Troy’s Possibilities

by Rodney Strong

  I sat and let the conversation wash over me. I glanced over to see my mother staring at me shrewdly. It was an insightful look, as if she could see my thoughts. I hated it when she did that. Mumbling some excuse, I got up from the couch and went back into the bathroom, closing the door quietly but firmly, the click as the lock slid home acting like a starter pistol for the emotions chaffing inside. They burst forth, brawling, tumbling over each other. I half expected to see tiny fists punching at the skin, but the face in the mirror was smooth, whole, and calm.

  I felt stupid and scared at the same time. Stupid for thinking she’d forgotten about me, and for not getting the reference, our secret reference. And scared because it felt like she was so far away from me – not just geographically, but metaphorically. It was great she had won, and fantastic that more work was coming, but all of those things seemed to be pulling her in a direction that wasn’t towards me. Which was selfish, but I felt like it was all slipping away.

  There was a knock on the door. ‘Everything all right, dear?’ came my mother’s voice.

  I took another long look in the mirror before opening the door. ‘Geez, Mum, can’t a guy go to the toilet in peace?’

  ‘I didn’t hear a flush,’ she said shrewdly.

  ‘False alarm,’ I replied.

  ‘Mmm. You need to eat more fibre.’

  ‘Mum, I’m twenty-eight years old. I hardly need nutritional advice.’

  ‘Tough. I’m going to keep giving you advice on what to eat right up until you give me a grandchild, and then I’ll give you advice on what they should eat. It’s my prerogative as a mother.’

  ‘Okay, more fibre it is. We should get back to the celebrations.’

  Instead she leaned against the wall, suddenly looking tired.

  ‘Are you okay, Mum?’

  She waved it off. ‘Nothing a few years off the body wouldn’t fix.’

  I leaned against the opposite wall and folded my arms, which brought a smile.

  ‘You used to do that when you were a little boy.’

  I straightened my arms, then realised I looked silly, fidgeted a bit before refolding them.

  Mum laughed. ‘You hated it when I questioned you, so you’d find the closest wall and lean against it, trying desperately to be cool. Sometimes you’d press your little body against the wallpaper so hard I expected to see an outline when you stepped away. And you’d fold your arms across your body like that. Like you were hugging yourself for comfort.’

  ‘It was a little like the Spanish inquisition at times,’ I quipped. But she wasn’t far off. Leaning against the wall, I used to pretend I was a super hero who could push through the solid material like jelly, smooshing away from my mother’s withering stare, through the wallpaper, through the gib board, insulation, and out the other side.

  ‘You really like this girl.’

  My brain froze at the sudden change of topic.

  ‘You don’t need to say – I can tell.’

  ‘How?’ I said.

  She laughed softly. ‘Call it mother’s intuition, or call it the fact that this is the first one you’ve brought home to meet us.’

  Actually I’ve introduced plenty of girls to my parents, just never in the real world.

  ‘You’re worried,’ she added.

  ‘I’m happy. She’s in another country, and I’m a little sad I can’t be with her to celebrate. That’s all.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Don’t overthink it,’ I said with a touch of irony.

  She studied my face a little longer, then pushed away from the wall. As she neared the lounge door I had a sudden flash of memories – all the times she’d died crowded my thoughts like a morbid montage, sans music.

  ‘Hey, Mum,’ I called after her. She paused and looked back. ‘I…’ For some reason I couldn’t say it. It seemed fatalistic, as if telling her would bring bad luck. We’d never been good at saying the words. I suddenly understood why I hadn’t said it to Cat.

  ‘What is it, Troy?’

  I couldn’t. Don’t ask me why, but it seemed silly telling her. ‘I do like her. She’s special.’

  Mum nodded. ‘Yes, she is.’ She disappeared through the door.

  I wanted to go back into the bathroom, look into the mirror again and see if there was anything different – enlightenment perhaps, whatever that looks like. But I knew all I would see was the same face staring back at me, the same craters and imperfections. Whatever else happened, I needed my sun; I needed Cat.

