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I don’t pretend not to know who she’s talking about.Everything else in my life is slowly coming together, but Finn’s the one piece I haven’t quite figuredout what to do with yet. I’ve been trying to be gentle with myself. I don’t regret telling him to leave. Because he needed to, and because I wasn’t ready. I wouldn’t have been good for him. But I do regret that I didn’t sort myself out sooner.
‘One day I will. But he’s busy starting afresh. I don’t want to interrupt his life.’
Now, his absence ebbs like a yellowing bruise. Hardly painful anymore, but sometimes I poke the tenderness just to be sure it’s real.
‘Like he interrupted yours?’ Her eyes twinkle. Finn disrupted my life like a bulldozer in a library.
In reality, I’ve drafted and deleted more texts than I can count. But I don’t want to drop in with a text. I have to let him live. He inadvertently set off a chain reaction and I have to continue reaping the benefits of that so that I can make my life better, too.
But here, tucked under the blanket next to Josie, I’m overcome by a wave of gratitude for her. She’s been here for me this whole time, quietly supporting me, even when she thought my decisions were stupid. And they were, objectively, stupid.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever thanked you,’ I say at last.
‘For what?’ She blows her tea and the steam wafts around her face.
‘For being so understanding over the past few years while I’ve been getting myself together. And for trying to help me get out there. Even though I was bad at listening.’
‘Finn was the one who really got you out of your shell.’
I smile at the mention of his name but shake my head. ‘Well, today I’m thanking you. For staying with me inside my shell.’
‘It wasextremelycramped in there.’
‘Thank god you’re only about two feet tall.’
‘Would’ve been a disaster if I’d been a giant like you.’ She shifts position, knocking a cushion to the floor. ‘But you don’t need to thank me. You’re my best friend. And you were there for me when I was going through it when we were at uni.’
‘You had a perfectly good reason to be in a dark place. I was just,’ I search for the word, ‘repressed, probably.’
‘Emotionallyselective,’ she amends, setting her mug back on the coffee table and feeling for the dropped cushion. ‘I don’t take it for granted, you know. The fact that you care about me. I doubt Max ever has, either, or Finn, or anyone else in your little circle.’ She sets the cushion on her lap. ‘I don’t even think you realise that you take people under your wing. You did it with me, you’ve done it with Dylan, you’ll probably do it again to someone else. You make it seem like you don’t care, but you do. You just do it quietly.’
The blanket rustles as I shift position. ‘Thank you for saying that.’ I exhale with a shudder. ‘I hate that these conversations only make me alittlenauseous now. My reputation will be in tatters if anyone finds out.’
‘Your secret’s safe with me, my delicate little flower.’ Then, tucking her hair behind her ear, she leans forward to ask, ‘Are you happy, Ava?’
I fiddle with the label on the blanket, trying to quieten the part of my brain telling me to stop talking about my feelings. Despite any loose ends, any missing pieces, for the first time in a long while, my brain is calm. It’s granted me a contentment I’d forgotten I could feel.
I’m not being dragged along with the current, life happening around me without my permission anymore. I’m not clinging to moments of joy like they’re a life raft. They exist in spite of the stormy seas. I’m finally swimming.
Eventually, the words spill out, and I’m surprised by the truth of them. ‘I am.’
40
seasons change
A V A
I’m a fervent believerthat coats are for bitches, but I do immediately regret not wearing a jacket when I step outside in nothing but a decidedly thin strapless red dress that Josie forced me to buy for the opening. Luckily, my Uber drops me right outside the building, and I make it inside without doing any permanent damage to my extremities.
When I duck into the foyer, there’s a massive poster sayingAccess to Art: As It Lives & Breathes.I show my ticket to the attendant and they let me into the gallery, where people are milling about with glasses of Prosecco and nonchalantly analysing the art.
I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere so clearly signposted, and that’s art in and of itself. Tactile lines snake along the floor, winding around the room, each one taking a different route around the exhibition. Every exhibit’s plaque has braille explanations beneath the written text, while some have buttons that produce an audio explanation when you press them, along with a QR code, so people can take in the information at their own pace on their phones if they want. I text Josie to let her know I’m here and receive a “yay” in all caps in return, although I can’t see her amidst the swell of people yet. I spot Alina on the other side of the room in a navy velvet pantsuit, and she gives me a wave, busy talking to some people about one of the sculptures.
Miraculously, I’ve made it on time, which means I get to listen to Josie’s Prosecco-fuelled speech, which results in the BSL interpreter next to her having tobite down their laugh the longer she rambles. She pulls it together enough to deliver a coherent end to the speech, putting down her glass so she can gesticulate at peak performance.
‘Before I go and finish off another bottle, I just want to echo what everyone else has said. Thank you to all the artists who’ve contributed their craft, to all the people who took part in our research and helped us figure out how to make this work, and to everyone who was willing to take a chance on this idea. For anyone watching the live stream, or who can’t make it to the gallery for whatever reason, we’ve just published our virtual tour online. It’s free to access, but we welcome donations.’
I look around me at what Josie helped create, at the people she brought together, and I want to nudge the person next to me and whisper, ‘That’s my best friend, by the way.’
