‘You know what else is adorable? When I can clearly see you having a furious discussion in your own head.’
‘That’s
visible
?’
Oh, God, how mortifying.
‘Kit, you practically mouth the words.’
‘I do
not
,’ I protest, but now I’m not so sure. No one’s ever said this to me before. I was always certain that my silence was taken for a lack of things to say, instead of the opposite: sometimes, there are so many things I want to say that they overwhelm me. I’ve got years of unsaid conversations in my head. Decades of sentences that never slipped out; centuries of words I couldn’t quite form.
That’s got to put some pressure on your pressed-together lips.
‘No, you don’t. But it’s a close thing.’
Or maybe he’s just fucking with me.
‘Stop fucking with me.’
‘I’m not, I swear!’
‘Then what
are
you doing?’
‘Trying to have a … a talk with you.’
The weirdest thing happens, in the middle of his words. They seem to sort of fail him briefly, and so does the smile on his face. In fact, the smile on his face falls all the way off, for a second, in a way that actually worries me. I think I get a little pang, seeing it happen.
Though I’ve no idea why. I don’t even know why he might be sad, because he’s absolutely fantastic at having a chat. He’s so good at it that I’m saying all sorts of things without really meaning to, and am now somehow at a point where I’m
wanting
to tell him more. His bizarrely disheartened face just makes me blurt stuff out, apparently.
‘I do have conversations in my head,’ I say, and the sun comes out all over him. That grin comes back as though it never went away – and for what? A confession that means so little? I’m so little, I think, but he makes me feel like I’m so much.
‘Yeah, I know it.’
‘Sometimes they go on for a really long time.’
‘I guessed.’
‘They’re usually about how rubbish I am at pretty much everything.’
‘Guessed that, too.’
‘You did?’
‘Uh-huh. You’re not as hard to understand as you think, you know.’
‘Really? Then why has no one else ever figured me out?’
He grins even more broadly at that.
‘Because they weren’t as dedicated as I am. I’m the Professor of Kit Connor Studies, at Some Insane University. I did my doctorate in you, and possibly published a paper.’
‘That’s … the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,’ I say, but I’m smiling all goofily as I do so. I think I have hearts in my eyes, but here’s the best part: I don’t even want to get rid of them. I’m perfectly content to stare at him like a lovesick idiot, because he doesn’t mind in the slightest. In fact, I think he’s going after that very effect.
‘Yeah, but you kind of like it, right?’ he asks, and then he
bites his lip
. He bites his lip, as though he’s a little unsure but oh so hopeful that this is the case.
I can’t let him down.
‘Of course I like it. Anyone would like it. That’s the goal in life: to have someone else actually understand you. Though I suspect you know me less than you think you do.’
‘Try me.’
‘OK: how many brothers and sisters do I have?’
‘That’s not a fair question! We’re talking about … existential stuff.’
‘We are?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Are you completely sure you know what existential means?’
‘
No
, but that’s not the
point
,’ he says, and, oh, I love love love the way he does it. He puts this half-amused-at-himself emphasis on two of the words, so full of self-deprecation and ruefulness that I could just devour him whole.
I’m not the adorable one.
He
is.
‘The point is that I know a lot about your secret feelings.’
‘You do, huh?’
I make my voice all big and blustery and sure of itself – but only to hide what I’m really thinking. Which is mainly: Oh, God, I hope he doesn’t know that time I accidentally slipped a finger into my butt in the shower, and kind of liked it.
‘I do. For example: I already know half of the things you think you’re rubbish at.’ He laughs, but not about anything I’m afraid of. Instead he just says this, as he shakes his head. ‘
Rubbish
. What a great British word.’
‘I don’t think garbage would have had quite the same effect.’
‘Yeah, it sounds a little harsh. And you’re harsh enough on yourself as it is.’
‘I’m really not.’
‘You sure? Because you seemed mortified about the wrongly buttoned shirt.’
‘Well … that’s a big deal. To no one else.’
‘And you definitely don’t know how hot you are.’
