Diary of a Resurrection (A Novella) (2 page)

Do you remember the first time I
said I loved you? I do. You know why I remember so vividly? Because you never
said it back. I think you thought you had been smart enough to gloss over your
silence, but of course I noticed it. I noticed it like I would have noticed
being stabbed in the eye with a blunt spoon.

It was weeks after the Pandora revelation. You had told me
later than Pan was short for Pandora. When I’d asked what kind of name Pan was.
You also said it was the kind of name rich parents give their kids. I asked what
she did. You casually said she was a model and that her parents were loaded. I
was starting to understand dense – your word, not mind - Pan’s appeal.

We were sitting in the back of a pub, having dinner, hiding
like lovers, which we weren’t. Since that day in the park we hadn’t even kissed
again. Sometimes you looked like you wanted to, but you didn’t try. Maybe you
could read it on my face that I wasn’t sure. The problem was I wanted you. I
wanted every single part of you and I wanted you for keeps, but you never said
you wanted me back. You held my hand and stroked my hair, kept me right next to
you. We talked every day, either on the phone or by text if you were at home
with Pan. I struggled to go a single hour without contact with you, and I
definitely didn’t make it past one minute without thinking of you. But you
never said it was the same for you. I tried reading you. I tried working it
out. But you never said. I was afraid to come out and ask how you felt about me,
what we were doing, where we were heading, just in case I didn’t like your
answer. I was in too deep and I knew it. I was drowning and I didn’t want to be
pulled out.

You chuckled and said, “She has a terrible temper. She’s
really calm and mild mannered, than something gets to her and she just flips in
a second. It’s really funny.”

“You like it?”

You stretched your arms over your head, then put one around
my shoulders while pulling my legs into your lap with the other.

“I used to. I used to find it hot. She’s so fiery when she is
angry. I would wind her up just to flip her out because it was a turn on.”

You said it with a smile, but I wasn’t laughing. Instead I
was looking at you, trying to put together the sweet, funny and thoughtful
affectionate Drew I knew, with someone who pushes someone’s buttons for their
own amusement and because they get off on it.

“Are you sure you don’t love her anymore?” I asked again. I
was becoming a little obsessed about your relationship, trying to read into
something I barely knew anything about.

“Not really, no.”

I sighed and repeated, “Not really.” Two words can make you
miserable. Two more can give you hope.

“Not now.”

You reached out and tipped my chin up to face you.

“Don’t let it bother you,” you said. “It means nothing. It
is just company. Having someone around. We don’t connect. Not like us.”

I looked into your eyes and wondered if it was wise to say
what was on my mind. We hadn’t been the sort to talk feelings much, not about
each other anyway. I didn’t know what the rules were, or if there were even any
rules at all.

I decided that life is either a gamble or a safe ride. I
wanted to gamble. I had too many feelings floating around and I wanted to let
them out. I wanted you to know how I felt about you. I wanted you to tell me in
return. I wanted you to feel the same.

“What about us?” I said. My voice was a bit shaky and I felt
my cheeks flush because I was embarrassed.

What a twat, to be ashamed of my own feelings for someone.
You should be proud of love. Everyone should, because it is a beautiful thing
and a privilege to experience. If someone is worth it, you shout it from the
roof of every building in town. Maybe I was embarrassed because I knew deep
down that you weren’t worth it. Not really.

“What about us?” you repeated, seeming confused.

I didn’t understand what you were confused about.

“You stay with Pan because she is company and stops you
being lonely, but what about me? What about what we’re doing here? This?” I
pointed to us. “Am I not company? Do I not stop you being lonely? We talk all
the time and are pretty much in constant contact anyway. Why don’t we try this
properly? You could tell Pan how you really feel about her, then we are free to
try being together. No more sneaking around. Just us.” I squeezed your leg and
smiled. “I love you, Drew. I want to be with you. I hate being without you. I
hate it when we don’t talk or when we can’t see each other. I want you to be part
of my life, officially and properly.”

You looked at me, deep into my eyes, and maybe this time it
was me that was full of hope. Or stupidity. Maybe both. I hate reliving this
moment. It makes me feel sick.

