If he’s irreparably damaged my friendship with Dain, I will never thank him. Ever.
Clicking into my messages, I look for the one Klint sent. But he’s deleted the whole thread, and there have been no further messages from Dain. My heart sinks. Now I’ll never know. The train pulls away from the station, making things seem even more final. Cutting ties. Maybe Klint’s right—it’s for the best. In the light of day, I can see how it must look to him. But oh, to tear me away from Haworth like this!
I lean my hot forehead on the windowpane, feeling the motion of the train juddering through my body, and attempt to make sense of myself. Why am I still with Klint? Is it indeed masochistic tendencies? If I punish myself enough, will that prove I’m a good person even if I’m miserable for the rest of my life?
I can’t help but think of Dain’s offer:If at any point you need another option, a place to figure things out, or some time to yourself, you’re welcome to stay at mine ...
It’s looking more and more tempting. In fact, I should’ve grabbed my luggage and gone to his place rather than stay at the hotel. I would’ve saved myself from a night of being punished by a misery guts.
But Dain—he’s such an unknown. I have no clue what his intentions are other than a strong feeling that he likes me as much as I like him, and given time and space, it could develop into something special—or cause me a lot of heartache in the process.
Then there’s sticking with the devil I know. I look over at Klint, who has his nose in his laptop; he’s frowning, his hair hanging in his eyes. I do know him. He’s a hard worker, he’s trying to pursue his passion, and he cares about me. I know he does. Otherwise, why would he be trying to protect me from myself?
Reaching over, I take Klint’s hand in mine as a conciliatory gesture, and he lets it lie there for a moment before withdrawing it with his usual line: ‘Sorry, you know how I feel about PDAs.’
I’m silent, thinking. Standing on the edge of a precipice.
What if I want PDAs? When do I get to feel happy? I can’t remember the last time we had a laugh or enjoyed each other’s company. It seems to be a continual round of fighting, patching things up, then more fighting. Even sex with me seems like a chore to him or a way to mark his territory.
The next station is announced: Crossflatts.
If I’m going to do it, it has to be now, before we’re too far along. And I can’t not do it. As soon as he confiscated my phone, it was the beginning of the end. I rise slowly from my seat and edge towards the aisle with my tote.
‘You off to the loo?’ Klint says absently, tapping away on his laptop.
I nod, but he doesn’t see me, just assumes I am.
The train is pulling into the station, and I walk down the aisle in a dreamlike state. Pulling my wheelie from the luggage rack, I wait in the corridor by the door for the train to inch in. Comeon!
The train sits in the station for exactly five minutes. Five excruciating minutes. But the whistle blows, and I’m where I need to be, on the platform. Klint looks out the window and right through me, which I can hardly believe, but there it is.
With my heart thudding fit to burst, I send him the message I typed while I was waiting in the corridor:
Klint, I’m sorry, but I can’t do this anymore. I know I broke your trust, but I don’t think you’ll ever forgive me, and I’m turning into a person I don’t want to be. We’re not happy together, so I think we’re better off apart. PS: Please don’t try to change my mind. It won’t work.
Through the glass, I see him pick up his phone and read the message. He frowns, confused, and glances towards the corridor, like I might be standing back there.
I wait for him to notice me outside on the platform with my luggage. Eventually, he does, but it’s too late. The train is pulling away. The last thing I see is Klint’s shocked expression, realising he’s been dumped via WhatsApp, quickly followed by his scowl of annoyance.
Then he’s gone.
Afterwards, I have a panic attack. I turn off notifications on my phone (in case he lashes out with a barrage of hate-filled post-break-up messages), walk to the ticket machine in a daze, buy a ticket back to Keighley, and wait for the next train.
Sitting in the waiting area on the platform, my heart is pumping erratically in my chest. I can’t believe I’ve done it—the thing that I know I should’ve done months ago. I try not to think about how Klint must be hating me right now. His shocked face keeps flashing before my eyes. But I can tell it’s the right decision because I’m feeling a flood of relief and not the slightest bit tempted to apologise and beg him to take me back. The thought of grovelling to Klint for the indefinite future makes me feel ill. I care about him, but being his girlfriend is hard work. I know relationships aren’t a walk in the park, but they’re also meant to be fun too. His moods affect me, his controlling behaviour is just wrong, and that awful sleep biting… I can’t see anything positive out of staying with him.
Deep down, I’ve been telling myself I wasn’t to blame with August, that he was the one who instigated it. But that night, I flirted with him, smiled at him, and acted like I wanted more. I’m not surprised he kissed me. Come to think of it, I kissed him back for a good few minutes and enjoyed him feeling my boob before I pushed him off, feeling afraid and confused at what was going on, and not quite able to let Klint go.
But something’s changed. Meeting Dain has shown me the old Lizzy is still there—the one that likes to laugh and have fun, the one that has a beating heart. He’s offered me a lifeline, and it’s too hard to refuse. He’s seen what I couldn’t see myself: That I do need a place to figure things out and some time to myself. That I need to learn how to be me again.
However, staying with Dain could complicate matters. On one hand, it’s the best set-up for my thesis. What better situation could I ask for than living with a Brontë expert? He’s the perfect person to bounce ideas off, review my chapters, and listen to me droning on without yawning with boredom. Iknowin my gut he’ll be fully into it and will help me in whatever way he can.
Yet, I don’t want to rebound onto him, and that’s going to be difficult since I find him inordinately attractive. I’m going to be walking a risky line. But it’s one that I think the Brontës would wholeheartedly approve of because Lizzy Doyle will now be able to (a) research their novels and bring a dark subject into the light and (b) get to know Dain better while figuring out her shit.
Surely, it’s a win-win?
Chapter 15
Daylight began to forsake the red-room;
