Page 49 of I'll Look for You, Everywhere
‘Let me make it better, okay?’ he whispers, tilting his head so that his hair falls to the left. Without thinking, my fingers reach out and brush through the strands, checking my work from earlier. My nails rake against his scalp accidentally, each strand curling around my fingers as if coaxing me to stay in the warmth of his head, to bury myself in his thoughts. He briefly closes his eyes, letting out a small sigh, leaning his head into my touch.
‘Hair looks good,’ I say, swallowing before removing my hand and leaning both of them against the pool table behind me.
He opens his eyes. I stare back, lost in the silence between us. It’s difficult to feel self-conscious when I’m lost in his eyes, the colour of thunderstorms before a heavy rainfall.
He grunts in agreement, settling a hand at my waist, his focus falling on the soft spot underneath my ribs. Barely acknowledging that I’m here, he seems transfixed on this singular point on my stomach. In a swift move, his fingers glide across my waist, letting his thumb rhythmically smooth over the spot, back and forth, for what feels like an eternity. I don’t breathe. Afraid that if I move, I’ll break whatever’s happening between us. So I stay silent, holding my breath.
Since we entered the bar, Theo had been sitting on the far-end stool, seemingly transfixed by the epoxy counter for the entire night. I have no idea if he’s drunk. Maybe he doesn’t even realize it’s me that he’s caressing, I think happily. Maybe he thinks I’m someone else. Another girl with auburn hair and green eyes. This idea brings me relief. Like I could do anything without the risk of embarrassment. I close my eyes and memorize the press of his four fingertips underneath my beating heart, feeling thankful. His thumb presses harder into the almost hollow place above my stomach, pushing and kneading, massaging deliciously slow. I release a breath, or possibly an ‘oh’, or maybe I moan, warmth spreading slowly down from my navel to my toes.
‘Better?’ His voice is dangerously low, and when I look down I see that his feet are in between mine, our thighs nearly pressed against one another.
‘I think I owe whoever I insulted an apology,’ I say to the ceiling, because looking at him feels disgustingly close to staring at the sun.
He chuckles, and it really is a luxurious sound. Like the struffoli Nonna used to make on Christmas Eve. Warm and decadent. He raises his right hand, bringing it to the other side of my waist, but hovers halfway. He blinks. And I know before his hand does that he’s remembered it’s just me.
‘It’s okay,’ I say before he can fumble an awkward apology. ‘I get it.’
It’s easier to pretend I’m not the issue if I speak first. The ends of his mouth curve downwards like he wants to protest, but he stays silent, just looking at me. Trying to contain the tears that burn behind my eyes, I blink a few times and start to step away. No matter how much older I get, I think I will always feel as worthless as I did as a child. A sudden desire for Emily and rainy England, the smell of red wine and old books, consumes me. I want comfort and faded leather chairs. To never have to try new things again.
‘Magdalen,’ he says, a roughness to his voice, but I’m too embarrassed to hear any reasoning. It would be better to feel angry. I try to muster fire, to take another step away from his proximity. But his hands are suddenly on me again, stopping me from moving.
‘Shit,’ he says, looking at his own hands like they’re not attached to him. He looks at me, brows furrowed like he wants to say something, but instead, he just shakes his head and wraps his hands around my hips more tightly.
‘I get it,’ I mumble again, the only three words I can say without crying.
Fingers digging into my skin almost painfully, he pulls me so I’m flush against him. ‘No, you don’t,’ he whispers, pushing himself further on me, lips brushing the hollow of my neck so quickly I have no time to process. My body heats with his closeness, feeling scrambled and messy.
‘Well, now I certainly don’t,’ I whisper. His fingers move to my neck, tilting it back. He comes in closer, brushing his nose against my exposed throat. I hear him take a deep breath.
And then he releases me. Quickly and efficiently, like he didn’t just completely mind-fuck me on a billiard table.
He exhales through his mouth angrily. ‘Sorry, ehm, I’ll wait outside for you. Take your time.’
And then he’s gone.
28
THEO
My hands tremble slightly as I pull out a cigarette, pacing in front of the bar, waiting for her. I think of her legs pressed against mine and how her neck smelled like lavender and summer. How soft her stomach was through the fabric of her dress.
‘Fuck,’ I hiss into the empty street, my voice scratchy as it echoes down the archways. Just as I’m about to relive the memory of Magdalen against me, another memory surfaces. It catches me by surprise, as it always does. My heart beats faster as images of the attic resurface in infrared. Forcing me to remember the details. The dust settled across the cardboard boxes. How their bodies were unnaturally tangled together, all elbows and creased clothing. The tear in her skirt. Fuck me. I need another drink.
‘I’m good to go.’ Magdalen appears beside me and the memory sinks back into the shadows.
She looks off towards the small alleyway of closed cafes and bars, avoiding my gaze intentionally. I light another cigarette. Her hair lifts in the early morning wind, and twisted pieces of dark red float around her face. I try to calm my nerves, to forget about everything. It’s like I can feel her skin imprinted against my own, burning herself on me. We stay like this for a moment. Her looking away. Me looking at her. The soft sound of filtered paper burning with each drag. I throw the cigarette and watch it roll into one of the cracks in the cobblestones. Maybe one day, I’ll stand right here and look at that discarded cigarette and remember that life was fucking beautiful with Magdalen against me on a pool table.
‘Great, it’ll be easier to get a cab at the Po,’ I say, staring straight ahead, and walk past her.
Magdalen stays behind me, but I can see her from the corner of my eye with her arms crossed in front of her, looking anywhere but at me. Of course she’s angry. I scratch the back of my head, desperate for another cigarette, unsure of where to put my hands. Should I apologize for touching her? For making things weird? But even that feels wrong. How can I apologize for something I wish could never end?
We continue walking for ten minutes with her behind me like two ducks in a row before I hear her sigh. When I don’t say anything, she coughs obnoxiously, trying to catch my attention.
‘What is it, Magdalen?’
‘Stop walking,’ she commands, her voice serious. I pause, my heels digging into the street, but my gaze remains fixed on the river ahead. Somehow, I know what’s going to happen. It’s in the pit forming deep in my stomach.
These years away from Chivasso, I thought I had become someone better. In the absence of my father’s influence, that the good parts of me had come out. But here I am, making the same fucking mistakes I made seven years ago. It feels like I’ve walked full fucking circle. I remain frozen, unable to look at her. Because if I do, I know exactly what I’ll do. How deeply I’ll fucking consume her.