You squeezed my legs, wrapped your arms around me and said,
“Let’s stay together tonight. Let’s just get a room somewhere and stay together
all night. Side by side.”

My heart was hammering. You hadn’t said you loved me back.
You hadn’t said you wanted to be with me or that yes, you would tell Pan and we
could try it. Everything I needed was absent. But, you smiled and held me close
and wanted to spend the night together, surely that meant something, didn’t it?
I told myself it said all the things I wanted to hear, because you don’t want
to cuddle up with someone for a whole night unless you care, do you? Unless you
want to share your bed, and your heart, with them?

I told myself it was more than an answer. It was more than
enough.

It wasn’t.

If I’d known it was the last time I
would see you or speak to you properly, then I would have done things
differently. I wouldn’t have let myself fall asleep. I would have said things
that were important. That mattered more. I would have tried to fix whatever I
had caused to break in you.

But I didn’t know and I can’t take it back. Any of it. I
have had to remind myself of that quite a lot over these past few months:
What’s done is done.

You took me to a hotel on the other side of town. It was
sleek with a black front and an unmarked door. I felt very out of place in my
flared jeans with the ragged hems, flip-flops and camisole top. I didn’t even
straighten my hair because I didn’t know we would be going somewhere so fancy.
Instead I’d worn it loose in a braid over my shoulder with wisps that I had
deliberately worked loose to look cute and summery. Like I’d been playing
Frisbee on the beach all day. You, however, always looked good. Your jeans were
dark and tidy. Your t-shirts designer. The sunglasses that poked out of the
neck were always expensive. Your leather jacket, no matter the weather, was a
permanent fixture. You never took me on your bike because I didn’t have my own
leathers. Once you even said you would buy me some. I’d grinned like an idiot
because it felt like an offering to make me a part of your world. Of course the
jacket never came, and neither did the things it could have symbolised.

I asked you once how you afforded so many nice things on
your apprentice salary. You shrugged and said your parents bought you guilt
presents.

“Guilt for what?” I asked.

“Not loving me enough.”

Your response was short and you said it like it didn’t
matter, but I saw the tightening around your eyes. It did matter, but in your
typical style you pretended like you didn’t care. Like emotions were a foreign
concept to you. Since then, in the times when I wondered whether you really were
made of ice, I think of that moment and remember that you do feel. You just
work hard not to show it.

The way you walked into the hotel made me sure you knew it
and were familiar with its expensive ways. I just trailed in your wake, hoping
some of your cool apathy about how amazing it was would rub off on me. It
didn’t. I openly gaped at how beautiful the chandelier was. How expensive the
front desk was. How spotlessly clean everything was. How far removed from my
own life I felt.

Thinking back now, I never fitted. With you. Your aloofness.
Your utter coolness; the bike, the clothes, the attitude. The hotel. Lying and
deceiving your girlfriend. Your drive to succeed and prove a point. Taking
pleasure in manipulating others. But I wanted to despite myself. I just wanted
to fit to be with you.

Our room was beautiful. A suite that might be bigger than
any house I will ever own. Sofas and tables and golden lamps. A gigantic bed
with soft gold and purple covers. Velvety pillows. A bath I could do laps in.
Chrome and luxurious. It was simply amazing. I had never stayed anywhere like
that before.

You had been quiet after we left the pub. I spent the whole
time wishing I had kept my mouth shut. I suspected I had upset you by telling
you how I felt, but I was pretty confused because it had been your idea to go
to the hotel. If you were unhappy with me, surely you wouldn’t have wanted to
spend the night with me. That’s what I told myself anyway.

We spent the night talking and snuggled up as close as we
could get on the bed, entwined together. About two am your phone started
beeping and ringing. You wordlessly put it on silent and face down on the
dresser. I knew it was Pan, but I never said anything. I finally had you to
myself for an entire night and I didn’t want to share you with even a thought
of your real life. I had openly said I wanted you. I wanted you to leave her
and be with me. You never said yes, but then you never said no either. I
naively hoped you might be thinking about it. I hoped that was what the night
was about; you assessing if we could work. Could we be together?

