The Same Deep Water

by Swallow, Lisa

  “They haunt your dreams though, don’t they?” He reaches across the counter and touches my hand.

  I swallow hard. “No. They don’t.”

  “They do. I’ve heard you in your sleep.”

  No. The nightmares live inside me; nobody hears and makes them reality. “Sorry if I woke you.”

  “I tried to wake you, but couldn’t. You wouldn’t let me hold you either.” He pulls my hand to his lips and kisses me gently. “I wanted to wake you, tell you everything was okay.”

  “Thank you for caring.”

  “Of course I care. I worry though. I don’t want you to be sick again.”

  I hop down from the stool and go to him, smooth his hair. “I’m fine. Better. Not the girl on the rocks.”

  The concern doesn’t leave his furrowed brow. “But she hasn’t disappeared completely. You have her under control, that’s all. I don’t want to be responsible for bringing her back again.”

  “You do the opposite, you know that,” I whisper.

  “I hope so. It was insensitive of me to think I could push you into overcoming your fears. Arrogant even.” He slides an arm around my waist and holds me closer.

  “Your mad yoga skills will help me recover,” I say and wrap my arms around his neck. “Kiss me. I don’t want to talk about this.”

  He does, slowly and tenderly, and then buries his face in my neck. Does he have the same fear for my future as I do?

  “I think we need one impossible thing on our lists, that way we’ll never finish them,” he says and tightens his grip on my waist.

  “Do you want to talk about what’s happening to you?” I whisper into his hair.

  “No. I can’t.”

  “You never do, Guy. Sometimes I think talking might help you face what’s happening. How are you right now?”

  “You don’t want to talk about you. I don’t want to talk about me.”

  I move Guy’s head, wishing I could dig my fingers inside and pull out what’s killing him, and then hold his face so he has to look at me. “Just promise me you will if you need to. You can talk to me about anything. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

  Guy switches to what he does every time we touch on the subject of his death: he kisses me. The pattern has become predictable, as he pulls us from the edge and into life through the force of his passion. I can gauge the depth of his need to escape by whether his touch is rough and his lust uncontrolled, or whether he gently makes love to me. Either way, we push away the future threatening us and keep our heads above the water.

  Guy lifts me onto the kitchen bench and presses himself between my thighs, hands wrapped in my hair as his mouth bruises mine. Desperate to join his attempt to throw us away from the direction our conversation headed, I grip his hips with my legs and match his intensity.

  Sometimes when Guy’s hands are on me, his skin against mine, I want to cry. Not because one day he’ll never touch me again, but because he stirs in me something new. Guy’s touch and kiss delves to the heart of who I am and frees the emotions I’ve hidden for years. We’ve spent days and nights exploring each other’s bodies, in denial that with each moment we’re together, we become more than lovers.

  Guy rests his hands around my waist, holding me in place. His fingers bite into my skin, but I don’t care, barely notice. Only when he stops kissing me do I realise my lips are swollen from the fierce passion of the last few minutes.

  Guy drags a thumb across my mouth. The hidden is unguarded for a moment as our eyes meet in understanding.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “I love you, Phe,” he says, pushing damp hair from my face.

  His admission knocks down the foundations of the lies we’ve lived out, and the tears I promised I wouldn’t cry over him sting my eyes. “I knew this couldn’t stay simple.”

  The eyes searching mine aren’t filled with tenderness but with confusion. “Why do I love you?” he asks, wiping my face with both hands. “Why did we do that?”

  “I think sometimes love creeps up on you however hard you try and hide,” I whisper and pull him closer. “I love –”

  “No! Don’t say it!” Guy’s eyes widen in alarm.

  “Why? I’m telling the truth. Look at us. Think about us.” Our bodies remain joined in a way that feels so natural my heart hurts. Even though our skin touches, I’m aware of nothing but the strange energy that surrounds us when we’re together.

  “I know and I never thought I’d meet somebody like you. I never thought I’d fall in love. I didn’t think it was possible.”

