For his part, Dain is being careful not to ask too many probing questions about Klint or how I’m feeling. He knows I’ve been fielding messages from him, but wisely, he’s letting me work through things at my own pace and not doling out manly advice. I’ve noticed mentioning Klint’s name causes Dain’s jaw to clench, so he may not be his favourite person, though he’s never said as such to me. The only reference he made was a few nights ago as I was sighing at the kitchen table over an annoying ‘woe is me’ message Klint had sent.
‘Lizzy, you know that if you want to talk about stuff, I’m here. But I’m not going to tell you what to do,’ he said.
‘I’m open to opinions,’ I replied.
He shook his head. ‘You’re smart. You know what you need to do.’
‘Well, I wish someone would tell smart Lizzy because dumb Lizzy is in danger of being emotionally blackmailed.’
But still, I haven’t caved and gone back to Klint, which is perhaps what he’s thinking I’ll do and why he’s keeping out of it.
I ponder a lot on how things might have turned out if I’d been single when I met Dain. Our pub lunch maybe would’ve turned into dinner and something more that evening; our sandwich and hot chocolate meetup on the bench would’ve been a romantic tête-à-tête, where wedidtouch fingers over the thermos cup. And don’t get me started on the number of times I’ve reimagined us getting it on in the sleeping bag.
Not that it does me any good—Dain hasn’t made a move even though I know by now that there’s nothing going on with him and Bridget; from what he’s said, they’re just friends.
I get the impression he does like me but thinks I’m in mourning over Klint. Though I was sad for a few weeks, the old Lizzy has bounced back remarkably quickly, and I’m not upset anymore. Yet I have no idea how to convey that to Dain. Announcing ‘I’m over Klint, let’s have sex’ might shock him into kicking me out. He seems kind of shy in that regard. So even though I’m in the friend zone with him, it doesn’t stop me from freely fantasising about what could be. It’s not easy living with someone who’s so inherently, yet modestly sexy, and the fact that he walks around looking like a Victorian rake but is an exceedinglykindperson makes it even more difficult. It’s a potent mix of pleasure for my eyes, solace for my soul, and yearning from my loins.
But whatever feelings I have for Dain, I suppose I should keep a lid on them. I don’t want to drag him into the emotional whirlpool that Klint is stirring up. The theme of his constant messaging is that he can’t (or won’t) let go of our relationship and wants me back. He says he’s depressed and can’t work and that he misses me (finally). Of course, I get sick of it and snap, sending something to reiterate that we’re over and to take his medication, which I think is cruel to be kind. But it simply adds fuel to the fire. He gets shitty and goes away. A few days later, he’s back again, trying to wheedle his way into my affections with the same messages but worded differently. Then there are the cryptic jibes asking if I’ve discovered Dain’s ‘secret’ punctuated with laughing emojis, which I ignore. Yes, Dain has an alternative lifestyle. It’s no business of his. And how did he find out about it anyway?
Worst of all, his mother, Lydia, rang the other morning and left a long, rambling message accusing me of making her Klinty miss out on his award because he’s not going to get his thesis in on time to apply for the research prize, which is rubbish. He has plenty of time if he knuckles down. I quickly deleted her message.
Smart Lizzy knows she needs to block Klint to get him out of her life for good. However, he has all my stuff in our Oxford flat; and on reflection, I would like to keep some of it. I just have to figure out how to extract it without dumb Lizzy being sucked into his drama.
One silver lining from breaking up with Klint is the renewed determination to pursue my own doctorate at Leeds University. After years of suffering from imposter syndrome, I no longer have to worry about the fear of failure. Klint made it clear what he thought; attaining a degree with distinction was the only acceptable outcome, and it was a lot of pressure during my master’s.
However, it’s my fear of not being accepted into the programme that’s making it difficult for me to start the application process. But after mulling it over for days, I mention it to Dain, and he says instantly, ‘Do it, Lizzy. You’re an Oxford graduate, and you’re researching the Brontës. They’ll snap you up!’
So I pluck up my courage and fill in the online form, attaching my Brontë research proposal. After a nerve-racking on-site interview, an electronic letter is sent saying I’ve been unconditionally accepted for a PhD in English at Leeds University.
‘I told you!’ exclaims Dain when I break the good news to him. He surprises me by pulling me into a warm hug, which I enjoy immensely before he quickly releases me. ‘Congrats! Now you can start researching and writing with a purpose.’
‘I know. I can’t believe it.’ I do a little jig on the spot. Dain takes my hands, and we caper around the kitchen, where we seem to spend the majority of our time because it’s the warmest room in the house.
‘This calls for my best bottle of red wine!’ he pants, which makes me laugh since I’ve never seen him drink anything.
‘I thought you were a teetotaller?’
‘No, there are several bottles in the dresser. I don’t like drinking by myself. But now there’s a reason to celebrate: you and your thesis.’
It’s a sobering thought, and I stop capering and sit down on the nearest kitchen chair as the realisation sinks in.
Dain looks at me. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’m going to have to write a 100,000-word thesis.’
‘Don’t worry about that. You can do it,’ he says reassuringly. ‘I’ll be here to provide unwavering encouragement, chapter critique, and late-night cups of hot chocolate.’
It’s a comforting thought that he has complete confidence in me that I can produce the thing. Even if we can’t be more, he’s proving to be a caring friend, and I’m coming to appreciate that the longer I live here.
***
One evening, not long afterwards, I visit the supermarket to get some provisions. Upon returning, a blast of warmth and light emanate from the parlour, causing me stop short in the doorway with my Sainsbury’s bag. There are half a dozen kerosene lamps lit, the fire is crackling, and Dain is sitting at the table, which is stocked with paper and an inkpot. He’s scratching away on an old-fashioned sloped writing desk with a quill. I gawp. This is next-level Brontëmania.
‘What are you doing?’
He looks up. ‘Just some writing. Join me if you want. There’s a charged power bank.’ He nods to it on the table.
‘Er, OK.’
