by Kim Cong
“Go on,” Evie encouraged.
“Paxton and I have this long, repressed history. Anytime we were about to have sex something got in the way. And then the one time sex was on the cards, my parents’ death happened. And then he immediately got deployed and shit just got crazy.” I ran a hand through my hair, pausing to try to explain the enormity of this situation.
“He never looked back. You have to understand that I did everything I could think of to keep our relationship alive. I wrote, I emailed. I sent care packages. Even when he was home, I never saw him.”
“Wait. And you slept with this guy? I mean.” Addie paused, shaking her head. “You said some of this other night but I thought he’d at least have called or seen you sometimes.”
“No.” I looked down at the linens on Evie’s bed. “Not even once. The last time I saw him was the day after the funeral. He’d only stopped long enough to say goodbye. Courtney was in the house screaming and crying. I barely had any grip on my emotions. I lost it. I didn’t want him to go. I screamed and cried and pounded at him.” I shook my head. “Finally, I told him to get out.”
“And he did?”
“Of course. He had to. His unit was due to leave within the hour. He didn’t have time to stay and calm me down.”
“Geeze.” Evie leaned over the bed, grunting with pain, snagged my hand and squeezed. “I want to hug you but I can’t so this will have to do.” I squeezed it back, giving her a wet and wobbly smile.
“I’m okay. I got over it. It was… it was a lot of loss in a short period and I felt like I needed him. I realised within a week that I didn’t. That I was capable and able to deal. I had to. I had to be strong and tough and—”
“You’d just lost both parents. Your monetary situation, from what I understand, was a joke. You were taking over guardianship of your sister and the one person who you loved and who supported you went overseas to fight in a far-off country.” Addie looked me dead in the eye. “Do I have that right?”
I nodded.
“To point out the obvious—you didn’t get over it. You aren’t over it.”
I paused, feeling that hit right in my gut. The words settled like lead.
“Holy shit.”
Addie nodded solemnly. “I am Oprah.”
“She totally is. Her truth smacks hurt but are so on target it’s scary.”
“I don’t trust Pax.” I finally took the time to admit what Pax had said it to me. I’d known but hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it, to admit that I had a problem. “I slept with him. But I don’t trust him.”
Addie and Evie both nodded encouragingly, waiting for more.
“I can’t… I don’t… who am I?”
“Honey.” Evie interrupted my musings. “To recap—he left you a day after your parents’ funeral and then didn’t contact you for ten years. I think trust is the least of your issues.”
“I thought… I mean I went to him for help.”
“And then he was Pax. A typical man and tried to take over and do everything for you without informing you on his course of action. Correct?” That came from Addie.
“Actually, no.” I huffed out a small wryly laugh. “Actually, he was pretty awesome about it. Told me from the start that he would help me, keep me safe. Get Courtney into rehab and keep me out of trouble. And to be fair, he’s the expert in this, not me. So I kind of agreed to go along with it.”
“So what’s the problem then?”
I sighed. “I’m such an idiot. The problem is control. I’ve had to control every aspect of my life and Courtney’s for the last ten years. I’ve been in charge. I’ve been the parent and the sister and the enemy and the friend. I’ve been mother and father. I’ve had to make the hard decisions. Well, all the decisions actually. I was the one who had to pick up the tattered remnants of our life and deal with a hurting teenager who wanted to live the rock-star lifestyle on a fucking coupon budget.”
I shook my head, my brain racing as it tried to process my thoughts. “I did that alone. My friends didn’t want to know me. Kathy, Pax’s mum, she helped, but she had her own life and Pax to worry about. She didn’t need me or Courtney worrying her more.”
I stood and paced the room, agitated. “The only part I couldn’t control was him. Paxton was the unknown. So to control it, I invented a lie. I had this fantasy. This stupid fucking fantasy that he was still looking out for me. For us. That he still wanted to be with me. That he wanted to be the guy for me but couldn’t. You know? That they didn’t let them write or communicate or something.”
