by Josie Silver
“I just want my big strong dad back to normal, you know?” I hate that I can hear the thickness of tears in my throat. And that Jack must be able to hear it too.
“Oh, Laurie,” he says, low and soothing, and then he slips around the booth and puts his arm around me. “Poor you, you look so exhausted lately.”
I don’t even have the energy to act annoyed at that comment. I can’t deny it. I’m bone-tired. I don’t think I’ve even registered how low I’ve been because you have to keep on keeping on, don’t you? But right here, sitting in this pub feeling insulated from it all, it hits me like a shovel to the face. I’m so exhausted I feel like I’m disintegrating inside my clothes.
“Life can be really shit sometimes,” he says, his arm still warm and reassuring around my shoulders. “It’ll come good again. It always does.”
“You think so? It sounds so stupid, but I just feel like I’m failing at everything. Life here, no proper job. Perhaps I should just go back home. I should be with my parents, help my mum out.”
“Don’t say that, Laurie. You’re down, but you’re not out. Your parents will be okay, and they’d want you to follow your dreams. You’ll get there, I know it.”
“Do you think so?”
“Come on. Look at you. You’re clever and you’re funny; you won’t be stuck behind that hotel reception forever. I’ve read some of your freelance stuff, remember? You’ll get your break soon, I’m sure of it.”
I appreciate the generosity of his praise, but I know that what he actually means is that he’s read the scant couple of articles I’ve had published because Sarah has pushed them under his nose. She’s worse than my mum whenever I place anything, which is barely ever.
Jack’s looking at me now, really studying me, as if what he’s about to say matters.
“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone in my life with as much…I don’t even know what it is that you have. Warmth, I guess, although that isn’t exactly it.” He looks pissed off with himself for his inability to find the right words. “You just have a way about you, Laurie. Being around you makes people feel good.”
I’m surprised enough to stop feeling sorry for myself and look up. “Do you really mean that?”
“Yes.” His smile is slow, crooked. “Of course I do. Right from the first time we met.”
I catch my breath, trying to keep my thoughts inside my head, but they seep out, like water through my fingers. “The first time we met or the very first time?”
Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.
Jack
Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. She remembers.
“You mean…at Christmas?”
We’re sitting closer than we were, almost thigh to thigh, and close up I can clearly see the toll recent months have had on her. Those dark circles, the high set of her shoulders as if she’s always got her teeth clenched. She looks in need of a hot bath, chicken soup, and her bed for a week.
“On the bus?” she breathes. Her cheeks are pink from the wine, and her eyes more animated than they have been since the summer. “Do you remember?”
I frown and arrange my features into what I hope suggests puzzlement. If there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that to acknowledge my memory of those few moments at the bus stop would be a monu-fucking-mental mistake. Our entire friendship is built on the dynamics of my position as her best friend’s boyfriend. I wait in silence and she withers in front of me. The jittery shimmer in her eyes dims and I know she wishes she could suck those words out of the air between us and back inside her body. If I could, I’d blow them back in there myself rather than have to hurt her with a lie.
“At your party,” I say gently.
“No. Before then,” she says, pressing me. “I think I saw you sitting at a bus shelter. Months before. A year before.”
Oh, Laurie, why is it never the coward’s way out for you? Trust me, it’s an easier path. Until you get called on it, that is. I feign complete ignorance, my best Hugh Grant nonplussed impression.
“I think the wine’s gone to your head, Lu. We first met at your Christmas party.”
She holds my gaze, silent and unwavering, and right there in front of me I see her slowly reach her limit and raise the white flag of defeat. Ten seconds. Fifteen, maybe. It seems longer, and I feel like the world’s biggest cock. Shit, I think she’s trying not to cry. I’m a complete fucking bastard. Should I have said I remembered? Would it have been better? For Laurie in this exact moment, probably kinder, but for Laurie next week or next month or next year? I don’t think so.
“I’m sorry,” she says, compounding my position as the big bad wolf. “Ignore me.”
“I’d never do that.” Three pints in and it seems that I’m struggling to maintain the lie too.
She blinks a few times and tears spike her lashes. “Maybe you should.”
I look at her, really look at her, and I don’t want to tell her any more lies today. She’s all kinds of vulnerable, and we’ve both had a drink.
“Maybe I should,” I acknowledge. “But I don’t want to. I like being with you too much.” Christ. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s on the edges of inappropriate, and it’s selfish.
“I like being with you too much too,” she whispers, and a single, desolate tear slides down her cheek.
“Don’t,” I breathe, my voice rough even to my own ears. “Please don’t cry.”
Only a hard-faced bastard would let a girl cry like this without comforting her, and despite the fact that I’ve told her lies, I’m not a hard-faced bastard, so I brush her tears away with my fingertips, my other arm still around her shoulders.
“It’s okay, honestly it is,” I murmur against her temple. How can she smell of wild summer flowers even in winter? Her skin is delicate under my fingertips, and although every atom of my being knows I should drop my hand, I hold her face instead, following her jawline with my thumb. For a moment we stay like that, until she moves slightly to look up at me and her mouth is suddenly dangerously close to mine.
