?”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “I never thought you’d be like this.”

  “Like what?”

&nbs
p; “Like this! All crazy and needy and insecure…”

  …

  “Why are you crying? Oh my god. I can’t handle this, Amelie. What’s going on with you? I swear you’re mental sometimes.”

  Or…

  “What’s going on with us?”

  *Sigh* “What do you mean?”

  “I feel like something’s off.”

  “You always feel like something’s off.”

  “You’re not how you used to be.”

  “I could say the same about you.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “When we first got together you were so chill, and now you’re all needy. I can’t always be here for you, okay? That’s not fair. Why don’t you go see your friends or something? You’re putting so much pressure on seeing me.”

  *Crying* “I’m not! You’ve not been free all week and I’ve not said anything.”

  “Until now. Great, you’re crying again. Here we go…”

  “I don’t know why I keep crying.”

  “It’s not attractive, you know that, right? I mean, how am I supposed to get in the mood when someone is crying all the time?”

  *Cries harder*

  “Was this boy ever kind to you?” Joan had asked, towards the end of the session.

  I think about this question as I pay for my ramen and wait for it to stop raining so I can go home.

  “Of course he was kind to me,” I’d said, still always defending you.

  “Okay,” she said. “But was he consistently kind? Kindness isn’t a reward for good behaviour, Amelie. It should be a given.”

  Here’s the thing. I’m sure you’d tell Joan that you were kind. I’m sure you’d baulk at the suggestion that you were anything other than an amazing boyfriend, trying your best considering how freaking crazy and hard work I was.

  Joan had asked me another question.

  “Have you been in any other relationships where someone was consistently kind to you?”

  I’d nodded because I have. With Alfie.

  The rain still hasn’t stopped, but a group have come into the noodle place, shaking off their umbrellas and eyeing my space, all like, Move please, it’s our turn. I touch my heart, rubbing it like it will stop the burning. It still twangs whenever I think of Alfie. I’m mourning you, Reese, but I’m also mourning Alfie. I never got time to mourn him before. I was so swept up in you that there wasn’t a huge amount of time for the guilt and the regret of how much it hurts to break another human’s heart. I guess we’re about to get to me and Alfie. That’s the next stop on this magical mystery tour of my crying. Each one is getting more and more painful, but I feel it working; I feel the pieces start to make sense, though I’m still miles away from seeing the finished puzzle as a whole.

  I’m instantly drenched again as I walk towards Charing Cross to go home and stare at the walls and not write any music. As I squelch in my Converse, I think about the word consistent. It’s not the sexiest of words, or the most romantic. When you close your eyes and imagine your ideal person, it’s not the word that arrives right away. You tend to go for words that, you, Reese, comfortably inhabit. Words like charming and exciting. I cannot think of anything Alfie ever did that was exciting. That’s not what our love was. I never felt like I was on the top of a roller coaster about to drop. I never felt anxious butterflies in my stomach while I waited for his messages, because I never had to wait for his messages. I didn’t get that sick feeling before seeing him, wondering what kind of Alfie I’d get that day – a loved-up Alfie, or a sulky, I’m-going-to-act-like-I-hate-you-but-deny-it Alfie. He was just always…Alfie.

  “Were the highs with this boy worth the lows?” Joan had asked, going right in there.

  I push my ticket through the barrier at the station, plucking it out as the flaps swing open to let me through. Alfie never gave me the highs you did. I never felt like I was in a movie with him, or that the world had stopped rotating. I felt good and nice and safe, but never giddy.

  But I never felt crazy either.

  In fact, Alfie spent his whole time making me feel anything other than crazy.

  “Of course you’re crying,” he’d said, clutching my hand in the Botanical Gardens. “Don’t beat yourself up about it, Ammy. Your parents are moving you away to the other side of the country. It’s categorically shit. Crying is a totally normal thing to do.”

  Then he’d cried too, because of how much he’d miss me.

  Alfie was consistent, and, because of that, I wasn’t crazy. I was calm, I was chill – I was all the things you wanted me to be, Reese. But I was incapable of being those things with you. The more you wanted me to be that “chill” girl – the more you made it clear that your love for me depended on it – the less chill and more crazy I got. Because you weren’t consistent. One day you’d be all over me, making my anxiety disappear, being kind and considerate and amazing and everything I’d always wanted. “God, I love you, I love you so much,” you’d tell the whole lunch table, and the rest of the band would groan while I glowed. But then, later that afternoon, we’d walk past a girl and you’d say, “Wow, she’s so pretty,” then get in a mood with me if I dared to be upset.

