by Luana Ferraz
Was it even a joke? I remember the way he looked at me on the roof the other night and that weird feeling I had about him being here reappears. Why is he here? How does he know so much? Is he a stalker? Is getting into my pants his ultimate goal? Maybe this is what it is all about—the band, the trip, everything. Maybe that’s all he wants.
Then I snort and shake my head.
“Who’s being ridiculous now?” I ask myself as I look in the mirror. Why do I keep reducing him to that? Maybe that’s what I want. Is it?
I put on my flannel pajamas and step out of the bathroom, letting out a small squeal—Tyler is there, standing at the door, looking around. He’s wearing gray sweatpants and a blue hoodie. His hair is damp from the shower. And then he meets my eyes. I feel my face burn, as if he can tell I was just thinking about him and sex.
“I half expected it to be entirely pink,” he jokes. “Or to find Justin Timberlake posters on the wall.”
“As if,” I snort, looking away, uncomfortable and hot. This is not happening. This is not happening. This is not happening.
I fuss around a little bit, folding my clothes, trying to hide my dirty underwear in the middle of them, painfully aware of his eyes following me. When I have nothing else to occupy my hands with, I look at him again.
“So?” he asks, putting his hands inside his hoodie pockets.
“So what?” I frown, trying to keep my eyes on his face.
“What do we do now?” he asks. It’s a simple question, with no sarcasm or hints behind it. It doesn’t stop my mind from coming up with a naughty suggestion, though. “Remember we can’t sleep.”
Fuck. We could…
“Eat!” I say loudly, trying to stop my thoughts. This is not happening. “Pizza?”
“Sounds great,” he nods, smiling. Why is he smiling? What happened to him being rude? Grumpy? Closed off?
I sigh, closing my eyes for a moment, cursing my social inability. Why do I have to be such a weirdo?
“Rebecca?” he calls and I open my eyes. He’s stepped inside, looking concerned. And I think it’s the first time he ever said my name.
“Yes, pizza,” I repeat, and he only nods.
I walk past him, smelling grandma’s shampoo, and my stomach churns in a dozen different emotions.
***
I order the goddamn pizza and we wait for it in silence. Not the same light, easy silence of before, but silence filled with the weight of my confusion. I try to use it to put my thoughts in order, but I have always struggled to segregate my feelings. I think it’s because it takes me too long to allow anything in—when I finally do, it overwhelms me.
The pizza arrives and I decide to move our little dinner to the backyard. It’s freezing outside, but at least I can breath better. We sit on my old swing and for a while the only sound is the creaking of its chains.
“How did you and Pete meet?” Tyler breaks the silence.
Pete. I wish he was here. I also remember I haven’t talked to him all day, he must be pissed. I sigh.
“We went to school together.”
“When did you start the band?”
“I think we were 13, or so.”
“Was it always punk?”
“Yes,” I chuckle, remembering our early haircuts. “Can you picture me doing anything else?”
“Hell no. If even seeing you in pants was weird…” he shakes his head and I laugh. “How did you decide to leave?”
“It was never a decision,” I shake my head. “It was the only option.”
“Was Alex from here, too?” he asks and I turn to look at him.
“No,” I frown. “We met him in London, right after we arrived.”
He lets the silence take over again as we munch on our pizza slices.
“Do you still have feelings for him?” he asks out of nowhere.
“What?” I gasp.
“You kind of flinch every time I say his name,” he explains, watching me closely. Then, he says, “Alex. See? You flinched.”
“Can’t you think of any reason for that, Tyler?” I ask him angrily.
“Because you still have feelings for him,” he says. My blood boils.
“I don’t,” I almost yell.
“Hate is a feeling,” he insists.
What the fuck? Who does he think he is to talk to me like this? To talk about this with such ease? Fuck him.
“Do you still have feelings for her?” I return the question.
“Who?” he frowns, like he doesn’t know who I’m talking about.
