Page 37 of Liquids

“I get back and you’ve lost weight, I’ll be pissed.”

When he gets back …?

“What?”

“I like your body as it is, babe, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

He buries his face in my neck and starts working his mouth over my skin. I dissolve into the comforter. Honestly, his big hands, the way he can throw me around … Nungh. I try and pull my head back into the game. He said he’d come back the first time we had sex and didn’t, and guys always make promises they don’t really mean to keep. It’s not even deliberate half the time; they just find something better, and life moves on. It’s been amazing, but maybe I got all he’s got to give.

“How long are you away for?”

“Not sure. It’s an open-ended contract I have with them.”

Figures.

“But usually it’s a month maximum on a rig. It’s exhausting, twelve-hour shifts, day and night, no days off. Lots of men, and a significant proportion of them are depressed as hell. It ain’t a decent place to be most of the time.”

I run my hands up and down his wide back. Even after six days, I’m going to miss him.

“You can communicate with me, babe. Not going to the Antarctic, though temperature-wise it’s not far off. You can email. There’s Wi-Fi and my phone has a camera.” He waggles his eyebrows.

And if I’m surprised by this offer, I’m determined not to show it.

“You offering to give me a show?”

He chuckles at this. “Not likely. The accommodation is in dorms. I’d get some serious stick for getting it on with a woman.” His eyes roam over my face. “Thanks for putting up with my grumpy ass.”

His grumpy ass, indeed. As if I could ever have said no.

Within the hour, he’s gone. I kiss him on the doorstep and tell him to take care of himself. Then I head back into the empty apartment and look around for any sign he’s coming back, like a pair of pants flung on a chair or a book, but there’s nothing. I drink vodka, but after sipping on a glass, I don’t really feel like it, so I lie on the bed and sniff his pillow.

Rig gave me some respite for a few days from the noise in my head, and God help me, I can’t quite squash down the hope that he’s coming back. I roll onto my back and stare at the stains on the ceiling. The only thing I can do now is try to hold on to the feeling that something has changed for as long as I can.

I’m already far too attached to him for something that was supposed to be casual. Attached to a man who’s never here for any fixed length of time. Charlie’s gone, too. Ashes in the ground. I clench my fists and then blow out a long breath. I head to the dryer and pull out the old bra, top, and leggings I wore to the gym. I yank them all on and, before I can talk myself out of it, I pull on my sneakers by the door and head down the iron staircase. I just have to move. Anything to stop the memories crowding back in. When I get to the street, I start running and by the time I’ve gone one block, my breath is sawing in and out of my lungs and the pounding of my heart is all I can hear in my head.

My dad taught me never to stop, so I run another block and then I take a left turn, and now I know that I’m actually going to die. My heart feels like it’s swelled to twice its normal size, and hearts don’t do that. I’m going to pass out on the sidewalk and Mrs. Stevens, who lives on the corner with her wheezy little pug, will find me when she’s out walking her dog and call 911 and they’d take my body away in a black body bag. I take another left turn and run past the silent bungalows, people happily watching Wheel of Fortune with no idea that someone is dying on the street outside. When I get back to the apartment, I grab the iron handrail and sink onto the bottom step. There’s no way I can climb back up there, maybe ever. I wish I’d thought of leaving a sleeping bag down here because I’m gonna have to spend the night in the parking lot.

After about half an hour, I manage to drag myself up the steps and open the front door with shaking hands.

Fuck. Who are all these assholes that spout the bullshit about “just do it”? Come the revolution, they should be the first against the wall for the grief they have caused so many ordinary people.

Two blocks. That’s all I’m capable of now. Why did I decide to run, for fuck’s sake?

I lie down on the couch and my throat goes tight, tears welling up and tracking down my cheeks. Of course I’m crying because I’m so relieved that I’m still alive, and not because I’m sad that he’s gone.

12

CURDLING

The following day, it’s my day off, and so I go to the gym at a reasonable hour because I’m not fucking getting up at 6 a.m., and Brit tells me that I can use Rig’s membership and I don’t have to pay. She hands me a bit of paper with a list on it and says she’s worked out a routine for me. For some reason, it all spills out about how I tried to run, and she almost wets herself laughing and says she always hated running but loved kicking people, and I chuckle about that all through my attempts to lift what clearly are very light weights. I think about what Rig told me about how she fights and peer at her muscles from the other side of the gym and think: Each to their own.

When I get home, I’m gazing out of the kitchen window over the iron stairwell at the back of the building when I see a flash of blonde hair. My apartment is the only one on the top floor, so people are never here unless they’re heading for my front door. The knocker rattles. I carefully place the plate I’m washing on the dish rack and step over to the door. When I open it, a woman in tight jeans, a lace shirt, and one of those bomber jackets that I could never afford is standing outside with her eyes narrowed. I’d guess she’s about my age, but the similarities end there as I take in her perfectly made-up face and long blonde hair.

“Is Rig here?” she says.

I shake my head.

As I eye her up, the feeling that something has changed starts to seep away. I knew she was something to do with Rig before she even opened her mouth, and really, I’m not that surprised. My stomach churns. If Marni was here, she would tell me off. Her mantra of never hoping that relationships with men will amount to anything and never being disappointed loops through my head. Those comments always amuse the hell out of me because she says these negative things about men, but out of the two of us, she’s the eternal optimist.