It Sounded Better in My Head

by Nina Kenwood

  ‘A little.’

  I’ve decided I actually quite like the safety of this limbo period. Nothing is certain or decided yet. Next week, my choices will become concrete and I might have made the wrong ones and I’ll have to live with that forever and I don’t know how anyone makes these kinds of decisions and feels good about them. The whole thing makes me feel sick.

  ‘No matter what happens, I’m so proud of you, honey.’

  There she goes, with the ‘no matter what happens’ stuff again. She has no idea that bringing up the fact that anything can happen is as unnerving as hell to someone like me.

  I’m feeling bad now about how awful I have been to her tonight and for the phone snooping, and I’m about to apologise, when she turns to me.

  ‘Natalie, there’s something else I need to tell you.’

  My stomach hurts preemptively. ‘What’s that?’

  Mum clears her throat a little. ‘We’re selling the house.’

  ‘This house? Our house?’

  ‘Yes. I can’t afford the mortgage on my own.’

  This probably should have occurred to me before, but I have been too busy wallowing in my own self-pity and thinking about Alex to consider logistics. I hate this. Without a big piece of shared real estate, the chances of Mum and Dad getting back together someday just got much, much smaller. (I didn’t even know I was holding out hope for them getting back together until this moment.)

  ‘Where will I live?’

  ‘With me, at my new place.’

  ‘Which is where?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. There’s a lot to organise before I get to that point.’

  I swallow, afraid I’m going to cry, and wait until I know my voice won’t wobble to speak. ‘What if I want to live with Dad?’

  ‘You can do that,’ Mum says, and she looks like she’s trying to stop her voice from wobbling too.

  ‘So I have to choose one of you?’ I knew it would come to this. If Mum had kept the house, then staying with her wouldn’t have felt as much like choosing, because I would be at the home I’ve always known, my real home. But if they are both renting new apartments, in new areas, then it is a direct choice between them.

  ‘I wouldn’t put it like that.’

  ‘But it is exactly like that.’

  ‘You could do one week with one of us, and then a week with the other. Or a month each. Or a year. There are lots of ways for us to share you,’ she says, squeezing my shoulder, and then smoothing my hair back from my face.

  As long as I am shared. As long as my life is sliced up into equal pieces for them both to enjoy.

  24

  Five Stages

  The next morning, I lie prone on the couch and watch Netflix. It has been almost forty-eight hours since I last spoke to Alex. I have cycled through the five stages of rejection. (Stage one: I am too busy and carefree to even keep track of when he last contacted me. Stage two: he’s probably busy, I’m busy too, we are both busy people. Stage three: it would have been nice to hear from him by now but everything is fine. Stage four: maybe he dropped his phone in the toilet or left it somewhere. Stage five: it’s over and fuck him.)

  Then a text from Alex appears on my screen.

  — Hey, what are you up to tonight?

  I clutch my phone and look at the words with relief and delight, grinning like a goof for a sad and shameful length of time before realising I need to respond. I consider saying ‘nothing’ but I actually do have plans. Lucy invited me to see a movie with her and Zach tonight, which is a transparent move on her behalf to smooth things over with me and Zach, but I figured I should go and give Zach the chance to apologise in person.

  — I’m seeing a movie with Zach and Lucy

  The more I look at that sentence on the screen, the colder and harsher and more closed off those words seem, so before I can second-guess myself, I send another message.

  — Do you want to come?

  No. I’ve gone too far in the other direction now. I’ve asked him out. I’ve literally asked him out. He ignored me for two days and this is how I respond.

  I need a paper bag to breathe into or one of those stress balls to squeeze or a block of chocolate to stuff into my mouth—please god, give me something to do with my hands before I recklessly send any more soul-exposing texts.

  The little ‘I’m typing’ dots appear, then they disappear, and my text sits there unanswered like a humiliating stain on the fabric of humanity.

  Seconds tick by. I start the stopwatch on my phone, because it feels important to know the exact details when I analyse this with Lucy later.

