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I touch her face. “It’s okay.”
She shakes her head. “No, it’s not.”
I duck my head to meet her eyes. “I still have more I need to say, if you’ll let me.”
She nods, avoiding my eyes because hers are all wet now.
“After we broke up, all I could do was feel it, what happened to me. I wanted it to go away, and it went away every time I had sex.” My eyes drop from hers, feeling a bit embarrassed — but her eyes don’t flinch, they stay on me.
I clear my throat.
“Became a coping mechanism, I guess. It was never about you, Parks—” I shake my head. “Ever. It was about me. Me trying to deal, me trying to process. And last year, after… you know — we got back together, finally, and then when you left — I mean — I fucked around a tonne, did what you’d think I’d do. Partied too hard, lost myself more, and then I bumped into Bridget once, and she was so angry at me—” I laugh thinking about it.
Parks musters a weak smile.
“Told me I was a loser and a fucking idiot and I was so gutted because it was so brutal, but she was right and I knew it.” We both laugh now. “And then these prepaid psychology sessions turned up in my mailbox not long after—” I give her a small smile. “So I went. And I’m different now.”
Trying to be, anyway.
She stares at her hands, nodding.
I nudge her with my elbow, missing her eyes on me.
“I’m still me, Parks,” I tell her once I find them. They’re round and afraid. Sadder than I want them to be. Sadder maybe than I’ve ever seen them. “It happened before we were together. The only version of me that’s ever been with you had that happen to him—” I give her a small shrug. “You just didn’t know.”
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers.
I shake my head at her. “You don’t need to be sorry.”
“Yes, I do. I—”
“Parks—” I squeeze her hand, shake my head at her. “I’m telling you because I know for you, the who and the why were big deals, and I couldn’t tell you before. You knew the who. Now you know the why.” I nod once before shaking my head. “I’m not shifting the blame. It was my fault. I did it, I fucked up. Paili didn’t come on to me, I came on to her — it was me.” I nod. “That’s on me. That time I told you I did it because I wanted to—” I shrug. “It was as close as I could get to explaining it. It wasn’t that I wanted to, but that I kind of needed to?” I purse my lips, thinking. “That made what happened less bad in my head, I think. If I wanted to have sex with other people, if it was on my terms, under my control — I don’t know. It was never about you — that’s all I’m trying to say. I just wanted you to know that.”
She nods quickly, swipes at her face to brush away a tear.
And then she starts crying. I mean crying crying. Proper sobs. Shoulders shaking, chest heaving. And I don’t know what to do except pull her onto my lap.
She curls up into me. People could be watching but I don’t care. How sad she is about it does something to me or in me — shifts some of the weight I’ve been carrying or something — and I quickly realise that I should have just told her years ago.
I know I wasn’t ready then — Claire and I have talked about that — and there’s no point in dwelling on the should haves in life, but I can tell I should have.
Parks wouldn’t have cared, wouldn’t have looked at me different, wouldn’t have felt differently about me — she might have yelled at me less, if anything.
Wouldn’t have liked that though — I love it when she yells at me.
But she’s not yelling at me now.
Her face is buried in my neck, her hands are balled into fists, clinging to the neck of my shirt.
She’s crying for me in a way I’ve never done for myself and I love her for it.
I shift my head to look down at her for a second.
Our eyes catch. Hers are like crystals — the blue, green, grey now lit up by the red from her tears.
I want to kiss her — that’s what I want to do. And she leans in, watching my mouth. Her little chest taking staggered breaths. She wants to kiss me back too — I can see it on her. Our noses graze and…
I remember Jordan. Fuck. Jordan.
