Relatively Honest (19 page)

Sinter loved
London. He became a hyperactive puppy the minute the flight attendant said, “We are beginning our descent into Heathrow Airport,” and stayed that way for days. The Heathrow Express train, which carried us past industrial rail yards and ugly high-rise flats, delighted him. Advertisements for British products made him grin and nudge me. The Tube practically had him on his knees kissing the grimy concrete. And of course he went totally off his head for Westminster Abbey, as it was not only true Gothic architecture but came with the added benefit of having thousands of corpses buried under the paving stones.

“How could you stand Eugene a single day?” he asked me, as we threaded through the crowds of shoppers in Soho. “When you came from this! This!”

“Suppose I did miss the old city. Now that I’m back, feels as if I never left.”

Which wasn’t strictly true. I did lead Sinter around the crooked streets, and hopped from one Tube line to another, and understood slang that perplexed him, all without having to think twice. I grew up here; it was instinct. And it was good to be back in my own element. However, to say that I felt as if I had never left, as if Oregon had never happened – that was another white lie in my colorful life.

A dull pain with every heartbeat, a desolation when I saw couples kissing, a loneliness in the middle of the night when I awoke in our dark hotel room and estimated the hour in Oregon and imagined what Julie was doing: those all reminded me that my ten months in America had been quite real. I was home, but I was changed.

To my terse email she had answered even more tersely:

Can’t blame you for taking some time off to visit home. Have a safe trip. Hope we see each other again. Take care.

“Hope we see each other again,” period. Not “hope we see each other
soon
,” or “hope we see each other
next term
,” no, just
again
, just someday. That didn’t give a bloke much to live on.

My parents had left me two emails by the time our plane arrived in London. Mum wrote:

Are you planning to come back for university in the autumn?

I hope you intend to tell us, at least. And if you’re really determined to spend the entire summer in England, then at least ring Nanny in Chichester as I’m sure you could stay with her.

In the second one, Dad wrote:

Daniel, it was a very drastic, not to mention expensive, move to go dashing off like that, but I understand why you did it. I apologize for the part we played in what happened to you. I agree we should have mentioned the family connections earlier. And though we may disapprove of what you’ve done, we didn’t wish to drive you off like this. Do feel you can come back at any time.

If only he hadn’t written “we may disapprove of what you’ve done,” I might have considered myself forgiven. I answered that I didn’t know when I was coming back, and that we planned to stay in London a while, and find jobs and a flat.

Sinter insisted on Camden. In a livelier mood I might have objected that it was too noisy and expensive, but now I didn’t care. We found a furnished flat that was small but not too frightening. He used his work permit to get a pub job a few streets away, and I used some old connections to obtain a job with a historic preservation group. I spent six hours a day in the dusty storage room of a church in Victoria, checking inventories of statuary and bits of banisters as they came in and went out, and helping to clean and restore them in between. On really exciting days I got to accompany the other workers – two foreign students and a pair of old ladies – to churches and ancient houses in other parts of London, and dust the statues there. It didn’t escape my notice that this seemed the kind of job Julie would have.

Sinter’s enthusiasm diminished once he had been working for a couple of weeks. “All I see is drunken idiots,” he complained. “And most of them are American or Australian.”

“Yes, well. Welcome to the real London.”

It was a sunny and mild July day, and we were buying groceries. “Heard from Julie?” he asked.

“No.”

He put a packet of crumpets in the shopping basket. “Written to her?”

“No.”

He picked up a type of chocolate bar that evidently they didn’t have in America. “Are these any good?”

“No.” I took it from him and replaced it with a better sort.

That Friday night we went to a pub. Not his pub; he was adamant about that. He had me choose one, so I took him across the city to a more posh place near my old house. Sinter ordered ale. I had one, then switched to Coke.

“You’re still depressed,” he scolded, after two pints.

“Yeah.”

“She lied to you. She isn’t worth it.”

“I lied too.”

“But the open relationship thing – come on!”

“Yeah.”

“And then she ditched you. You were willing to run away with her and everything, and she ditched you. For the ‘family.’ What the hell?”

