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I jump on hearing a loud bang. I’m lying down with my head on the arm rest of the sofa. It takes me several seconds to get my bearings before I shuffle to an upright sitting position. The television screen is black and is on standby. The crystal clock on the hearth tells me it’s two am.
I get to my feet and head into the hallway to check out where the noise came from. On my way I catch sight of Lucian as he makes his way up the stairs.
“Lucian,” I call. He must not have heard me as he continues to scale the stairs.
“Lucian,” I call again, and this time he turns. His face is pale, so pale that I wonder if he’s ill. His hair falls unkempt around his face and his eyes are bloodshot. “My God, Lucian, are you okay?”
I reach for his arm, but he retreats. “I’m fine, Chelsea. I just need a good night’s sleep.”
I can’t miss the subtle scent of alcohol and tobacco that clings to him. “You’re drunk.”
“No,” is Lucian’s one-word reply.
“It wasn’t a question.” I really look at him. His movements aren’t unsteady, nor is he drunkenly swaying. He isn’t drunk, he’s upset. But it’s more than that, he’s hurting. Lucian is too proud to admit something is wrong, so I don’t probe. “Come on, I’ll help you into bed.”
Lucian drapes an arm around my shoulder, and I can’t help noticing how much heavier the weight of his arm becomes with each step we take. It’s like each step brings with it more hurt, more pain, and it’s killing me inside because I don’t know how to make his pain go away.
He releases me upon reaching our room, and without a word makes his way toward the bed. He yanks at his tie, causing it to hang loosely around his neck, before he falls back onto the mattress.
I rock on my heels, once, twice before turning on a bedside lamp and joining him. I open the nightstand drawer and retrieve the gift Josh gave me earlier and hand it to Lucian.
“From Josh,” I mutter, and watch as Lucian rotates the small palm-sized box around several times, not once attempting to tear open the paper.
I turn on my side and am met by Lucian’s profile in the darkened room. “Why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday?”
No answer. With the gift clasped between his fingers, Lucian reaches across and places it on the nightstand.
“Where were you today?” I ask, my voice as low as the ticking clock.
Lucian turns so he too is lying on his side and is facing me. “What caused you to have OCD?”
His question catches me off guard. I’ve never admitted to anyone, let alone Lucian, about my obsession with cleaning, but then he did see it first-hand after Tyler’s surprise leaving party. My erratic behaviour when it came to scrubbing the flat from floor to ceiling would erase any doubt in a person’s mind that I do in fact have a problem.
I open my mouth, but where do I start? Because it isn’t as simple as a cleaning addiction. No, it’s entirely about regaining control. I purse my lips together but they begin to part. If I want Lucian to confide in me, then I will have to first confide in him.
I take a deep breath and prepare to do something I have never done before, and that is to open up.
“My parents,” I begin and pause to clear my throat. “My parents always argued. I believe it stemmed from my mum wanting to come to England to pursue her horse-riding career, whereas my father didn’t want to leave Holland, but he came to England because it was what my mum wanted, and he resented her for it.”
The memory hits me hard, and I can feel my breaths quicken. I remember as a child how my parents would argue. While my siblings slept, I would sit at the top of the stairs and listen. The spiral curve of the banister spokes spring to mind, how vividly their outline imprinted on my palms due to how tightly I gripped them. With my face wedged between the narrow gaps I’d sit amongst the shadows and listen. I recall the salty taste of tears as they rolled one by one down my cheeks. Some would seep into my mouth, whilst others would roll past my chin and rain down into the empty hallway. The hallway was always dark, with only faint light like a silhouette surrounding the lounge door. It didn’t matter that the door was closed, or that their arguments began as hushed whispers, because the volume always got cranked up and I could hear every word they were saying.
“My father would get drunk, my parents would argue and he would pack his things and leave. He would be gone for a few days, a week, sometimes longer. My mother would tell us he was away for work, but I knew the truth. As a child it was so unsettling not knowing if or when my father would be coming home. He often said he was stressed, so I always did what I could to make his life less stressful, by eating all of my vegetables, doing all of my homework and behaving. I was the perfect little girl, but it made no difference.”
One argument in particular springs to my mind. “I overheard my father say he was leaving because the house, like his life, was a complete mess. That was it, the solution to all of our problems. If I could keep the house clean my father would stay. I spent hours polishing, hours cleaning, hours making sure the house was spotless.” I smile poignantly because it very quickly became less about cleaning and more about regaining control of the situation. A situation that I would never get control of.
“And did that work?” Lucian asks.
“Hm?” I say, lost in my thoughts.
“You cleaning the house, did it work?” He sounds almost hopeful, but I suspect he already knows the answer.
I shrug. “No. Each time my father left I blamed myself for not doing a good enough job and not giving him reason enough to stay. And the sad part is that each time he walked out of that door he took a small part of me with him. A part I can never get back.”
It never fails to amaze me that my parents have stayed together. They still argue, Dad still leaves and eventually returns with his tail between his legs. The only difference is that the landing and banister lie empty, and I’m no longer the little girl sat at the top of the stairs.
“I want better for myself,” I admit. “I think it’s one of the reasons I’ve been scared to commit to another person.”
Lucian watches me. “If you let me in, Chelsea, I promise that I will never hurt you.”
