Only one thought throbs through my aching head as I march back to my flat, my legs shaking:why didn’t I ever pick up on anything from him, even for a second?
Feeling almost indignant about it, I cast my mind over the years of friendship Leo and I have shared. Every single day in the parlour. The trips to the pub, the gigs we went to together, the times we stayed up talking into the small hours about everything and nothing: tattoo designs, our favourite TV shows when we were kids, life in general. So much time spent together, andI never had the slightest idea that I was more than a close friend to him.
I don’t consider myself a stupid person, and I hate the idea that I’ve missed something that was probably so obvious. And I do get why he kept it to himself, because making a move on someone who is in a relationship is not a good look on anyone, even someone as sexually prolific as Leo. But was there really no clue? Have I been existing with my head in the clouds, oblivious to something so stark? Really?
And if so, where does that leave us? Him and me…has our friendship just been completely torpedoed?
I slam my front door shut and start to cry. As much as I hate it and wish I could change this part of myself, frustration and anger often comes out of my eyes as tears.
He wasn’t lying. This wasn’t one of his stupid wind-ups. I’ve never seen him so raw, ever. And it’s because of me. My stupid, blundering cluelessness. But how the bloody hell was I supposed to know? He never said, never gave me the slightest inkling that he -
I threw up in his fancy car when he picked me up after I got drunk on girl’s night a few months ago. I’d not long been dumped by Peter the Douchebag, and I was angry as hell. I’d tried to put the moves on him, slurring the entire time, and then collapsed.
And regained consciousnessjustlong enough to barf all over the shiny new leather interior.
He didn’t so much as bat an eyelid, just encouraged me to get it all out. Even held my hair back with one hand while steering with the other.
I only have brief flashes of memory here and there, but I remember him carrying me into the Wishbone flat, gently setting me down on the bed in the recovery position, and placing a waste paper bin next to the bed, close to my head. And a glass of water and some ibuprofen for the morning.
I remember whimpering, and asking him why Peter didn’t want me anymore, why I was such a hopeless loser.
And I remember him stroking my hair, telling me I was the furthest thing from a loser he’s ever known. His hand was warm and gentle, and…
Loving.
And, in the seconds before I fell asleep, I feel sure he said something. I think, really hard, and fragments slowly return to my memory and become words.
“I sure do love you, Sadie.”
Oh my god.
This wasmonths ago.
I sit on my sofa, the same one he helped me lug up two flights of stairs when I got it without even being asked, and bury my head in my hands. I think I really need to let myself cry it all out so I can start thinking clearly.
More and more memories come flooding back into my brain, slapping me around the face with how blind and dense I’ve been. I dismissed so many actions as him just being a friend, but now that I think about it, anyone with an ounce of common sense, anyone paying the slightest amount of attention, would have seen there was more to it.
The way he would always text me back within thirty seconds, every time I messaged him.
The time he picked up my prescription for me when I ran out of migraine meds, and added flowers and a slice of Biscoff cheesecake from my favourite cafe for when I felt better.
The way he always volunteers to be my canvas for tattoo ideas I’ve had, no matter how strange they were. A fuckingwalrus mandala, for Christ’s sake, etched permanently on his skin.
The way he always secured amazing tickets to the best gigs, usually the bandsIliked best, and kept me safe from knocks and shoves while also giving me total freedom of movement. How often did he end up hugging me from behind, both of us so content and energised and alive?
It all takes on extra depth that I am livid with myself for never noticing before it was screamed in my face.
What have I unknowingly put him through all these years?
And can we ever truly recover from this? Have anything even resembling what we used to have?Shouldwe? What doIwant? How do Iactuallyfeel about him, without considering how he feels about me?What the hell happens now?
So many questions, so few answers.
Just heart-bruising chaos.
Leo: Can I drop by real quick
Leo: I won’t stay or talk about anything you don’t want to. I just need to know we’re OK.