‘That’s … a very subjective … thing …’
‘Oh, and there’s your book, that you seem to think is so terrible –’
‘I won’t deny that I suspect it has probl–’
‘– even though it’s amazing.’
I swallow instead of speaking, then. You know, one of those really hard swallows that kind of feels like there’s something in your throat? Only there isn’t anything there at all. It’s just me, being kind of shocked by something someone else has said.
Usually it happens because I’ve just been backhandedly insulted.
But I’m happy to experience this version, too.
‘I bet you’ve written others, too, right? That’s not the only one. You’ve got, like, ten of the same, somewhere under your bed.’
He’s completely wrong.
They’re in the bottom drawer of my wardrobe.
‘And they’ve all never so much as seen the light of day, because you’re so sure that they’re not worth anything. You were so sure that you came to a meeting of sexual misfits at the word of one other person, and continue to see someone as ridiculous as me in the vain hope that I can make you better.’ He puts the rim of the bottle to his lips and takes a sip while all of that sinks into me. ‘Which is a pretty terrible plan, when you think about it. I can’t even make myself better. No idea what help I’d ever be to you.’
I’ve had some time, now, and it still hasn’t sunk through me. There are just so many crazy things he’s packed into one paragraph that I don’t know where to start. I feel like I’ve just been on a rollercoaster of words, from the elation of
being worth it
all the way down to the depths of
no idea
.
He has
no idea
?
I can’t let that stand.
‘Dillon … I’m not really sure you
need
to make yourself better.’
‘Oh, Kit – you have no idea, seriously.’
‘Well, I’ll admit I’m not as good at this as you are. Most of the time I can’t read you at all, and I’ve no clue what you’ve got under your bed. But you’ve … you know … you’ve …’ Oh, God, I can’t say it. I can’t say that he’s been cooler to me than anyone I’ve ever known. That’s just the saddest thing of all time, after three damned days. ‘And even if you are … not that great … you should probably give me a chance to know that. I’d like to know that. I’d like to know more about you. We keep talking about me, but what about you?’
The moment I say it something happens to his face. Something much more noticeable than the loss of a smile, because even when that happened there was still stuff going on there. He always has stuff going on there. His features rarely stay still for more than a second, so when they
do
go still … when there’s a sudden lack of emotion on his face …
It’s unsettling.
It’s so unsettling that I want to put a hand over his, and ask him … really ask him if he’s OK – even though he’ll definitely think I’m silly when I do. He’s the kind of guy who probably is OK, all the time. It’s just a momentary lapse in his laddish armour, and in a second he’ll snap right out of it. Any second now. Any second …
Oh, Lord, he still isn’t coming around, and now it’s been forever. It’s been an eternity of that blank look and those dead eyes, and I just can’t let them go any longer. He said all that stuff about me, and seemed so concerned. I have to show him that I’m concerned about him, too.
Only just as I do … just as I work up the courage to maybe … pat his leg a little bit and say something soothing, like ‘Dillon, you know you can tell me anything’ –
The doorbell rings, right in the middle of it. All I get out is this:
‘Dillon, you know you can.’
Which means absolutely nothing at all. It has zero comforting value, and probably very little worth as a set of words too. It’s not even a complete sentence, and I can’t make it one now. He’s just yelled, ‘Pizza’ and dashed to the door, and when he comes back he’s so excited about the food that the blank-faced thing is forgotten.
But I at least get to file that one away:
Dillon Holt
loves
to eat. Ohhhh, man, does he ever love to eat. He practically inhales half the thing before I’ve finished a slice, and he makes such a meal of it as he does. He licks his fingers and runs that wicked tongue into the corner of his mouth. He makes noises … the kinds of noises I’ve previously heard him reserve for sex stuff.
And while he’s doing all of that, I take in some other things, too. I learn about him in bits and bolts and fits and starts, from the pair of roller skates he’s got in one corner to the life-sized figure of Captain Picard in another. There’s a picture of Boston on one wall that makes me think he comes from there, but of course I can’t be sure.
I can’t be sure because of something I realise, a whole hour too late:
He didn’t jump up like that because he’s so in love with pizza.
