The First Last Kiss

by Ali Harris

  Which would you pick?

  I know, tough call, right? No, don’t put your mask on because I asked you a tough question. I know that’s what my friends and my colleagues and my family are trying to do. They are trying to control the amount of pain that I see in them because I have enough of my own to deal with. And I know they’re also trying to protect themselves from seeing too much of the pain that I am in. Their masks are on – and so is mine.

  But you know what I wish? I wish that at some point we could all just let go, just let go of everything, scream, shout, cry, laugh, fucking swear(sorry Ed. Again.), weep and wail uncontrollably in front of each other, like I know we all want to. What’s the famous quote? ‘Love is the price we pay for grief’? Well then, let’s love uncontrollably and then grieve uncontrollably. Right now, I don’t think I can do anything less.

  M x

  The I Think I Love You Kiss

  Something I can’t help but wonder in these cancer-stricken days is, what was I so afraid of? Why did I worry that I’d met Ryan too young? Because now, when I look back, it’s clear to me that I fell in love with Ryan long before our first kiss, long before I said it or perhaps even thought it. Now I feel like I was born loving him which means meeting him could never have happened early enough.

  <

  I’m cuddled up with Ryan on my second-hand sofa, in my draughty, badly furnished flat on Holloway Road. Ever since meeting his parents two weeks ago, Ryan has been getting on the train from Leigh into Fenchurch Street and coming to meet me from work every night after he finishes teaching at school. We go for a drink, or a meal, or sometimes we just hang out together at my place.

  Right from the moment we kissed I had this awfully, wonderfully, terrifyingly liberating feeling that I could fall in love with Ryan. I know, right? This from the girl who always said she didn’t believe in it. I’ve never told a boyfriend I love him or been with anyone who would say it to me.

  I smile blissfully and close my eyes as I breathe in his comforting scent and wonder how I could have resisted him for so long. It, like him, is a riot of contradictions: it’s sexy but safe; he smells of home but also of adventure, of sport; sunshine and rain; the past and the future. It – he – is utterly intoxicating.

  When we’re not together, we exchange text messages at work, he phones me at lunchtime to tell me what he’s been up to and I get updates of his whereabouts on his journey into London to meet me. He tells me what he’s reading, watching, doing, seeing. And I want to know it all. For the first time in my life I want to know every single thing about him, and – somewhat scarily for me – I want him to know everything about me.

  The other night Ryan and I were curled up on my sofa with our limbs entwined, ‘Like the tentacles of a giant love monster,’ Ryan had said, and stroked his finger down my arm. I bristled, like I always knew I would if a guy used the L word – but it was with excitement. We’d been seeing each other for three weeks and I knew we were on the cusp of Saying It.

  I turned my face from where it was resting on his chest and unbuttoned his shirt, slipping my hand underneath to expose his chest. I studied his torso appraisingly for a moment, trying to memorize each patch of skin, each freckle or blemish, I felt like I wanted to know every single slope, every bump and crevice of his body.

  I’d traced my finger over the assortment of three different moles that lay just under his left nipple. ‘These look like Revels,’ I’d solemnly announced, and Ryan had lifted his head off the couch and burst out laughing.

  ‘Molly Carter, how do you always manage to see things that no one else ever would?’

  I’d grinned and brushed the apex of my fingertip over his nipple. ‘This is the nutty one.’ Then I’d traced my finger down to a little mole directly underneath, that looked like a disc. ‘Right here is a Minstrel, and here’, I’d pointed at a small, pale-brown nugget that sat up proudly further down his chest, ‘is one of those little toffee surprises.’

  Ryan took my hand and guided it down until my hand hovered over his groin.

  ‘Now let me introduce you to the king of confectionary,’ he’d said, his voice husky, not with humour but with longing.

  I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing and slid off the sofa and onto the floor, holding my stomach as Ryan pelted me with cushions. Then he tickled me and we rolled around together until he pinned me down and kissed me softly, deeply and with such intensity that I knew I couldn’t hold out a moment longer.