  A whole minute passes.

  At one minute and twenty-three seconds, the typing dots reappear. At one minute and twenty-nine seconds, he finally replies.

  — Sure, what movie?

  Does that mean, Sure I’ll definitely come, what movie are we seeing? Or is it more, Sure, I might be interested, depends on the movie? And why did he need one minute and twenty-nine seconds for that reply?

  I wait for exactly one minute and thirty seconds to pass before I respond, to maintain a shred of dignity.

  — The Final Reckoning

  — It’s a horror movie

  — We’re seeing the 6.30pm session

  — It’s had some good reviews

  — Well good might be an exaggeration, it’s had mixed reviews

  — Here’s the link to the trailer

  I stop myself before I can send a seventh text message in a row. I put my phone down. It’s okay if he takes a while to respond now. He might want to watch the trailer, or read some reviews, or look at the Rotten Tomatoes score or—

  A new message pops onto my screen.

  — Sounds good. Should I pick you up?

  Last time I was alone in the car with him I couldn’t think of anything to say for most of the trip. Nope. Best to meet him there.

  I send him the details of where to meet and he writes see you then and I angst over whether or not that needs a reply, and if it does, whether or not I have waited too long to reply, and then I finally send a thumbs up emoji, throw my phone away from me, walk into my bedroom and collapse facedown on my bed.

  If every step of dating is this torturous, I won’t survive.

  25

  Are You Having Fun Yet?

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi.’

  Ten seconds in, and this double-date is a disaster. We make small talk about popcorn and choc-tops, and I am acutely aware of how far apart Alex and I are standing and that Zach and Lucy are holding hands, which I suspect is so Lucy can grip his hand tightly as a warning if he starts to say the wrong thing, but, still, it makes me feel extremely aware of their closeness and our separateness. A double-date, I realise, means you are pitching your coupling into direct comparison with another couple, and Alex and I have no chance of measuring up to Zach and Lucy. Zach and Lucy are the Olympic champions of coupling, and Alex and I are amateurs trying out a sport for the first time, stumbling around confused about the rules.

  Alex and Zach are being overly polite to each other in a way that’s making me tense. They’re not polite brothers. Every word between them has an undercurrent of darker meaning. Zach and I are simply avoiding eye contact or directly speaking to each other at all. An apology does not seem to be forthcoming. I am also avoiding making eye contact with Alex because looking into his eyes makes me nervous. I am attracted to him with an intensity that feels deeply embarrassing and I’m worried that might not be normal.

  Because of the weird tension floating between three of us, Lucy is left to do a lot of social heavy lifting, but, luckily, she’s good at filling silence with cheerful chat that doesn’t require any input from anyone else. (‘I keep seeing that poster for that movie everywhere, and I have no idea what it’s about, at all, and I just think if you look at a poster and have no idea what the movie is about, if you can’t even guess the genre, then the poster is a failure, but, then ag
ain, I’m talking about it, so maybe it’s a success.’)

  We walk into the theatre with Lucy leading the way, which means I end up sitting between Zach and Alex.

  I can see Zach glancing at us all the time out of the corner of his eye, and I keep thinking about his ‘Alex is not going to be your great love story’ comment. I am determined to disprove that theory, but it is difficult under surveillance.

  I am seventy per cent sweaty anxiety and thirty per cent paranoia, but that might be pretty normal for a first date, I don’t know.

  The movie starts, and it has a creepy doll, which is my least-liked horror trope, and lots of jump scares, my second-least-liked thing about horror films. I am very sensitive to jump scares, and I practically leap out of my seat at the first one, which scares Alex.

  ‘Jesus, you frightened me more than the movie,’ he whispers.

  ‘Sorry, I’m not good with horror.’

  He lifts the armrest between us, thank god, because I wanted to raise it from the moment we sat down but I wasn’t sure of the etiquette of when that should happen.

