Dysfunctional Hearts

by L. S. Pullen

  She shakes her head. “It’s fine, honestly,” she replies with a shrug.

  “Well, in that case, I’d appreciate the ally but only if you’re sure?”

  Deep down, I’m relieved. I don’t want her going back to her place until she at least allows me to help get her an alarm fitted. I know it’s not much, but it has to be better than nothing, right?

  She nods, attempting to avert her eyes from my bare chest but failing as I walk over to a stool and plonk myself down.

  “I warn you, though, he looked like he was plotting.”

  “Or maybe he just wants to spend some time with you, Charlie.” She picks up the empty mugs, walks over to the sink, and lets out a short, sharp yelp.

  “Shit, you okay?” I ask, rushing to her side.

  She’s hopping on one foot, mugs still in hand. I quickly take them and dump them in the drainer. Before eyeing the splatter of blood drops on the floor.

  I scoop her off her feet and plant her on top of the counter.

  “Fuck, sorry. I broke a glass last night and hadn’t cleaned it up properly.”

  She bites her lip. I can see her face wincing as she lifts her foot into my hand. Sure enough, there is a shard of glass sticking out.

  “I need to get it out,” I say, turning around. “Hop on.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll give you a piggyback to the bathroom. The light’s better in there. It’s either that or a fireman’s carry. Your choice.”

  I hear her exhale a puff of air. “Fine.” She climbs on.

  In the bathroom, I turn my back to the edge of the bath and lower myself into a crouching position so that she can sit down.

  I turn and lift her leg. “Keep your leg there,” I say as I gently lay it on her opposite thigh.

  I study her foot when she flinches but also giggles. “Are you ticklish?”

  “You know I am, but it hurts, too.”

  “It doesn’t look too deep, but it's bleeding, so I can’t tell.”

  “Can you just pull it out?” she asks, and I can’t help but smile to myself. She swats my arm. “Ewe, Charlie.”

  “You're not meant to pull it out.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Just do it, I’ll take the risk,” she says.

  Again, I can’t help but laugh. Surely, she can see the innuendo in her words. Her face pinched in pain tells me otherwise, and now I feel like a dick. “Fine. Do you have any of those squeezy thingies?” I ask.

  “What?”

  I pinch my fingers a couple of times and mimic picking. “The things people use on their eyebrows or nose hair,” I reply, frustrated. I know what they’re fucking called, but it won’t come to me…what the fuck?

  “Oh, tweezers.”

  Now she’s the one laughing at me as she doubles over, knocking her foot in my hand, and in the process, her amusement quickly diminishes.

  “In my toiletry bag, sitting on the bed,” she says.

  “Wait here,” I rush out of the door, her muttering loud enough for me to hear.

  I pass her the bag. “What was that?” I ask.

  She ignores my question and scrummages around until she finds them.

  “Ta-dah.” She waves the tweezers in the air before handing them over to me.

  “You know, you have pretty feet.” I did not just say that.

  She leans back from my hand, her face pulled into a grimace. “Ewe, please don’t tell me you have a foot fetish?”

  I laugh in disgust. “Nope, not into feet. Each to their own, but no.”

  “Phew, for a moment there, I was going to have to reassess our friendship.”

  I smile and take her foot back in my hand. I’ve heard before about the feet having an erogenous zone, but I’m not too convinced about that, and I wasn’t lying about her feet. They’re pretty.

  With the glass removed and plaster in place, apart from being sore, she assures me it’s all right. But being in such proximity has me growing more aroused by the minute.

  It took all of my restraint not to kiss her the way I’m desperate to again. She was the one who wanted us to be friends, but my mind and body are at war, conflicted and yet I know she’s not ready to contemplate there is more to us than just friends. Not now, not after making love to her.

  Since when do I make love? I am well and truly screwed.

  Once I’m ready, I walk through the living room and find her sitting on the stool in front of my baby grand. Pausing, I take a moment to admire her. My insides begin to dance. The floor creaks beneath my feet as I edge towards her, giving me away. She turns and smiles before staring back at the piano.