  We waited until we could wait no more, until our kisses were so urgent, our skin so desperate to connect that we peeled each other’s clothes off like oranges, layer after infuriating layer, panting and grabbing, grasping and grappling, until we lay down naked next to each other on the sofa. I wanted him so desperately. I kissed him hard and deep, my tongue exploring the deep recesses of his warm, welcoming mouth. I grasped his buttocks, begging him to enter me. But he just lay gently on top of me, covering me with warmth, his strong forearms either side of my face taking the weight of his body, his fingers slowly combing through my hair. He gazed at me for what felt like hours, his eyes a mirrored prism of blue, a sexy, crooked smile hovering over his lips that hinted at lust and experience and confidence and patience and . . . and . . . something else, something not quite distinguishable. Love? I didn’t know for sure because I hadn’t ever seen it before. I didn’t want to think it, but it’s what I felt. I felt it in his gaze and in the way that he rolled onto his side, his eyes never leaving mine as he rested his head on his arm and let his fingers travel from my scalp down my neck and shoulders and then across the contours of my body, infuriatingly slowly, like they were branding me, until I groaned with frustration and desperation.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I’d mumbled, wanting to feel him on me, in me.

  ‘I’m tracing my name on your body, so you remember this always,’ he’d murmured, and then he’d covered my shoulder and neck with dancing kisses as his fingers started dancing elsewhere.

  ‘Please, I can’t take it any more.’ I’d buried my face in his neck. ‘I want you,’ I’d groaned.

  ‘You’ve got me,’ he’d replied softly, ‘you’ve really got me, Molly Carter.’

  And as he entered me I did the thing that every modern girl is taught not to do as soon as she is taught about sex. But the words had risen up into my mouth, along with my heart and I said it. It.

  ‘I think I love you, Ryan.’

  He hadn’t paused, hadn’t missed a beat, he’d just smiled and lowered his forehead to mine as his body reached every single part of me.

  ‘Well, that’s good because I know I love you, Molly Carter. And he kissed me again with such sweet tenderness that in that moment and in every moment since, I gave in. I gave in to him, to love, to my destiny.

  The SOS Kiss

  There’s this song on Ryan’s current favourite album by Take That (obviously!) called ‘Reach Out’. It’s been on the radio loads recently, literally every time I turn it on I hear it. Sometimes I feel like someone is trying to tell me something. You see, I’m not good at asking for help, I never have been. I’m too proud, but when I hear the lyrics about how we all grieve in different ways and that it’s only love that pulls us through, it pulls me out of my insular world I’ve created here with Ryan, where in between ‘working’ (to be honest these days I just go in to show my face, then come straight home again) I’m his full-time carer. I make him comfortable, pick up his drugs, change his sheets, take him out in his wheelchair. And hearing it reminds me that this isn’t all about him and me. I’m not the only person hurting. And that by asking for help, I might also be helping other people too – not just Ryan, because he and I aren’t the only people needing support right now. It doesn’t all revolve around us. So this is my SOS. Not just a cry for help, but a cry to help . . .

  FF>> 20/06/07 11.48 a.m.>

  ‘Hi, Moll,’ the boys say collectively. Their voices are hushed and they look pale and anguished. If Essex were to be able to prove the ex
istence of vampires in their county I’m pretty sure this is what they’d look like. They’re still more sunrise than Twilight, but it is instantly clear to me that they are not in any way dealing well with the fact that Ryan is deteriorating fast.

  ‘What’s up? You all look like death warmed up,’ I quip. Their horrified looks at each other tell me they are not ready for these kinds of jokes. I’d better prepare them. Ryan isn’t likely to hold back, no matter how they’re feeling. ‘Sorry. It’s what we do around here to deal with it. Joke, I mean. Ryan likes it. He’s still the same old Ryan, you know, despite it all.’

  ‘All’ being the fact that at his last blood test we were told that the cancer has spread even further. He’d been suffering from increasingly bad headaches, sometimes so bad they made him vomit, and then he woke up with blurred vision in one eye and we both knew what it meant. When the oncologist confirmed what we’d already guessed, Ryan simply said that meant he now had a five-a-side team: skin, spine, bowels, lungs and brain.

