by Lola Darling
She bites her lip, but she doesn’t protest. I can tell from the solemn look in her eye that she knows I’m right.
Then, of course, my phone starts to buzz in my pocket. Reluctantly, I slide my hand from her grasp and peek at the caller ID.
Kat.
Crap. Kat never calls. She’s a texter all the way. “I’ll be right back,” I say to Harper, who still seems off in her own dream world anyway, mulling over what I just said.
I slip out to the front of the restaurant, answering just as the now-cold night air hits me in the chest. “What’s up?” I say.
For a moment, there’s only silence. Then I hear a long sniffle, followed by a muffled sob. My heart sinks to the floor. I’ve never heard Kat cry. Never, not even when . . .
“What’s wrong, what happened?” I ask, my throat threatening to clench so tight I won’t be able to force words out.
In the background, I can hear Mum’s voice too, telling Kat something, her tone shrill and panicked. That’s when I know, even before Kat says anything else, even before she elaborates.
But some part of me still needs to hear her say it before I do anything.
On the other end, I hear my sister suck in a deep breath and clear her throat hard. “It’s Dad,” she says. “The cancer is back.”
Harper
I will never understand this man.
One minute he’s laughing, acting sweet, giving me (all too sensible) advice on my writing, tickling my wrists like he’s thinking about later tonight, too, about all the things we can do to each other when we get back to his place.
Instead, he takes one phone call outside the restaurant and comes back inside a couple minutes later asking the waiter for the check and to-go boxes. Something was clearly wrong—he wasn’t smiling anymore, and the closed-off, sharp-eyebrowed jerkface was back—but he hasn’t exactly been forthcoming about what’s going on either.
“Is everything okay?” I ask for the third time in our so far otherwise silent car ride back toward Oxford.
“I already said yes, Harper, how many times do I need to repeat myself?”
“Until I believe you maybe?” I counter, jutting my chin out. “What’s going on, Jack? Everything seemed fine until you got that phone call. You’ve been freaking out ever since.”
“How observant,” he mutters.
“Well I wouldn’t have to observe if you’d just act like a normal person and say, hey Harper, here’s why I’m suddenly being a jackass.”
“I am a jackass, Harper. By some miracle you haven’t noticed yet, but the sooner you figure that out the better. Here.”
I look up to find us parked around the corner from my dorm already. Then I glance back to him, back at the building. This just doesn’t fit, not with the guy who took me to his favorite childhood vacation spot, made me a picnic, and tried to help me find inspiration to write again.
I don’t know who this new Jack is, but I don’t like him. “Fine. Have it your way,” I mutter as I swing my legs out of the car and slam the door behind me. Part of me expects him to chase after me, to apologize. Instead, he drives off without a pause.
Safely ensconced back in my dorm, I keep running over and over the conversation leading up to his turn. I’m sure that he was fine until that phone call came in. What could it have been? Was it something with us? Did someone find out about us?
Could they make me leave if we’re caught?
What would my parents say?
I groan and squeeze my temples with one hand. Too much to worry about. I don’t even know if this is going anywhere beyond a few quick fucks.
Except that, after today, I thought I did. Walking around that village with our hands clasped, shopping in the market, making sandwiches in the grass like we were just another normal couple out on a casual Saturday date—that’s what I want our days to be like. I want us to have a chance at normal, whatever that may be.
By some miracle you haven’t noticed yet, he said. Is that it? Am I just this freaking bad at choosing guys to date?
I don’t think so. There’s more than he’s telling me.
Whatever it is, clearly he’s not talking anytime soon. So fine. I can be normal, distract myself with other things.
As if on cue, my phone buzzes. There’s another string of texts from MK that I’ve been ignoring, and a new one has just appeared right on top. Tomorrow, 1PM, meet me at the castle. DON’T be a party pooper this time!!!
A smile drifts onto my face. Guess I’ll have a fun distraction after all.
