I gaze distractedly out of the plane window as we begin
our ascent out of Vegas. The city gets smaller and smaller below us, details
fading gradually out of sight until it is nothing more than a grey blob in the
middle of endless desert. I tighten my grip on the armrest, trying my best not
to calculate the length of that drop, should our plane somehow breakdown and
fall out of the sky.
That's how my life feels like at the moment – like a
crashing plane, spiralling towards earth and I'm just waiting for the impact to
come. It hasn't yet, but it might just do soon. It's getting closer all the
time.
The stewardess comes around offering us drinks. I want to
say yes to those little miniature bottles of spirits she has on the bottom of
her trolley. Yes, a vodka and tonic would be great right now. Add a twist of
lemon and it would just hit the spot, soothing my dry, dusty throat. But I know
John would never let me have one – if it were just up to me then I probably
would have relented a long time ago – so instead I ask for a coffee. Strong and
black with plenty of sugar, not quite the kick-start I crave, but better than
nothing.
John asks for an orange juice and I remember that's what
he tasted off last night when he kissed me – sharp and tangy, the sting
remaining on my lips long afterwards. No matter how many times I scrubbed my
teeth last night, or gargled with minty mouthwash, I could still taste him. And
as I lay awake I could feel him too, his fingers lightly gripping my chin, his
mouth pressed against him, his hot breath on my cheek.
I tried to remember Luka's kisses, to recall how he
touches me or the way it makes me feel inside, but I couldn't. And then I fell
into a fitful sleep, never long enough for my dreams to me anymore than a
swirling set of images, changing with every spin of a roulette wheel.
"What are you going to do with the money?" I turn to ask
John.
He looks puzzled for a second. "What money?"
"Your roulette winnings – there must have been close to twenty-thousand
dollars there."
He shrugs, looking totally unconcerned. "You can have it
if you want."
I turn away again, offended. "I don't need your charity."
He responds with his own style of amused surprise. "It's
not charity – you were the one placing the bets, you picked the right numbers,
so you should have the winnings."
I shake my head. "But it wasn't my money to start with."
"So, you give me back my stake and then keep the rest,"
he argues. "You could use it to pay for next semester's tuition."
"I thought we'd been through this," I reply. "I'm not
even sure of I'm going back to school next semester – and if I do I can pay for
it myself."
"Then use it for something else," he persists. "Treat
yourself – get a new car, take a vacation – you deserve it."
"I don't want your money," I tell him with sudden,
biting anger. "You can't buy me like you bought everything else in your
life, John."
"Hey, that's not fair – and you know it," he raises his
voice, attracting looks from the other passengers.
I sigh loudly. "Well, life isn't fair – you just have to
get used to it."
"I'm sorry if my offering you that money offended you,"
he says stiffly, trying to make peace between us. "I was just trying to do
something nice."
"Oh great, hooray for you," I say impatiently, my tone
dripping with sarcasm.
"What's the matter with you this morning?" John sounds a
little hurt by my hostility, but somehow I can't find in myself to care.
"What's the matter with me?" I snap back. "Perhaps
it's because my mother just died and every guy I care about seems to think if
he gives me enough money I'll sleep with him."
"Abby…I'm sorry…" John falters.
"Just save it," I mutter, turning back to look out the
window. 15,000ft and falling…
"No," he reaches over to touch my arm then changes his
mind, pulling his hand back. "I'm sorry I kissed you last night. I was out of
line."
"You're damn right you were," I reply, still keeping my
back to him.
"I guess it's just hard," he sucks in a deep breath.
"Because…because I love you." He laughs a little, probably with nerves, because
I for one am not finding this situation in anyway amusing. "I know I shouldn't
and God knows, I try not to – but…" he trails off. "I'm just making things
worse, aren't I? It's okay, I'll shut up now. You can forget I ever said
anything."
I still can't look him, stricken as I am by his
confession. His sincerity shines through his words and I cannot help but know
he is telling the truth. Nobody has ever said something like that before – I
never had a man just turn around and pronounce his love. Even when I was
married my husband only said it upon supplication. It was an automatic response
to my naïve 'I love yous'; something he always knew he was supposed to say, but
didn't quite understand the meaning of.
I want to twist around and kiss John for being so sweet
and humble and still caring even after all the endless shit I have put him
through, not just in these past few days. I want to see what he tastes like
now. Maybe of the coffee we drank together in the airport lounge or those
breath mints he was chewing as the plane waited on the runway. But I won't ever
know, because I'm too afraid. It frightens me to think how deeply I might fall
for him back. If we kiss now then I don't know what'll happen next, or what
I'll tell Luka or anything. I'm just too scared to follow this road.
~~~
We spend the rest of the flight in near silence and then
after arriving in Chicago the only conversation between us is necessary and
curt. John retrieves his car from the long-stay parking lot and drives me home,
stopping briefly outside my apartment building with the engine still running.
"I'll see you at work," I offer quietly as I climb out
the vehicle.
"Sure," he returns, his eyes firmly fixed on the road
ahead.
