I tell Raquelle to get her things and meet me in the corridor so I can give her a lift home. I explain that I’m going to go to the toilet but really I want to try and find Benji. I don’t know if I’ll see him again and I want to say goodbye.
Which is perfectly normal, and not at all indicative of anything other than me wanting to say farewell to an acquaintance that I’ll likely never see again.
I think.
I eventually find him outside, on the edge of the car park, standing next to Miles who is bent over, looking like he may vomit again at any moment. Or maybe he just has. I slow my pace to keep my distance just in case because these Doc Martens cost me an arm and a leg, and I can’t afford to have Miles Twatface’s vomit ruin them.
“She’s just really vulnerable, you know,” Benji is saying, his voice lifted so that Miles can hear him as he dry heaves. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“She’s not vulnerable. I mean, what does that even mean?” Miles spits back before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. I stop walking and stare at their backs, curious.
“The fact you don’t know says it all,” Benji mutters. “You just can’t treat people like that, like shit.”
“People like what?”
“You know.” Benji waves his hand around as he searches for more words. “A little bit delusional.”
“Delusional,” Miles snorts as he finally straightens up. “Yeah, that’s exactly what she is.”
A wave of burning heat crashes over me, followed by a rush of ice-cold panic.
“She just thinks that she’s something special,” Miles continues. “You know? Like just because she’s different, she’s better than everyone else.”
“I don’t think it’s that—” Benji tries to interrupt. “I think it’s more a case of she’s…scared, you know. Like all the clothes and the weird hair and the being alternative is a front for something else.”
I swear my heart stops beating. I feel like I’ve been stripped naked and I should move, run away, so they don’t risk seeing me behind them. But I’m frozen in place.
“Maybe she has a shitty home life,” Benji muses. “Maybe somebody abused her or something when she was a kid.”
“Yeah.” Miles makes a depraved laughing sound. “That’s why she’s such a fucking nightmare.”
I want to kick both of them in the balls. I also want to burst into tears.
“It’s not funny.” Benji elbows Miles who staggers to the side. I strain to hear the reproach in Benji’s voice but I’m not sure it’s there. I may have even heard amusement. “Just leave her alone, is all I’m saying.”
“Well, then you need to stay away from her too.” Miles heaves again, sending him bending over again.
“Oh, trust me, I won’t be hanging around her. Why would I? I’m out of here, remember? I’m very ready to leave this town.”
My stomach sinks, as heavy as an anchor, and I finally feel able to move. Turning back around, I have every intention of going to find Raquelle but I find myself rushing to the disabled toilet. My little place of refuge. It’s not the Ladies — a space I’ve come to feel more and more out of touch with. And it’s not the Gents — an option I crave and feel entitled to, but not ready to take because of the inevitable fall-out. I slam the door shut behind me once inside and lean my forehead against the door. I beg my body not to cry. I tell myself those wankers mean nothing to me. But it’s not the truth. Benji had started to mean something to me.
And I guess that’s why it hurts all the more.
NINETEEN
BENJI
NOW
God,he tastes good. He tastes so fucking good. He feels good too. And he smells good. All my senses are on fire as he brackets my face with his hands and kisses me like he too has been waiting half his life to do so. I’m pretty sure he hasn’t been, but that doesn’t seem to matter now. The fact he kissed me, hints strongly that he’s happy to put the past in the past and focus on the here and now.
And the here and now really is feeling pretty fucking good. When his lips push at my lips, I open my mouth for him. His tongue finds mine in less than a second because I make it so. I’m so ready for him.
Which doesn’t make much sense. For the last few months, I’ve barely been able to touch myself. The weight of my grief has held me back from even thinking about sex or masturbating or orgasms. But now, in this tattoo studio where we are locked in until morning, it’s all I can think about.
Tilting my head to the side, our tongues slip and slideover each other. I run mine over his smooth top teeth and then dive down to suck on his bottom lip. It feels even plumper in my mouth than I imagined it, and I have spent an inexcusable amount of time imagining that lip in between mine, both fifteen years ago and in the last few hours.
I want to stand up and drag him up with me so I can press the full length of my body against his. I want to climb over and straddle him so I can rub myself against him. I want him to push me back and flatten me with his weight. I want to have a physical reason for why I already feel so breathless.