“Your girlfriend,” I spit out the word.
“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he argues.
“Not now, but you had once,” I recall what he told me in the car journey here. He frowns, confused and uncomfortable.
“A long time ago,” he mumbles.
“So, what happened? Did she break your heart?” I ask. Now, he flinches, the same way he claims I do when he talks about… him. “She did! Shocker, I didn’t think you had a heart.”
The hurt look he gives me is enough to make me instantly regret lashing out. He doesn’t know half of the story, it’s not his fault that I didn’t get over it. That I can’t get over it. Congratulations, Rebecca.
“Fuck you!” he yells, getting up and storming to the house.
“I’m sorry!” I get up, too, calling after him.
“Are you?” He turns around angrily. “Or are you just sorry you said it out loud?”
Ouch.
“I’m sorry, Tyler,” I repeat. I mean it. It’s useless. Because saying sorry doesn’t change the fact I said shit.
“Right,” he snorts. “You know what, I’m going to bed. You were right, sleeping is the best thing to do around here.”
“What about the dare?” I remind him vainly.
“Fuck it.”
***
I spend another hour outside in the cold, kind of punishing myself. I want to call Pete, but I left my phone in the house, and I don’t want to go get it. I don’t want to risk running into Tyler. I don’t want to see his glare.
I blame the house for my outburst. I hate coming here. There’s too much history, too much hurt, I always end up saying things I don’t mean.
I blame grandma. For being stubborn and not taking care of herself properly. Was it really that hard to keep healthy?
I blame Pete for being so reasonable and not being here with me. He should be here, or he should have convinced me not to come. None of this would have happened if he’d been an actual friend.
I blame Tyler himself. What is he even thinking anyway? What does he want? Why is he here? If he had kept to himself, if he stopped making questions, trying to get to know me…
I bury my cold face in my cold hands. How do people do this? How do they overcome? How do they move on? How do they connect? Why basic human function is so fucking hard for me?
I blame my parents. I blame them for leaving me and not teaching me how to be a person. I blame them for having me. I blame the universe for making them even meet.
My tears sting my eyes, tracing warm paths down my frozen skin. I get angrier. I’m so tired of crying. I’m so tired of being angry. I’m so tired of being myself. Why can’t we have days off of ourselves? I just wanted one day, just one day outside my head. Just one day away. One day of nothing.
I take deep breaths, recognizing this thought pattern, knowing I can’t let myself spiral down. The air is so cold my lungs hurt. I decide I’ve had enough of a pity party, so I grab the pizza box and head inside, before I too end up in the hospital.
I stop in the kitchen, letting my limbs warm up and eating another slice of cold pizza, as I’m still hungry. I put the rest into the refrigerator and turn off the lights. I walk over to the living room trying to make no noise, but Tyler is awake. He’s scrolling down on his phone, still wearing his pissed-off expression. I pause at the door, debating whether I should say anything.
“What?” He lifts his eyes from his phone, glaring.
“You’re not sleeping,” I remark. He doesn’t answer and goes back to his phone. I sigh. “I am sorry. I’m sorry I hurt you and I’m sorry I’m being so ungrateful. I’m not used to… this is all…” I stutter, unable to voice my feelings. I shake my head. I’m helpless. “You were right… about me… having feelings… it’s a sensitive subject.”
He looks at me, his face lit by his phone screen.
“Why didn’t you say just that?” he asks.
“I don’t know…” I sigh, leaning against the door frame. “It’s still… I can’t… I can’t even say his name.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, then, and I look back at him. He’s still frowning. “I won’t mention it again.”
“Thanks,” I say, smiling faintly. He doesn’t smile back. And it hurts.
DAY SEVEN
I feel a hand on my shoulder. I grunt, complaining, because I don’t want to wake up. I’m still tired and my bed is so warm. The hand touches me again, shaking slightly this time. I open one eye. There’s someone beside my bed. I close it again, turning to the other side.