He jumped up because I started to ask.
And he didn’t want to say.
I realise what’s happening about three hours into the next day, when I accidentally file an F in the N section because I’m thinking too hard about him. In fact, I’m thinking about him so hard that I forgot to eat lunch. I’m just sitting at my little desk, daydreaming about him, and suddenly it’s half-past one. I’ve lost the whole morning to thoughts of what I could do, if only he’d let me, and guesses about what he didn’t want to say.
I bet he’s a drug dealer, my mind says, but that’s not any more helpful than my other imaginings. It doesn’t separate my thoughts from him for ever. I just start picturing myself on the back of his badass drug dealer’s motorbike, on the run from the law. A whole elaborate scenario plays out in my head, with him as the star. I tearfully accept his life of crime, and move with him from motel to motel in some random American landscape that doesn’t exist outside terrible movies.
And that’s when I know I’m in trouble. Around that sort of fantasy – which isn’t actually a fantasy, in truth. It’s more like a nightmare, and yet somehow I’m still living it out, in my head. I’m living out a lot of things to do with him in my head, because apparently I’m obsessed. He’s snared me with mysteries and things he didn’t want to do, so neatly that I suspect he’s done it on purpose.
Like with the book, I think. He’s guaranteed I’ll go back. I can no longer stay away under my own willpower, and instead have to return just to see. Just to know what might happen next. He’s a book I haven’t quite finished, yet, and I’m compelled to get to the end.
Though, I swear, I resist for a while. Once I’ve realised the problem, I do my best to minimise it. I force myself not to think of him for long stretches of time, which sometimes works and sometimes doesn’t. Occasionally I can almost feel him, breathing on the back of my neck – to the point where I actually turn, to see if he’s there. It’s dark down here and the rows of shelving stretch on for ever, so it’s entirely possible for someone to sneak up on you.
It’s just that it’s crazy to imagine he would. He’s probably not thinking of me half as much as I’m thinking of him, and every time I consider this idea it strengthens my resolve to be saner. I’m just not used to someone talking to me so avidly, that’s the thing. I’m not used to his questions and his intensity and his passion, or any of those things, full stop, if I’m being honest. I’m starved of attention, and it’s showing in my embarrassing desperation.
So I decide: I’m not going to see him tonight. I’m going to show him that I’m cool, so completely cool and collected. He doesn’t have to worry about me going all Glenn Close on his ass. I’m reasonable and rational – so much so that I make it into day two.
I get all the way into day three, before I turn into a junkie.
My hands actually shake whenever I try to make them do anything normal. They resist my cups of orange squash and go nuts over the keys on my computer. I attempt to type the words ‘it’s better when you don’t’ and end up with this, instead:
Ziiiiiizzzzzzz emmma nenuuuuuooonnnnt.
And I put symbols on the end that completely don’t belong, too. Before today, I didn’t even know some of these symbols existed. One of them looks like a really stiff fishing rod, with a fish on the end. Another has a hat on it, even though none of my keyboard keys were big on headgear, before today.
They’ve just turned against me now, in my hour of need.
And, apparently, so has my sense of sight. There I am, getting angry at my computer for inventing symbols that don’t exist – even though the problem all along was my eyeballs. They’re so intent on the screen that they barely notice when someone walks up to the counter, and by the time I glance up it’s so much more of a shock than it should be. I jolt so violently I knock over my cup of orange juice, and of course he laughs when I do.
Of course he does.
‘I didn’t mean to scare you, Kitty-cat,’ he says, but really he doesn’t have to apologise. It’s all my fault for being so certain that he’d never turn up here. I spent too long focusing on other things and dismissing every shadow and daydream, and now I’m sure he’s the same way. He’s just a hallucination, brought on by extreme Dillon Holt withdrawal.
God knows, he looks like it.
He’s wearing … things. And the things are very … tight. I can make out the exact shape and weight of his pectoral muscles, underneath material so obscenely thin it should be outlawed. I’ve seen strippers in more than he’s got on, even though he has actually covered most of his body.
It just doesn’t
seem
like he’s covered most of his body.