Chapter 10: The Road Already Traveled

Cully never procrastinated when she had lines to memorize, and tonight she was particularly glad of the habit. The book was useless, the text a blur of letters that she looked at again and again, reading the same lines. 'At last it was a good deal worried, and climbed a tree. I waited a good while, then gave it up and went home. Today the same thing over. I've got it up the tree again...I waited a good while, then gave it up and went home. Today the same thing over...then gave it up and went home...then gave it up and went home.' She snapped the pages shut. It was a waste of time.

How were things already so different, she wondered. A week ago, her only worry was the audition, this monologue. A few days ago, their conversation had been friendly and simple, if anxious. Yet now she could not see anything clearly. Opening the book, she began again, from the beginning. 'I followed the other Experiment around, yesterday afternoon, at a distance, to see what it might be for, if I could. But I was not able to make it out. I think it is a man. I had never seen a man, but it looked like one, and I feel sure that that is what it is...I feel sure that that is what it is.'

Though she was curled up in the chair in her bedroom, the book flooded by harsh light from the lamp to her right, her arms trembled against her legs. Gavin was just that, a man. Not a sergeant, a policeman, her father's partner: a man. And that was the trouble. He was a man with all the usual flaws: impulses, desires, fears...

The memory still seethed occasionally, those last words playing back time after time, the disagreement that had descended into rage. He had been cold, his hands chilled, and motionless when she kissed him like she so often had—until he touched her shoulders, forcing her back. And when their voices had risen, their accusations melted together, an indistinguishable cacophony. They were all she remembered: bitter words and vile, burning anger.

"What's wrong, Gavin? You have to tell me sometime—"

"I shouldn't have to!"

"How am I supposed to know—"

"If you don't want to—"

"What does that mean? I can't know if you don't speak to me for days on end."

"Did you expect me to do something else?"

"Yes!"

"What, then?"

"At least tell me."

"You don't see a damn thing, do you?"

"Gavin, I don't have to listen to this."

"Do you just ignore him, Cully?"

"What do—"

"Or does he not bother you about anything?"

"Are you worried about him?"

"Well, I can't ignore him anymore. It still matters. Everything still matters!"

"But nothing's changed—"

"I know it hasn't—"

"Then why is my father so important, now? I think that's a bloody change!"

"Cully—"

"If he's not more important, stop acting like he is!"

"That's not what I meant."

"What are you, afraid?"

He didn't answer.

"Then be afraid, Gavin! Go right ahead—"

"Cully—"

"I won't stop you."

"Can't you listen for—"

"Do whatever you want."

"That's not—"

"And don't lie to me—you'll just make a fool of yourself!"

"That's not it!"

"Yes, it is."

"No—"

"Leave me alone, if that's what you want!"

"I didn't say that."

"If you want to be afraid, fine. I don't have to be around to see it!"

"Cully, please don't—"

"If you're going to put all that ahead of me, there's no reason for me to stay! Don't even ask!"

"Cully, I can't—"

"Yes, you can—you won't."

"You don't understand—"

"I do—"

"What do you want me to do?"

"Something I think you can't—"

"Do you think I wouldn't—"

"Oh, sod off, Gavin—to hell with you!"

That night, he had pushed her away, refused to look at her when he first spoke, when he finally admitted the depth of his worry. When she thought about it again, he had looked almost terrified of—what? "Cully, I can't—"

And that was it. Gavin's fear of her father—of betraying him, she supposed—had ruled him, and anger had seized her. "To hell with you!" she had shouted, meant every word, almost wanted to slap him. She had walked away without looking back, without worrying, without tears. She had found a small role in London, and almost forgotten about it all, about him. She hadn't regretted it, only what she had wasted—

Pay attention! Cully thought, blinking and returning to her lines. She set her chin in the palm of one hand, steadying her arm, holding the book open against her knee. 'I realize that I feel more curiosity about it than about any of the other reptiles. If it is a reptile, and I suppose it is; for it has frowzy hair and blue eyes, and looks like a reptile.' She laughed hoarsely, reading that sentence again. Adam as a reptile rather than the first man! 'It has no hips; it tapers like a carrot; when it stands, it spreads itself apart like a derrick; so I think it is a reptile, though it may be architecture.'