“Funny choice of words, eh? Family.”

He shook his head. “That doesn’t even matter, you know. You being cousins. Really, I bet nobody would care after, like, the first shock.”

“Maybe.”

“But you’re still depressed,” Sinter said.

“Waiting for it to wear off. Any day now.”

Sinter got halfway through a third pint, then pushed it aside and said he was done. On the Tube to Camden, we sat back and closed our eyes as the stations flashed by and the track clattered beneath us. Sometimes, on a turn, he swayed against me. He smelt of leather and pub smoke and the hotel shampoo we had nicked. We arrived at our stop, and I nudged him awake.

We stepped off the train and walked to our flat. I unlocked our door. “You’re the only one who knows all that bollocks about me,” I said, “and likes me anyway.” We felt our way into the tiny front room. I could just make out the shapes of the furniture in the city-light from the window. “Thank you for that,” I added.

Sinter slung his arm around me. “I love you for your weaknesses.”

I smirked.

He dropped his keys on the table, hooked his other arm around me, and kissed me full on the mouth, just like he had kissed Julie on stage all those times.

Shock and amusement flooded through me. I broke into laughter even before he stepped away. “Bloody lunatic.” I punched his arm.

He laughed too. “I must be drunk.”

“Off your head. Get the light, would you?” We were still standing in the shadows, and he was nearer to the switch.

“Okay.” But instead he stepped toward me, took my face in his hands, and kissed me again.

This time I didn’t laugh. This time, neither did he. I stood there stunned. I think I even kissed him back, a little. Part of me was thinking,
Oh God, oh fucking God, why didn’t I see this coming? Why didn’t I suspect? All those months, living with me – watching me undress, was he? Thinking about me? Oh, fuck, what do I do now?

Another part, the part letting me stand still, was thinking,
Well, why not? I’ve tried everything else. I’ve been burned enough by girls. Maybe this is just the thing. How can I say, if I’ve never given it a go?

However, you generally know when a kiss is going right. You generally realize,
Why, I’ve liked you all along!
if you didn’t know it already. Instead I only felt sad and helpless. I turned my face away.

He released me. “I know you could get anyone,” he said. “That includes me.”

I walked across our still-dark front room and sat on the arm of the sofa. “I…appreciate the thought. But I still love her. I know it’s pathetic. But I’d turn down Keira Knightley these days, it’s that bad.”

He let out a sigh. I heard the jingle of keys as he dragged them around on the table. “I shouldn’t have even pulled shit like this. Forget I did it, okay?”

“It’s all right. I’m a modern bloke, and all that.”

“And you’re totally, obviously straight.”

“Yes, well…the thing is, I rather thought
you
were too.”

“I don’t know what I am. Other than a fucking moron.”

“Sinter, don’t. No harm in trying. I like you. I’m just…a mental case.”

He walked to the five-foot-square kitchen, and opened the fridge. The light shone on his downcast profile. He took out a bottle of water, swigged from it, and put it back. The darkness fell again. “I probably won’t remember this tomorrow,” he said. “Don’t remind me. Okay?”

I kicked my heel against the sofa a few times. “Okay.”

“Super. Goodnight.” He trudged past me to his room, and closed the door.

I toppled onto the sofa and covered my face with both arms. I was being truthful with everyone at last. I wasn’t lying anymore. But now everyone I knew was disappointed in me, which felt far worse.

While I
sat at the kitchen table the next morning, eating toast and reading Internet news on my laptop, Sinter wandered in, cringing.

“I hardly even remember getting back,” he said. “Did you carry me or what?”

“You were walking all right.”

“If you say so.” He trudged to the bathroom.

“See you after work,” I called.

He flopped a hand at me in answer. Okay. He either really did forget, or he was a good actor – which of course he was, so the devil only knew the truth on this one. Didn’t matter much anyway.

While I polished an ancient wooden chair in the church basement that afternoon, my mind replayed little hints I should have picked up about Sinter: kissing me on Halloween, keeping my secrets for me, not being nearly upset enough when he lost both Clare and Julie in a single night, happy simply to have me along on his journey to London. I might have noticed a thing or two along the way. Of course there was also his story about his gay best friend in high school, which had obviously influenced his young brain somehow.