The problem was I loved you but wasn’t sure we could stand
still together. All we knew were snatched moments. Impermanence.

You held me tight, turning your head to kiss my hair from
time to time. You stroked my skin and murmured into my ear how special I was.
You said I was different to everyone else. That I was soft and unspoilt,
whatever that meant. It all seems so sad looking back, because I didn’t
understand what was happening. I was in way over my head.

At the time I tried to make light of it and said, “Yeah, cut
me open and I’ll bleed rainbows and glitter.”

You laughed and kissed my forehead again.

I wanted you to play the game. “What would you bleed?” I
asked.

Your smile disappeared and you frowned. “Just blood, I guess.”

I left you alone then, understanding this was a night for
quietness, not silly word games or making up songs, like we usually did.
Instead, I got even closer and tried to stay very still. I felt like I was
trying not to scare off a timid animal.

In return, you held on to me like our world was ending.

I guess it was.

We woke up in the hotel, had
breakfast together in our room, sharing food and laughing at stupid things. It
was like the night before hadn’t happened. I hadn’t said I loved you. You
hadn’t been weird and quiet. You hadn’t clung to me all night long. We were
just us. Normal. It was fun.

We checked out and you walked me home. I don’t know where
your bike was, I never asked. I never asked how you were getting home or any of
that kind of stuff. These silly details only occurred to me later on.

You walked me to my door, holding my hand like always. Your
cocky stride was back, your annoyingly arrogant smirk played on your face as
you joked about spending the night with me and being the best I ever had.

I punched your arm and told you I knew you would be the
perfect gentleman, which you were.

“Your motorbike doesn’t make you a badass, you know,” I
said. “It doesn’t matter how much you try to hide it, I know your heart is
beating in here.” I put my hand on your chest. “I know it’s big and kind. You
can’t pretend with me.” I was smiling as I said it, half joking, half-truths,
as jokes tend to be.

You reached up and laid your hand over mine.

“I’m not as nice as you think I am,” you said. You were
smiling, but it didn’t reach your eyes. It wasn’t your proper smile and I
didn’t like it.

I picked up your hand and kissed the knuckles, trying to chase
it all away with affection.

“Don’t be silly. I see you, Drew. I know you.”

You chewed your bottom lip and said nothing.

“Well,” I said brightly, wanting the tension in your face to
lift. We had had too many hard moments in the previous hours, I just wanted things
to be normal between us.

“Call me later?” It wasn’t an unreasonable request. Remember
how as soon as you left me you would always text to tell me what a good time
you’d had? How pretty I was. How fun I was. How much you liked spending time
with me. How you hated it when we had to go our own ways at the end of a day or
night together. Asking you to call me later was standard for us, and you always
called. Never late. Never missed. You were always there.

“Course,” you said. Your smile was still not quite right,
but I told myself I was just being sensitive, looking for something that wasn’t
there. I was still panicking that I had said too much, too soon, and gone too
far.

You leaned down and wrapped me into a tight hug. I put my
head on your shoulder and laughed.

“I don’t want to go either, but I need to get changed.”

You let me go, framed my face with your hands, and kissed
me, long and deep and desperate. It left me breathless.

“OK.” Was all I could manage afterwards. With a peck on your
cheek and a squeeze of your arms, I turned and skipped up the steps to my door.

I turned back to wave once I had unlocked the door, but you
were already walking away. I waved, but you never saw.

It really bothered me.

