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I watch the guys playing now, and the two women sitting talking to Kathy, and wonder if I’ve done the same. I have tried to fit in here. I really have. But I just don’t.
I’m the misfit. I’m the one who wanders through the corridors of these relationships like a ghost.
I want to go home, but I know that after they’ve finished playing, they’ll want to watch a movie, and there’ll be turkey sandwiches and more drinking and awful, obvious jokes until everyone stumbles to bed blind drunk. We’re staying here tonight, but I can’t go to bed at seven p.m., and I can’t sit and read a book on my own because that’ll look rude, so instead I have to join in with the conversation, and watch the movie, and just hang in there until the day’s finally over.
Cam finally wins whatever battle they were playing, and he whoops and punches the air.
“Aw, Pete,” his wife complains. “You suck.”
“Only my girl knows what it’s like to be with a real man,” Cam teases.
“Yeah, well, it runs in her family,” Pete says. It’s a reference to Antony being gay.
Alan and their father snigger. Cam sends me an apologetic look, but he doesn’t berate his brother, and Pete just glances at the others, who try not to laugh, and fail.
My face flames. If it was just the two brothers, I’d have called them out on their rudeness. But it’s Christmas Day, and I’m in his parents’ house, and I know that if I make a fuss, everyone’s going to blame me for spoiling the atmosphere, not Pete.
My heart aches with resentment and frustration. I think of Henry with his family, and wonder if he’s having a better time. I miss him so much.
Today I’m wearing jeans and a red tee with a white Christmas bauble. It’s unusual for me—normally I’d wear a sari on a special day like this—but I wanted to wear something with a pocket so I could keep my phone in it. Now, it buzzes against my butt, announcing the arrival of a text.
It could be anyone. But somehow, I know it’s Henry, our thoughts reaching out through the ether, finding each other.
“Just going to the bathroom,” I announce.
Nobody reacts. I’m not sure anyone even heard me.
I walk through the house to our bedroom at the other end, go into the en suite, and close and lock the door. I take my phone out of my pocket, put down the lid of the toilet seat, and sit. I tap the screen. The green banner pops up with a small photo of Henry’s face that I took earlier this year at Tyson’s wedding. He’s looking at me, his lips twisted and his eyes gleaming, which I’m sure now means he was thinking about what I look like naked.
I tap the banner and read his message.
When I’m done, I put the phone down, lean my elbows on my knees, and cover my face with my hands.
My heart hurts. It feels as if someone is squeezing my brain in their hand.
His message is heartfelt, and full of hurt and pain. He doesn’t sound as if he’s forgetting about me while he has a great time at his family’s. He sounds drunk, miserable, and lonely.
And it’s all my fault.
I’m not to blame for his infertility, for his marriage ending, or for the fact that he hasn’t dated in two years. I’ve never led him on, or promised him anything—Jesus, I wasn’t even convinced he was into me until the trivia night. But when I slept with him, I opened Pandora’s Box, and now neither of us can get our obsessive thoughts back inside it.
I miss you, I yearn for you, I burn for you…
You’re in my heart, my body, my soul…
I love you, I want you, I need you…
Hot tears prick my eyes so badly it hurts. I fight not to let them fall—I’m wearing kohl and I don’t want to go out looking like a panda—but it makes my throat hurt to hold the emotion back.
How does he know exactly what to say to make me hunger for him?
I look at the message again, my thumb hovering over the keypad. I shouldn’t message back. I shouldn’t encourage him. I’m here with my partner, and it’s Christmas Day, and I hate myself for cheating on him again.
I believe that if you’re contacting someone who isn’t your partner with a message that you wouldn’t want to show them, it’s inappropriate. It’s how I’ve been brought up, and it’s almost impossible to change the way you were programmed when you were a kid.
Messaging Henry back would be cheating on Cam. Because if I showed Cam what Henry has just sent me, it would hurt him terribly. And I still love him. At least I think I do. Don’t I? Or do I love Henry? Is it possible to love two men at the same time? In different ways?
My love for Cam is—or at least, has been up until this point—solid, dependable, protective, comfortable, content, supportive, affectionate, and committed.