  “I always wish I could play an instrument. But I was only proficient with coconut shells, or the triangle,” she divulges as she lets out a laugh.

  I join her on the stool, our legs pressed together.

  “Yeah, well you’re already proficient.” I tick off on my fingers. “You sing beautifully, you bake the best cupcakes, and your cooking is just as good. It was only fair something else was left for the rest of us,” I say, nudging her and clicking my knuckles. It’s a bad habit, I know, but whatever.

  “Any requests?” I ask

  She smiles wide. “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  I stifle a groan as she strokes her fingers over the keys, a soft caress, wanting so badly for those keys to be me. I fidget on the stool.

  “Can you play, Hallelujah?”

  I clear my throat and nod. My heart beats erratically as I begin to play the notes engraved into my memory. And then she does something which takes my breath away. She begins to sing. My eyes sting as an onslaught of emotions threaten to escape. This song played at my mum’s funeral.

  I’m tempted to quit playing, but if I do, she’ll stop singing. And listening to her brings me a sense of tranquillity. So, instead, I focus on her voice and let myself get swept away, committing this moment to memory.

  Chapter 19

  Charlie

  Although brunch with me and my dad is probably the last place she wants to be, especially after everything that happened yesterday, Soph has been a good sport about it, and I love this side of her.

  The food, as usual, is excellent but Dad’s company…not so much. I was ready to get out of here as soon as we arrived. I know he’s trying, but sometimes he aggravates me, and I don’t know why. Like the way he watches Sophie like she’s a puzzle piece he can’t figure out.

  “So, what do you do for work?” he asks, as he wipes the corner of his mouth with his serviette.

  She swallows and places her cutlery down. “I’m temping at the moment, office work.”

  “Oh,” he replies, his face contorting like the idea leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

  “It’s only for the time being until I can do something in hospitality.”

  Her answer seems to have piqued his interest, and she tells him about her love for food and how she’s always wanted to manage a café someday. She comes into her own, animated as she tells him about the first Victoria Sponge she baked from scratch. I envision her as a young girl, curious and innocent, asking her nan about everything and anything. Her eyes wide with wonder as she explains to him about making bread. And I wish my dad wasn’t privy to these rare glimpses of her past.

  Regrettably, I have to leave her alone with him when nature calls. I’m almost tempted to ask her if she needs to go, too, but that would be weird. I excuse myself and give my dad what I hope to be the be polite to her look, but then again, this is him.

  Before returning, I remember to check my phone. It was vibrating earlier, but my dad detests the use of them while in his company. It’s a message from Nate, checking on Sophie. I send a quick response that I’ll call him later.

  Coming back into the dining area, walking up behind my dad, I catch the back end of a conversation.

  “I’m sure you’re a nice girl but leading my son to believe there’s more is outrageous.”

  “We’re friends,” she replies, her voice uneasy. She wraps he
r arm around her middle.

  “I see the way you look at each other. You don’t even run in the same circles—”

  “Enough, Dad, Jesus,” I announce loudly, he turns in his chair.

  “Charles, it's fine. I was just saying to So—”

  I raise my hand to silence him. “I heard enough. You don’t know Sophie or the kind of woman she is. How dare you insinuate otherwise, you stuck-up prick.”

  His jaw goes slack, and his eyes dart around us.

  “Let’s not make a scene, that’s not what I meant,” he says, standing. I see something in his eyes—remorse maybe.

  I point my finger into his chest. “I don’t give a shit. Keep your opinions to yourself. Sophie, you ready?” I ask, hardly recognising my voice.

  She’s up and out of her seat. I don’t have to ask her twice. She fumbles to her feet and stands beside me, touching the base of her neck, blinking rapidly.

  “I think you’re overreacting, son.”

  I clench my fist and step into his space when Sophie’s hand takes hold of my upper arm and squeezes gently.

