by Luana Ferraz
“Okay. But if you need anything—”
“I won’t,” he assures me.
“Right,” I nod. “Good night, then.”
“Night,” he says.
I feel weird leaving him alone in my living room. I feel weird climbing the steps to my old room. I feel weird lying on the bed where I spent the first 16 years of my life. Gosh, what am I doing here?
DAY SIX
I wake up to the smell of coffee. I roll around my extremely comfortable bed fishing for my phone. I slept with it under my pillow, just in case. I try to find out what time it is, but can’t. I sit up with difficulty. When I can finally focus, I see it’s only seven in the morning and there’s only one message—from Pete, around the time he must have estimated I would arrive. Unsurprisingly, I forgot to text him.
‘I’m here. I’m alive.’
I text back and stretch. I can’t remember the last time I slept so well. I think there’s something about the bed you spent your childhood on.
The smell makes my stomach rumble, and the thought of Tyler perusing my house alone makes me jump out of bed. I run to the bathroom, as I really need to pee, and my own reflection on the mirror startles me. I have those big dark circles under my eyes due to sleeping in my make-up, and my curls are one big tangle. I do my business, wash my face, wet my hair, trying to comb through it with my fingers. But no matter what I do, I still pretty much look like an upside broom, so I give up.
Then, I walk to my old wardrobe. I open it and cringe at my colorful teenage fashion choices. It’s hard to believe there was a time I actually wore pastel pink. Or trousers. I fish around for something that will not hurt my punk pride. I settle for a grey pair of skinny jeans and a navy, over-sized sweatshirt. I loved this sweatshirt! I don’t remember why I left it here, but I’m certainly taking it back with me this time.
As I climb down the stairs, I can hear Tyler’s voice. For a moment, I panic about someone else being in the house, but as I approach the kitchen I realize he’s singing. I don’t recognize the song, but his voice is nice on the ears and his runs are pretty. I stop right outside the door, just to listen to him a little bit longer. When he turns the sink on and his voice gets muffled, I decide to go in.
“Morning,” I say, startling him for a change.
“Morning,” he half turns to me, a pan in hand. And then he does a double-take, frowning as he checks my outfit.
“What are you doing?” I ask, eying the pan in his hand.
“Uh…” He tears his gaze from me to the pan. “Just washing.”
He stares for a moment before continuing what he was doing. I watch as he rinses the last of the dirty dishes that were in the sink the night before.
“Tyler…” I gasp as I walk over to him. I don’t know what to say. Actually, I do, I should say ‘thank you’, but the words don’t come out.
“I made coffee,” he says as he dries his hands on a dishcloth.
I just look at him, suddenly taken aback by his presence. By his attitude. By how good he looks under the morning light in my childhood kitchen. By how calm I am about all of it.
“Are you angry?” he asks carefully, cocking his head to one side.
“Wha-no! No, of course not,” I stutter, looking away.
“Right. I thought you might get angry because I went through your stuff without you to make coffee. That’s why I decided to wash the dishes, I thought it would make you less angry,” he babbles, making it evident he really gets talkative after waking up.
“I’m not angry,” I repeat, unable to suppress a smile.
“So it worked,” he says it like a question, narrowing his eyes. My smile broadens. “Good.”
I shake my head and proceed to get a mug, fill it with coffee, and help myself with another slice of apple pie. I sit at the island again and as I eat and drink I decide this is the best breakfast I’ve had in a long time.
“How did you sleep?” I ask as Tyler sits opposite me again, with his own coffee mug and pie.
“Fine. Your couch is surprisingly comfortable.”
“Is it? Why did you wake up so early, then?”
“The sun.” He points his thumb back to the big kitchen window. “I can’t sleep if it’s not completely dark.”
“Yeah, the living room curtain is a sham,” I complain, remembering the days I used to wake up with the sun on my eyes there.
“I got a good six hours, though.”