  I push my face into Alex’s shoulder every time the movie gets scary, and suddenly I’m seeing the appeal of horror movies. Alex smells very, very good. He has a very particular masculine smell that I always imagine handsome celebrities in magazine photoshoots wearing leather jackets and sitting on motorcycles have.

  Alex looks at me at one point and smiles, and his eyes do that crinkly thing, and I want to die with how adorable he is.

  Then the movie ends and everything goes to hell again.

  ‘What did you think?’ Lucy asks.

  ‘It was pretty bad,’ Alex says.

  ‘That’s rude,’ Zach says.

  ‘What is?’ Alex says.

  ‘Telling my girlfriend, who was kind enough to invite you along, that the movie she chose was crap.’

  ‘Actually, Natalie invited me. And I wasn’t aware we weren’t allowed to criticise the movie.’

  ‘It’s fine, Alex, of course you can say it wasn’t good,’ Lucy says, making a what-the-hell-are-you-doing face at Zach.

  We file out of the cinema in silence and I can feel the tension between Zach and Alex crackling. We reach the foyer, and I turn around, about to say something to Lucy, but Zach speaks before I can.

  ‘Why are you even here?’ he says to Alex.

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t come again,’ Alex says.

  ‘You won’t be invited again.’

  ‘What is going on right now?’ I say. Alex and Zach might argue and tease each other a lot, but what is happening now is different—it has undertones of something sour and long-lasting.

  ‘Zach has a problem with you and me spending time together,’ Alex says, and takes my hand in his, which I don’t like, because I am not here to be a prop in their fight. I let go of his hand, and I see Zach notice me doing it, and I want to shout, That wasn’t for you.

  ‘Yeah, I do,’ Zach says.

  ‘Let’s get a hot chocolate!’ Lucy says, with hopeful enthusiasm. She believes in the power of nice warm drink to diffuse a situation. I think she learned it from Mariella, who routinely distracts her sons with food and drink when they are fighting or getting on her nerves—it’s her signature move as a mother.

  ‘It’s weird that you are going out with Lucy and trying to control Natalie’s love-life at the same time,’ Alex says.

  Lucy and I look at each other. This is awkward.

  ‘No, it’s weird that you’re socialising with me now after years of ignoring the three of us,’ Zach says.

  ‘Let’s all just take a deep breath and relax for a second,’ Lucy says.

  ‘Well, what exactly do you want? That Natalie and I never talk to each other again? Is that what would make you happy?’ Alex says.

  I am acutely aware that we’re making a scene in the cinema foyer.

  ‘Yes, to be honest, that would make me happy,’ Zach says.

  ‘And do you care about what makes me happy?’ I say, because I can’t stand to listen to them fight any longer.

  ‘Yes. Obviously, I do. That’s what I’m trying to say,’ he says, turning to me.

  Alex’s jaw is clenched. ‘You must really think I’m a piece of shit,’ he says to Zach, his voice cracking as he says it.

  My heart lurches.

  Zach shakes his head. ‘I don’t think that,’ he says, quietly.

  ‘It seems like you do,’ Alex says.

  ‘You cheated on Vanessa,’ Zach blurts out.

  Oh.

  Oh.

  This is not a piece of information I can process in front of other people.

  ‘You cheated on Vanessa, and I don’t want you to cheat on Natalie,’ Zach continues.

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Alex says.

  ‘My mum is picking us up in five minutes,’ Lucy says, grabbing Zach’s hand and dragging him towards the escalator. Mariella, thankfully, has not told Lucy’s mother about catching Lucy and Zach in bed together, so Lucy is still allowed to socialise out in the world.

  ‘I’ve got to go too,’ Alex says.

  I wait for him to offer to drive me home, but instead he hugs me goodbye, and leaves quickly, head down, hands jammed in his pockets, practically running. This is all the confirmation I need that the cheating must have happened.

  ‘My mum can drive you home,’ Lucy says to me.

  ‘No, it’s okay, I’m getting picked up,’ I lie. I had assumed Alex would drive me home.