  Again, the words should be affectionate; but he’s unhappy, as he grips me against him.

  “Guy, can’t we live in our moment as usual?” I whisper.

  Guy moves his head and gently places kisses across my face, the warmth returning. “I’m okay to love you but please, don’t love me,” he murmurs.

  He’s not allowed to avoid this, to be in this on his own. “Too late. I love you. Who you are and how you make me feel. Now. Here. In this moment.”

  I gaze back into the dark blue water of his eyes, watch as the sadness lifts, and he relaxes. “I guess we fell under together,” he says.

  “I guess we did.”

  “Come here.” Guy pulls me to him and I settle against his chest; his heart thuds against my ear. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For whatever happens next.”

  “Us. We’re what happens next,” I whisper and hold him tighter.

  The words are spoken, a line crossed greater than the one we stepped over when our relationship became sexual. This changes everything – and nothing because we’ve been in this place for months.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Erica sits cross-legged on my bed, as I prepare for our planned night out and picks up my phone.

  “Holy crap, Phe. Is that Guy?” She turns the phone around; the wallpaper is a picture of Guy and me I took a couple of nights ago, on an evening walk through the park close to his house. He’s pulling a goofy face, but even that doesn’t detract from his looks; I chose this picture because the happiness I hope I cause shines in his eyes.

  “Yes.”

  She shakes her head. “Whoa. Nice catch. No wonder you never showed me a picture before. How old is he?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  Erica continues to stare. “He can’t be a nice person, too. Guys who look like this are either arrogant or gay.”

  I laugh at her pigeonholing. “Sure, Erica. You might find him a bit intense or odd, but he’s a great person. And definitely not gay!”

  “He must be good. Your dark clouds have gone.” Erica stands and heads over to where I’m painting my eyes with shimmering gold eye shadow. “I’m happy for you. Can’t wait to meet him!” She nudges me. “So you chose him over Coffee Shop Guy?”

  Ross. I worried about visiting the cafe following our cancelled date but he was laidback about the situation. He teased me about breaking his heart and I apologised profusely. In the end, Ross told me to stop being embarrassed every time I brought a coffee. I still visit daily, but I’ve never taken Guy to the place.

  Erica’s last visit to Perth was over two months ago, but those months feel like years. I chat to her regularly, gave her a condensed version of my relationship with Guy. I haven’t told Erica about his illness, imagining the fuss she’ll make over my involvement with him. Or maybe that’s my subconscious telling me I should worry more. Erica knows the Phe I’m moving away from and I want her to meet the new, more confident one. Erica needs to see who I’m becoming, not worry about what will happen.

  In the weeks since Guy’s and my relationship switched gear, life has gathered pace. The trust that tentatively grew between us finally built a bridge between our lives. We have an unspoken rule that we hold our secrets within our relationship and don’t share with anybody outside. Guy’s right, now we’ve stepped into our world, it’s hard to be back in theirs.

  “I’m sure you’ll like him.” Depen
ding on what mood he’s in. Guy’s quieter moods increased recently; he denies his behaviour is because of our admission, but I worry that the words were a step too far. Then he tempers this with the exuberant Guy, the one who tells me he loves me and the truth is plain in his eyes, so my fear dissipates.

  “He must be special if you’ve fallen for him. I can see the change in you. Are you still seeing the psych regularly though?”

  “I’ve learnt not to miss appointments. Besides, I have you nagging me if I do!”

  “Yes, I’ll come over here and haul your ass to the doctors if I ever think you need me to.”

  I set down my brush and pick up a pink lipstick, avoiding Erica’s eyes. At my lowest, I never called her and if Erica knew, she’d be hurt. Yes, calling Erica would’ve made more sense than standing alone on the rocks, but she was busy and I didn’t feel worth her time. I didn’t feel worth anybody’s time.

  “Guy said he’ll come along tonight,” I say and rub some lipstick from the corner of my mouth.

  “Does he have any hot friends he could bring?” she asks with a grin.

  “What happened to Rob?”