  “Charlie, it's fine. Honestly, I wasn't offended. Let’s just go.”

  My dad glances to Sophie, then back to me, like he can’t believe I just spoke to him like this.

  “It’s far from fine, but you’re right, we’re leaving.”

  I grip her arm, and she gives mine a reassuring squeeze. My dad’s voice echoes, calling my name from behind us, but I ignore him and keep walking.

  It’s once we’re back in my car that I can take a breath. I turn in my seat towards her. “Damn, I’m so sorry.”

  I take her hand in mine and rest it on my knee as I bounce it up and down, trying to calm myself.

  “Charlie, there’s no need. He’s just looking out for you.”

  I shake my head. “Maybe, but he wasn’t always this way. He changed when my mum died. I don’t think he ever got over her, but that’s no excuse.”

  “It must have been hard for him, being left alone, a single dad.”

  I scoff at her words.

  “Seriously, Charlie, apart from you both having the same eyes, you don’t look anything like him. I take it you’re more like your mum?”

  I nod. She’s right, I do. And for a long time, he could barely look at me without sorrow in his eyes of how much I reminded him of her. I’m not saying it was all bad. But thinking back, I know I lost the best part of my childhood when she died. Maybe it’s why Nate and I became such good friends. He understood my loss with the grief of him losing both his parents. We never talked about it, though. It was an unspoken acceptance that we weren’t like the other kids our age.

  “He can be insufferable at times.” My anger towards him is beginning to lose its spark. “Nothing ever seems like it’s good enough; he always pushes.”

  Sophie’s eyes sparkle in understanding, “I think he just wants to be there for you. To be involved, and it’s the only way he knows how.”

  How does she do that? See so much more than what’s on the surface? It’s one of the many qualities I love about her.

  “Maybe, but it still doesn’t give him the right to make insinuations about us, about you.”

  Her smile warms me from the inside out—it’s honest. “Charlie, it’s not important in the grand scheme of things. I’m just some random girl he found in his son’s kitchen this morning.”

  “Maybe, but he does know of you. I’ve told him about you.” It’s true, and up until now, I wouldn’t have even realised. I turn back to the steering wheel.

  “You have?” she asks astonished.

  “Of course, you’re important to me.”

  And there I go again, verbalising shit she’s not ready to hear. I risk a glance as I turn on the ignition. Her smile’s sheepish as I pull out of the car park and onto the busy road.

  Sophie’s the first to break the silence. “Where are we going?

  My eyes flit to her and then back to the road. “To my mates’ shop, so we can get you a house alarm ordered and set up.”

  “I was going to sort something out at the end of the month.”

  “No need. He owes me a favour, and I’m cashing it in.” It’s half true. He does owe me a favour, but I know she won’t admit she’s careful with her money. And I know her impromptu trip to New York would have set her back a pretty penny. Being that I feel responsible she went in the first place, and now with the break-in, also likely my fault, too, it’s the least I can do.

  “Wouldn’t you rather save the favour?” she asks. I can see her from my peripheral staring at me.

  “No, Sophie, please don’t be your usual independent self. Let me help you with this.”

  Reluctantly she agrees, and the lead weight in the pit of my stomach begins to ease. I reach out and squeeze her thigh once in a silent thank you before pulling my hand away. She’s fiercely independent; accepting any help for her isn’t an easy feat. She sees it as a weakness. And yet she’s the first one to help others.

  Chapter 20

  Sophie

  I’ve been feeling out of sorts for weeks now—loss of appetite, fatigue, vomiting. I thought it was a stomach flu, but this hasn’t eased off in over a month. I eventually talked myself into booking an appointment with my GP.

  Here I sit in a waiting room, parents trying to calm their children down as they run in circles around the blue plastic chairs screwed into the floor. Then there are the serial patients who come here with every ailment they have whether it’s a cough or a sprained ankle.

  “Miss Taylor?” the doctor calls, poking her head out of the door.

