by Sara Jafari
“ ‘My dad is selfish, cowardly, and often a bully. What saddens me most about all of this is that I’ll never know if that’s his personality, or the drugs. I never knew my dad before he became addicted to opium, and then methadone, courtesy of the NHS. I will never know him sober because he doesn’t want to quit. Or maybe he simply can’t.
“ ‘It’s taken me a while to realize the effect his drug taking has had on me, physically and mentally. When I have a moment to think, I peel the skin by my nails. It often bleeds. It hurts. But I can’t stop. It’s compulsive. I grew up in a disrupted house. Life was never smooth sailing with a drug-addicted dad, so in adulthood I can’t see my life being smooth. Therefore, when it ticks along, and there’s no immediate threat, I peel the skin by my fingers, and wonder: what horrible thing is going to happen next?’ ”
Her vision of Oliver was blurry by now, but she continued speaking, needing to finish her piece before she cried.
“ ‘So, I’m learning to forgive, to understand my dad better, to change my future. I made a decision to break myself free. Free from the shackles of my dad, from my anxiety, from his addiction. I’m allowing myself to soar, unrestrained by the weight of my dad’s mistakes. I am his daughter, yes, but I am not my dad.’ ”
The clapping in contrast to the silence before made Soraya jump. She put up one hand to cover her smile, and to wipe away her tears. Oliver stood up, clapping loudly. She heard a familiar yelp above the clapping. It took her all the way back to graduation day. She wiped away any lingering tears and looked out over the seated crowd.
Magnus.
Just as she had at graduation, despite her grand speech about change, she moved out of the spotlight and sat down in the front row, next to Priya, while Oliver introduced the next speaker. All the while her head was pounding. Was she going mad? Or had she seen Magnus Evans, who was supposed to be in Paris, listening to her read? Convinced it couldn’t have been him, she turned in her seat to peer at the back row. Sure enough, there he was, looking right at her. He smiled. She turned back to the front again. Her brain couldn’t compute what was going on. This isn’t supposed to happen, her mind moaned, he’s meant to be dead to you. The technique didn’t quite work when the subject was in the same room. And very much alive. A minor flaw.
Another contributor finished reading her piece, and there was more clapping. Soraya rose and hurried out to the upstairs bar. Her legs were shaking.
“Can I get a vodka cranberry?” she asked the barman, her voice wobbly. Hold yourself together. The main bar was empty apart from the staff. She could hear the next contributor speaking downstairs and felt a pang of guilt.
It was still only just light out, the in-between phase at which in the blink of an eye the sky would turn gray and then night would arrive.
She handed the barman the money while taking a sip, and experienced the familiar warmth of alcohol.
Predictably, she felt a presence behind her.
She shut her eyes, counting to ten, wishing what she knew to be wrong.
On six he spoke. “Soraya,” Magnus said. She’d forgotten his accent, forgotten how real it made him. In her head his voice was neutral, without flaw. Out loud she was reminded of how he always pronounced her name with the emphasis on the wrong letters.
Somewhere she was aware of the noise from downstairs, and probably the barman looking at her like she was a psycho, but she couldn’t open her eyes. This was her way of burying her head in the sand. Her attempt to escape. Cornered and with no way out, she chose simply no longer to see. But it was no good. There was no escaping Magnus’s presence; even his scent seemed to overwhelm her.
“Soraya,” he said again, his hand ever so lightly placed on her shoulder. She recoiled, snapping her eyes open in the process.
When she turned and saw him she felt the familiar tingle of embarrassment. Why can’t I behave normally?
His hair was longer, collar-length and wavy, and he had let his stubble grow. Her gaze traveled to his arms, which were still defined under his top. This only annoyed her further, because unlike before he wasn’t pursuing her, he wasn’t hers anymore. He was just a stranger coming at the worst time, distracting her from an important event.
“Oh, hi,” she said.
He, too, seemed speechless. His hand was still raised in front of him and he lowered it slowly, as though in a daze. As though he hadn’t quite expected her to turn around. This pushed her over the edge. She walked around him and hovered by the door. She couldn’t leave, it was her event, but she longed to be out of this room. How could she go downstairs and sit quietly when her mind was racing, her heart pounding?
“Your piece was really beautiful—” she heard him say.
She didn’t let him finish.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
He sighed, his brown eyes soft, imploring her to understand. But understand what?
“You deleted me,” he said.
“And?” she replied. It came out more sharply than she intended.
He gave her a wounded look. She wanted to walk away from him, make him feel how he had made her feel all those months ago. But her curiosity was piqued. Her hopes were raised. And it was better to dash them quickly.
“Why?” he said. It was almost a whisper, and she couldn’t believe it had come from him. She looked at his face closely, trying to gauge what exactly it was he was thinking.
“It seemed unnecessary to have each other on Facebook,” she said. “Besides, you live in Paris now—why are you even here?”
