Page 113 of A Dark Fall

After feeding Fred, I crawl into my freezing, empty bed. It matches how I feel inside, and the dark quiet of my bedroom magnifies everything times one hundred. Before I forget, I message my brother to tell him I’m home safe, it was lovely meeting Jin, and to thank him for dinner. It’s a few minutes before he responds with a dozen smileys, saying Jin loved me too.

I shed some more tears into my pillow before finally passing out.

Sunday, I spend in a trance interspersed with fake normalcy because I have to speak to people. Nick calls to find out what Ireallythought about Jin and to tell me about the rest of the night. He sounds so giddy, if a little hungover, that I feel somewhat less dead inside when I hang up. Betty pops over to thank me for the wine and give me some of her homemade marmalade and takes forever to leave. I completely forget about Tash’s Skype call until she messages me at 4:00 p.m., and so I try to rearrange for midweek, but she’s having none of it. I manage to negotiate her down to a phone call though, because I look awful and won’t be able to fake anything over a video call.

In the end, I’m glad we did it, because simply hearing her voice lifts some of the oppressive weight hanging over me. She’s chirpier than ever, and I swear I hear an American twang in certain words as she babbles at me for close to an hour. After telling me about her house hunt in Malibu, we have a quick chat about France before she asks what my exciting news is. The news was supposed to be Jake. I brush her off, saying it’s about the possible partnership spot at work, which, thankfully, she buys. Before hanging up, she asks when I’m moving over, and I ask if I can come tomorrow. At that moment, I wish I were going. That I were running far away from here and everything I have to make a decision about.

I need you, Alex ... You have no idea how much I need you ... Please don’t leave me.

I feel sick again and wipe at the tears that well up in my eyes.

By some miracle of god, Mum doesn’t call. She usually always calls on Sunday nights, but buried way in the back of my head somewhere is the memory that she and Dad are at a Sam Shepard play tonight. At least, I think it’s tonight. I should listen to her more when she talks.

By 9:00 p.m., I’m in bed with the worst headache I’ve had in a long time, though I’m sure it’s just my mind finally grinding to a halt from overuse, some great mechanical beast of a machine that has seen better days. He hasn’t tried to get in touch, which I’m glad about. One day apart isn’t nearly enough space or time anyway.

The following week goes by in a blur, with me practically sleepwalking through each day. I see my patients in a detached, robotic fashion, nodding and smiling and reassuring in alternating patterns, and by Wednesday, I’ve managed to perfect a smile so fake it makes my temples and jaw hurt. It works though.

By Thursday, he still hasn’t contacted me, or I him. But then, four days isn’t enough space or time either.

My mask of fake normalcy lasts until Thursday evening, when I sit down next to Dad at the dining table in my parents’ kitchen. He knows immediately something’s wrong, and though he doesn’t ask, he does stare at me through slightly narrowed eyes during dinner. He’s extra comforting though and steers the conversation to random topics, such as Bob from down the road’s new classic sports car, the Sam Shepard play that was too “theatrical” but well done, and Nick and Tash and France.

When Mum does ask about the boy Ben saw me with, I tell her we went out a few times and we’re simply trying to slow things down a little. This seems to satisfy her, though she definitely gives me one of her sad looks and lingers on my face too long. When we finally settle on some dates for going to France, I feel something like excitement start to build.In five weeks, I’ll be relaxing under the shade in the south of France, and this will all be dealt with. One way or another, I’ll be beyond it.

I often try to think of unwelcome things in this way, as transient points in time with very little shelf life. Interviews, speeches, exams, social events I’m dreading. I focus hard on the vision of me I have on the other side of it. Relieved. It normally works.

Where will Jake and I be in five weeks? Will there even be a Jake and me in five weeks? For once, he seems to have left the decision entirely up to me, and I resent him for it. If he bulldozed his way into my house now, demanding things of me, it would make this a whole lot easier.

