The Mix-Up by Holly McCulloch

CHAPTER 25

I have finally left the bed. I smell, the sheets smell, the whole room smells. Boys smell. My room has never smelt like this before, and I blame Noah.

Noah, who is currently still in my bed, looking extremely relaxed and completely oblivious to the biohazard of a room he has created.

‘I’m going to shower.’ I have to move. It’s only 11 a.m., but this is two hours past my ‘indulgent lie-in’ time. Plus, my bladder is dangerously close to bursting.

‘OK.’ Noah doesn’t move. He stays in bed looking all relaxed and at ease.

Despite the big personal growth this morning, growth being a terrible choice of word, I now feel extremely uncomfortable with Noah in my house. I don’t know what to do with him. I don’t know what to do with me with him. The only thing I know to do with him is sex, and although I like to pride myself on a healthy sex drive, I can’t have more sex right now. My poor vagina. She’s tired; it’s been a long time since she’s had this amount of attention over an intense, semi-prolonged period.

I hope he doesn’t follow me into the bathroom. I don’t think she can take any more. Not right now.

At least here I can have some time to think. Some space.

Once cocooned in the safety of my four tiled walls, I spend a long time standing in front of the mirror. I find it so odd that I know other people’s faces better than I know my own. Despite this, I can see a glow on my face that isn’t normally there. It’s a mixture of contentment and pride.

Eventually, I turn away. I really do need to pee. It’s why I came in here when I did, and yet all I have done so far is stare at my face. No wonder I can’t find enough time to learn a foreign language.

I turn the shower on to drown out the other bathroom noises.

Shit. I haven’t locked the door. Would he notice if I locked the door? Have I left it too long? Would he hear the click? It would be a now very obvious retrospective post-door-close lock. I would try to make it silent, but I fear this would make it even more loud. There is no winning in this situation.

I decide to keep the door unlocked.

After I undress, I look at myself in the mirror once more before jumping in the shower. But this time I don’t look at my face. I look down at my boobs. I’ve looked at them more today than I have done in years. Normally I wait for the steam to creep in before getting undressed, and only look at them when it’s a bit too steamy to see clearly. But today, I look before the steam has come.

For the first time in a long time, when I look at them, I don’t just see the scars. For the first time in a long time, I’m smiling when I look at my boobs.

Out of the shower, I can see Noah is still as he was, festering. I have my towel wrapped around me, but I feel naked, which is ridiculous considering how much of me he has seen this morning.

My back is stiff from discomfort and awkwardness, and I am struggling to get clothes out of my cupboard whilst remaining covered. He might have seen me naked, but sex naked and accidental-towel-slip naked are two different things. I might just give up and stay in my towel all day. I don’t know what to wear even if I could get the clothes out of my cupboard. Do I wear my typical Sunday outfit of worn leggings and a top? Or do I pretend to be one of those people who wears dresses casually?

I decide on leggings but add a hint of fun with my favourite jumper, which has ‘Good Times’ written on the front of it. It might almost be June, but it doesn’t feel warm today. The hardest decision, however, ends up being my choice of underwear. Normally, when spending time with the opposite sex, I opt for sexy underwear. Black, slightly shiny. But today, in a turn-up for the books, I opt for my trusted cottons in light grey with a navy trim.

I shut the underwear drawer before I can overthink it too much and retreat back into the bathroom to get dressed. Leggings might be great when they are on, but getting them on is a whole other story, especially if your legs are still a bit damp.

Finally dressed, with just a hint of makeup on to even out the patchy skin tone that has come with age and sugar, I head back into the bedroom. He still hasn’t moved. The open door and my frequent trips to and from the bathroom have together created a bit of movement in the air, but the boy smell is still lingering. How can he sit peacefully in here?

‘Are you going to stay there all day?’ I say it with a nice tone, I think, but when he looks up at me, I know he knows that the tone is hiding my true annoyance.

‘I guess not.’ He jumps out of bed. Unlike me, he apparently has no issues being seen totally stark naked, jangling penis and all.

I try not to look at it, but I can’t help myself. Sometimes boobs can be a right pain in the chest, but having a penis must be so weird. And fun. And convenient. And also inconvenient. Imagine having a boner in the middle of a meeting, or maths class. Someone once told me that when that happened, they would tuck it into their belt to hide it. That was one of the weirder conversations I have ever had.

But Noah seems nonplussed by the whole thing.

‘Do you mind if I shower?’ He comes towards me, and gives me a kiss on his way past.

‘No, not at all, let me get you a towel.’ He definitely won’t smell like a boy after he’s used my soap.

‘Your shower is great; I didn’t know there were so many different types of body wash. I’ve never felt so exfoliated. A warning to you now, though, I think I used your face wash on my body and your body wash on my face.’ He comes and sits next to me on the couch. He does smell quite floral. I give him the most authentic-looking smile I can. I have been perched here, trying my best to look casual and comfortable and nonchalant for Noah’s emergence from the shower. ‘You OK? You look uncomfortable.’

‘Oh, no.’ Apparently I haven’t pulled it off. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Cool.’ He grabs my feet and pulls them on to him. ‘So, what would you like to do today?’

I shrug.

I hate myself a bit for feeling uncomfortable. In a weird way, I wish he was still sitting in bed. I know I judged him for it before, but if he was still in bed, I could be in here, by myself, unaware of his presence. Whereas now, I am very, very aware of his presence, and my lack of knowledge about what to do and how to act. And I’m still not ready for any more sex.

‘What are you thinking about? You look deep in concentration.’

‘Oh nothing.’ I hope he can’t read my mind. Sometimes I think that he might be able to.

‘Well,’ he says, putting his arm around me, ‘I was wondering why sausages are called bangers. It’s always been something I’ve wondered about but never looked up.’

