“Why did I not see that?”
“You were in love.”
“I was stupid. And I still am.”
“What do you mean?”
“I thought that…” I glance at Iris, who is patiently waiting for an explanation. “I thought I could do it again.”
“Do what again?”
“Fall in love. Want something for myself.”
“Are you talking about Niall Kerry?”
“I was so close to falling again.”
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about, love. Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“I almost believed.”
“Then what happened?”
“Nothing, Iris. I opened my eyes. And I have no intention of closing them again.”
“What are you talking about? Did he do something? Did he let you down? Hurt you?”
I shake my head. “He was perfect. It was like a script.”
“I’m not following.”
“Him wanting me, telling me he’d changed thanks to me, him accepting me for who I am. I’ve already seen this film – and it always ends with someone who criticises your every move. Someone who sleeps with someone else, then marries her, has a baby with her. They all say the same thing. They all tell you that they love you, that they want you in their life; then one day, they realise that you’re not actually what they want.”
“They’re not all like that, Jordan.”
“Maybe not. But don’t plan to find out if that’s true.”
I watch as the rain hammers against my bedroom window, phone in hand. There are two empty bottles of wine on my bedside table, along with the remains of an afternoon spent eating rubbish. Iris left at about five this evening. I promised her I’d have a shower and try to distract myself – maybe by reading a good thriller instead of a romance novel, or by watching a horror film on TV. I told her I’d relax and take some time to think about what I was doing.
But I haven’t done any of that.
I’ve been sitting here, on my bed, with Caramel keeping me company. I’m still in my pyjamas, staring out the window and twiddling my phone around in my hands. I want to call him, to explain what’s going on – but the fear that this will just be yet another endlessly-repeating story is stopping me from pressing that button.
I miss him; I never expected to miss him. Maybe that’s what scares me the most.
Wanting a man in my life again, waiting for him to come home, or seeing him standing at the hob, cooking, when I get in late from work. A man to ask me how my day was, who kisses my forehead when I fall asleep before him. A man who holds my hand in the darkness of the cinema; who wants to make love to me, to show me that, for him, I’m the only woman in the world.
These are all things I had, once: things that were snatched away from me. Things that I missed so much that I thought I’d never be able to breathe again. Things I’m terrified of wanting from the man I’ve just pushed out of my life forever.
I don’t know why I ran to him. I was vulnerable and in shock. I was hurt, lonely – I desperately wanted to feel something other than my own blinding pain. But I made the worst decision I could’ve made: I hurt someone else. I used him, just like he said.
I glance at my phone again, then drop it back onto the bed, letting myself fall back onto the mattress. Maybe it’s best if I just stay here, like this. Maybe it’s best if he hates me, stops seeking me out, trying to find his way into my life. It’s best if he stops trying to make me feel again.
‘It’s better like this’, I tell myself, as I thrash around on my bed, trying to find the right place to curl myself up into a ball.‘It’s better like this’, I tell myself again, but it’s too late; I’ve already come to terms with the idea that my tears and my pain have taken on a new form, now; a new name.
Niall
By the middle of the first half, we’re losing by one goal, demoralised and fed up. After drawing in the first match, a loss here would mean the end of the team – and of the tournament.