One positive that emerges from my wallowing is that I spend most nights upstairs at the Steinway. I play more than I’ve played in months—depressing, melancholic pieces Rob doesn’t want anywhere near her wedding. It occurs to me if Jake and I are truly over, I might not be able to play anything happy ever again. Then I almost smack myself for how pathetic that sounds. If we can’t sort this out, my life will go on. I’ll meet someone else. Someone who isn’t him.

I feel sick.

I’ve onlyjustabout managed to scrape through the week like this—how the hell am I supposed to manage the rest of my life without him? Though that’s probably because it’s not over yet. Because neither of us have ended it. I’m lingering here, waiting for my heart—or, rather, my head—to make up its mind. At least if it were over, I could start to move on. But it’s not. Right now, it feels like an open wound, and again, I need to decide whether to open the door and knit it back together or leave it to bleed out.

The two things seem to be this: Can I ever trust him to be honest with me about anything after keeping his son from me? And can I live without him?

I mean, I did. For a long time, I lived unperturbed by the existence of Jake Lawrence—a name I’d probably never have even heard or uttered had he not needed medical attention that night. Now, it lives under my skin and in my body, flowing through my veins.

God, I miss him. Almost a week apart, and I miss him so much it hurts. The smell of him, the warmth of him, the way he looked at me. The deep, scratchy growl of his voice. How I feel when I’m with him. I miss all of it so bloody much it aches. It feels like a great lead weight inside of me—one I’ve been carrying about all week, and which is only getting heavier. It’s in my chest and my throat, and my whole body feels dragged down by it, harder to carry around.

I swear, if I went swimming, I would sink straight to the bottom.

Throughout the week, I make sure all my contact with Rob is brief and non-verbal. If we speak or meet up, she’ll know immediately something’s wrong and make me talk about it. By Saturday though, I can avoid it no longer. It’s wedding dress fitting day. Rob’s dress arrived on Wednesday and is waiting in La Fayette de Monde, a stylish wedding dress boutique in Mayfair.

I get there at 10:00 a.m. and open the door into a world of white, lace, and tulle. I’m really glad I’m wearing my sunglasses. Mainly because of the shade of the place, but also because I wasn’t fully able to cover the dark circles under my eyes this morning despite my overpriced and falsely advertised concealer. I’ve learned this week that beauty sleep isn’t a myth. I counted, and about twenty-two shitty hours of unconsciousness is all I’ve managed to clock up. It’s more than evident on my face. Especially under this light.

I spot Robyn immediately, chatting animatedly to a sales assistant, happiness and exuberant positivity radiating from her whole body. Perhaps if I stand close, I can absorb some.

I try to will myself back into the body of someone who feels happy and excited. I mean, I can remember what it feels like to be happy. It was a thing I felt once, so I’m sure I can fake it. But then I feel angry at Jake again for making me need to fake it. My best friend is marrying the love of her life in eight weeks, and I should be happy and excited for her. Iamhappy and excited for her. My own misery can take a back seat for the day. Jake and his secrets can take a back seat for the day.

I’m hoping the excitement over the dress will impair her unsettlingly observant perception. When she turns around, I fix on my practiced smile—which, to be fair, is easier than it has been all week, because it’s Rob, and it’s her wedding dress, and I’ve waited my whole life to see her try on her wedding dress. She rushes toward me, wrapping her arms around me in her tight, fragrant, familiar hug.

“Hey. Sorry I’m a bit late. Parking was a bitch,” I say as I squeeze her tightly. Having her arms around me is unexpectedly warm and comforting, so I hold onto her longer than necessary.

“Oh, you’re not, babe, don’t worry.” She pulls back, smiling nervously.

“Your mum not here?” I ask as I look around. They don’t get on, but I assumed Jane would be here.

“I told her I only wanted you to see it today.” She shrugs, something cold coming over her eyes before they brighten again. “Okay, so, you go have a seat, and I’ll go putITon.”

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