Page 78 of Before You Say Goodbye

“With Marley,” she said. His name tasted bitter on her tongue.

“Is he OK?” he murmured sleepily.

“He’s fine,” she said. She knew she wasn’t answering him in the way she normally would and he would hear it, too. Her words were empty. Her voice didn’t sound like hers. She was riddled with guilt. She needed him to stop talking to her because, in her exhausted, intoxicated state, she was incapable of hiding anything from him. The temptation to tell him was incapacitating. She couldn’t focus on anything else. She could feel his eyes on her. She bit back her tears and lay perfectly still, hoping he would leave it alone. The atmosphere in the room felt suddenly heavy with suspicion. He moved to cup her face in his hand, but she winced and turned away. His hand hung redundantly in the air.

“It’s OK, Autumn,” he whispered, his words catching in his throat. “It’s OK, I promise.”

She broke down entirely then, curling into the foetal position and trembling all over. She knew that her actionswere confirming his suspicions. He pulled her over to face him, dragging her in to hug him. She sobbed against his skin, marvelling at his capacity for mercy, for love. She couldn’t believe how he was reacting when she knew that she was breaking his heart. Was it really possible that he had fully comprehended what had happened between her and Marley? Perhaps he thought they’d stopped at a kiss. Or a fondle. She wanted him to scream at her.

“Bowie, I love you so much,” she said. She felt him tense. Words they’d been so happy to say to one another less than a day ago were causing him pain now, all because of what she’d done.

“I know you do,” he said.

“I’m so sorry.” He held her as she cried, soothing her until her sobbing abated. He took her head in his hands and looked lovingly at her, wiping her tears away with his thumbs.

“I don’t want to know anything about it,” he told her sadly. “I don’t want to know what happened, how it came about, how many times—”

“It was only once, Bowie, I—”

“I don’t want to know.” He rolled across the bed and sat up. She thought he might leave, but he reached into his bedside table instead, producing a joint. He smoked it in silence. Autumn sat up, hugging her legs and crying into her kneecaps.

She wanted to reach out and touch him. With a jolt, she knew she might never get to touch him again. She searched desperately for a rational reason for what she had done, but could find none. No excuse would ever be good enough. Every reason, she knew, was as ugly as the next: she missed sex, she was selfish, Marley turned her on. The time they had spent together had been like extended foreplay. It had always been leading up to her quivering beneath him. She felt rotten to the core.

“I want to pretend it never happened,” Bowie said eventually. She stopped crying and looked up at him. He was so beautiful in the light of the dawn.

“Why?” she whispered, her face swollen and red.

“Because I understand,” he said. He held out his hand and motioned for her to join him. She couldn’t move.

“How can we ever come back from this?” she asked. “If you won’t even let me explain.”

“I don’t need you to explain.” He shook his head. “I know why you did it. I know why you both did it.”

Autumn doubted that.

“I’m not blind, Autumn,” he said. She didn’t understand. She searched his eyes for answers, but he was expressionless. “I know that you’re falling in love with Marley, and that’s OK.”

She had to work hard to hold back a hysterical laugh. She knew that he had come to his conclusion to protect himself, to rationalise their behaviour, but it was so preposterous a notion that she would’ve found it comical if the circumstances were different. She wanted to tell him that it was in fact insatiable lust, not love, that had driven her to fuck his brother, but she didn’t think that would make him feel any better.

“I’m not falling in love with him, Bowie.” She shook her head.

“Perhaps you don’t know it yet, but you are,” he said. “And he’s falling in love with you.”

“You’re wrong.” Her voice sounded shrill. She was irritated, even though she knew she had no right to be. He eyed her sceptically, motioning again for her to come closer. He held her hands tenderly in his. “How can you even begin to forgive me?” she asked.

“Because I love you,” he said. “And because I understand.”

“But, Bowie, you don’t understand,” she said. He let his hands drop.

“I don’t want to fight with you about it,” he said. “I can’t stand to fight with you about it.”

He looked forlorn. Weak. Tired out. She drew him closer to her and urged him to put his arm around her. It felt uncomfortable, wrong, somehow, and she knew that she no longer felt as though she deserved him. She’d never deserve him again.

“If things were different, you’d have thrown me out.” She shuddered.

“If things were different, you wouldn’t have done it,” he said.

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