I shook my head again. “Stupid. Stupid naïve little girl.” I swung back around to face the two women who were watching me with understanding expressions.
“I would send him care packages and write to him, thinking we were still in a relationship. Thinking that we still had something, you know? God.” I rubbed a hand over my face. “I’m an idiot. I’ve fabricated this lie and because he’s not living up to my expectations of being who I thought he would be now, I’m freaking out and saying shit and doing crazy things and not bothering to build this relationship with him.”
“And just to interrupt. But trust and control go hand-in hand. If you don’t trust someone, it’s nearly impossible to give up control,” Addie pointed out.
“You’re right. I don’t have any control over any part of this situation and it’s driving me crazy. I haven’t had to worry about making decisions with someone else’s input before. At least not in a romantic relationship sense. And it’s not like I don’t like this Pax and respect him and think he’s awesome. I mean he’s sweet and kind. He likes my singing and makes me laugh when I’m dealing with heavy issues. He doesn’t mind my freakouts, just deals with them. I mean I walked in, dumped a bombshell and he took the blast and contained it. He’s like Thor. Happy to be needed and just taking it all in stride. I need to sort my head and sort my issues with him so we can move onto a path where we have an actual partnership. Where our relationship is with the real me and the real Pax making decisions together. Not this fantasy I held in my head.”
“Having this conversation with him, not your girls would be good start.” Luc, who by this stage had dropped all pretence at not listening, stood, stretching to his full height, hands up above his head, and grinned. His shirt rode up a little, giving us a peek at his abdomen.
“Sorry. Hard not to be engaged by an ‘I am woman hear me roar’ speech.” He did not look sorry one bit. He dropped his hands, hiding the silver of skin, and folded his arms over his chest.
“Look. Pax has shit he still has to deal with. Shit he hasn’t. We’re men. So we don’t do emotions and stuff on a good day. But worse, we’re army—we don’t do crying and emotions and bullshit like that because that’s not what gets you through tours of duty. I came home to a mother and sisters who wouldn’t leave me alone. They basically moved in with me and made me talk. You ever met my mother? She makes Leigh Anne Tuohy look like a lamb.”
“Was that a The Blind Side reference?” Evie laughed at him.
“I thought it was a football movie. It was not.” He shook his head. “Look. I get you have Pax issues. But he has Jet issues. And those hens just came home to roost. The motherfucker is so tied up in you that he laughed about you trashing his house. Laughed!”
“And that’s before you even throw both of you bumping naughties into the mix.”
“Addie!”
“What? I’m just saying sex, especially as the guy is your first, complicates this issue even more.”
I sighed heavily, my shoulders slumping. “You’re right. We need to abstain.”
Everyone in the room sucked in a breath and then burst out laughing.
“Good luck,” Evie choked out, holding her side and grimacing.
A cute nurse in pink scrubs bustled in at that moment and stopped, taking in the room. Her eyes paused on Luc and twinkled. I hid a smile. She glanced at Evie, then frowned.
“What are you…? No!” She looked at us. “Out! Now! Ms Fra
nklin is meant to have taken her painkillers and be sleeping right now.”
I looked at Evie, who was looking sheepish. “Hashtag sorry, not sorry.”
“Out!”
We waved and shuffled out, calling goodbyes.
Addie linked her arm with mine. “So. Plan of attack?”
“I don’t know. Sit him down and tell him the truth? Be honest about things?” Things like Paul’s offer for instance.
“Can I suggest somewhere not near a bed?”
I blushed. “Luc?”
“Yo.”
“Can you take me to the office?”
Jetta
I waited in Pax’s office. At first I paced, leaving all his stuff alone. Then I sat and stared at the pictures on the wall, analysing why he’d chosen them. Finally, I gave in to curiosity and started shuffling through his papers.
Pax, I was learning, did not leave much just laying around. His desk was neat and tidy, more, I assumed, Addie’s doing than his. He had a fountain pen, a neat stack of Post-it notes, including one with a reminder to pick up milk, and other general office supplies. I found his new day-by-day calendar and started writing silly things on different days.