  I spring to my feet, and she opens the door wide as I enter before clicking it shut behind us.

  “Take a seat. So, what can I do for you today?” She taps away at her keyboard, pulling up what I presume are my medical notes.

  I explain my symptoms and she reels off some questions, one being when was the first day of my last period.

  This completely throws me.

  She sends me off with the smallest pot, requesting a urine sample. It takes me near on fifteen minutes to squeeze it out. The pressure of having to pee gives me a ridiculous bout of stage fright.

  “Okay, so your results are as I suspected. It’s positive. And from what you’ve told me, I would guess you’re roughly six weeks.”

  My ears go fuzzy. I shake my head, trying to dispel the ringing which has started in my ears. “I beg your pardon, six weeks…what?”

  She smiles, removing her glasses. “Six weeks pregnant.”

  My temples throb.

  I shake my head again. She must be wrong.

  My pulse increases and breathing becomes more of an effort. I try to suck in a deep breath, but I can’t quite get enough air to fill my lungs. “It’s okay, just breathe.”

  I keep shaking my head. “But you must be wrong. I was told it was improbable.”

  She takes hold of my wrist, feeling my pulse and eyes me. “I read over your notes. There was a concern due to internal scarring that it would be unlikely, but not impossible.”

  My nose tingles, vision blurs.

  “But I thought…they said…” And the floodgates open. I never thought I’d be able to have a child. My periods are sporadic at best, and now she’s telling me I’m pregnant.

  I’m pregnant.

  She passes me a tissue. “The human body is a powerful thing. But you’re still considered high risk due to your medical history.”

  I blow my nose, try to process this is happening. I pinch the inside of my forearm, no, it's happening.

  I instantly begin to worry, my skin clammy as I explain to her how I didn’t know and how I’ve been drinking. She waves it off, saying how no one knows until they know and that’s when in good conscience you make sure to avoid all the obvious.

  She hands me some leaflets for me to browse through and I stuff them into my bag.

  I honestly thought me having children wasn’t even an option. It’s like my life up until now has had two parts�
�before and after. Before, I was always trying to be more—the good daughter, the perfect girlfriend. But it was never enough. Maybe that’s why I began to rebel in small ways at first. And it was the night we went to the club that everything changed.

  I’d been rushed into surgery due to severe haemorrhaging. Up until recently, I hadn’t even realised how much of what happened I had suppressed. It was a void, a black hole. I woke up to the sterile surroundings of a hospital room, the scent of bleach mixed with warm hospital food which made my stomach churn.

  Panic had begun to rise in me like an ice-cold tornado. I was alone, hooked up to wires, an IV drip, the lights in the room were muted to an eerie kind of glow. I tried to move, but my body had felt foreign.

  Attempting to lift my arm, I had knocked the remote attached to the bed railing. Sucking in a deep breath, I pressed the call button. Everything after that was a swarm of activity—question after question.

  The police came to take my statement, but I wasn’t sure what they wanted from me. I couldn’t remember much after leaving the club. I had brief moments of recollection of the morning after, but then it faded to nothing.

  They told me what had happened, how Felicity and I had been drugged with Rohypnol, how we’d been sexually assaulted. Chloe was the lucky one. She wasn’t raped.

  I can still taste the rancid acid as it burnt my nose; my throat became raw as my body tried to reject the truth. The vomit rose with no warning; it was mainly bile, my stomach empty, but the dry heaving continued, tears soaking my cheeks. My body ached in places I didn’t know possible, and yet at the same time, I went numb. I shut down, closed myself off from the ugly reality at the hands of faceless monsters.

  My parents could barely stand to see me when they came to visit me in the hospital. When they finally left, and it was just me, I found my phone along with a few of my belongings beside the bed. Felicity answered on the third ring, her voice cracked as she stumbled over shaky words. We cried together then, the two of us. No words could make this okay; nothing we could say to each other could change what had happened. She was the only one who knew what I was going through and how I felt, even if I didn’t see how that was at the time.