The Mix-Up by Holly McCulloch

CHAPTER 22

I’M QUITE DRUNK. I’M TRYING TO WHISPER BUT I’M SORRY IF THIS WAKES YOU UP. ARE YOU OK? XX

I had messaged Sara on my doomed train journey back home, which took even longer than the car ride over due to weekend track closures. I don’t get angry about it. I deserve worse. I deserve more. Or less. Her reply took a while to come, but when Sara drinks, she loses her phone, and apparently can only write in caps. There is no point in replying back. I hadn’t told her about Noah, and I don’t quite feel like filling her in on a story when she is likely to forget it the next day.

Noah helped me today. And he did it selflessly, with no expectations. And I pushed him away because I don’t know how to be with him.

I deserve for bad things to happen to me.

I look at my watch and realize that I have been sitting on this bench for a solid four hours, impressively depressing even for my standards. I have outlasted all the picnicking families. I have almost outlasted the groups of prosecco drinkers. I have definitely outlasted the impromptu faux-volleyballers. I can’t remember when they left. It was a long time ago. The only reason I noticed them was because the ball hit my bench, making me think there had been an explosion near by.

Even after many hours of sitting and not really thinking, I don’t want to move. The only thing that makes me change my mind is the rain.

I get up and see the negative of my lonely body on the bench. Never have I felt more seen, and more depressed at being seen.

On my walk home, I pick up some food. The only thing I feel like is popcorn and red wine, so this is exactly what I get. Supplies bought, it’s a relief to be out of the bright lights and beeps, and back into the relative gloom of outside, where the rain is producing a soporific quiet.

I didn’t bring a coat with me because I didn’t plan on getting rained on, so by the time I reach home, I am very, very wet. As I go around the corner, I look down. How is it that your boobs always get more wet than the rest of you? I know that they stick out, but it seems a little bit like a teenage boy came up with the rules of rain.

I look up from my boobs and into—

‘Noah?’

The rain has clumped my eyelashes together, and I am sure that I have mascara bags, but even so, I’m pretty sure that I am seeing what I am seeing.

He’s just got out of his car. He must have – he is still quite dry.

I imagine I look extremely pathetic clutching a bottle of red wine and a family bag of popcorn. I didn’t think anyone would see me like this. I certainly didn’t think Noah would see me like this.

‘I have some things to say to you.’ His voice sounds very clear in the relative quiet of the courtyard.

I don’t want to hear them. I don’t want him here. I want to be alone with my popcorn.

But also, I can’t believe he is here.

‘Do you want to come inside?’ I point to my door, the door to my workshop, using the wine bottle. I could take him straight to my flat upstairs, but I feel the need to protect some space from Noah. I can’t risk his memory haunting both my workshop and my flat.

It takes a while, but eventually he nods, just once.

I do a terrible job of manoeuvring the wine, now precariously clutched under my popcorn-carrying arm, and I nearly drop it. With my free hand, I unzip my bum bag and fish for my keys. I thought my hands were shaking a lot earlier today, but that was nothing in comparison to now. I’m embarrassed by how long it takes me to unlock the door.

Noah follows me. The popcorn falls on to the floor as I shut the door, but at least the wine is safe. I turn on the dimmest lights I can. I don’t want him to have a clear view of my face. I don’t want to be completely seen.

‘Can I get you a glass?’ I hold up the wine bottle to emphasize my point.

‘Sure. Alcohol sounds like a good idea right about now.’

I bend down and pick up the popcorn before going over to the kitchen area to get some glasses. I try to peek at my reflection in the shiny oven door, just so I know what Noah’s having to look at. I quickly lick my finger and try to wipe away the under-eye mascara mark that I can’t make out, but know is there. Rain always wreaks havoc on my face. Trying to make the best of a bad situation, I open the cupboard only to see that all I have down here are mugs. I pick out my two favourites, pour a decent serving of wine into each and head back over to Noah. He’s taken a seat at the table. I take a sip before I’ve even properly sat down opposite him.

