Authors: Tillie Cole
Tudor tipped his chin
in greeting.
“Well, Tink, we are
off out. I’ll catch you later.” I announced trying leave as
quickly as possible to escape the more-than-awkward situation.
“Okay, porkie.” he
sang as he turned towards his bedroom on a wave.
I pushed Tudor towards
the exit. Just as we were shutting the door, Tink shouted. “Wil?”
“Yeah?”
“Just so you know,
don’t come a knockin’, if the bedroom is a rockin, but I’ll try
to put a sockin’, while my Tatey puts his cockin’,” and with
that he slammed the door.
My hand stilled on the
door knob and Tudor tripped in shock, righting himself on the
doorframe. I grimaced and shrugged. It was typical Tink behaviour.
“Wow!” was Tudors only response
to the peep show and inappropriate verbal diarrhoea. He looked at me
and we both burst out laughing. I shut the door and locked up. Tudor
handed me a Tim Horton’s caramel latte, and off we went to teach me
how to skate.
After the millionth
time of landing on my arse, I decided to throw a tantrum and retire
from the sport of skating before I broke a bone. Tudor had spent the
better half of two hours helping me back up off the ice and then
showing off his hockey skills by speed-skating around me, manoeuvring
in a hundred different directions with ease. It was slightly pissing
me off that a six-foot three mountain of a man could look so
graceful, while I looked like the uncoordinated mammoth version of
Bambi.
We were a pond in the
back of an old ranch that spread about one hundred acres. It was
weird, in the few weeks that Tudor and I had been friends we had
barely stepped out in public. I knew he was a private person, but I
was actually beginning to believe he was a hermit or some kind of
agoraphobe.
Watching him contently
glide around the ice showed that he cherished being out in the open,
but he kept himself so withdrawn and hidden. It was so sad. I
couldn’t help but think he had completely chosen the wrong
profession for himself if his days consisted of dodging people’s
recognition of him and keeping all information about himself locked
up tight.
Whilst I silently
contemplated Tudor’s career choices, the man in question saw that I
had slumped down on the verge of the rink – well, pond – again,
and came gunning in my direction, spraying ice all over me when he
skidded to a stop.
“You bastard!” I
shrieked, brushing the ice-cold flecks from my face before they
melted and left track marks in my bronzer.
Tudor sat down next to
me and put on a ‘
who me?
’ expression.
“What you doing,
Tash?” he trilled out in a sing-song voice.
“Giving up! I can’t
bloody do this, in case it had escaped your notice. I have no
co-ordination and suck on an epic scale!”
Tudor ignored my
outburst and grabbed my hand. “Come on, you clumsy Geordie. I’ll
hold on to you, there's no giving up on my watch.”
I sighed and let him
pull me up. Tudor grabbed my hips from behind and pushed off, forcing
us to glide along. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe, and then got
all giggly at the fact that we had made it an entire lap without me
falling arse-over-tit.
I felt his breath at my
ear. “See, I told you you could do it.”
We were whipping around
the ice with ease, and I felt a moment of pure elation. Overwhelmed,
I decided to spread my arms and shout. "Jack, we’re flying,
we're really flying!’"
I heard Tudor chuckle
behind me and say, "You’re so weird, Tash."
I nodded. "I'll
take that as a compliment, Mr. North."
He squeezed his hands
on my hips and whispered in my ear. "You definitely should."
I shivered from top to
toe. He then pushed away from me, forcing me to try on my own while
he skated in front, turned backwards and instructed me from about two
feet away.
“Keep straight and
push through the ice, one foot at a time, okay?”
“I’m doing it!
Argh! I’m actually skating! Go me!”
Tudor was beaming with
pride. “Okay, now try to follow me.”
He turned, and I was
trailing behind when he must have seen a branch or something blocking
my path and bent down to pick it up.
Like a Fem-bot lusting
after a gyrating Austin Powers, I short-circuited at the peach of an
arse displayed proudly in his Diesel jeans, and lost all semblance of
control. My feet slipped, my arms flailed like a windmill and I began
to scream.