Silence has weight. Did you know
that? Did you know that silence, whilst being empty, can also be full? With
intention. Unsaid things. Regretted things. Wondering. Pondering. Churning.
Painful. Silence is rarely empty, in truth. For a while I forgot the pleasures
of silence, because it eluded me. Instead, any quiet I got was filled with you.
The ghosts of you howled in my ears and mind, and I forgot how to be
comfortable with the absence of all else. I had always liked it before; as an
artist it gives your brain time and space for new ideas to pop in and grow.
That didn’t happen for a while because after we met I stopped drawing. I
stopped sketching and painting. There was no room for any of that because I was
so preoccupied with you. Somehow I allowed myself to stop doing all the things
I like. To stop thinking the thoughts that used to occupy my mind. Instead I
lost my way and lost myself. I filled the space that used to be me with
thoughts and feelings of you. I used my precious time when I wasn’t with you,
to think about you. To think of the things you had said to me, things we had
done, ways you had looked at me. Then when I was done with that, I planned all
the things I wanted to say to you. Things I wanted us to talk about. I wondered
about our future. I pondered what our children would look like and what kind of
wedding dress would you like me in best. Maybe I lost my mind. Love does that
sometimes.

You didn’t call later that day. It was the first time you
hadn’t kept your word. By the time I went to my shift at Pizza Planet, there
was still no call. By midnight I was starting to worry. I text you to ask if
you were OK, but you didn’t reply.

By two am I was almost out of my mind. I text two more times
and called once, all unanswered. I started having visions of your bike spinning
out of control and you in the hospital. I realised that if that happened,
no-one would let me know. No-one knew about us. We were a secret. Three months
of secret phone calls and texts, of lurking in the background and meeting in
dark or obscure places where we were unknown. Who was going to tell me if you
had an accident?

I hurried out of work at three am, thinking I could just
drive by your house and see if your bike was there in one piece. I needed to
know you were OK. But I needn’t have bothered. You were there, propped up
against the wall outside, your eyes glazed. The rush of relief hit me so hard
it made me dizzy.

“Drew!” I hurried over. You grinned at me, lopsided and
goofy.

“Hey, babe.” Your voice was slurred.

The smell of alcohol hit me before I got within an arm’s
length of you.

“Drew, are you OK?”

You tried to stand independently, stumbled, then leaned back
on the wall.

“Course. I always am, aren’t I?”

I frowned at you, not sure what exactly was going on. It was
the first time I’d seen you drunk.

“I tried to call you. And text. I was worried,” I said.

You looked at the floor and shrugged. “I needed to go out. I’ve
been trapped inside for too long.”

I raised my eyebrows, instantly rattled. “Trapped inside?
You’re never trapped inside, you spend most of your time at work or with me.”

You looked me in the face, square on, and said, “Exactly.”

My breath caught in my chest. I’d never seen you like that,
so distant. It hurt.

“You don’t have to spend that much time with me, you know,”
I said, starting to get angry. I was wondering how could you ignore me all
night, make me worry, get drunk, then turn up at my work and be an asshole?

You waved a hand in the air clumsily. “Of course I do.
You’re so needy.”

I think it was that point at which I felt my blood actually
start to boil. Tears prickled my eyes.

“Needy?” I echoed.

You nodded, your chin almost touching your chest as if your
head weighed a ton. “Needy. Always wanting to talk or be in touch. Jesus, Mina.
I have a life, you know?”

The last two words slurred into one.

I sniffed the tears back; I was not going to cry in front of
you.

“Why don’t you go home and sleep it off, Drew.”

I turned away and started to my car. I didn’t want to leave
you there like that. What I wanted was to cuddle you and you hold my head like
you always did, kissing my hair. Not insult me when you could barely stand up.
It really hurt to know that when people are drunk they often cannot hide their
true selves or thoughts, which meant you really thought I was needy. I was
ashamed of myself and thinking back now, that really pisses me off. Who were
you to make me doubt myself or make me embarrassed about wanting to be with
someone I loved. Someone I had hoped would love me back.

“Pan isn’t needy you know, Min,” you called after me. “Pan
doesn’t care. Talk to her, don’t talk to her. She doesn’t care. As long as she
shares my bed, she doesn’t care.”

“Then go home and fuck Pan, Drew, because I don’t care
either.” I shouted so hard it hurt my throat. And I did care. Of course I did.