I don’t think she’s breathing. I don’t think I am either. Jesus, she has the most beautiful mouth this close up. Full and trembling. I can taste the wine on the warm heat of her breath. She moves forward, I think, and I swear there isn’t any air between our lips. I’m anguished. Torn.
“I can’t kiss you, Laurie. I can’t.”
Laurie
I’ve drunk too much wine, and I’m the shabbiest person in the world, but I couldn’t move away from Jack now even if this pub was burning down. We’re caught in a tiny capsule of time, this unexpected booth at the end of the world, and there is just his generous mouth and his kind eyes and his warm, comforting hands. If this were a TV show I’d be shouting stop, because I’d know that however good they seem together, the shit would hit the fan further down the line. But this isn’t make-believe, it’s real life, and in real life people make mistakes. I raise my head, and if he kisses me I won’t have the power to stop myself from kissing him back, because to me he looks exactly as he did that day at the bus stop, and for a second I’m that girl on the bus in 2008 again. My dad isn’t sick, and Jack isn’t Sarah’s boyfriend, and there’s tinsel in my hair. I can almost hear the whirl of time turning back, whooshing past my ears like the sound of an old-fashioned tape recorder being rewound or a vinyl record being played backward. God, I don’t think I can stop this from happening.
“I can’t kiss you, Laurie. I can’t.”
His words land on my heart like hailstones. Shit. What in God’s name am I doing? What kind of hideous lowlife am I? I need to get away from him.
“Christ,” I whisper, panicked, pressing my shaking fingers against my lips. I’m on my feet, scrabbling for my bags and half running out of the pub before I really know what I’m going to do, and it’s only when the bitter-cold air hits me that I realize I don’t h
ave my coat and it’s snowing steadily.
“Laurie! Laurie, wait up.”
He’s out of breath, my coat clutched in his hands as he catches hold of my sleeve. “Please, just stop a second, will you?”
I pull away, too hard, spilling the shopping from one of my bags over the quiet backstreet. He helps me to shove it back in and wraps my coat around my shivering shoulders, then he wraps his arms around my coat, holding me until the heat penetrates my clothes and my bones. It’s so very, very warm from the fire, and I close my eyes because I’m inexplicably in tears again. I’m not generally a crier, yet today my tear ducts seem to be bursting their banks.
“Laurie,” he whispers, raw, his eyes star-bright in the streetlamps. “The last thing I ever want to do is hurt you.”
“I’m such a fool,” I whisper. “I don’t even know why I’m crying.”
Jack sighs, exasperated, kind. “Because you’re tired, and you’re worried, and you feel as if you’re always swimming against the tide.”
He rubs my back as he speaks low and steady against my ear, his body sheltering mine from the snow. I know he understands my distress all too well; he lost his own father at an age no boy should. My back is turned to the wall, and my fight is gone because he’s saying such incredibly comforting things and he’s holding me close. I’m so very tired of swimming. Most of the time I feel like the tide is going to pull me under, but here in Jack’s arms I feel as if he’s just reached over the side of a life raft and hauled me to safety. I realize, bleakly, that I don’t think there will ever be a time when I don’t have feelings for this man.
“I wanted you to kiss me, Jack,” I say, bereft. It’s not as if he isn’t aware what I wanted back there; to be coy would be pointless. “I don’t like myself for it.”
He strokes my hair, cups my chin, looks me in the eyes. “If I tell you something, do you promise to never tell another living soul, not even a goldfish?”
I swallow, eye to eye with him as I nod, and he takes my face between both of his hands. Whatever he’s about to say, I think it’s something I’m going to remember forever.
“I wanted to kiss you back there in the pub, Laurie, and I want to kiss you even more right now. You’re one of the loveliest people I’ve ever met in my whole life.” He looks away, down the length of the deserted street and then back at me again. “You’re beautiful and kind, and you make me laugh, and when you look at me like that with your summer hedgerow eyes…only a fucking saint wouldn’t kiss you.”
Then he leans me against the wall with the weight of his body, and because he isn’t a fucking saint, he kisses me. Jack O’Mara dips his head and kisses me in the snow, his lips trembling and then hot and sure, and I’m crying and kissing him back, opening my mouth to let his tongue slide over mine as he makes this low, injured animal noise in his throat. I feel the relief of him in every follicle of my hair, and in every cell of my body, and in the blood in my veins. His breathing is as shallow as mine, and it’s so much more than I’ve ever imagined, and trust me, I used to let my imagination run riot where Jack O’Mara was concerned.
He holds my face as if I’m precious and then pushes his fingers into my hair, cupping my head in his hands when I tip it back.
This is the only time we will ever kiss each other. He knows it, I know it, and it’s so achingly melancholy-sexy that I feel tears threaten again.
I cling to the lapels of his winter coat, our kiss salty with my tears, and I open my eyes to look at him because I want to remember this kiss till the day I die. His eyes are closed, his snow-damp lashes a dark sweep on his cheek, all of his attention focused on our once-in-a-lifetime kiss.
