Page 63 of What It's Like in Words
Call you later.
Love you.
Loveyou.
As I crossed the Heath, I realized that I was completely alone; no dog walkers or picnics. And so I sat in the grass. I picked a dandelion and blew the seeds, but I didn’t have anything to wish for. Perhaps for Diana to represent me? But I wanted her to choose me because I was good and not because I had picked the right flower. I decided to let Ruth know that I was still here, but when I opened my phone, there was a message from him.
The air was sucked from the sky. There he was: the letters of his name. Like seeing a teacher outside of school. Ruth wanted me to change his name to “DO NOT ANSWER,” but I knew that I would never hear from him, and even if I did, after that night at his, I wouldn’t be tempted to answer. Why was he texting now?
Hey, can we talk? I would really love to see you but I understand if you’d rather not xxx
All summer, I wondered how this would feel. But his words didn’t have the same meaning. I was happy. I had finished my book. I was spending time with my best friend. The impulse to jump when he told me to was gone. I didn’t need to text him back. I didn’t want to text him back.
So, what harm would it do if I did?
WE MET TWO WEEKSlater at the Church Street entrance to Stoke Newington cemetery. Ruth hadn’t hidden her thoughts, but after a long conversation she did her usual laconic summary:It’s like a nineties horror: the killer has to die twice.
He was leaning against the stone wall, and my heart beat faster. I was unsure when to look up or what expression to have when I did. He was in faded blue jeans and a white T-shirt, with his clavicle visible. His skin was tanned, and the lines in his face were more deeplydrawn. I was wearing a floral dress with a denim jacket (Sandra inPractical Magicrather than Nicole). He stood from the wall and held out a white takeaway cup. The first words he uttered were “white Americano” and then: I wasn’t sure if you were going to chicken out.
His voice was exactly the same, and I felt a strum of pain.
Are you glad you didn’t?
I’m not sure yet.
I took the coffee, but I didn’t want to drink it because I didn’t want it to affect my breath. He pulled me into a cautious hug. His aftershave was the same, and his skin was moist. Being close to him again was like opening the door to the beach house—as familiar as unfamiliar. Shall we? We walked into the tangled graveyard and the sun cut shapes through the trees. The paths were narrow, and the ground was uneven, but rather than walking ahead, his hip grazed mine, like he was trying to get as close as possible to me.
He told me that he had finished his book and was finally ready to query. I listened not because I owed it to him but because I owed it to the version of myself sobbing on the bathroom floor. He then thanked me for giving him space. And, honey—
He stopped walking and took my hands.
Idowant to be with you.
I didn’t know what to say. Shouldn’t he have known at the time that he wanted to be with me? And when did he realize that the space he said he needed wasn’t about his book but about me? Or had he always known? BecauseIhad known. Even if he hadn’t said the words, he had sat in that coffee shop and told me that he no longer wanted to see me or speak to me or sleep with me.
Did you hear me?
I nodded.
He smiled, eyes pale green in the sunshine, and told me that it was nearly a year since we met.
He seemed different. Or rather, howIseemed tohimwas different. He was looking at me like he used to and it was intoxicating.Like smelling a perfume that I hadn’t smelled for years or eating the first piece of chocolate after Lent. He used tolikeme. He used towantme. I wanted to scream at this forgotten feeling, this person back from the dead. My eyes fixed on a vein on his neck, vulnerable and hot in the sunshine. Last week, I’d imagined slashing his skin with a kitchen knife.
Honey, I’m not expecting us to go straight back to how we were, but maybe we could start slowly?
Really?
His lips curled into a half smile. Two truths and a lie, he said. One: I’ve quit smoking. Two: I have a king-sized bed. Three: I’ve really missed you, Enola.
There were two voices in my head. The first screamed at me to leave while I was still strong. Maybe that was what Ireallyowed to the version of myself sobbing on the bathroom floor. But the second was curious, addicted to seeing what I could get him to feel next. At Amy’s wedding, the best man talked about their “tumultuous start.” This could be therealbeginning of our love story.
I’ve missed you too.
He kissed me, and it was as easy as falling asleep. It wasn’t earth-shattering; it was normal (like a couple who would go to a self-serve wine bar and orderoneglass ofonewine). With a flurry of happiness, the version of myself from before peeled herself off the bathroom tiles and slipped her hand into his.
We continued strolling through the graveyard and, as I looked at the headstones, so permanent and romantic, I felt an old anger at Mum for not throwing Dad a funeral. I would have liked a grave to put flowers on.
Where did you go? his voice brought me back.