Finally, I gave in to curiosity and shuffled through his drawers. The first one held another stationary collection. I pulled out highlighters and swapped lids on colours because I could and knew it would make him laugh. The second drawer was locked, so I left it. The third one was where I hit the jackpot. Inside were his personal things. A bottle of strong whiskey and a few glasses, his war medals. These I took out and gently laid on the desk. They deserved pride of place, not locked in a drawer for no one to see. Their placement spoke loudly, shouting at me this was a tender point we needed to deal with.
Under a small wooden box, I found them. The letters. The pictures.
My letters.
My pictures.
I sat back on his chair, slowly flicking through the many memories.
May. I’m sorry. Please write back.
June. Courtney hates everything about me. I don’t know if I can make this right.
September. I miss you. I miss you so goddamn much. Every day I want you here.
December. Merry Christmas, Paxton Elliot. Come home safe.
February. It’s so hot. All I want to do is sit in a pool and drink ice water.
August. I can’t afford a new car. I can’t even afford the electricity bill. I’m sinking and I don’t know how to swim.
November. We’re okay. Money is still tight but I’m working it out. I miss you. Be safe.
So many letters. All of them. He’d kept every single one. They weren’t all clean. Some had dust and grit. Some were torn, the folded creases worn through. Some of them had been handled so much words were missing.
I looked through the photos, feeling my heart clench. Some were ones we’d taken together. God, we were so young. So innocent, with no idea of how much happiness had to be earned. Some were pictures Kathy had sent him. Picture’s I’d never even seen before. Clandestine pictures of me at parties or with Courtney. At school functions or musical things. I couldn’t believe it. There were a few I’d sent him. I assumed he’d have torn them up. Or lost them. But no, they were there. Me smiling.
I opened the wooden box and felt my heart stop.
Inside were all my CDs. All the CDs I’d ever sent to him, made for him. Me singing for him. Reminding him of why he went and why I wanted him to make it home. Singing what my letters couldn’t express.
The fantasy.
Underneath them all was a black-and-white picture of me. It looked to be from about two years ago. The most recent one that he had. It was worn, old sticky tape on the back. And with it was the final letter.
I love you. Forever. But I can’t wait for something that won’t happen.
“You found them.”
I looked up, tears spilling down my cheeks. Pax was leaning against the door. He’d quite obviously been there a while, legs crossed at the ankles, hands in pockets. He was wearing nice shoes, dark jeans and a white button-up business shirt, the long sleeves rolled up his arms. He looked delicious.
I swiped at my eyes, nodding.
He pushed away from the doorframe and came over to sit on the desk, spinning the chair so I was framed between his knees.
“I told you I kept them.”
I didn’t say anything, just looked into his deep green eyes.
“I hear you’ve booked out two hours with me.” His lips quirked into a small grin. “What can I do for you, Ms Oliver?”
“I don’t trust you.” The words burst from my lips before I could soften them. I watched him take that hit, his eyes closing. For long moments neither of us spoke, my words lying heavily between us.
“I know.” He shook his head ruefully, his lips twisting into a bitter grimace. “I did say as much the other day.”
“How did you know?” I barely recognised my voice.
“Well, the crazy psycho episode I came home to tipped me off.” We grinned weakly at each other. My lips wobbled. He lifted a hand and, leaning forward, wiped a tear off my cheek. “But you haven’t told me.”
“Told you what?”
“About Paul. About the conversation you two had on Saturday.”
“When did you—?”
“I overheard your part of the conversation. I waited. You never said anything. That clued me in that something wasn’t right. We used to talk about everything.” He touched the letters littered across my lap. “We still did even when I had nothing to say.”
I swallowed hard. Struggled to find the words. “I’m not that girl anymore. You can’t expect me to be.”
“I know.” His lips twitched. “You grew up.”
“Yeah. Without you.” Again he flinched, my words cutting deeply.