#
I stayed up until almost three in the morning writing. Not an essay, not coursework, not a creative writing assignment. Just my own poetry, a poem inspired by the quiet Cotswold village we wandered through, and the contrast between its modern conveniences, like the new cars and the mobile phone stores selling brand new touchphones, and the medieval buildings, the cobblestone alleys, and storefronts dating back centuries.
Call me a stereotypical American, but having been raised in a country without a super long history of its own, I love seeing ancient artifacts made so everyday like that.
Of course, staying up until three has its consequences, so I nearly sleep through my alarm the next morning. My ever-absent roommate Stacey is actually here for once when I stumble back from brushing my teeth at noon, already running late if I want to meet MK in an hour.
“Hope I didn’t wake you,” Stacey says with a sheepish smile as she hops into jeans that look at least a size too small.
But hey, I should not judge, as my own jeans are feeling a little tight around the edges after almost a month of British food. “Nah, I had to be up anyway. Meeting Mary Kate for a castle tour.” A sudden bout of friendliness sweeps over me, possibly brought on by sleepiness or the leftover buzz of happiness that comes from anytime I’m actually able to write something I halfway like. “Want to come with?”
She pauses halfway into pulling on a new T-shirt, which looks exactly like the T-shirt she just took off, except with a different band name emblazoned across the front. “Sure,” she says, after a moment of blinking, when she realizes I’m serious. “I haven’t been yet.”
Her accent, I notice now that I’ve stopped being such an asocial jerk and talked to her for more than a second, is Australian. On our walk down to grab snacks from the kitchen, we talk about her hometown of Sydney, and why she decided to study abroad here (“Their medieval studies department is grouse,” she says, which devolves into a long explanation of ways to say “the best” in Australian).
“Although,” she adds with a faux-thoughtful expression, “my mates tell me it’s also the best way to meet blokes—gotta import them from the motherland if you want a decent one!”
I smirk through the coffee thermos I brought with from the kitchen. “You’re crushing a thousand American girls dreams—Aussie guys aren’t total bombshells you mean?”
“Oh, they’re hot, sure, but they bloody well know it, don’t they?”
We cross the campus and the streets thereafter still debating the merits—and demerits—of American, Australian, and British blokes alike. She finds surfer boys hot, though I have to explain to her just how creeptastic the frat boys we get back home truly are. We settle for agreeing that Brits have it best, until we catch up with Mary Kate at the ticket office, who starts in on a whole new set of complaints about British guys (“The smoking is disgusting, and they’re total gits about footie”).
We buy our tickets, complete with an audio tour because MK insists it’s the best part, but we skip half the tour stops because our conversation has moved on to comparing food across our respective country lines, and that gets us into a whole new level of friendly arguments.
“Okay, but the Indian food here. You cannot win there,” Mary Kate says, gesturing with her tour headset for emphasis. “You’ve eaten with me on Brick Lane.”
“Fair enough,” I admit. “But you guys have no idea how to do Mexican. Like at all.”
“How hard can tacos be?” Stace
y butts in.
“See what I mean?” I flail my arms. “Tacos aren’t even real Mexican food!”
We carry on like this enough to piss off another tour group, who exit stage right glaring at us, and then, chuckling, we pause long enough to listen to the audio tour explain torture implements employed in the castle dungeons. Most of them are pretty gross, though I have to admit, the stocks give me some naughty thoughts that I really wish I could text Jack about.
Except that he never even gave me his phone number, or an email, or any other sane method of communication. I have his official school email, from the class-wide note he sent out, but I’d have to be very careful about what I said in it. Certainly not Hey have you seen the stocks they used to put people into in the dungeon that hold your head and your hands while making you bend over at just the right height for . . .
Stacey taps my shoulder, making me jump. I clear my throat and glance over at her and MK, both waiting by the door with bemused expressions. “What did I miss?” I mumble.
“Probably could’ve missed a nuclear apocalypse, you were so deep in la-la land,” MK replies. “Come on, girl, out with it. Who are you mooning over. Still confessional booth guy?”