  “We finished things. We weren’t much of a couple anymore; he hardly had time for me.” Erica picks a pair of earrings from a jewellery box on the dresser.

  “If you date a footballer, you’ve got to expect him to be busy in football season.”

  “That wasn’t all he was busy with.” Erica purses her lips, her nonchalance slipping.

  “Oh. Another girl?” I ask, as if I need to.

  “Yeah.” She holds the silver strands against her ear. “Can I borrow these?”

  Erica and Rob were the high school couple predicted to be the childhood sweethearts married and together for life. I’m surprised Erica didn’t say anything. She’s always there for me and it was my turn to be there for her.

  “Sorry to hear that. Why didn’t you say? And sure, borrow them.”

  “I’m honestly not bothered. We drifted months ago; a natural end. I guess by the time we finished we were friends more than anything.”

  “Right.”

  How can she be so blasé about her break-up? This and my resistance to filling her in on details about my life are new measures against how much is changing. The physical distance between Erica and me is matched by the fading friendship as our lives travel away from each other.

  Erica steps back and admires her earrings. “I’m good. I’m happy. So are you, let’s go!”

  We head out to the local pub, where we’ve arranged to meet Guy. I assured Erica she won’t be third wheel; Guy will stay for a drink and then leave. She was the one insisting on meeting him; Guy’s busy and Erica’s visit from Melbourne is too short-lived to organise anything but this brief catch up.

  Seven p.m. and the pub is filled already, groups filling the round wooden tables as more joining them with loud hellos. I recognise some from regular Saturday night visits here with Jen and occasionally Guy. We head to the crowded bar and I squeeze between two groups while attempting to attract the barman’s attention. Erica squashes next to me, and a few minutes later, drinks in hand, we vainly look around the pub for a seat.

  Two men I vaguely know approach us and I exchange awkward hellos. Clearly we’ve forgotten each other’s names. This switches quickly to the two men not so subtly hitting on us. To my dismay, Erica joins in, flirting with one and leaving me to edge away from the other.

  Two guys alone, two girls alone. I can guess what they think’s going to happen. Also, as often happens, one is better looking than the other, although neither is comparable to Guy. Andy, the taller and less attractive of the two with a crew cut and more muscles than I like in a man, keeps offering to buy me drinks and moves closer. I politely decline and pull my phone out of my bag to text my missing boyfriend. Thankfully, the music in the venue is loud ensuring conversation with Andy can be avoided.

  “Is Guy not coming?” Erica says into my ear as she watches me.

  “He should be here soon.”

  Guy hasn’t responded to my text, asking where he is. He chose this meeting place; I don’t understand why he hasn’t appeared. Yesterday he laughed at my excitement of seeing Erica after a couple of months and told me he was looking forward to meeting her. So where is he?

  “And did you ask if he was bringing any friends?”

  I indicate the attentive guy next to her. “Does that matter now?”

  She grins. “I guess not.”

  Increasingly pissed off with how close her beau’s friend is moving toward me, I maintain focus on my phone and give polite smiles instead of speaking. Erica’s out to enjoy herself, and I’m worried about Guy.

  Following the third message, I finally receive a response.

  Is he unwell? He was fine yesterday.

  Kind of? I glance at Erica, I can imagine the reaction if I drag her away from her new friends to Guy’s place. She’s complained about her lack of social life recently and is determined to enjoy her weekend away. This situation is reminiscent of the time I dropped everything when I arranged a date with Ross.

  I type

  I do stress. Guy pushes a lot beneath his surface and rarely admits he needs help, for him to hint he’s not doing well is unusual. When I tell Erica that he isn’t coming, she’s disappointed momentarily then returns to her new friends. This irritates me; didn’t Erica come to see me? This irritation spreads to an exchange of words over the ‘random guys’ situation. As Guy isn’t coming, I persuade Erica to leave for somewhere she can dance. Somewhere away from these annoying men.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The next afternoon, I drop Erica at the airport and head over to Guy’s place. His messages this morning were brighter, quelling my fear he’s becoming sicker. I researched brain tumours again but stopped reading after a few minutes, feeling intrusive. The nagging voice telling me I’m doing the wrong thing becoming attached to Guy starts. Becoming? I am attached.