  ‘All right then, bye,’ Lucy says.

  ‘Bye,’ I say. We exchange wide-eyed looks that acknowledge we will be texting each other about this later tonight.

  ‘Zach,’ I call out to their backs as they are walking away.

  ‘What?’ he says, turning around.

  ‘Thanks for ruining my first date,’ I say.

  He looks appropriately devastated, and I walk away quickly before he can defend himself.

  26

  The Truth or Something Like It

  Alex messages me that night. I’m at Dad’s apartment, my first night staying over, and I’m trying to figure out how to work the dimmer on the light switch, when I hear my phone ping.

  — That went badly

  There it is. The inevitable text I always knew I would receive after my first date. I can’t deny getting a secret thrill out of having my low expectations met. So there, Mum. Sometimes the pimple does get worse, the jeans don’t fit even after stretching them out for a day and the date you thought was bad really was that terrible.

  I write back.

  — Yes it did

  No point in denying it. Alex’s response appears on my screen seconds later.

  — So about what Zach said

  Oh god. The thing I have been avoiding thinking about even though the words have been haunting me for hours. Alex cheated on Vanessa. Everything I have read about relationships on the internet or seen on TV has taught me that once a cheater, always a cheater. Alex is a Bad Person, and Zach is right, he’ll let me down. (Of course, in one way, this has only made Alex more attractive to me, because Bad Person is very close in characterisation to Bad Boy, and TV has also conditioned me to love the Bad Boy.)

  I take a deep breath. I need to protect myself. I need to be tough.

  — Which part?

  — The cheating part

  — Is it true?

  — Yes. No. Kind of.

  — Kind of?

  Alex is a cheater, which means he’s a liar, which means I shouldn’t trust anything he says or does.

  — It’s more complicated than it sounds

  — Isn’t that what guys who cheat on their girlfriends always say?

  The little typing bubbles appear for a long time before his next message appears. I imagine all the things he could be writing. It wasn’t me, it was a guy who looked like me. I was tricked into it. Someone took a photo of us on a weird angle and it looked like we were kissing, but we weren’t. I was possessed by a demon. It was a dare
. It was a scheme. We were rehearsing a scene from a play. It was one small part of a complicated jewel heist.

  If he actually writes any of these things, I won’t believe him, but I want him to care enough to try to lie.

  His response finally appears on my screen.

  — Vanessa and I were on and off for months…it was very messy…one weekend we had this really big fight and I was upset and I kissed someone else at a party…a kiss that lasted about two minutes…I’m not proud of it, it was a mistake

  I don’t know what to say to this, and I type a single-word response that would probably stress me the hell out if I got it.

  — Okay

  — But I’m a not a bad person. At least, I really hope I’m not. Or if I was, I’m not now.

  — Okay

  — What does okay mean???

  — Okay means I am thinking about that information

  — What are you thinking?

  — I haven’t decided.

  I believe him, which makes me think I shouldn’t believe him, because I don’t know what I’m doing, and my instincts are probably all wrong. I am a naive, inexperienced know-nothing. (But all my years of reading relationship-advice columns online! Surely that counts for something! I guess it depends on who is doing the counting.) The Natalie I was before we kissed, she knew better. She knew not to trust Alex. She was strong, unwavering. She rejected secrets, and lies, and pretty much the entire male population. Now I am weak and disgusting with feelings.

  Also, there’s the glaring fact that I didn’t notice my parents weren’t together for ten months. This, more than anything, tells me that I can’t trust my judgment anymore.

  If I can see Alex’s face, and look into his eyes, maybe then I can know. I once read a book on how to spot a liar. I’ve forgotten most of it, but I know looking someone dead in the eyes without blinking makes it much harder for them to lie, unless they’re a psychopath, and then they’ll stare straight back at you and lie with ease and you’ll probably be caught in their web of lies forever.

  — Come over

  I type it without really even thinking, but once I’ve written it, it feels very exciting.