“Ooh, confessional booth guy?” Stacey bats her eyelashes. “Do tell.”
“You are both the worst,” I tell them as I march out of the dungeon. But the weight of all this secrecy—having so much between me and Jack, and no one to tell about any of it, no one to ask what they think about his behavior at the end of the day yesterday, no one to commiserate with about how bad it’s sucked to have to pretend like nothing’s happening between us—it’s all too much.
So finally, as we near the end of the tour, standing up high on the castle walls and peeking through arrow-slots at the town around us, the other students, professors, townspeople, and tourists alike bustling through their lives on the busy, foot-worn streets, I confess.
Kind of.
“That’s where I’ve been for the past couple weeks.” I side-eye Mary Kate with an apologetic grimace. “Sorry for ignoring your texts.”
“Mate, if you were getting laid, all ignorance forgiven.” She smirks. “God knows you need a decent screw to take your mind off shite at home.”
“Yeah, well, the screwing has been more than decent. Fucking mind-blowing, actually.” They both snicker, which makes me bolder. “The only thing is . . . I can’t tell anyone much about him. Not even you guys. And we’ll never be able to go out in public or anything.”
“Ooh, forbidden romance. Even hotter.” Stacey winks.
“Yeah, at first. Only now it’s kind of . . . ” I trail off, picking at my thumbnail as my brain searches for the right word.
“Suffocating?” Mary Kate asks, with the air of someone who knows exactly what I’m feeling.
Our eyes meet, and in that moment, I know there’s something she hasn’t been telling me. Something more behind her and Nick’s hookups, maybe? I can’t tell, and I certainly don’t want to ask her in front of Stacey. If she hasn’t told it to me, the pen pal she’s always been able to unburden herself to, then it must be as big as what I’m keeping secret with Jack. She’s not prying for details with me, so I give her the same respect, even while I nod in agreement.
“Exactly. Suffocating.” I run a hand through my hair, pulling my gaze away to study the city around us once more. “And on top of that, like it’s not bad enough having to hide everything, he keeps blowing me off. Like yesterday night, we had plans, and he just blew me off and wouldn’t explain why. He was pretty douchey about it too.” I scowl. “I just can’t get a good read on him, y’know? I can never tell what he’s thinking.” I sigh, and my breath raises a puff of dust from the ancient castle wall that I’m leaning against.
“Well, who ever can with guys,” Stacey replies with a shrug. “I mean, he’s not married, right?”
My first instinct is to laugh. “Hell no. I mean, unless he’s really good at hiding something that huge.” But then, thinking about the phone call he got earlier, and the way he threw me out, my stomach churns, and my head threatens to strangle my brain at the very thought. “Oh god, I hope he’s not.”
Mary Kate waves away the very thought. “I’m sure he isn’t. Guys pull shit like this all the time. ‘Let’s get serious! Oh wait, I forgot my car keys, uhhh bye.’ It’s just cold feet or whatever. He’ll come around.”
I nod, even though that explanation doesn’t really cover it in this case. It’s the best advice I’ll get without being able to give them any more details, though, and it’s good enough for me.
Whatever is bothering Jack, whatever keeps making him push me away, he’ll figure it out. This chemistry between us is too perfect, too bone-deep, for him to ignore.
I hope.
“Until then,” Stacey adds as we descend from the parapet, my hand pressed to the cool stone to keep my balance on the narrow, winding stairs, “don’t let the arsehole get away with treating you this way. Give the git a taste of his own medicine.”
Now that is advice I can do something with.
Jack
“Thanks for coming,” Kat mumbles into my shoulder outside his room. “I couldn’t handle this without you.”
I only came for you, is what I don’t tell her. Because really, this is the last place on the planet I want to be. I haven’t even seen my father yet and they’re already on my case.
“Be a doll and get us some coffee, love,” Mum’s sister, Aunt Betty, interrupts. She’s talking to me, of course. She’d never send Kat on errands.