But I thought about this latest development in only a detached and depressed way. Sinter had nothing to do with my love life, except in his usual quirky role of darting in and out at the periphery. What I had known last night when he kissed me, and every day since I last saw Julie, was that I still loved her, wanted her, and was heartbroken over it.

On the Tube home, I sat next to an old woman who looked like she spent most of her time in the parks feeding pigeons, to judge from the damp-grass smell and the bits of cracker crumbs, feathers, and dead leaves all over her clothes. She wore a hat like nobody except daft old ladies wear: gray and shapeless, with a fake red bird and some artificial holly springing from one side. She smiled at me. “Good evening,” she said.

“Evening.” I folded my hands and looked at the advertisements above the passengers’ heads. The train zoomed to the next station, stopped, picked up more people, and zoomed off again.

Her wrinkled hand patted my knee. “Such a handsome boy should smile more.”

I favored her with a wry smile. “I’m in love with my cousin. Isn’t that shocking?”

A commuter, a young man of Indian descent wearing a business suit, did a double-take at me, then turned resolutely away and went on clutching the overhead bar.

She squinted. “Now, is your cousin a boy or a girl?”

I almost laughed. “Girl.”

She leaned back, waving her hand. “Not so shocking. My grandfather married his cousin. And my mother married her second cousin. And look at me, I’m no worse for it.”

I gazed gravely at her mismatched woolen socks. “Thank you.”

The Indian bloke looked over his shoulder, caught my eye, and smiled. I even got the feeling he was laughing
with
me, not at me. I smiled back. Maybe my life wasn’t entirely shocking.

Or maybe the bloke on the Tube just thought I enjoyed making up funny stories to mess with old ladies’ heads. Did it matter what he thought, in the end?

London was
too hot that evening. In July the sun lingered late, and all the stone and metal soaked up the heat and radiated it throughout the short nights. Sinter worked much later in the day than I did, so he was still out when I returned from work. I grimaced at the stifling air in our flat, opened our windows, packed up my laptop in its satchel, and set out walking.

In Regent’s Park I found a spot of shade under a sycamore tree. Seated on the lumpy roots and dry grass, ignoring the chatter of children and tourists, I settled the computer on my lap and typed a message.

Dear Julie:

So you haven’t written in 33 days, and neither have I, but who’s counting? We tried this “time apart” thing. Probably you thought I’d find another skirt to chase, after my usual pattern. Well, I haven’t. In fact, you’d laugh if you knew the closest thing I’ve had to a romantic experience lately.

You and other people keep telling me I could have anyone. If that’s so, then I’ll tell you who I want.

I want you. I choose you. I’ve thought about it, and tried to get over it, and it hasn’t made a bit of difference. It’s still you I love, and no one else.

You said you were ashamed of us. You hinted I must have been too, since I kept it secret. Fine, I admit I was ashamed. But I’m not anymore. Everyone who matters knows already, and I’ll tell anyone else you like. I’ll go through my mobile log and ring all my ex-girlfriends and tell each of them. I’ll spray-paint it all over Piccadilly station. I’ll get a tattoo. I’ll have it embroidered onto all my shirts. Just please take me back.

I love you, I’m not ashamed of you, we’ll never hurt each other the way our parents think we will, we’re not as weird as plenty of people in this world, and I am asking you – pleading, demanding, threatening, whatever it takes – to come back to me.

Say the word and I’ll be on a plane to Oregon.

Yours ever,

Daniel

Regent’s Park wasn’t set up for wireless Internet, so I couldn’t send the letter right away. I took the laptop to a nearby café that did offer wi-fi. While I sipped an iced coffee, I read the message one more time, and to the bottom of it I added every bit of contact information she could possibly need: our flat address, our phone number, the address of the place I worked, the address of the pub where Sinter worked. Then I typed in her email address at the top, and, with the numbness of insane courage chilling my bones, clicked “Send.” The progress bar whisked blue for a moment, then flashed off, leaving the words “Message sent” in its wake.