Angus makes a noise of agreement low in his throat. I bite down on my lip. Men should not be allowed to make sounds like that.
“I can understand that.”
I’m sure he can. He calls me stubborn, but if I’m a stick in the mud, he is a boulder, locked in ice. I’ve spent my life avoiding the world in case I can’t handle it; he’s spent his ensuring that no matter what, he can. Hyper-competent, hyper-independent, pushing through pain like it’s something to be celebrated.
“I was thinking about what you said earlier,” I venture. “That the good things in life are hard. The hard things in life, they haven’t always been good for me.”
“No?” Angus’ voice is soft.
It sits there. The kernel of my shame. I’ve built myself around it over the years, warping my roots, twisting my branches, but I’ve never been able to outgrow it. Even thinking about it now, my mouth goes dry.Failure.Useless.Waste of space.
“University was a… it was a hard time for me. Before I went, I loved my life. Loved school, and learning, and my friends, and drawing. I was always doodling, coming up with new designs to stencil onto my clothes. I had this dream that I’d graduate and start my own business selling these bright, fun outfits that would bring people joy, the way they’d brought it to me.”
It hurts to remember her: the girl I used to be. The woman I should have been.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know, exactly. But when I arrived, everything stopped: all the joy, and creativity, and fun was… gone. I couldn’t make friends. I couldn’t keep up with the course. I couldn’t get out of bed. I wasn’t me anymore, and I didn’t know where I’d gone. So I quit.” The word tastes like ash in my mouth. “I was scared that if I stayed, if I pushed myself any harder, then I’d never feel anything good, ever again. And that terrified me.”
In the hush of the tent, I can remember it so clearly: the clouds rolling in. Endless fog in my brain. Oceans of tears. Room full of old pizza boxes and tissues I didn’t have the energy to clear. Jager shots and pints of beer and always being the one to drink too many, anything to silence the new, awful thoughts, and being kicked out of the club and left on the side of the street to vomit out my shame.
It was hard. Too hard. I was lonely, and sad, and I walked away.
Would something good have come of it if I’d kept going? My downward spiral somehow averted, a clutch of new friends, a piece of paper in my hand to tell the world I was smart. Or would I have kept sinking, swimming in waters that were too deep? Would I have found the surface, or would I have drowned?
“Do you still feel that way?” he asks, carefully.
I hesitate. “Sometimes. Not… not as bad. But there are days when getting up feels impossible. Days when I can’t face myself in the mirror.”
Even in the darkness, I can barely look at him. I’ve never told anyone outside my therapist and my family – and Marnie, of course – how I feel. Not even Ethan.
It takes Angus a long time to respond. “I’d buy them.”
“Buy what?”
“Your clothes.”
He startles a laugh out of me. “No, you wouldn’t! You barely even tolerate brown, let alone neon.” Even thinking about it brings a smile to my face.
“I’d buy them because they were yours.”
“Oh.”
Angus sighs and shifts under the sleeping bag. “Hard isn’t always good, Rowan. Sometimes it’s just hard. Sometimes there’s nothing to gain from it.”
I can tell he’s speaking from experience. His dad. I want to ask about it, but I don’t know how.
“What do you do then?” I ask instead.
I can feel the movement of Angus’ body against mine as he shrugs. “I guess you do what you can, and you accept what you can’t. And you keep trudging on, and hope that the view changes. That’s the thing about mountains, isn’t it? There’s something new on every turn.”
I listen to his steady breaths, soothing as the sea.
“This right now, though,” he adds. “This is good.”
I take a breath of my own. “Yes. This is good.” And then, because I can’t take the tension. “I’m down to less than fifty per cent water content.”
He laughs. “See? Something always changes.” Then he sighs. “The farm. That’s been hard for a long time. Da, he… He didn’t just pass. He was an alcoholic. Drank himself into cancer and an early grave. Last Christmas, Mason and Ross – they’re my brothers – they stayed on an extra night after everyone else left, and Boxing Day they sat me down, took out these speeches they’d written on the back of a bit of wrapping paper. Guess they thought they were staging some kind of intervention.”