“Plus the three in the car, you should be able to go 24 hours awake now,” I joke.
“Is this a dare?” He narrows his eyes.
“No,” I chuckle.
“We can make it a dare,” he suggests.
“Why?” He sounds like an eight-year-old.
“No sleeping until tomorrow morning.” He points one finger to me.
“You’ll regret this.” I shake my head, amused. “Sleeping is probably the most interesting thing to do around here.”
“We’ll see.” He finishes his breakfast and leans over on the island. “Dare?”
“Fine,” I roll my eyes, but the smile never leaves my face. “You weirdo.”
Before he can protest, my phone interrupts us—it’s Johanna, Pete’s mom. My heart races.
We chat briefly about the visiting hours. She says she won’t be able to make it today, trying to apologize for something that isn’t even her responsibility. Pete has a lot of her in him. I say that there is no problem, she shouldn’t even have to worry about this, and we only hang up after I promise I’ll stop by to see her and Dan at the store.
“News?” Tyler asks.
“No,” I sigh. “But I’ll find out soon enough. Visiting starts at nine.”
I look up to the clock. We still have an hour to go. I immediately start to panic—how am I going to fill an entire hour of waiting alone with Tyler? I look at him then and, sure enough, he’s staring at me, that curious look on his face.
“What?” I ask.
“What what?” he asks back, his curiosity frown deepening.
“What do you want to ask?” I say. His eyes widen a little.
“How do you know I want to ask something?”
“You’re making your inquire face,” I say.
“My what?” he chuckles.
“You have an inquire face. Every time you want to ask something, you look like this,” I say and then I try to mock his expression.
He laughs, the lines on his forehead smoothing out. I like this expression better.
We remain silent for a while after he calms down. He sips his coffee, and then he looks back at me, with an expression I can’t read this time.
“You’re observant,” he remarks.
I told you, I see you.
I feel a tug in my stomach. I know he wants me to say it. And although I do see him, more than I’d like to admit, I can’t say it. Mostly because it really is a lousy pick-up line. So, instead, I say, “What’s the question?”
His smirk fades a little—at least I think it does—as he speaks what’s on his mind. “What are you wearing?”
I frown, looking down at myself. “Clothes?”
He rolls his eyes.
“What?” I frown, not willing to talk about it.
“They’re normal clothes,” he says, gesticulating with one hand.
“Oh, my other clothes are abnormal clothes?”
“That’s not…” he sighs. “That’s not what I meant.”
I know it isn’t. I still enjoy irritating him, though. I stare, raising my eyebrows, silently asking him to explain himself.
“I’m not… you look… different,” he stutters.
“That’s the whole purpose,” I say.
“Why?”
“Maybe I just want to look like a regular person for once.”
“That would be hard,” he scoffs. I give him an offended look. He smiles and points to my head, “You still have purple hair.”
“Right,” I say, reaching up to the tangled mess on top of my head. “Can’t hi
de that.”
“Hide?” he repeats, the curious look back on his face. Before I have time to think of a smart-ass comeback, though, he understands what I’m doing. “Oooh, grandma.”
“Yep,” I say, standing up and collecting our dishes.
“You shouldn’t have to pretend to be someone else just to please people,” he says, making me turn back to him in anger even though I agree with him.
“It isn’t people, it’s my grandmother,” I argue, as if I cared about it before. “And she’s at the hospital. The least I can do is try to not upset her even more.”
“Right,” he says, clearly embarrassed. “Right, you’re right, I’m sorry.”
I stare at his sheepish face for a while, wondering if I was too harsh. I never know when I do it. Maybe because I do it all the time.
I sigh, once again frustrated with my lack of social abilities. I look down at my outfit, trying to see it through his eyes. It is a stark contrast to what he’s been used to see me in.
“I do miss the skirt, I’m not gonna lie,” I joke.
“Me too,” he says, almost giving me a heart attack.
I look up with wide eyes. He seems to notice what he’s said and starts to blush. Like, get properly red on the face.