Tudor stood up on
hearing my yelp, looked back and for the second time in our short
friendship, I smacked into him, taking us both to the ice at an
ungodly speed. Tudor’s arms gripped me around the waist and he
twisted, taking the brunt of the fall, leaving me directly on top and
straddling him.
He looked up at me, my
gloved palms resting on either side of his head. We said nothing for
a long time.
I tried to wriggle off
him and he sucked in a pained breath and stopped me with a tightening
of his fingers on my hips. “Don’t. Move,” he said through
gritted teeth.
Then I felt it, a
hardening, and I blushed. Tudor’s eyes squeezed shut and his chest
was rising and falling in an erratic motion.
Say something, break
the tension. Erm, what the heck do I do?
“My, my, Mr. North.
Is that a puck in your pants or are you just pleased to see me?” I
quipped in a breathless voice.
Tudor instantly opened
his eyes and just stared at me. I couldn’t break away from the
tractor beams pulling me in.
Shit, wrong time to
joke?
He sighed heavily,
lifted my hips up with his hands and proceeded to shake his head and
laugh.
“Come on, smart
mouth. Time to call it a day.”
We got up carefully,
trying not to press on any forbidden body parts, and he adjusted the
crotch of his jeans discreetly, but not so discreetly that I couldn’t
sneak a peek at the extra-large hockey stick he was trying to tuck
into the waistband of his jeans.
We reached land,
changed into our shoes and sat for a few silent minutes on the verge,
just taking in the stunning winter wonderland in front of us. I
didn’t know what to say. Talk about an awkward situation.
“You did well today,
Tash,” he said, finally breaking me out of my embarrassed trance.
“Ha! Yeah, I reckon I
could go to the next Olympics,” I answered sarcastically.
He grunted in amusement
once under his breath.
I grimaced. “Sorry
about practically dry-humping you.”
He stared at me and
slowly lifted one side of his mouth in amusement. “You certainly
have a way with words, Tash, eh?”
“For sure!” I
replied, mimicking his Canadian accent.
He patted my leg. “Come
on let’s go get a coffee, I think we could use one.”
He helped me up, and
tied my skate laces together to put them over his shoulder along with
his own to carry back to his Jeep.
We were about to head
back to the car when I heard my favourite song, ‘Beneath Your
Beautiful’, playing quietly. I began looking around for the source
when Tudor unzipped his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. It
was his ring tone.
He answered the call,
staring piercingly at my gaping expression, his body as stiff as a
board. “Hello…Yeah… I’m out at the minute…When? I’ll come
immediately… No problem… I’ll speak to you soon.”
He shut off his phone
without even saying a goodbye to the caller and dropped his head,
shuffling his feet. My mouth opened and closed. I tried to say
something. Anything. But nothing came out.
Why did he have that
song as his ringtone? Does it remind him of me? Of that night? The
night we have never addressed? Come on, Tash, embrace it. Now’s a
good time to tell him how you feel. Man up! You like him, so tell
him.
I edged towards Tudor
and said in a hushed tone, "Tudor? Why do you have that song?
I'm probably totally off the mark, but... but... do you like me?
Because, I... I like you, and–"
He snapped his head up,
his eyes penetrating mine with an unforgiving and icy stare. “I
really like that song, don’t read anything into it, okay? It means
nothing.
We
are nothing. I don't like you like that. You’re
not my type and you’re my sister’s teacher for God’s sake!”
he barked out harshly.
I swallowed and
flinched, moving my head away from the sharp edge of his cutting
words.
He took a step in the
same direction, refusing to move from my direct line of sight.
“Understood?” he growled.
I couldn’t say
anything. How could I, when a hole the size of the Grand Canyon had
just been punched into my heart?
“Tell me, damn it!”
he snapped.
I nodded my head once
in comprehension.
Don’t worry Tudor, I’ve got it. Message
received.
"Completely
understood." I whispered in mortification.
And that was that, he
turned and began striding away, silencing any further conversation on
the subject.
I stood for a minute on
my own, controlling my breathing and rubbing my chest, soothing the
pain piercing my heart. Eventually, I forced my feet to move and set
off, leaving the pond and my dignity behind.