“I’m not just talking about Facebook. You also blocked me on Instagram, Twitter, and even my number…there was no way for me to contact you. I hoped at least we could be friends.”
Soraya rolled her eyes. He still hadn’t answered her question. “Magnus, we didn’t end things well. Our whole relationship was a sham. Why would we be friends?”
He looked wounded for a moment. “It wasn’t a sham. I thought maybe once the dust settled…”
“Well, I don’t want to talk to you. I haven’t forgiven you.” The words stuck in her mouth, were a struggle to let out, but she knew she needed to say them.
He shut his eyes briefly and pinched the bridge of his nose. He breathed deeply. It was unnerving. “I fucked up, OK, I fucked up, and I want…”
“You want what?” She kicked herself for asking.
“I don’t…I don’t know.”
“Well, I need to go back downstairs.” Soraya moved towards the stairs, her back to him.
“Can we talk after?”
“I suppose.”
“Soraya, please.”
She turned again, gritting her teeth. “We can talk next week.” She had no intention of meeting up with him.
“You’re only saying that,” Magnus said.
“I said I would, why would I lie?”
“I know you, Soraya. I know you like to think I don’t, but I do.” Again, the soft voice. “Please, have a drink with me after the launch, or let me walk you to the bus stop. I just want to talk.”
“Fine, whatever, OK. I have to go now.”
She went downstairs, drink in hand, sneaking back to her seat in the front row. She felt embarrassed to be coming in during a reading. Priya and Oliver gave her questioning looks and she shook her head, her face still flushed from the surprise of her past coming back to haunt her.
The evening was a blur of congratulations. Strangers and friends came over to Soraya, Priya, and Oliver, asking questions, telling them which piece resonated with them the most, and they felt high from every interaction. They had actually pulled it off. They took turns standing behind the table selling copies of the journal. When it was Soraya’s turn a girl walked over to her. She looked at the girl, blond, slim, and beautiful, and felt misgivings. When did she become so jaded?
“I wanted to say I loved y
our piece,” the girl said, her voice only just audible over the R&B music and chatter. “My mum is in a similar situation and it was nice to be able to hear someone else talk about what it’s like. Well, I don’t mean ‘nice,’ but you know what I mean.”
The words washed over Soraya and her posture softened. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, awkwardly. She still didn’t know what to say to people who said they were in a similar position to her; she didn’t yet have the vocabulary down. The girl clenched her fists and held them slightly behind herself. That too Soraya could relate to. “It’s shit, isn’t it?” she said, finding the words she would want someone to say to her. And perhaps that’s what she needed to do—not give apologies for someone else’s behavior or say dismissive things such as “I’m sorry.” It’s shit that people get addicted to substances, and there’s not always a great deal more to say about it.
“I’d like to buy one,” the girl said, handing Soraya the money.
“Yeah, sure.” She took the money in exchange for a copy. “Thank you.”
A brunette came up behind the girl, placed her hands around her waist, and gave her a smile. “Great publication,” she said to Soraya. The blond girl seemed visibly to relax and smiled at the new arrival.
“You made me jump,” she said, her voice breathless but happy all the same. To see that this girl had someone in her life made Soraya smile.
“If you ever want to talk about what you said, send me an email. It’s on the first page,” Soraya said.
“I will. My name is Kate, by the way.”
“I’m Soraya. I hope you enjoy reading the journal.”
When Kate left Soraya exhaled, but also felt a weight on her shoulders in the familiar form of Magnus Evans, looming in one corner of the room. Seeing that she was on her own, he walked over to her.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” she said back.
“Can I buy a copy?”
“Of course. That’ll be six pounds.” He handed her a ten-pound note, and when she took it their hands brushed against each other. She was careful to hand him his change by dropping the pound coins into his palm, to prevent any further touching.
“Can you sign it for me?” He opened it up to her piece, and she couldn’t tell if he was joking.
She laughed.
“I’m serious,” he said, pulling a pen out of his backpack.
“You know I’m not a writer…”
“I think you’ll find you are. A published writer in fact.” He gave her a smile.
She scribbled her name onto the page and handed it back to him.
She hated the effect he still had on her.
Someone stood behind him, wanting to buy a copy. Magnus moved out of the way and wandered the room again. Soraya was trying her hardest to be present during the transaction, but her eyes kept straying over to him as he read the excerpts on the wall. Then he settled on a bench, opened the journal and, she assumed, began reading her piece. Watching him study it made her skin crawl.
Oliver came over, with his catlike strut, a frown on his face. “What is he doing here?” His gaze settled on Magnus.
Soraya rolled her eyes. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Well, what did he say to you?”
She glanced over; he was still reading. “He said he wants to talk later.”
Oliver made a sound of disapproval. “He’s a piece of trash,” he muttered.
She nodded, not truly agreeing. “That he is.”
The rest of the evening passed quickly. Her launch party persona was similar to her retail work persona: overenthusiastic and full of faux confidence. That said, with the praise and good vibes of the party, she felt her self-esteem boosted. It was the first time since she’d graduated that she felt empowered by something she had done intellectually, as though what they said at the graduation ceremony was feasible: you can achieve anything you set your hopes on.
