The truth has now turned into a suppurating sore of a different kind. Our two nights of passion and all our pretty words to each other now seem to be for nothing. I’m having to mentally adjust my whole notion of him starting from the day we met. Our ‘Stars’ conversation on the landing isn’t special now because Gareth’s always going to commandeer that poem for him.
A sob heaves in my chest. Who am I going to talk to about this? My mother is gone, and I don’t talk to my father. No siblings. And Klint’s driven away my friends. But one good thing about the digital age is that there are strangers, somewhere in the world, who have found themselves in the same situation and are willing to post about it.
Exhausted from reading through angsty online forums, none of which help, I curl up in the seat next to the window and attempt to catch up on some sleep. Maybe it’s all the emotion coursing through my veins, but I have one of those vivid vision-type dreams I had at the hotel. It’s raining, and I’m standing in front of an open grave with three women dressed in black stationed around it. I can’t see their faces because they’re wearing black veils. There’s a feeling of extreme sadness in the air. I inch forward and attempt to peer into the grave. But the earth crumbles, and I fall forward, tumbling into nothingness.
I wake with a gasp, my heart thudding in fear. The train is still barrelling along. I look around. No one’s staring at me strangely, so I don’t think I screamed out loud or anything. I shake my head to clear it. What the hell was that about? Feeling completely weirded out, I check my phone to find out where we are and discover a message:
Dain:I see you took your things and left my gifts. I guess that’s my answer. Well, I can die happy now that I’ve known you. Tabby says goodbye.
My heart constricts painfully. He’s never sent me such a cold, unfeeling message before. But I guess I deserve it. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken all my stuff with me. It does look a bit final. However, I was trying to be practical. I can’t stay there when I’m feeling so confused and hurt. And I didn’t want to take his gifts because I’d probably start crying every time I saw them, and it would make things more difficult.
I start typing a reply, saying I need time ... But I’m not sure what good that will do. Is time going to help anything? So I delete the words letter by letter.
Maybe it’s the godawful dream I’ve had, but a strong sense of foreboding washes over me at his ‘I can die happy now that I’ve known you’.
Don’t be silly, Lizzy. He’s being melodramatic. He’s a writer. It’s probably from one of his books. But I’ve read all of them, and I don’t remember reading that line.
***
As soon as I enter the flat, I can see Klint has let things slide. There are dirty dishes in the kitchen sink and empty wine bottles and books strewn everywhere. And there’s a lingering stale smell in the lounge like he hasn’t opened the windows in months. Klint emerges from the bedroom. And, reader, it’s a bit of a shock. He looks rough.
His hair is scraggly and unwashed, his beard unkempt. He’s wearing a baggy dark-blue Oxford T-shirt that’s hanging on his skinny frame and grey jogger bottoms with a large tomato sauce stain on the crotch.
But there’s nothing wrong with his mouth. Without even a hello, he starts giving me shit about Dain.
‘How’s the Brontësaurus? Has he told you he plays for both teams yet?’ He smirks, and my heart sinks like a stone. Oh, so he knows. Klint’s jeering message with the laughing face emoji makes perfect sense now. He’s known about this for months and probably giggling about it to himself.
‘Hello to you too. Yes, I know,’ I say through gritted teeth, wheeling my suitcase over to the bookcase. ‘How did you find out?’
Klint flops onto the couch, kicks his dirty feet up on the coffee table, and starts cleaning his teeth with a used toothpick lying on the armrest. My senses recoil. He really does have some revolting habits.
‘Gareth told me.’
‘Why would Gareth have told you?’
‘Well, my girlfriend was stuck out on the moors, and Gareth asked me to ring Dain to go and help you. That struck me as being weird for a start. How did he know Dain had the necessary skills, and why couldn’thering him? Since I was annoyed he was being involved, Gareth reassured me that Dain wouldn’t hit on you. I was all like “What, so he’s gay?” And Gareth got weird, and I kept probing, so to speak.’ He chuckles at his own joke.
‘And from what Gareth was saying about him breaking up with Joelle from the café, I surmised Dain was bi-confused. I also surmised from the way that he was going on about Dain that something had happened between them. It was like unplugging a dam—he couldn’t stop talking about him.’
I start collecting my books from the shelf hurriedly and depositing them into the suitcase. ‘Can we not talk about this?’ The pain of finding out about Dain and Gareth is still fresh, and I don’t think I can bear dragging my wounded heart over more gravel.
Klint doesn’t hear me, or does, and refuses to comply. He tosses the salivary toothpick onto the floor and wiggles his bare toes like he’s enjoying this. ‘Anyway, I was getting pretty slammed from the free whisky top-ups, and Gareth was drinking wine and rabbiting on about Dain and how great he was blah, blah, blah. But my suspicion about Gareth liking trousers was confirmed.’ He smirks again.
‘Why? What happened?’
‘He stroked my hand and suggested we go up to room 9. I was shocked, as you can imagine, and shut that down immediately. I made some excuse about needing to sleep and scarpered.’
Gareth came on to Klint!
I stare at him. ‘Wow, you kept that quiet.’
‘Yeah, well, I had other things to worry about.’
‘As I told you, Dain never once overstepped the mark when we were on the moors. He was caring and looked after me. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be here today,’ I say. ‘Not that you give a shit. ’
Tears welling, I turn my back. But I can still feel Klint’s eyes piercing through my shoulder blades as I put my last novel,Little Womenby Louisa May Alcott, in the suitcase.
‘I do give a shit,’ he says with a sigh. ‘I really hope for your sake that you’re just flatmates. You don’t want to be with a bi-confused person. He’ll switch on and off like a light switch, and you’ll end up like Gareth—completely fucked in the head about him.’