When I got to the car,
Tudor was already inside with the engine running, his fists clenched
around the steering wheel, causing his knuckles to turn white. I
climbed in the back, as far away from him as possible, and he drove
off, turning the radio on loud and taking me straight home without
any form of communication.
He pulled to a stop
outside of my complex and kept his gaze straight ahead, grinding his
teeth so hard it was audible. “I have to go back home, my agent
needs to speak to me. I don’t know when I’ll see you again. I
have a lot on at the moment,” he muttered through gritted teeth.
As I started to reply,
he cut in adding, “Actually maybe it’s best if we don’t see
each other again. I'm not so sure our friendship was such a good idea
after all. You have feelings for me that I don’t return.”
He sounded distant and
cold, not the Tudor I’d come to know.
I let out an exhausted,
humiliated sigh, willing myself not to cry. “Fine, Tudor, have it
your way. See you around… maybe. Just, do me a favour and forget
what I said back at the pond. I don't know what I was thinking, it
was silly of me... obviously, and probably the most embarrassing
moment of my life, not that you’d care, but...”
He groaned painfully,
trying to reach back towards me. “Tash... wait… I–”
I swung open the door,
not even acknowledging him, and shut it with force. As soon as the
door was closed, he sped away in his stupid friggin’ Jeep and I
heard him roar a loud, “Fuck my life!” as he pulled away from the
curb where I stood like a lemon. But I ignored it, turned and stormed
up the steps to the condo.
I slammed the front
door and walked towards Tink’s room, in desperate need of my best
friend. I could hear him through the walls giggling and moaning,
obviously enjoying his time with Tate. Not wanting to interrupt, I
fixed myself a large amaretto and Coke from the liquor cabinet, and
went to my room to drown my sorrows. It may have only been early in
the day, but hell, I figured it was evening somewhere in the world!
I walked straight to my
iDock and turned it up to the highest volume, playing Taylor Swift’s
‘I Knew You Were Trouble’ on repeat, and sang at the top of my
lungs, venting my anger and taking large gulps of my drink at every
chorus, loving the burning sensation that was numbing my shattered
emotions. I could totally relate to Ms. Swift – now there is a girl
who knows about man trouble!
Feeling
more-than-slightly buzzed, I sprawled out on my bed and smothered my
mouth with my pillow which, to my vexation, smelled like the
über-muscled wanker.
Fucking great!
I finally let myself
remember every stabbing word he had said, and cracked from the impact
of Tudor’s rejection. I let out a strangled, defeated moan and
sobbed uncontrollably until sleep claimed me.
How was I so off the
mark and, more importantly, how do I stop wanting him so bloody much?
Tink was beyond livid.
After hearing a certain
girly teen-angst song play for most of the afternoon through my
supposedly well-insulated bedroom wall, he came to the correct
conclusion that I was upset.
It was about eight in
the evening when he retired from his all-day nookie session with
Pookie – he’d exhausted himself, Tater-Tot and pretty much the
entire workings of the Kama Sutra over the last twelve hours – and
decided he should pop in to say hi while his thoroughly sexed lover
recuperated in the comfort of his whopping waterbed.
Tink opened the bedroom
door for a girly chat, but instead found me absolutely paralytic on
the bed under a sea of papers. In my inebriated state I had decided
to seek revenge on everybody’s favourite schizophrenic movie star,
and had printed off several Google images of him in various paparazzi
shots and movie promotional posters and scribbled over them in my
thickest, brightest red pen.
Yep, you now know that
I’m a psycho drunk, and, needless to say, this little episode
scared Tink half to death.
“Wil! What the hell?”
he shrieked as he picked up an A4 sheet of paper showcasing a
half-dressed Tudor on the cover of ‘Men’s Health’ advertising
his workout regime for the release of
The Blade Reaper
, his
eyes gouged out and the words ‘
We Are Nothing
’ scrawled
across his protruding chest.
I lifted my head from
my current art project – drawing devil horns and blackened teeth on
a head shot of Mr. North – and smiled drunkenly at Tink. “My
fabulous fairy is here,
finally
, after screwing his
boyfriend’s brains out all day! How nice of you to take a break
from your back-door pummelling to witness the head-fuck that is my
life!”