And all too soon, the night was over. There were only a handful of people left, and the music had quietened down.
“We’re going to the pub now, you sure you can’t come, Soraya?” Priya asked, putting on her mini backpack.
“Ah, I can’t, I have work early tomorrow.” That was true.
“Not even for one drink?” Oliver said.
She looked over at Magnus, who was still there, saying goodbye to someone he had met during the party. Soraya had kept a close eye on him throughout the night and admired the way he effortlessly made friends.
“I just want to hear what he has to say…”
“He’s a player, Soraya,” Priya said, emphasizing each letter of “player.” “He’s just messing with your head.”
Soraya eyed Oliver, and he looked grim. “I mean, you know how I feel about him. He’s no good.”
She wanted desperately to agree with them. But unfortunately hope had already begun to blossom.
“Doesn’t he have a French girlfriend anyway?” Priya asked what Oliver would not.
Soraya was outnumbered. She knew what she was doing was stupid, but she didn’t care. In that moment, feminist or not, she wanted to hear him out.
“It’s not a big deal,” she muttered, packing one of the suitcases they had brought with the remaining copies. “I’ll finish up here and take what I can.”
“We’ll get the rest tomorrow, don’t carry too much,” Oliver said, before giving her a pat on the back. “Good luck,” he called over his shoulder. They walked past Magnus, and she saw how he almost greeted them both, before seeing that they were giving him dirty looks. She felt embarrassed for him, until she remembered his new girlfriend. He doesn’t deserve my pity.
“Or my time, for that matter,” she whispered to herself, feeling a change of heart coming. But it was too late; only Magnus and Soraya were left in the basement now.
Across the room Magnus smiled at her. His new friend had gone. Soraya gave him a grimace in return.
“So,” she said, unable to endure an awkward silence.
“So,” he said in return.
She had finished packing the journals into the case and zipped it up. She stretched her back, rolling her shoulders in an attempt to get rid of a knot in them. She was tired. There had been months of work leading up to this point and now it was over she was fatigued. But instead of going home to sleep, here she was in front of Magnus, when she’d thought she’d never see him again. Had resigned herself to that fact.
He walked towards her, an anxious look on his face. She had forgotten how big he was. In her memory he had been smaller. His eyes intently searched hers.
“How have you been?” he asked, softly.
“Fine.”
Silence.
“Look—” he said, at the same moment Soraya said, “Why are you back?”
“I was in the area?” He smiled. She didn’t. He scratched the inside of his arm nervously, looking down. “I fucked things up with us and…” His hand seemed to be reaching for something—the right words perhaps?
“And?” she said, impatient for him to say what she had wished he would say for months. But it was too late now, wasn’t it?
He closed the space between them, and somehow within the blink of an eye his hands were cupping her face. Despite her better judgment, she closed her eyes and allowed it. Just the touch of his fingertips against her cheeks sent sparks through her.
“I need you to know something: I really wasn’t involved in that bet. I hate that you think I would do something like that, to you.”
She could hear the pain in his voice, knew instantly that he wasn’t lying. But did it even matter anymore whether he had lied? Did any of it matter now?
“I’ve missed you,” he whispered, quietly. So quietly, she wasn’t sure if she had imagined it.
“I’ve missed you too,” she replied, despite her gut telling h
er not to.
His lips grazed hers gently. She wrapped her arms around his neck and he lifted her up, setting her down on the table. He grabbed her legs and she wrapped them around his waist. He suddenly deepened the kiss, each movement deeper and more desperate than the last. His mouth was hot, his tongue expertly caressing hers, and his hands held her waist like she was made of glass.
It was Soraya who broke the kiss first. “Wait,” she said, putting a hand on his chest, imposing a much-needed barrier. “You can’t just…” She shook her head. “You can’t just come back, after all this time, and kiss me, and expect me to fall at your feet.” He gave her a small smile. His lips were a deep shade of pink, a reminder that she’d done just that.
He raised his hand to her cheek again. She was very conscious that her legs were still wrapped around him, and felt too scared to let go—in that moment she didn’t want to draw attention to herself, she just wanted to understand what he was thinking, what he was doing.
“I’ve missed you, Soraya.”
“You said that already.”
“Are you seeing someone?” he asked, his eyes suddenly anxious.
“I’d be worried if I was.” She laughed, untangling herself from him. “I mean, you are, aren’t you?” She had forgotten that for a moment and felt ashamed. No one wanted to be the other woman.
“What do you mean?” He was still standing close to her, her legs either side of him. Her eyes briefly flickered downwards.
He was everywhere, his scent too close, his body too close, and she needed to regain her senses. “You have a girlfriend, right?” She closed her eyes as he lifted up her chin.
“Open your eyes.”
She shook her head.
“Open your eyes.”
“I can’t right now,” she said.