  Maybe I should fly over to surprise her. The idea materialised from nowhere, but the more I stood leaning against the wall the more it made sense. It was perfect, in fact – a romantic gesture, showing up at her hotel room with flowers. Mmmm, maybe not flowers; she probably had a million of them already. Something from home then, or maybe just me. There was time to work that out once I booked the flights. Shit, I’d better book the flights.

  I went into the kitchen, grabbed the phone, and pressed the call button. A ring tone buzzed in my ear and I started to push buttons, then realised I didn’t know what buttons to push. Dropping the phone onto the counter, I crossed to the table and fired up the laptop. My fingers tapped impatiently as it seemed to take an age. I didn’t realise Emily had come in until she put a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I’m going to Melbourne.’

  ‘Don’t –’ she started and I rounded on her.

  ‘What do you mean, don’t? I’m doing something stupidly romantic. It’s the basis of every love story.’

  She squeezed my shoulder. ‘I meant don’t waste time. I’ll book the flights – you go pack.’

  ‘Oh.’ I felt foolish again.

  Eight hours later I was on a flight to Australia. My luggage, stuffed in the overhead locker, consisted of all the clean clothes I could find – one T-shirt, one pair of underwear, black dress shoes, and two jerseys.

  I slept most of the way, waking in confusion when the wheels thumped onto the tarmac. The taxi ride to her hotel took forever, especially because the taxi driver tried to talk to me about sports, which I didn’t care about, and didn’t believe me when I said one of the winners from last night’s Logie Awards was my girlfriend.

  It was mid-morning when we pulled up in front of the hotel. I paid the driver and climbed out in front of a pretty flash but not top-of-the-range building. The lobby was all clean lines and glass, and the staff well-appointed in dark-brown suits with white shirts and painted-on smiles. Approaching the check-in desk, I realised I didn’t know Cat’s room number. It was unlikely they would be any more believing of my status as an award winner’s plus one than the taxi driver had been.

  Pulling out my phone, I debated whether to text or call. Hard to casually drop it into a text, but then if she asked I could say I wanted to send her celebratory flowers. So I texted Hey, wat yr rm no? then retreated from the suspicious eyes of the reception staff and sat down on one of the couches dotted around the room.

  My phone beeped. was gng to ask u same q

  ???? I responded in confusion.

  Whr r u?

  I wondered if I should be cagey. Dwnstrs, went my reply.

  Nt likely.

  Y????

  Yr house dsnt have dwnstrs.

  My heart dropped suddenly. Wht???

  Wnt hme. 2 b with y.

  But I cme hr 2 b with u.

  So Ems sd.

  Fuck.

  Yep.

  Sty thre, Im cmn hme, I said to avoid confusion.

  K.

  C U ASAP. I stood up and walked out of the hotel. My taxi still sat there, and the driver looked at me like I was mad when I told him I needed to get back to the airport.

  My phone beeped again. Troy…

  Yeah?

  I love you.

  It was spelt out in full, no text-talk for something so important. Tears threatened and I swallowed my emotions back down.

  I looked out at the passing traffic. My first thought was to igno
re it – both the message and the growing emotion inside me. Then reason kicked in. She’d said it to me; if I didn’t reply at all she would think I didn’t feel the same way. A flight home would take at least four hours, assuming I could get on one today. That’s a long time to wait for a reply.

  I let out a soft laugh, realising I was overthinking it again and I looked down to type a message – and blinked…

  The one step forward two steps back

  ‘Troy?’

  Cat sat opposite me at an outside café table. Between us were half-drunk coffees and the mangled remnants of a scone (me) and muffin (her). The sun shone without heat, and we were the only ones sitting outside, both wrapped up in scarves and hats. Inside it was packed full of sensible people escaping the winter for a short time. ‘Huh?’ I said.

  ‘You spaced out on me for a second. I said imagine if this lead somewhere? How amazing would it be to be a full-time actor?’