“You lost,” he says. It takes me too long to process that.
“What?” I ask, rubbing my eyes.
“You lost,” he repeats. “You fell asleep.”
I sit up on my bed, frowning. Tyler is standing there, in the same gray pants and blue hoodie from the night before and with a smug smile on his face.
“What?” I ask again. He lets out a rough laugh.
“I made coffee. It’s almost eight.” He turns around and leaves.
I take my phone from the nightstand, squinting to read the time. It is indeed almost eight. Visiting starts at nine. I can’t fucking believe his consideration. I was expecting to wake up with him gone. But not only he’s still here, he prevented me from missing visiting grandma and made coffee again. I feel worse than I did last night, if that’s even possible.
I get out of bed and into the bathroom and grunt again. I look terrible. My hair is flat on one side, my eyes are puffy, my skin is greasy. Ugh. I can’t believe he saw me like this. As if I needed one more humiliation. I wonder if he still thinks I’m pretty.
I wash the thought away in the sink and brush my teeth. I push my hair up, tying it into a small knot, and put on the same clothes as yesterday.
When I enter the kitchen, he’s already dressed—his usual tight jeans and tight tee-shirt, topped with a black jacket. He’s going through his phone and doesn’t even glance at me as I pour myself coffee and eat yet another slice of apple pie. I open my phone to read the countless texts I’m sure Pete has sent me, but find only one. From yesterday. It makes me uneasy.
‘How’s it going?’
‘So far, so good. What about you?’ I text him back, but set up an alarm to call him later.
“The boys are going to Manchester this afternoon,” Tyler says, without glancing up.
My stomach sinks further—Pete should have told me that. Then another thought occurs to me: we have to leave soon. I stare at my half-unfinished mug, torn about what to do. How can I leave grandma in this state? How can I stay and throw this chance out the window?
I take a deep breath, closing my eyes and pressing them with my palms. One thing at a time, Rebecca. One thing at a time.
When I open them again, Tyler is staring at me, a mix of confusion and concern on his face. Did I say it out loud? Geez, as if I didn’t have enough reason to be mortified right now. One pro of staying—at least I wouldn’t make a fool of myself in front of him anymore.
I sigh, taking both of our plates to the sink and washing them. I pick up the car keys from the counter and Tyler follows me. I wait until we’re at the door to be sure he’s meaning to come with me again. He is. I pause, turning to him.
“Do you want to wait here today?” I ask, before stepping outside.
“No.”
I stare. He stares. I open my mouth, trying to start a sentence a dozen times, but nothing comes out. I roll my eyes, defeated. I shouldn’t be speaking, anyway. I should just stay silent for the rest of the trip. Or the tour. Or my life. Surely I’d lead a more fulfilling life if I never spoke again.
“Come on, then.” I finally open the door.
We head to the car, enter, and I drive off. I turn the radio on to make the silence less unbearable.
“You think too much,” he says after several minutes. My hands tighten around the steering wheel. Don’t speak. Do not speak.
“Some would say I don’t think enough,” I snort. It’s stronger than me. I need practice.
“‘Some’ as in yourself?” he asks and I just shrug. “Well, I say you think too much.”
I don’t reply. I keep driving, looking straight ahead. I manage a side glance at him as I enter a curve.
“See? You’re thinking,” he says and I shake my head.
“What am I supposed to do, then?” I frown, getting irritated even if I don’t have any right to.
“Talk,” he says simply. I snort.
“Apparently I don’t have much success doing that.”
“That’s because you only talk at the wrong times,” he explains, sounding like a kindergarten teacher. “At the right times, you just think.”
Oh, I didn’t know I was sitting with the queen of conversation here! Because you talk a lot, right? At the right time, as well. See? Practice.
“Does it work for you?” I ask after I finish my internal monologue. “Talking?”
“No.”
I can’t help but smile. And then laugh. He ends up laughing, too. God, what a pair of weirdos we make.
