86.
Rachel
December 2036/August 2003
I dream I am back at Josh’s flat, thirty-three years ago. The home we used to share. The air throbs with electricity, the sky haemorrhaging rain.
Two days have passed since my argument with Lawrence. We’ve been seeing each other for seven months or so, and I am already filled with doubt.
‘Sorry,’ Josh says, reaching for a bottle of brandy, once I’ve finished telling him about it. ‘Kind of feels like it’s my fault.’
I know – of course I know – that it is chaotic and unfair, showing up at his flat unannounced, to complain about the row I’ve had with my new boyfriend. But that is not the true reason I came here tonight.
I want to tell him I made a mistake. That what I have with Lawrence can never come close to what we had. I want to know if there’s a chance he will take me back.
But when he asks why I am here, the words feel too big for my throat, the room, this night. So I just end up saying weakly, ‘I wanted a friend.’
With the curtains shut, by the scant light of a single lamp, we drink. Josh doesn’t seem to mind that I’ve turned up like this, or maybe he’s just humouring me. Selfishly, I’m not too sure I even care, because sitting in this living room, sharing brandy with our knees touching, is exactly what I need tonight.
After an hour or so, I say, ‘Thank you for the clothes.’
I have changed into a pair of Josh’s joggers and an old T-shirt, and we have spread out my wet stuff to dry in the kitchen, across various chairs and surfaces.
‘That’s all right,’ he says, dark eyes skating over me. ‘You always did rock that Teenage Fanclub T-shirt.’
I sip my drink. How can it be accidental that he has lent me this one – the same T-shirt he was wearing on the day I walked out?
But I don’t comment on this. Instead, I say, ‘By the way. I do know I shouldn’t be here.’
He just lets out a soft laugh.
‘What?’ I say nervously.
He rubs the back of his neck, then draws a hand through his dark hair. ‘Nothing. Not you, honestly. Just a touch of déjà vu. Don’t worry about it.’
As I am trying to work out what he means, he says, ‘The other night. I came back here with someone, but then she told me she’d been engaged less than a week.’
I unscrew the bottle cap and lean over to top him up. ‘Oh, my God. What did you do?’
‘Er, just watched her have an existential crisis then leave.’
I frown down at my glass. ‘It’s weird hearing about you sleeping with other people. I mean, I hate it, obviously.’
‘Actually, you’re specifically hearing about menotsleeping with other people. And you have just spent an hour talking to me about Lawrence.’
‘I know. I’m a hypocrite. I do know that. But thinking about you having sex with other women just makes me jealous. I can’t help it.’
‘Yeah?’ he murmurs, knocking back more brandy. ‘It’s all the other stuff that makes me jealous.’
‘What other stuff?’
He lowers his glass, stares intently into it. The brandy has become smelted gold in the lamplight. ‘I get jealous when you tell me about you and Lawrence hanging out with our friends, and going for dinner, and waking up together, and doing all the million little things I wish I was still doing with you, every single day.’
I swallow. The words burn on my tongue.Let’s try again, Josh.
But then I think of Lawrence. The look on his face when I told him I needed a break. And all the reasons I left Josh come roaring back to me, and I know that, in reality, none of this – being here with him, talking and sharing eye contact and brandy together – means a single thing has changed between us.
So all I say is, ‘I know. I’m sorry.’