  Memories snapped back into place. It was 2017. Cat had met her agent on the way out of our pre-date a week ago, and this morning she’d auditioned for a part in a TV show. Everything that happened in the Possibility was waiting to happen, or not happen. But if there was a chance that her success would take her away…

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up too much, Cat – it’s a small part.’

  She looked disappointed, perhaps expecting me to offer unfailing enthusiasm at her prospects for stardom. Then she shook her head a little, discarding the thought. ‘There are no small parts, only small actors.’

  ‘Is that a sizeist thing?’ I said, hating myself for not being supportive.

  ‘That comment was beneath you,’ she said primly.

  ‘Is that a sizeist thing?’ I repeated.

  ‘Shut up and give me your scone,’ she demanded.

  This was our second pre-date. Cat had gone home from our first one in high spirits, but then doubts had crept back in, so she’d asked for a postponement of the actual date, though she was eager to pursue further negotiations as part of a follow-up pre-date.

  We’d arranged to meet for coffee. I didn’t want any, and I didn’t particularly want to meet in the middle of the day in such a public spot, but it was this or nothing. It might have been wishful thinking – or my imagination – but she seemed more relaxed today. It probably helped that we’d either texted or talked every day since the first pre-date.

  What wasn’t in my imagination was the glimpses of the real Cat appearing, the one who stole my phone allegedly to help me. She came out from behind the clouds every now and then with a laugh, a sly smile, a brash statement, so I knew she was still there. I just wasn’t sure if Cat knew it yet.

  We finished up our food and I suggested a walk along the waterfront. As we walked she slipped her arm through mine, a suggestion of intimacy suitable for a pre-date. We talked of inconsequential things – the latest movies we might see together, books, and it turned out we shared similar tastes in both. Despite the cold the waterfront was busy, bundled up families bustling from place to place, dogs reluctantly being walked by equally reluctant owners, lovers strolling hand in hand and laughing at things that probably weren’t all that funny. We could have been one of them; I wished we were. Overhead seagulls sat on the wind, waiting for dropped morsels to scrap over. It was a good moment.

  As we walked Cat’s phone beeped. She slipped her arm free and dug it out of her jacket pocket. She flicked a couple of buttons and frowned.

  ‘What’s up?’ I asked.

  She read a bit more before replying. ‘It’s about this guy I met in Oz, Geoff. We went out a couple of times.’

  My mouth went dry. ‘He’s no good,’ I blurted out. She looked up at me in confusion, and I strove to find the right words to explain the outburst. ‘You know, never trust a guy called Geoff,’ I said lamely.

  She switched her attention back to the screen, tapped out a brief reply and pressed send. ‘That was my friend Angela, telling me Geoff has been arrested for domestic abuse. Apparently he hit his new girlfriend during a fight.’ She looked me in the eye. ‘So you were right, he was no good.’

  The strength seemed to leak out of her, so I guided her over to a seat.

  She admitted, ‘I always thought there was something a little strange about him, but I thought it was me.’

  ‘Did he…?’ I hesitated, not sure how to phrase it.

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘He never hit me, but if I hadn’t come back – that could have been me.’ She shivered with the thought and pressed into me. I put my arm around her, it felt natural. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I didn’t – how could I? It was a guy thing, you know? You mentioned another guy so I immediately went into offence mode.’ Even I didn’t buy that bullshit, so it wasn’t surprising when she pressed further.

  ‘But it was so instant. It’s like you recognised the name, like you knew something about him. Do you? Do you know Geoff?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  She sat up.

  ‘I really don’t.’

  ‘Did I mention him to you? I don’t remember doing it, but maybe I said he’d asked me out.’ She sounded unsure, suspicious.

  I imagined scenarios running through her mind, possibilities of why I might know Geoff. I could hardly tell her that her abusive Possible boyfriend murdered me on a beach. ‘You’re overthinking it, Cat. It was a throw away comment. You could have said any other guy’s name and I would have said the same thing. How on earth could I know this guy Geoff was a violent ex?’