***
This time, thankfully, I don’t need Tyler to hold my hand and push me towards grandma’s room. I leave him in the waiting area and walk alone the few steps to her. She’s awake and lively, even though her face is still drained of color and those dark circles are still very much present under her eyes. Patrick is adjusting some wires on her arm and she’s complaining about his heavy hands when I enter.
“Oi, lad, you don’t really have the hand for it, you know?” she’s saying. “The night nurse didn’t even wake me up.”
“Sorry, Eileen, I’ll be done in a second,” Patrick answers absentmindedly.
“You keep saying that but keep pinching my skin,” she continues.
“Morning,” I decide to interrupt her.
“Petal! You came!” Grandma gives me a once-over, checking what I’m wearing, which already tells me she’s feeling better.
“Hey, just Becky!” Patrick turns to me with a grin. He might not have good hands, but he certainly has a good face.
“Is grandma giving you a hard time?” I ask, walking over to sit at the edge of her bed.
“Not at all,” he replies, winking, before resuming what he was doing.
Grandma shoots me a raised-eyebrow look and we wait in silence until he’s done. He tells me the doctor will be with us in a few minutes and then leaves.
“Frisky lad,” grandma mutters.
“Grandma!” I reprehend her but smile. “How are you feeling today?”
“As good as new,” she says, tapping my hand. “I can’t wait to go home.”
“Let’s see what the doctor will say,” I tell her.
“Doctor,” she scoffs, “she’s a child.”
“Grandma!” I scold her again.
“How long are you staying, dearie?” she asks, suddenly.
“I… I don’t know yet,” I answer. She narrows her eyes, knowing I’m hiding something.
“I don’t want to disturb your life,” she continues.
“You’re not,” I argue.
“You should go, if you have to.”
“I don’t, not yet.”
“You should go if you want to.”
“Grandma!” I gasp. I know she’s thinking of the last time we saw each other.
“It’s okay.” She observes me with calm eyes.
“It’s not!” I snap. “It’s not okay and you’re not doing anyone any favors by pretending it
is!”
“I’m not pretending,” she says with an annoying smile.
“Right,” I snort. “So you’re absolutely completely fine with how we left things?”
“I don’t know what you want me to say, Rebecca,” she sighs.
“The truth!”
“I’m telling you the truth,” she insists. “I appreciate you coming all the way here, and I’m sorry I scared you like this. But I’m fine, I’ll be fine. I don’t need you here.”
“You don’t need me or you don’t want me?” I blurt out, feeling her words in my gut. My hands start to shake and I have a deja vu of the last time I was here.
“Um, excuse me,” a tiny voice says behind me. I turn around to find a short, plump woman in a white coat behind me. “Hi, I’m doctor Haddish. You must me Rebecca.”
She reaches out a hand and I take a little too long to snap out of it.
“Hi, sorry. Just Becky, please,” I say mechanically.
“How are we feeling this morning, Eileen?” She asks grandma in a much kinder tone. Great, I think. Now she thinks I’m a bitch.
“Better,” grandma answers curtly.
“Good,” doctor Haddish says, patting her hand. “Well, I finally have a diagnosis for you. And a treatment.”
I stand there while I listen to her explain about atrial fibrillation, what might have caused it, and how it must be treated. Apparently, it’s a common condition at her age, not serious, but like any other heart disease, it needs attention. I bite down my thumb nail as she explains grandma’s new diet and medications.
“Good Lord…” grandma whispers as the doctor hands her the prescriptions.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be following you up very closely. I already scheduled an appointment to check if the meds are having the desired effect. It’s important that you take all of them at the correct times, though,” she says.
“I will, I will,” grandma says, folding the sheet and putting it on the side table. “Can I go home now?”
“Not yet,” the doctor answers, making grandma grunt. “I’m sorry, Eileen, but you still need to rest and I want to monitor your heart for a little longer. But if everything is fine, I’ll let you go tomorrow morning.”