  Carl stares at me and then looks away. I want to hug him but I am afraid he will crumble. Then I hug him anyway. I’m sick of ignoring what my intuition tells me to do. It’s why I called the Haven Hospice in Leigh yesterday. I want to be sure that when Ryan gives me the nod, as we agreed, that they’re ready to receive him. I know it’ll be soon. I can see by the way Ryan looks at the flat, and at me. Like he’s trying to take it all in. Memorize it. Carl clings on to me like a toddler on to his mum. I squeeze him and then pat him on the back, trying to instil some courage into him. He looks up at me bleakly and then drops his head like it is just too heavy to lift. I take his hand and then usher the rest of the boys in, chatting as much as I possibly can to put them at ease whilst thinking no wonder Ry and I like being on our own. This is really hard work.

  ‘Come in, boys! Ryan will be so glad you’re here! Ahh, you’ve bought beer? Thank you!’ I am talking in exclamation marks and I don’t know how to stop. ‘Yep, go on up, he’s up there waiting for you! Oh, he’s good thanks! Watching football as always! I always know it’s Saturday as I officially become a football widow—’ I realize my mistake as soon as the words come out of my mouth and Carl’s hand goes limp in mine.

  The rest of the boys freeze in mid-disrobing of their jackets. Ryan just won’t deal well with this weird, subdued atmosphere. I’m going to have to warn him. Or knock some sense into them before they go in.

  ‘I’m sorry boys, but you really need to try and be upbeat. I know it’s hard, but Ryan won’t let you be miserable around him. Just tell him all your news, treat him like you always would and don’t freak out if he makes bad jokes, it’s just his way of coping.’

  No one answers for a moment. None of them seems able to look at me. Then Carl looks up.

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ he says slowly. ‘He just can’t tell good ones. Never could.’ A flicker of a smile flashes across his weary, sunken face. I touch him on the arm. He seems so much smaller than usual; like a child-size version of himself. No more Carl the beefy builder. Now he’s Carl the kid in the wetsuit grinning next to his little brother, but with the added knowledge that one day he’ll have to go to the beach on his own.

  ‘That’s it, Carl,’ I smile. ‘I knew you could do it. Now, in you go.’ They all look at each other, take a deep breath and sweep in, all chattering at the tops of their voices. I nod and lean against the wall for a moment’s support, and then follow them.

  I’m in the kitchen, getting bottles of beer, pouring tortilla chips into bowls and cutting lime wedges. I’m enjoying hearing the banter and laughter from the lounge as they all watch the football together.

  I turn around, holding the bowls of tortillas and dips and see Carl standing in the kitchen, he’s crying silently, big fat tears falling down his cheeks and onto his T-shirt. I put the bowls down hurriedly and open my arms, and he sobs into my shoulder. ‘My brother,’ he keeps saying, ‘my baby brother.’ Then he sniffs and wipes his eyes and pulls a packet of Kodak photos out of his back pocket.

  ‘I just want to say Molly, thank you for doing what you’re doing for him. You’re his world and we all know how hard . . . ’ he pauses as his voice cracks ‘ . . . how hard this is on you.’ He hands me the envelope. ‘Me and the boys, and Mum and Dad, we’ve gone through all our photos and wanted you to have these . . . for your blog. We are all reading it. Mum especially. It’s a beautiful thing, Molly babe, it really is.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I whisper, and I wipe my hands on a tea towel and open the envelope. Inside are dozens of photos of Ryan and me kissing: on holiday with the Coopers in Portugal, on nights out in Southend, at Carl and Lydia’s wedding, at our wedding, on various birthdays, New Year’s Eves and Christmases. It is all here. Practically our entire relationship in photos. Some of them I’ve never even seen before.

  I take Carl in my arms and I let him cry for his little brother, for himself, for his mum and dad and his son, and for me. I pull away to wipe his eyes and a photo drops onto the floor between us.

  ‘Where did you get this?’ I gasp as I kneel down on the kitchen floor to pick it up. It is Ryan and me, as teenagers, at The Grand. He’s all pouty lips and floppy hair, like a young River Phoenix and I . . . look quite pretty actually. That long slip dress and T-shirt combo was really cute and I’d hidden my terrible self-cut hair by scraping it back into a bun. Funny how ugly I always felt. Now I can almost see what Ryan saw in me. Carl smiles as he looks at it. ‘We were trying to catch his big moment on camera. Shame it didn’t go quite to plan though, he was well embarrassed when he saw his shitty snogging technique caught on camera,’ Carl laughs and sniffs simultaneously, swiping his face with one hand quickly and rubbing his thumb and forefinger under his eyes.