I am just about to walk away when I suddenly stop, my
feet acting almost of their own accord as all at once I know – just know – that
I can't leave things between us like this. Maybe I am far too messed up to ever
tell him exactly what he wants to hear, but confused as my heart is I'm sure of
one thing. "I won't forget," I lean in through the passenger door and tell him.
"I won't forget what you said."
With that, I pull away, shutting the door and shuffling
several steps back onto the pavement as I watch him drive away, his eyes
haunting me in the rear-view mirror.
I trudge slowly up the steps to my apartment, wanting
nothing more than to collapse into a warm, soft bed and sink into a deep,
dreamless oblivion.
But when I walk through the door, I am accosted immediately
by Luka. A small part of me wishes I never called to inform him of my return,
but guilt soon quashes that selfish desire and I just end up standing, lost and
staring, desperately trying to think of something to say to him.
"Did you have a nice trip?" Luka asks eventually and
between his accent and my exhaustion, I really can't tell whether he is being
sarcastic or not.
"It wasn't supposed to be nice," I reply vaguely.
"Why did you go then?" He asks reasonably.
"To get away."
"To get away with Carter."
I shrug. "I don't know, maybe."
"Did you sleep with him?" Luka comes straight out with
the question in a growling, slightly hostile tone.
"No!" I protest loudly. "I did not sleep with Carter.
Neither did I intend to sleep with Carter."
Luka fixes his gaze on me sceptically. "Why did you go
with him then? Why is it always him you turn to?"
"I don't know…" I answer, thinking that I actually truly
don't. "He understands…"
"And I don't?"
"You – you're different."
"Different to what?" Luka looks confused. "To Carter?"
I shake my head. "To me."
There is another long silence during which I feel like
screaming. Why is it I have all this stuff going on inside my head that I can
never let out? There's so much inside me to say and yet nothing than can be
said. Is this what drives people crazy – being stuck alone with their thoughts?
Is this what drove Mom crazy?
Eventually I have to speak, there's something I must
know. "Do you love me?"
"What?" Luka seems utterly stunned, my question coming
totally out of the blue for him.
"Well, do you?" I press him harder, not wanting to give
him time to think because then he has a chance to create a lie, to convince his
heart of something he doesn't actually feel. And I don't want that. From now
on, I don't want any further pretence or awkwardness. I want everything to be clear-cut
and open between us. There's not enough left of me for the truth to hurt,
anyway.
"I – " Luka begins then stops. "What has that got to do
with anything?"
"Nothing," I reply simply. "I just want to know, because
you never said it. We've been together, what? Nine, ten months now, and we
haven't said it yet."
"Do you want me to say it?"
"I want you to be honest with me."
He sighs. "Honestly…I don't know. I care about you very
deeply. I want to love you – "
"But you can't," I interrupt feeling curiously numb
inside. It doesn't bother me anywhere near as much as it should. Maybe because
I knew – I always knew where Luka's heart lay. He buried it in Croatia with his
dead wife and his two children, and that's okay, because that's how it should
be. You don't just stop feeling a loss like that, you don't just forget it and
move on. You don't jump into bed with the first American woman you meet and
suddenly become happy again. He wasn't looking for love with me – just comfort
– which was good for a while because that's what I wanted too. But now…now I'm
not so sure.
"I'm sorry Abby," he begins. "Maybe with a little more
time…"
I reach over and touch his hand. "I don't want to take
her place, Luka."
He shakes his head. "You wouldn't be."
"Maybe not, but that's what it feels like."
He drops his eyes to the floor, saying nothing.
"So," I manage a light conversational tone. "Should I
call it, or do you want to?"
Luka looks up once more, a question in his eyes. "Call
what?"
"The End – of us, I mean."
"We pretty much made a mess of things, huh?"
I smile slightly. "No, I don't think so. In fact, this is
my first ever break up not comprising of shouting, screaming and flying china.
So, we're actually doing pretty good really."
"Ah, but we haven't quite finished yet – there's still
time to start smashing plates," he carries on my joke.
I look at him, stood there with his head bowed, his eyes
old and sad and I almost change my mind. I nearly tell him I want to try again,
then take him in my arms to focus on his pain instead of my own. But I know it
will never work between us and I know this is the right thing. "I'm sorry,
Luka," I say softly, my eyes filling with tears.
He nods. "I'm sorry too."
We hug, holding one another for a very long time, the
aura of bittersweet sorrow in the air almost palpable. When we finally pull
apart he hooks his fingers under my chin, catching my gaze.
"You call me if you need anything, okay?"
"I will," I promise.
"Good," he smiles. "Goodbye, Abby."
"Goodbye, Luka," I kiss him one last time on the lips
before he turns and walks out of the apartment.
Trying to ignore the oppressive silence he leaves in his
wake, I strip off my clothes, tumbling alone into bed for that sleep I so
desperately wanted, but now see no chance of ever getting.
(P.S. Thanks for all the
great feedback so far – oh, and keep it coming will you, please! *g*)