Just make it through the day, I order myself as I head down the narrow hospital staircase, the back stairs that stink of disinfectants and something else, something fouler. I don’t want to think too hard about it.
At the shitty hole in the wall that passes for a cafeteria, I fill up a tray with coffees, because I know everyone else will demand one as soon as they see Betty’s. Betty, her husband Ralph (married since college), my mother (ditto), Kat and Raul (“finally settling down,” at the ripe old age of 28, as Mum put it), Dad’s two older sisters (married for 35 and 40 years respectively before their husbands passed away, though they still wear the rings), the whole bloody clan. At least my cousin Tina didn’t tag along with her deadbeat drug-addled husband to wave the enormous rock (which he probably bought with money he made selling X to teenagers) in our faces. Never mind that he’s a worthless sack of shite—Tina married him, so in Mum’s eyes, they’re both doing great.
I lug the coffees back upstairs and pass them out to the crowded waiting room. When I reach Mum, she wipes tears from her eyes. “Thank you, Jack.”
I soften, taking a seat beside her. I’m being an arse. She’s clearly worried, and rightly so. The doctors said it’s worse this time. The mass that was in his liver two years ago, which we thought had gone into remission, is back. Along with more tumors in his stomach and his esophagus.
It doesn’t look good.
“How are you holding up?” I ask her under my breath.
She leans on my shoulder and sighs. “I don’t know. I just want him to be okay. But if he’s in pain, then maybe it’s better if . . . ”
I pat her hair, but then she sits up and draws in a deep sniff.
“Let’s talk about something else.” She forces a smile, and I know what’s coming. “How are you doing? How’s that lovely lass of yours? You know, we haven’t seen Hannah in over a year—I saw on her Facebook page that she’s back at Oxford. Why didn’t you tell me? We could have driven down to visit!”
“She’s not my lass,” I mutter. “We split up, remember?”
“Oh, you always say that, but you always end up right back with her.” She slaps my knee for emphasis. “She’s the only one who will put up with you, Jacky-Boy, so you better seal that deal fast if you know what’s good for you. You already let the others all slip through your fingers. Pretty soon there will be no women left!”
“Can we not have this conversation now?”
“When is
a better time?” She gestures at the family around us. At my sister and the fiancé she hardly knows. At Aunt Betty and Uncle Ralph, currently bickering over whose coffee has more cream. At Dad’s sisters in the far corner, glaring at all of us in their usual judgmental way, like they’re evaluating which one of us is the biggest disappointment of all. “Surrounded by a family that wants better for you. Outside the room of your dying father, who I know wants you to find your place and settle down for good.”
“I’m already in my place, Mum.”
She only pats my cheek. “Temporarily. But you need a real home, Jack, a real woman to take care of you, kids to give you purpose.”
I push back my chair to stand. “I’m going to go see him.”
“He’s sleeping, the doctors said—”
“I’ll be quiet,” I say, already halfway to his room. Really, I just need to get away from all of them. The pressure of all their combined glares at once is more than I can stand.
It’s dark in Dad’s room, quiet but for the soft blip of machinery around him. It is sad to see him like this, the wrinkles on his face more pronounced now, his hairline completely receded and white, his skin pale and flecked with sweat. I ease into the chair beside his bed, careful not to wake him, and finally, I let myself relax.
It doesn’t last long.
“They convinced you to come, I see. Thank your sister for me, would you? I’m sure she had to force you into this.”
I glance over at the bed to find him studying me, his usual, ever-present frown hovering at the corners of his mouth. I bring that out in him. “Of course I came,” I say, because it sounds better than what I’m really thinking, which is Do you even give a shit?
“Alone as usual, I presume?”
I grit my teeth. Be nice, he’s sick. “You know me. Regular lone wolf.”
“When are you going to get serious, Jack? Your sister finally got her act together, Lord knows it took her long enough. You’re supposed to be the older brother, set a good example. Instead, you’re, what, thirty now, and still as lost as ever.”