It’s Connor’s fault.
She nodded to herself as she made her tea, still unfamiliar with her surroundings, the newness of the house they’d moved into only three months ago, everything sparkling and working properly, smelling of fresh paint and new carpets. Connor was the grain of sand in her shoe, his reappearance in her life something she had to address whether she wanted to or not. She drifted through to the lounge and pulled a large cushion on to the floor, the pattern the right way up, edges flush against the front of the settee. When she was satisfied that it was properly aligned, she got herself settled like she’d been taught by her yoga teacher, legs crossed, back straight, supported against the settee, her mug of tea on the coffee table to her left, out of her line of sight so it wouldn’t distract her. She gazed at the fake fireplace in front of her, the screen projecting flickering flames, and let her focus blur and her thoughts wander.
It had started a week ago. He’d popped up on her Twitter feed, a new follower. Connor Cywinski. She’d stared at the name, her heart skipping as she studied his avatar: a surfboard. The only thing written on his profile was ‘surf’s up…’ and she knew immediately it was him. Not the usual random Twitter follower. This was Connor, her ex. Who’d bewitched her with his happy-go-lucky philosophy, his inability to worry about things he had no control over, his belief in ‘tomorrow is another day’ and handing his problems to the universe to sort out. This was the Connor she had loved. The Connor she had wronged. And here he was liking her cute cat pictures and her little witticisms about life and the funny things her daughter Mia had said and done.
Yesterday, though, she’d followed him back and he’d gone one step further, sending her a direct message.
G’day! How you doing?
That was it. Short and to the point, but a question so big she had no way of answering without writing an essay. How was she doing? To be honest, she really wasn’t sure. She’d replied:
Fine.
Just one word, typed and sent before she could think to stop herself. To ask the question, Is it wise to respond? And now she was itching to see if she’d had a reply, or whether she’d sounded too terse and non-committal. Dismissive. Whether she’d let him go again. Because he couldn’t go, not now. There were things she needed to say, things he needed to know. Then, maybe, a bundle of her worries, neatly tied with regrets, could be packed away for good. Was it possible that the piece of her conscience which burnt with shame at the thought of him could be soothed into silence?
She sighed, reached for her tea and took a big sip before carefully replacing it and refocusing on the flames, bringing her mind back to the meditation. The idea was to let her head empty itself of random thoughts of its own accord, like taking the plug out of the sink and watching the water drain away. Just watch but don’t engage, she reminded herself, something she’d been taught but not yet mastered to any degree.
Shall I look? Check if he’s replied?
Suddenly she was on her feet and walking to the kitchen and her handbag, where she’d left her phone. She’d taken to keeping it out of sight this last week – a way to stop herself from compulsively checking to see if he’d posted anything or left a comment. Her hand closed round the familiar cold oblong and she pulled it out, switched it on, her pulse speeding up a little as she waited for it to wake up. She flicked through to her Twitter app. A message! She stared at the little envelope icon for a moment before she opened it up.
Great to hook up with you again. Want to chat?
She read the message a couple of times, could detect no hidden agenda, but then Connor wasn’t that type of guy. He was all for ‘call a spade a friggin’ spade, mate’, no messing about with flowery language or diplomatic niceties. It was something she’d loved about him.
Loved. There was that word again, and with it came such a swirl of emotion that for a moment she was battling a hurricane. She steadied herself against the kitchen table while she took a deep breath and weathered the rush of longing, remembered the sound of his voice, the soft touch of his lips against hers. She swallowed and studied the screen, rereading the words.
Do I want to chat? Wow, talk about a loaded question. She wondered what he thought they might chat about. Her husband? Her child? The life she’d built without him? She flicked back to her profile, checking what he already knew:
Rebecca Thornton @beccanurse7
District nurse in Llandudno, North Wales. Happily married to Dean, mother of Mia (3). Loves mountains and beaches. Talks a lot.
He knew her situation. No need to hide anything. But how does he feel about it? A knot of guilt tightened in her stomach. She read his reply again and knew that she shouldn’t chat, knew that she couldn’t allow the past to invade her present, whatever unresolved feelings there might be. He was her ex and she was a married woman now.
Her fingers ignored her and flew over the screen, her conscience dictating the words that she’d been wanting to say for so long.
I’m so sorry I didn’t come back. I know at the airport I said I would. Honestly, I meant to, but after Mum’s funeral, Dad was a mess and I couldn’t leave him. Life changed. Different priorities.
It was rushed, as apologies went, and only told half the truth, but at least she’d had a chance to say sorry now, and that felt better. Even if he didn’t reply, he’d see her words, know that her choices had been limited by a tragic situation. She read her message on the screen, a lump of dissatisfaction sitting in her chest, hard and heavy. There was more she could have done at the time, more she could have said, but she’d been torn in two with grief, her emotions in tatters, and she couldn’t explain her behaviour, not even to herself.
There was no rational line of logic that could sensibly explain how she’d come to be with Dean instead of Connor. Apart from the thousands of miles between them, of course, which made talking about things that mattered just a little bit too hard. And the fact that she didn’t hear a peep from him after she’d returned to the UK.
In Australia, they’d been on a break from each other for a few weeks before she’d suddenly had to leave, her life ambitions seemingly incompatible with his. She’d grown tired of the constant travelling and wanted to settle somewhere, while he wasn’t ready for that. But he was her best friend and they’d still chatted regularly. When she’d told him her mum had died, he’d insisted on driving her to the airport – he was that sort of guy. He was off on a road trip a couple of days later, and they’d left it that he would contact her when he was back – she’d assured him she would have returned to Australia by then.
On the day of her mum’s funeral, the day when she’d really needed him to be there for her, he hadn’t answered her message. That had hurt and suddenly all the negatives about him ate up the positives, until the only things left were the things she didn’t like.
But really, did that add up to the answer? Was it that simple?
She looked at her message. It wasn’t enough, there was something more she needed to say, so she tapped out the question she really wanted him to answer.
I hope you can forgive me?