I am in uncharted territory and I don’t know what to do. I’ve never been much of a talker, especially when it comes to tricky conversations. I prefer to ignore whatever is going on until it goes away, but I can’t ignore Noah. He’s sitting right in front of me.

‘So …’ Apparently this is all I needed to say to break the ice.

‘I don’t know why I am here.’

Unable to read minds, I don’t know either. I stay silent, whilst trying to keep my body language open. But I can’t take the pressure for long, so my mouth begins to guppy just as Noah breaks the silence.

‘Call me a masochist, but earlier today you said that you didn’t want to hurt me. Well, news flash, you already have. I guess I thought we might as well keep going.’ His eyes are slightly wide, and his hands are unusually animated.

By comparison, I am very still. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I don’t think you mean it.’

‘I do, I am sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you. If I’d known that I was going to hurt you, I wouldn’t have slept with you in the first place.’

‘I just don’t understand. I’m trying to get to know you, but you make it so hard. Don’t we have fun together? Is there something I do that annoys you? Don’t you find me attractive?’

‘No, no. Nothing like that.’ Although it’s nice to know that boys have these worries too.

‘Then what? What’s wrong?’ He sounds angry. I’d be angry too in his position. He has been nothing but great, and not just because he helped me out today. He has been great since I first met him.

I feel trapped, and I can only see two ways out of this. I can double down on my position, or I can break and tell him the truth.

I look at him and I break.

‘You’re going to think I am stupid.’ My shoulders sag.

‘I think you’re many things, some of which are not very positive right now, but stupid isn’t one of them.’

I take a breath in. ‘It’s got nothing to do with you personally, but I have pretty strict ideas around dating and when to stop. I pretty much always have. I’m a “two weeks and out” kinda gal.’

‘OK. Why?’

I squirm.

‘Because if you keep dating the same person, things get complicated, and I’m not good at complicated. And complicated isn’t what I want. It isn’t what I know how to do. And, trust me when I say that complicated isn’t what other people, like you, want either. At least not with me.’

‘OK.’ He says OK but I don’t think he means it. ‘Aside from the fact that you are forcing a choice on me that I haven’t made, what do you mean by complicated?’

‘You know’ – this is where my lack of relationship history does me a disservice – ‘you’re expected to start sharing things. Things I’m not really comfortable sharing. Things people don’t want to deal with.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like personal things.’ My tone is defensive. Part of me is still trapped.

‘What kind of personal things? You’ve killed somebody? You’re in witness protection? You’re a spy? You’re on the run from the police? What?’

‘No, nothing that bad.’ When he puts it like that, it feels like I’m blowing this out of proportion.

Why is this so hard to talk to people about? It isn’t always hard. It should be easy. I know that I am not the only person to have had cancer. Some people talk about it all the time. Why can’t I be like that person?

I can’t be like that person because I hate people who talk about their cancer all the time. I don’t want cancer to be all of who I am.

You had it, great, I did too, now let’s move on.

I just wish that everyone could know without me having to tell them. And I wish that as soon as I tell people I wouldn’t feel like I have a huge C tattooed on my forehead, a C that I am proud to wear, but also wish I didn’t have to, or a C that I wish didn’t still come with expectations, and stigma, and worry from outsiders. And worry from insiders.

Noah is waiting for more. He hasn’t asked a question, but I know it’s there.

‘I … had … cancer.’ I look at the table to save me from looking straight into his face. ‘It’s not a big deal, and I’m OK now, but it’s made me a little weird about some things. Talking and sharing and telling people being one of them. Three of them.’ Grammar being a fourth.

‘What kind of cancer?’

‘Breast.’ Boobs, bums and balls. The worst kind of cancers to get. At least in terms of talking about it. The ‘t’ comes out very defined. More defined than if I had said it in any other setting. Chicken breast. Breast plate. Keep me abreast of the situation. And as soon as I say the word, I worry that he will no longer see my boobs as boobs, but as something broken. Something infected. Something riddled with disease. Something ugly. Something he should be wary of touching. Something he can no longer see as sexy.