  I nod through my tears as I look at the photo. The look of horror on my face as Ryan enthusiastically covers me with his entire mouth and attempts to suck my face.

  ‘I reckon he practised on his arm for months before he tried that on anyone again. I remember him telling me he was determined to make it up to you one day. Give you a kiss to remember . . . ’

  ‘Well, he definitely did that,’ I say quietly.

  ‘Molly!’ Ry’s voice is raspy and I jump, my heart thumping with the panic I feel every time he calls. Or doesn’t call. Carl puts his arm around me and I pick up the chips and dips and walk back into the lounge, where Ryan is surrounded by his mates, empty beer bottles and his favourite sport blaring away on the TV.

  ‘You OK?’ I smile.

  ‘I will be when you come over here,’ he says.

  I sit on the floor in front of him and he strokes my hair. I tilt my head up and smile.

  ‘Happy?’ I murmur.

  He nods and I take a mental photo of his expression, the way his eyes are lit up, his contented smile. I pick up a tortilla chip and pop it in his mouth and turn round to watch as a striker attempts to shoot a goal.

  ‘OFFSIDE, Ref! Come on, are you BLIND?!’ I yell at the TV and the entire room shudders into silence. ‘What?’ I gaze around at the awestruck room, who all look like they have been paused, some with bottles of beer halfway to their mouths, Ryan is mid-crunch of his tortilla chip. ‘You think a girl can’t pick up the offside rule after six years with a football-fanatic PE teacher?’

  Ryan is in bed and I’m just finishing tidying up after the boys’ afternoon visit turned into a takeaway-curry-and-movie night. Once they’d relaxed I could see they enjoyed being here. And Ryan had loved it.

  I put away the last of the dishes and turn off the lights. As I walk towards our bedroom I realize that I can hear him crying. I slip into the room, crawl onto the bed and gather him up in my arms. I stroke my hands down his poor, ailing body, softly and methodically until his breathing slows, and then I lie next to him, my body lightly touching his. And we lie here just crying and cuddling until Ryan whispers that he wants to make love to me. I nod my admission, petrified of hurting him but desperate to feel him one more time. Maybe one last time . . .

  It was the worst and
best moment since his diagnosis. I hated seeing him so scared and at first we were both like nervous new lovers; there were lots of ‘Is this OK?’, ‘It doesn’t hurt, does it?’ and tentative caresses. I ran my hands over his body, lightly touching every part of him, my fingers stroking his excision scars and the toffee-Revel mole on his chest. It felt like I was reading a Braille version of him. A frail version of him. Afterwards, as we cried ourselves to a kind of climax, we just lay in each other’s arms, our breath melting into each other’s, bodies rising and falling together, hands clasped tightly, feet tangled together like wool. It was maybe an hour before we spoke. And when we did, we talked about everything. The moment we first met, how we felt about each other when we were teenagers, our terrible first kiss, Ryan’s proposal, our incredible wedding day, our meeting on the Bembridge when I was back from uni, our honeymoon, our first holiday to Ibiza . . .

  ‘Molly,’ he mumbles, closing his eyes, ‘I think it’s time to go home. I want to go home now.’ Ryan weaves his fingers through mine and sighs as he falls into a slumber.

  ‘Whatever you say,’ I whisper, squeezing his hand gently.

  After he goes to sleep I slip out of bed and into the lounge. Shivering in my stripy pyjamas, despite the warmth of the night, I email my letter to Christie, which I’ve had drafted for weeks, telling her that I won’t be in the office for the foreseeable future and that as of now I’ll be starting my extended leave of absence.

  After I send it I notice a new email in my inbox.

  It’s from Casey. I look at it for a moment, unsure whether I want to deal with whatever is inside.

  I furrow my brow as I read the subject head. It says ‘The Real First Kiss’ and I can see that there is a jpeg attached.