“Jetta—”
“No. I deserve an explanation at the very least.”
He leaned back. “I don’t know—”
“Just tell me. Tell me, Pax. Help me understand.”
“It was that day! That final fucking day.” My eyes met his. Pax’s eyes were heated, angry, frustrated, and, to my surprise, there was fear and shame in there too. “You’d just buried two people who you loved. I watched that. I suffered through that with you, Jetta. I watched you break apart and knew I wouldn’t be there to help put you back together.”
“I didn’t need you to put me back together.”
“But I wanted to. Do you get that? I wanted it more than anything. I wanted to be the one who held you while you cried and helped you work shit out. But I couldn’t because I’d signed up to be the hero. I’d signed up to go off to war.”
“Pax—”
“No. Let me finish.”
My mouth clicked shut.
“I saw you, Jetta. More than you saw yourself in those grief stages. You were devastated. You were broken. If something happened to me….” He trailed off. “I couldn’t live with that. I couldn’t have lived with you being that broken up again.”
“And you thought you were doing me a favour by ceasing all contact.”
“At first, yeah. And I like I said, I was busy. But then you were damned persistent and kept writing. And by year three…” He sighed and shrugged. “I just didn’t know how to tell you to stop.”
“You wanted me to stop?”
He ran hands through his hair again. His agitation was like another person in the room, filling all the space.
“I don’t know. I just… I was sleeping with other women. I was trying to move on with my life and hoping you would too. It didn’t feel right to have you keep writing.”
I took that. While I’d been martyring myself, he’d been off having fun. Well, getting shot at, but still he’d managed to have relationships.
“You were having fun.”
“Yeah,” he admitted with a quiet huffing laugh. “I needed the escape.” His eyes locked on to mine. “You were never going to be my first, Jetta.”
“I know.”
&nbs
p; “But I had wanted you to be my last.”
“You left.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I left.”
We both fell silent, processing.
“You kept them, though.” I shuffled the letters. “I kept writing all those years. Why would you keep them? Why would you even read them?”
He rubbed a hand across his face, fingers rasping across his late-afternoon stubble. “Life over there is hard. I liked the fact that I could rely on these coming. On the letters being there when I got back from a patrol.” He fingered the lined paper. “I allowed myself to read one a month.”
“But I sent—”
“I know. Like three, four a week. In bad weeks you’d send one a day. I couldn’t trust myself with more than one a month. So I just kept them. I liked reading about normality. Didn’t help with the guilt though.”
“Guilt?”
“I knew you still loved me. I was fucking around on you. I hated that I was too selfish to ask you to stop. Besides, I liked knowing I could make a small difference.”
“A small difference? How? By keeping us safe?” I was confused.
“No, by making you money.”
Again I had no idea what he was saying. “What are you talking about?”
He picked through to one of the most worn letters. It was from year three. At that stage I’d sold everything we owned, moved us to a small apartment in Canberra, and been struggling to hold down two jobs, a side business repairing old instruments, and keep my eye on a rebellious teenager.
“Dear Pax,” his deep voice began reading my letter. “We’re broke. We have no money. The tuition for Courtney’s school cleaned us out. She needs to be there, somewhere she has friends and feels safe and included. But it means we can’t afford the rent. Or the electricity bill. Or the millions of other things like food and water and clothes that we need. I don’t know how we’re going to cope. I’ve sold everything I could. Everything except the last few memories of Mum and Dad. But it’s been three years. Who knows if anyone will even buy them? Mum’s piano, Dad’s guitars. A few signed pieces. Family photos.”
“The car died today. I can’t afford a new one. I can’t even afford a cheeseburger. I’m sinking and I don’t know how to swim. I called Paul, but he’s up to his eyeballs in debt. Says starting a record company is hard. I don’t like to bother him. The other guys from the band are all over the world. They can hardly drop everything and welcome us in. I wanted so badly to be a good person. To be the person Courtney needed me to be for her. Instead, I failed us both.” He paused, glancing up from the worn paper then back down.