I worry about this, because this is how I used to see them too. It took me a long time to think of them as breasts once more, and sometimes I still have to work at this. Sometimes I still think they are ugly. A lot of the time I worry that other people will think that they are ugly too.

I remember how disgusted Chris was at the photos of scarred boobs. His face flashes into my mind. I blink my eyes to get rid of his image.

‘It’s why I don’t have sex with the light on. Or with my bra off. Or in daylight. It’s why I wear complicated bras. It’s why I normally leave in the morning. And why I don’t like showering together. Although I am still against shower sex in general. It’s just too slippery.’ I remember to breathe. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t notice.’

He raises his eyebrows and scratches the back of his neck. ‘To be honest, I’m a little preoccupied when we have sex.’ He stops scratching. He looks at my boobs, and I know I tense. ‘Sorry, I’m just trying to remember what I can of them. I don’t remember them being anything other than boobs.’ He shuts his eyes against his words. ‘I realize I sound like a typical guy when I say that. I just can’t imagine coming across any boobs that I don’t like.’ He looks at me. ‘You don’t like your own boobs?’

Nobody has ever asked me this question. I squirm. ‘I’m coming around to them. But I guess my problem now is how …’ I falter ‘… other people … feel about them.’

His eyes widen. ‘Other people don’t like them?’

I shrug. Non-committal, but agreeing all the same. I would love to be the person who isn’t worried about what their boobs look like, but I’m not. I am conditioned to want magazine-perfect boobs.

‘But you’re OK now?’ His eyes. The look in his eyes.

I nod. ‘Yes. I’ve been in remission for about six years. I have a check-up every October and that’s it. Well, unless something unusual comes up, like if I feel another lump.’ Cancer has a tendency to hang over you. Like a dinner guest that won’t leave.

‘OK.’ He rubs his hands through his hair. ‘Good. I’m glad you’re OK.’ The relief that I see written all over his face is unmistakable. ‘Why was that so hard to tell me?’

Partly because of that very look you just gave me.

I shrug.

‘And this is why you put a time limit on dating?’

I nod. ‘Yep.’

‘Why?’

This is often the bit that does make me sound like a crazy person. I know this because Sara has told me so.

‘Well, apart from the fact you can only hide your boobs for so long, when you tell people something like the fact you had cancer, they are either scared that you are going to die, or they don’t know what to say, or they tell you what an amazing person you are and how much of a huge thing you went through and how proud they are of you, or some other bullshit like that. And yes, it was big, but it’s over now and I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want it to be the thing that everyone sees when they look at me. But then, I also do want them to see it, because by not talking about it I know I’m also making it into a bigger deal. So then I don’t know if I should talk about it all the time, or not at all, and I don’t know which to do, so I just, kinda, don’t do either. And then sometimes I do both. But either way, by the end of two weeks, it’s this kinda stuff that you are expected to share, and a lot of the time I don’t want to share it. The emotion of going through it all, for something that isn’t likely to last anyway, seems, well, unnecessary.’

I hope he’s following because it’s very confusing.

Noah looks very confused.

‘Well, how do you feel now that you’ve told me?’

An interesting question. And not one that I was expecting. It’s a question that cuts through some of that confusion.

‘I guess …’ I think. ‘Maybe relieved. And maybe, a bit proud for getting it out.’ I breathe. ‘And also a little stupid for making it into such a big deal.’

‘Paige,’ he says and takes my hand, ‘I’ve never had cancer, so I don’t know what it’s like, but I don’t think how you feel about having cancer is ever stupid. And you’re right, you shouldn’t have to tell people what you don’t want to tell. It’s your story and you can share it how you like.’

I don’t know what to say. ‘Thanks.’ I hope this is an appropriate response.

‘But I’m still angry at you. I didn’t feel good today. This isn’t how I wanted to spend my Saturday.’

And I do feel awful. ‘I know, I’m sorry.’

‘Good. You should be.’ He exhales and I look at him. ‘Also, I am never delivering a cake again. You did not prepare me well enough for that.’