“I mean, I mean, i-it suits you,” he stutters. Oh, God. I can’t let it slide, can I?
“And this doesn’t,” I snort, looking back down.
“I didn’t say that,” he argues, still nervous.
“I look like a sack of potatoes,” I pull the sweatshirt, feigning irritation.
“Hardly,” he says softly.
“I’m not even wearing make-up,” I cover my face with my hands, this time actually self-aware.
“You still look beautiful.”
I freeze, my own face heating up now. I can’t believe he said that. I can’t believe he’s gonna throw me off because he said that.
I risk a glance at him from behind my fingers. He meets my eyes and smiles. Not that idiotic smirk of when he’s being arrogant. Not the sarcastic grin of when he’s making fun of me. No, it’s an honest smile. One that makes me smile back.
Shit.
I turn around, suddenly very worried about the dirty dishes from our simple breakfast. I roll up my sleeves and start to wash them, all the while thinking of something to say. And very aware of his eyes on me. But the only thing I can think about is that he thinks I’m pretty. Ugh. I don’t even like it when people comment on my looks. Why now, with him, my brain thinks it’s a good time to get all mushy over it?
Then, I spot the car keys near the sink, reminding me of what I have to do. Grandma. Hospital. Stop lusting over the pop star.
I finish the dishes and grab the keys, finally turning around to look at him—to find that he is, indeed, looking at me.
“I think I’ll get going,” I say awkwardly.
“Do you want me to come with you?” he asks, his face unreadable. When I take too long just staring into his small blue eyes, he speaks again. “Can I come with you?”
“Don’t you rather stay?” I suggest. I don’t think I can handle sitting with him in the car right now.
“No,” he says, standing up and walking to the hall.
“Actually, you should stay,” I follow him.
“I’ll go,” he insists, putting on his jacket and opening the door.
“What will you do at the hospital?” I follow him outside, mildly desperate now. “I’m certain you’d be more entertained here, going through my stuff unsupervised.”
“Good point.” He actually pauses with this and turns around to face me, making me regret the suggestion. But then he smirks—the sarcastic one. His eyes light up in amusement at my surprise. I roll mine. “Come on.”
So I lock the door of the house and unlock the car. And drive Tyler Hackley to see my grandmother at the hospital.
***
The short drive is excruciating. Neither of us says a single word, and I know he knows I’m thinking about what he said. Which means he’s thinking about it, too. And I don’t know why I’m making such a big deal out of it, since I have actual problems to deal with at the moment, but the more I think about it, the more uneasy I get. Some psycho theory about the reason he’s come with me to Alnwick starts to form at the edges of my mind, but I don’t have time to let it develop, as we reach the hospital and I park near the entrance.
Tyler follows me out of the car and into the building in silence. I identify myself at the desk and a nurse directs me to the right floor. My heartbeat picks up as flashes of the last conversation—or the last fight—we had start to torment me.
I talk to yet another nurse at the main station of the fourth floor and she points me out to grandma’s room, even though I’m 30 minutes early for visitation. I choose to not mention that to her.
“I’ll wait here,” Tyler says, sitting down at one of the benches in the waiting area.
Then I freeze. I can’t turn around. I can’t take another step. Pete was right, I’m not ready for this. I shouldn’t be here.
“Unless you want me to come,” he adds softly, deepening my mortification. But I still can’t move, so he stands up again and takes one of my hands on his, leading the way.
We reach her door and I can see she’s awake through the strap of glass.
“If we leave now…” I whisper, suddenly wanting to be anywhere else but here.
“We’re not leaving,” Tyler says firmly.
“I wish Pete was here,” I blurt out.
“Me too.” This makes me look at him. He’s looking at me, his brow furrowed, his eyes concerned. Crap. It shouldn’t be him. It shouldn’t be here. What am I doing?
“You don’t have to—”
“I know,” he interrupts me, like we’re long-time friends and this is a common exchange. “Go on.”