  She mulled that over for a while, then relaxed her body. ‘I guess you’re right. Sorry. It’s just … I can’t help thinking it was a narrow escape.’ She gave a rueful laugh. ‘I guess you saved me again.’

  ‘Must be my destiny.’ I grinned at her.

  ‘God, I hope not,’ she retorted.

  My face fell at the bluntness of her words.

  She looked up in time to see the tail end of my expression. ‘Sorry, Troy, that came out wrong. What I meant was I don’t want to be the sort of person who constantly needs saving. That’s not who I was, and it’s not who I want to be.’

  ‘Who do you want to be?’ I asked.

  ‘I want to be Cat. I want to be that girl – she sounds awesome. She sounds like the sort of person who isn’t afraid all the time. I want to be her.’

  ‘Good,’ I said firmly. ‘Frankly, I’m more interested in her anyway.’

  She punched me on the arm. ‘Then go spend time with her,’ she said.

  ‘Can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘She doesn’t exist anymore,’ I said calmly.

  Cat brushed wind-blown hair from her face. We were agonisingly close to each other, our lips separated only by self-control and fear. My heart told me to bridge the gap, to press my lips against hers, but my head screamed at the disaster that could follow for not showing restraint.

  She trembled slightly, possibly suffering the same dilemma. ‘You sound sad,’ she whispered.

  ‘Reflective,’ I said.

  ‘Would you rather be with her?’

  ‘She’s a ghost,’ I replied. ‘There’s nowhere else I want to be.’

  She searched my eyes, looking for something – reassurance, sincerity, hope? Only she knew. Slowly she leaned in and for a heart-stopping moment I thought we were going to kiss, then she moved her head to the side and pressed her cheek against mine. It was cold, but soft, and she smelled slightly of vanilla.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Being patient.’

  We stayed that way for a moment longer, then she pulled away, and a stab of loss shot through me. Cat leaned back in the seat, and taking her cue I leaned back as well, and together we watched the world move forward.

  ‘Do you think we’re the only people here on a pre-date?’ she asked in a light tone. I recognised she wanted to isolate the intimacy, and return to easier things.

  ‘Most likely. The concept hasn’t really caught on yet. Alt
hough those two maybe?’ I pointed to a man and woman passing by. As we watched the man casually stretched out to take hold of the woman’s hand and she, equally as casually, moved her hand away.

  ‘Oh, dear, he doesn’t know the rules of pre-dates,’ Cat commented.

  Undeterred, the man tried to put his arm around her shoulder, but she slipped out from under it, then slid her arm through his and held on, a compromise he seemed content with.

  ‘He’d better give up or there won’t be an actual date,’ I noted.

  ‘Some people don’t get it,’ Cat replied sadly. ‘What about that couple?’

  An older couple, both probably in their sixties, strolled towards us.

  ‘Married,’ I said dismissively.

  ‘No wedding rings,’ Cat pointed out.

  ‘Maybe they aren’t married to each other.’

  ‘Ah, a secret rendezvous, a romantic tryst.’

  ‘Not so secret.’ I indicated our surroundings.

  ‘Maybe they’re just bad at it,’ she suggested.

  ‘You’d think once you get to that age you’d be good at keeping secrets.’

  ‘It’s like riding a bike – you have to keep it up or you get rusty,’ Cat replied.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Tell me a story?’ she asked.

  ‘When I was twelve…’

  ‘No, not a real life story. I’m not trying to bond over childhood experiences. Make one up.’

  This girl was killing me with her demands on my creativity. I made up a story about retired spies walking along the waterfront one day who get drawn into an afternoon of intrigue and danger. It was terrible, but Cat withheld all criticisms.

  She didn’t talk at all for a long time, finally looking me in the eye. ‘So, Troy Messer, what secrets are you hiding?’ She said it lightly but there was an importance to the question.

  For a fleeting moment I thought about telling her everything, laying it all on the line. But I’d tried that before, with different people, in different Possibilities, and it never ended well. Besides, it’s not the sort of thing you bring up on a pre-date. It’s more a second or third date – or never – sort of thing.