  A dishevelled Guy answers the door, blinking at the sunshine. “What time is it?”

  “Three. Are you okay?”

  Dark circles rim his eyes and his hair sticks up, so I smooth a strand down. The front of his half-undone white shirt is covered with a rainbow of colour, like a smock used on children at kindergarten. Streaks of yellow run down his face.

  “Three. Wow.” He steps back. “Come on in.”

  Guy strides back into the house and immediately begins gathering up items from the dining table. A4 sheets of paper scrawled with drawings I can’t make out, oil pastels spilled on the floor.

  “Oh!” He drops the pile back down and seizes my face. “I never said hello.”

  I stumble as he slams his mouth against mine, taking advantage of my parted lip surprise as he delves his tongue into my mouth. I remain in frozen bewilderment, unable to respond so he lets my face go.

  “Feeling better then?” I ask.

  “I am.” He rubs his thumb against my lip. “I’ll tidy up and we’ll go out.”

  “Where?”

  “No idea!” He scrunches the papers back into his arms and pokes the pastels into a pile with his foot.

  “Maybe you should change?”

  “Good idea. I’ll take a shower. Want to join me?”

  “Umm.”

  “I’m sorry I got distracted last night,” he says and opens a nearby cupboard, shoving the papers inside. I catch sight of more stacked inside.

  “Erica wanted to meet you.”

  “Ah.” He scrunches his nose. “Tonight?”

  “She only stayed the weekend remember?”

  “Is it Saturday?”

  “No, Sunday.”

  He grins. “Whoops!”

  “Whoops?”

  “I missed a day. I thought you called Friday?”

  “No.” I sigh. “Have you slept, Guy?”

  “I don’t think so. I wasn’t feeling too great, so I called you, and then spent time drawing instead. And painting. I guess I lost track of time.”

&
nbsp; “You said you weren’t feeling well?” I clench my teeth. Last night was an excuse. He didn’t want to meet my friend.

  “I was fine, just not up to going out. There’re people I don’t particularly want to see.”

  “In Northbridge?”

  “Every time I go into the city at night I see them, and they hassle me.”

  “Who?”

  “People. Nobody important.” He rubs his face with both hands, a shadow of concern on his face. “I hope I didn’t upset your friend.”

  No, but you upset me. “All good.” I indicate the remaining mess on the wood floor. “Looks like you were very productive last night.”

  “Sure was! Right. Shower.” He heads up the stairs, and then reappears seconds later. “Coming?”

  “No.”

  “Damn shame!”

  I perch on the sofa feeling as if drawn into a whirlwind and spat out again.

  After ten minutes debating whether to open the cupboard and look at Guy’s work, he reappears in fresh boardies and a t-shirt.

  Guy shuffles across the sofa next to me. “We could stay home?” he suggests, trailing his fingers across my face. In response, as ever, my face and body flare with heat.

  “You said you wanted to go out?”

  “Mmm.” Guy kisses my neck, lips remaining on my pulse point as his arm snakes around my waist. “I know, but I think I want to be alone with you.”

  When his other hand creeps up my thigh, I grab his fingers. “Guy! Why get ready to go out and then start this?”

  His fresh scent pulls me further into memories of sex, the fruit of his shampoo and ocean fragrance of his soap reminding me how this tastes on his skin. Ignoring me, he plants kisses along my neck and collarbone, gripping my leg as he does. I shift against him, fighting the desire to do exactly what he’s indicating.

  Suddenly, he pulls away. “I did something else last night! I forgot to tell you.”

  He hops back off the sofa and I catch my breath, touching my skin where his lips were. Guy paces around the room, looking under magazines then walks into the kitchen. I’ve seen Guy focused and happy before, but this is odd. Does his brain tumour do this to him?