We break off at last, the spell broken by the engine of a car crawling slowly past because of the inclement weather. Our breath almost crystallizes on the ice-cold air as it leaves our bodies in sharp, painful bursts.
“Let’s be kind to each other about this,” he tells me. I expect he wishes that his voice were more steady than it is. “We both know it shouldn’t have happened, but it doesn’t have to mean anything, and it doesn’t need to change anything.”
It’s such a searing understatement that I almost laugh; the sigh that leaves me as I look away from him is rent with longing and self-loathing, and quiet “no one will ever kiss me like that again” distress.
“Maybe if we’d met under different circumstances,” I say, looking at him again after a while, and he nods.
“In a heartbeat.”
On cue, a taxi trundles slowly along the side street toward us, and he raises his hand to flag it down. It’s a good decision.
“Not a soul,” he reminds me quietly as he opens the door and puts my bags inside.
“Not even a goldfish,” I whisper as I climb in. I don’t smile to make light of it, because it’s not even slightly funny.
He hands the driver a note. “Take her home safely,” he says. His eyes hold mine for a few long seconds as he slams my door. I’m reminded of the last time I watched him disappear into the night. I didn’t know him then; I had no control. It isn’t like that tonight. I know who he is, and how he tastes, and for a split second I long to open the door of the cab, to stop history from repeating itself.
I don’t. Of course I don’t. Despite the fairy-tale snowstorm out there, this isn’t Narnia. This is London, real life, where hearts get kicked and bruised and broken, but somehow they still keep beating. I watch him recede as the taxi lurches cautiously away, and he watches me too, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his shoulders bunched against the wind. I lay my head against the cold glass as we turn the corner, my heart and my conscience lead heavy in my chest.
I wish I’d never laid eyes on Jack O’Mara.
2011
NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTIONS
I’m not sure I should even write this down in case anyone finds it, even a goldfish.
1) I resolve to never, ever kiss my best friend’s boyfriend ever again. In fact, I’m never going to allow even one errant thought about him to enter my head.
2) I’m putting all unplatonic thoughts of Jack O’Mara into a crate, sealing it with bright yellow “toxic” stickers and chucking it into the hinterland at the back of my head.
JANUARY 1
Jack
“Happy New Year, mermaid girl.”
Sarah laughs as I pull her into my arms.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper into her hair, making a silent resolution to not kiss anyone other than Sarah this year.
“What for?” She holds me at arm’s length, her eyes narrowed slightly.
Shit. “For eating so much garlic last night. God knows how you’re able to come anywhere near this stench, I can smell it every time I yawn.”
She looks kind of amused and kind of confused. It’s a good job we’re both more than halfway toward being drunk, because it’s exactly the kind of comment that could land me in all sorts of trouble. Honestly, it’s as if the truth is trying to leak out of me. I’m a gas can riddled with holes, an accident waiting to happen.
Laurie
HNY, Lu! Love you!
I trace the letters of Sarah’s text with my fingertip as I lie in bed. The New Year is less than two hours old, but nonetheless, I kissed Jack last year, not this one. This one is a clean sheet.
Love you too, Sar, hope you’re not too drunk! HNY xx
I press send, then click my phone off and lie facing the ceiling in the darkness. I’m grateful that my parents didn’t rush to reclaim my room as a study or a spare room when I left for college; it’s pretty much as I left it, comforting and familiar. I’ve never been one to stick posters on the walls, but my childhood books line the shelf over the desk and the lilac dress I wore to my high school prom still hangs in my wardrobe. I cannot put a value on how much these things mean to me right now. Being in here is like stepping into a t
ime capsule, or into my own protective Tardis, perhaps. Where would I have my personal Tardis fly me to, I wonder? I know the answer. I’d take it back to December 21, 2008 and I’d make myself miss that bloody bus. That way I’d never have seen Jack O’Mara before Sarah introduced us, and everything would have been okay. I don’t for a second think that I’d have allowed myself the luxury of anything other than platonic feelings for him then, and I wouldn’t be lying here now feeling lower than a snake’s belly. Before the kiss, I’d been able to uneasily square things with myself. I’d struggled with my feelings for him and I’d felt like a crap friend because of it, but I’d stayed on the right side of the line.
What I’ve done now is unconscionable; I can’t even attempt to justify it to myself. I haven’t seen either Sarah or Jack since that afternoon in London. I know he swore me to secrecy, but he didn’t have the right to ask it of me. I’m not blaming him, we carry the burden equally. And I don’t know if telling Sarah would be the honorable thing or just a way to make myself feel better and her feel worse. I’d lose her. I know that much. She’d probably ditch Jack too; there would be no winners. I don’t feel worried that he’s someone who will be a serial strayer, constantly ratting around behind her back; if that were the case I’d tell her without question. Perhaps I’m flattering myself, but what happened felt more personal than that, a few minutes of madness that will weigh heavily on both of our consciences.