  I’m starting to realize something. I’m starting to realize that craziness may not always come from within. I’m starting to think lows aren’t worth highs – not in love. Not in something where the most important thing is to feel safe.

  Consistency is underrated.

  The train pulls out of the station, and the rain starts to fleck the windows. As ever, I start to cry again. A little snuffle, turned towards the window so the other passengers won’t see. This cry isn’t for you, though. This cry is for Alfie. Because I had a consistent boy, and do you know what I did with him?

  I ripped his heart out of his lovely, safe chest.

  That’s what I’ve got to face next. That’s where I have to go back to next.

  Alfie.

  “What can I do for you, duck?”

  I want to cry with joy, just because someone’s called me duck. I feel ten times better already.

  I hold my phone into my hair. “Hey, is that the Steel hotel?”

  “Yes it is.”

  “I’m just checking my booking has gone through. I did it online, but I never had a confirmation email, and I’m supposed to be staying there tonight.”

  “Hang on, what’s your name?” I give it to her, feeling sick with nerves as I hate speaking to people on the phone, and she hums under her breath as she clacks her keyboard. “Where are you, where are you…? Hang on, here! Here you are, duck. Oh yes, I see. It got stuck in our system. Good thing you called.”

  “You still have a room available, right?” My voice wavers.

  “Oh yes. I’ll book you in. Don’t you worry about a thing. All sorted! Have a lovely journey here.”

  I hang up my phone and stare at the wall for a really long time. I’ve been staring at the wall a lot since seeing Joan. Staring…thinking…remembering… I shake myself out of it, look at the time and swear.

  Both my parents are in the kitchen as I wheel my little overnight suitcase in, both trying to hold back their smiles.

  “You all packed?” Mum asks.

  I nod.

  “And Jessa is looking forward to seeing you?”

  I nod. Does a nod count as a lie? They’d be devastated if they knew I was going up on my own, staying in a hotel by myself, and planning on not seeing anyone. I used all my gig money to book the train and the hotel.

  “Can you give me a lift to the station?”

  Dad couldn’t be gladder to provide transportation. He chats happily as he swings my luggage into the boot, swings his body into the front seat and pulls out of the car park.

  “You going to visit all your old haunts? he asks, without waiting for my reply. “The Leadmill and the Botanical Gardens, I bet? That’s where I always knew you were. Jessa and you have so much to catch up on. Has she got a new girlfriend yet? Ended it with that Pippa or someone, didn’t
she? Don’t worry about seeing your auntie. I’ve not told her you’re coming. I thought you’d just want to focus on your friends, you know? Anyway, we’ll all go back up as a family for Easter. Oh, I’m jealous! Are you going to get a Broomhill Friery? Send me a photo if you do. Let me live vicariously through you.”

  I keep up the facade that I’m travelling up to have a jolly good time. They’ve both been happier since I started seeing Joan. And, for the last month, I’ve been making myself go to all my lessons, making myself face you in the college canteen, and trying to make myself write songs again. My composition is almost on track for its mid-May deadline.

  In fact, a lyric about this weekend and everything I need to confront keeps cartwheeling into my brain.

  If you can’t really remember it

  Does that make it less real?

  But I’m not sure how it fits into the song I’ve been writing.

  I hug Dad goodbye at the station. He hugs a bit too hard, and tells me he loves me, which makes us both awkward. I wave behind my back as I push through the barriers and up to the platform, before slumping onto the predictably-a-bit-delayed train.

  I try not to think about it all the way into London and I just about manage.

  I try not to think about it all the way through London on the Tube and I just about manage.

  I try not to think about it while I wait for my train at St Pancras and I just about manage.

  I try not to think about it as I find my seat, and find someone else sitting there, and have that awkward You’re sitting in my seat conversation which makes my shyness rash bloom. I sit with my head leaned against the window and watch us roll out of London and into commuter belts, and gardens backing onto the railway tracks, and into meadows and the British countryside. I don’t read a book, I don’t listen to music, I don’t write lyrics in my journal. I just try not to think about it. After an hour or so, we chug past the big bubbling chimneys of the Midlands. I watch them stretch into the spring sky, pouring steam from their tops. These chimneys always signal the beginning of the North, to me. We’d look out for them from the car, when we used to drive back from visiting Nanny, before she died. “Can you see the chimneys, Amelie?” Dad would ask. “It means we’re coming home.” Any person who regularly travels from north to south knows these chimneys, has some kind of connection to these chimneys. They whizz past as I look out the window…or have I told you that already…and it signals the North and where it happened and…oh god, oh god, I’m biting down on my clenched fist.