He squeezes my hand, the one that’s still holding his, and I finally let go.
I take a deep breath and one step forward. And another. And another. Until I reach the door. Then I open it.
Grandma’s eyes meet mine. Her face darkens with a mix of surprise, regret, and disappointment. At least that’s what she should be feeling. I remember the last time I saw that look.
“If you step out of that door, don’t even think about coming back!”
“Don’t worry, granny, I have no intentions to set foot in this hell-hole ever again!”
That was our last interaction. That was four years, three months, and twenty-one days ago. I wish I could say I wasn’t counting, I wish I could say I don’t wake up every morning and mentally add a day to that invisible calendar. One more day alive. One more day after him.
Four years, seven months, and thirteen days ago, Pete dragged me to Alnwick for the holidays. I only came because he was too close to taking matters in his own hands. He was paying too much attention. My lies and justifications weren’t working anymore. He was worried sick and I was a mess, so I came.
Two days after Christmas, we received a call—our landlord, saying someone had broken into our flat. Someone had died inside our flat. Someone who happened to be my boyfriend at the time. I wish I didn’t remember that call, that day, the feeling of relief that washed over me when Pete came back from London with the confirmation it was really him. Externally, I didn’t react. Internally, I was so… happy. I wouldn’t have to see him anymore. He wouldn’t be able to put his hands on me anymore. I wouldn’t have to deal with the situation. I could just move on. Of course, it wasn’t as simple as it initially seemed it would be.
The first time he hit me, it was across the face—one of those open-hand slaps, that leaves your skin stinging and your vision blurry. I think I might have even fainted for a while, because the next thing I remember is he kneeling beside me, burying his head in my stomach, crying and apologizing, promising he would never do that again. I believed him. At least, that first time, I did. The next morning, when I looked in the mirror, the first thing that occurred to me was: you’re lucky you like wearing make-
up.
I didn’t know it would be so easy to let it happen. I didn’t know it would be so easy to convince myself that the good parts were worth the bad ones. To lie to the people that cared the most about me. To give up control. Pete says it was because of the drugs, of the alcohol, of his rhetoric. I’m not so sure. Sometimes I wish it was worse—maybe if I was below rock bottom, I wouldn’t remember. If I had used harder stuff. If I had stayed with him that Christmas.
I never told anyone what happened. No one even knew I was dating him, so there was no point in explaining he was dead. Or why he was dead. Pete, on the other hand, spilled every detail to his parents as soon as it happened. I don’t blame or resent him, that’s just how he is. Actually, I think I envy him a little bit. I wish I had such a close relationship with my parents. I wish I had parents to have a close relationship with.
He said he asked them to not tell anyone, and for a while I believed they didn’t. But when we decided to go back to London and try this music thing again, it became clear everyone knew about what had happened. They all flipped. We spent days in family reunions, explaining ourselves, recounting our steps, reliving our horrible mistakes. In the end, Pete managed to convince his family we deserved their trust. I didn’t convince Eileen.
At the same time that I was deeply hurt by her lack of faith in me, I could understand her reasons. She was abandoned, too. Her son left her, too. And now I was leaving her, telling her I was going to make sure it was for good. Part of me hoped it was. It seems I was wrong, though. It seems she didn’t expect me to be wrong.
“Rebecca?” she says hoarsely, her eyes open wide. “I thought you were on tour.”
“I am,” I say, already feeling hot tears fill my eyes. “But I had to see you.”
For an endless second, I think she’s going to tell me to leave. I think she’s going to yell, call the nurses, kick me out. She doesn’t, though. She smiles and opens her arms and the next thing I know I’m sobbing all over her hospital gown.
“It’s okay, petal, I’m okay, everything is okay,” she whispers in my hair as she holds me, running a soothing hand up and down my back. Honestly, I think this is why it’s so hard to come back. Because she makes it too hard to leave again.