The next morning I had four missed
calls from you by ten am. I switched my phone to silent so I could think. I
just couldn’t work out what had happened. I wondered if you were just an angry
drunk. If I’d upset you. If I’d done something wrong. Was it because I had
finally opened up to you? I didn’t see anything unreasonable in my words about
leaving Pan and being with me. Nor did I see any wrong in loving you and saying
so, I mean, surely it had been obvious anyway. But still, part me regretted it
and wished I had left things as they were; perfect and blissful. Perhaps naming
something is what changes it, and not always for the better.

I called you back just after one pm. You sounded groggy but
relieved.

“I’m sorry,” were your first words.

“For what? Ignoring me? Turning up at my work shitfaced? Or
being an utter asshole?”

You sighed right into the mouthpiece and into my brain. “Don’t
be like that, Min. I feel like crap as it is. I’m sorry for all of it. OK?”

Your voice was short and clipped, like you were mad at me,
yet I knew I had done nothing wrong.

“Things were just getting to me,” you carried on. “I needed
to blow off steam. Things have been intense lately. Can’t we just forget it
happened?”

“What things?” I asked. “What things have been getting to
you?”

“Work. Pan… Us.” You sighed again. “Mina, I said I’m sorry.
Why do you have to make a big deal out of everything? God, artists are such
hard work. Just let it go, alright? I was drunk, big deal.”

I started to wonder, was I being unreasonable? Were you
right and I was overreacting?

“Can I see you?” you said, your voice quieter and softer,
and more like… you.

My heart melted a little. I wanted things to be normal. I
didn’t want to fight.

“I’m still mad at you,” I said, barely even convincing
myself.

Later that day we met at that park
we liked, the one that was forty minutes away, just to get away from the risk
of being seen. You know what, Drew? I never minded driving out of my way for
you, because I thought you were worth it. I would have driven anywhere in the
world if you had asked. What an idiot.

We walked together, talking and laughing like nothing had
happened, except you didn’t reach for my hand like usual. I noticed straight
away. I didn’t want to ask why because I had a sense that you were barely being
the Drew I knew, and I didn’t want to spook him when he’d only just returned.
So I just accepted it. Instead, eventually, I looped my arm through yours, just
to be close. You never said anything or pulled away, so I guessed it was OK. I
never asked what happened the night before. Why you got so drunk or why you
said the things you did. I wasn’t even sure if you would remember them. I just
enjoyed being next to you, and pretended everything was fine.

Yet again, as I rethink all that happened between us, I
can’t believe I let you make me doubt myself. I allowed you inside my heart and
instead of being amazing, all falling in love did was tire me out. In less than
two days I had become unsure of who I was, what I felt, and what I was doing. What
we were doing and where we were going. You got under my skin and unsettled my
mind, and I didn’t even realise it was happening.

How clever you were.

Mea culpa.

After our walk, you took me to my car and hugged me tight.
You said goodbye without looking me in the eyes and without so much as a kiss
on the cheek. As you turned away from me, I knew I was losing you. I don’t know
why, but I knew in my heart you weren’t just turning to walk away, you were
turning away from me completely. Slowly turning to stone in front of my eyes.

I reached out and grabbed your hand, you paused. Your skin
was warm which surprised me. For some reason I had expected it to be cold. Like
the ice that was spreading between us, slowly cutting me off, was going to be
on your skin.

You looked back at me, eyebrows raised, impatience on your
face. I felt like a petulant child aching to be loved.

“I’m sorry,” I said in a hurry. I wanted to rush my words
out and make it all OK. I wanted your coldness to melt and you to be just like
before. The Drew I knew and loved. But you just looked at me, unreadable. “I’m
sorry I got mad at you,” I pressed on. “I’m sorry if you think I’m needy, I
just like being around you and I miss you when we’re apart. I shouldn’t have
told you to leave Pan for me. It’s your choice to be made in your own time. I
just thought you should know that if you wanted it, I want it too. I’m here for
you. I won’t rush you into anything and I don’t expect you to love me back
before you’re ready. I just want us to be OK.”

Your eyes almost burnt my skin you watched me so close, but
I still couldn’t read your face. I didn’t know what you were thinking.

“We are OK,” you replied. You gave me your best arrogant
smile, kissed the palm of my hand and walked away.

You lying bastard. We weren’t OK.