I nod, even though there are confusion lines all over my forehead. Sometimes it really isn’t a huge surprise that there are frequent breakdowns in communication between the sexes.

But we do need to do something today. We’re not at the stage yet where we can do nothing, comfortably. At least I’m not. Something tells me that Noah can make himself comfortable anywhere.

I suggest the only thing I can think of. ‘Breakfast? Would you like breakfast?’ At least his bangers comment was inspirational, and not in the way I might have thought.

He starts to get up. ‘A great idea! I can make it for you.’

Memory of soupgate crashes into my mind. It wasn’t that long ago. I am pretty sure my salt levels are still a little high.

‘Why don’t we do it together?’

Making breakfast still hasn’t relaxed me. I was only able to scramble together toast, with a side of eggs for Noah. But now that’s done (both eaten and cooked), I, once again, don’t know what to do with myself, or with Noah.

‘Are you sure you haven’t hurt your back?’

This is from Noah.

‘I’m sure.’

‘Because you look like you’ve hurt your back. Was it maybe that thing that you did?’ He winks. And it is cute, but he is also wrong.

I shake my head. Why are questions so annoying? ‘I haven’t hurt my back.’

‘Then what’s wrong?’

The incessant questions.

Only I know it’s not the questions that are annoying me. My annoyance is annoying me.

I make a frustrated noise. ‘I don’t know what to do with you.’

He looks at me like I have grown a second head.

‘What do you mean you don’t know what to do with me?’

‘I don’t know what to do with you.’ My hands are starting to flail all over the place. ‘I’m not used to having people in my apartment. And I don’t know what to do with you. The only thing I know we know how to do is sex, but nobody can have sex all the time.’

‘Well, I would be willing to give it a go, but you’re probably right.’ He shifts in his seat and rests his foot on the spindle of my chair. ‘But we’ve done other things together. We’ve had quite a few meals together now. And we’ve walked alpacas. You’ve shown me your boobs.’

I can’t help but squish my face up. This is not reassuring. I am not finding this reassuring. I still don’t know what to do with him.

‘I don’t have any alpacas in my apartment.’ It’s an attempt at humour. A bad one, but at least I tried.

Noah looks like he is considering something, possibly me. ‘You realize I am a grown man, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘I have lived on this earth for many, many years now.’

I smile. ‘Many years.’

‘OK,’ he says, rolling his eyes, ‘I’m not that old, but I am old enough to know how to entertain myself.’ He leans across the table and takes my hand. Even this. I don’t know what to do with this. Do I hold his hand back, or do I stay still? ‘So why don’t you do whatever you would normally do, and I can worry about myself? We can review in an hour to see if we are both happy, and if not, we can change and do something else.’ He squeezes my hand a little, and I realize I have been looking at our hands ever since he joined them. Still wondering what I should do with them.

But now I look back at his face.

‘We review after an hour?’

‘One hour.’

‘OK.’

I am lost in a book. The book that was open, face down, on the sofa last night. Last time I saw Noah, he was sitting on the armchair, also reading a book. He found it on the shelf; it’s a collection of speeches. I bought it when I was going through a ‘self-improvement’ phase. I have since resorted back to crime and thriller novels. When reading, I purposefully faced away from him so I wouldn’t be worried about whether or not he was having a good time.

Reading is so peaceful that I can feel myself nodding off. My eyelids are getting heavy and I am comfortable and warm and only slightly worried I will snore in this position. But my worry is nothing in comparison to my sleepiness. Even the noise of Noah moving around in the background isn’t loud enough to keep me awake. He’s fine. Even if he wasn’t, I’m not sure I could rally myself. Yesterday was emotionally draining. Last night (and this morning) was physically draining.

Besides, our hour isn’t up yet. I close my eyes.

Just as I nod off to sleep, I can hear a piano. It is playing my nan’s favourite song, ‘All I Ask Of You’ from The Phantom of the Opera. It was the song she would play whenever she felt happy. Or whenever she wanted to feel happy. When she needed inspiration. She would play it when she wanted to feel safe. When she was struggling with an issue. When she needed to relax. When she wanted to daydream. When she wanted to feel empowered. When she wanted me to feel empowered. And it always worked. It’s a great song.

I have listened to my nan play it hundreds of times. There was always a bit that she fumbled her way through. She used to say that her hands would get tired. But this time she didn’t fumble through it.

I start to come out of my half-sleep haze.

The music is still playing.

I look behind me and towards the noise. Towards the piano.

Towards Noah playing the song on the piano.

And playing it (sorry, Nan) better than I have ever heard it played. Or at least more faithfully. Without any fumbling.

I can’t see him as clearly as I would like from where I am sitting, so I move as quietly as I can. I don’t want to disturb him. I don’t want to give him a reason to stop playing.

I move so I can see his profile and I take in every detail. Leaning against the door frame, I can see that he, just like my nan, sits straighter at the piano than he does anywhere else. His upper body rocks slightly with the music, but not in a wanky way. He’s wearing a slight frown. His left pinkie finger occasionally kicks out as he plays. The end of his hair is still damp from the shower.

I know I’ll disturb him, but I can’t stop myself. I push off from the door frame and go nearer. He doesn’t stop playing as he looks at me, and I sit down at the edge of the piano stool. I face the other way, but our shoulders are touching.

He comes to the end of the song, and pauses. The apartment has never sounded so empty, but it is not a sad silence. It’s a full silence.

He turns to look at me.

‘That was my nan’s favourite song.’

‘I can tell. The sheet music looks well loved.’ There is a brief pause. ‘Do you mind me playing it?’

‘Not at all. You can play it as many times as you like.’

And so he does.