"Truth will out," she said quietly, her eyes moving on. At the end, Gavin had been useless. 'I was afraid of it at first, and started to run every time it turned around, for I thought it was going to chase me; but by and by I found it was only trying to get away...' Cully closed the book a second time. If she was honest, he was being sensible then, only trying to get away—

Stop. She had to stop worrying about it, she had to keep working, if only for the distraction. 'But by and by I found it was only trying to get away, so after that I was not timid any more, but tracked it along, several hours, about twenty yards behind, which made it nervous and unhappy. At last it was a good deal worried, and climbed a tree. I waited a good while, then gave it up and went home. Today the same thing over. I've got it up the tree again.'

If there was another week till the audition, she would have chosen a new monologue. She could hardly stand this one any longer. Cully tossed the book aside; there was no use pretending. "To hell with you!" She regretted it now—she had for some time. Not immediately, not for weeks—a few months, even—

Her mobile buzzed beside her, and Cully snatched it up faster than she meant to. Who else? thnks again for coming

She couldn't hold back her smile as she tapped out a short answer on the keypad before closing her phone again. of course gavin She hadn't tried to fool herself into believing she would never see him again. That was ridiculous, not when he still worked side by side, day by day, with her father. But she hadn't worried about it, hadn't considered it, hadn't thought about it...But life never really worked out that way, did it?

She was upstairs unpacking yet another box when she heard Gavin's voice. "Oh, yes, it's beautiful," he said, the words faint as they drifted through the house. Her father's response was muddled, incomprehensible. To hell with you, Cully thought, the memory flaring. Still. It was too soon to see him again, far too soon. Everything was still too fresh—and god only knew what words had been exchanged between him and her father. Only what he deserved. Not that it mattered—he was there and she was here.

Unwrapping the lamp in her hands, Cully frowned, setting it down heavily. What are you going to do, hide? That had to be worse, trying to avoid him like a frightened child. And it couldn't last forever. She forced her feet forward—through the door—down the hall—into the stairwell.

"I'll slap some paint on the walls, it'll be transformed in no time," she heard her father say as she reached the final step. They were straight ahead, both her parents standing just inside the kitchen. Her mother held something, a plant of some sort, she saw, as she walked through the sitting room. And, surely, he was with them.

"Hmm." Cully couldn't blame her mother for her doubts. Her father had never finished all the projects in the house they had just sold. Still outside the kitchen, she paused—there was time to turn around, return to the mountain of boxes, to run away... Don't think, she told herself. Just get it over with. Inhaling deeply, she tucked her hands into her overall's pockets. It's another performance, Cully told herself as she stepped into the room, that's all. You don't have to feel anything.

He was the same as ever, even looking away from her: his hair neatly combed, his jacket and trousers immaculate, nothing out of place. "Hello, Gavin," she said. "How are you?" The memory was gone, replaced by a sudden knot of well known nerves. Even as she shaped that new character—only his superior's daughter rather than a woman he had hurt—Cully didn't understand how her voice remained level, how the fury had vanished. It only needed to be hidden for a few minutes, not forgotten. She didn't want to forget it, not yet.

When Gavin turned, she wasn't sure what she expected to see: pain, anger...But he was merely surprised, searching for something to say as he leaned against the counter jutting out from the wall, not watching his hand land perilously close to a set of mugs and the cafetière. "Oh, fine," he said quickly, "thanks."

Bland, yet cheerful. How did he sound so pleasant and how did he still smile at her? Gavin was no actor, and a wretched liar as well. Maybe it was the sunlight—it streamed through the windows behind him, almost blinding her—that created the expression she thought she saw. Or perhaps her imagination...but why? Did he hope she still cared?

"He's given us this lovely cactus," her mother said as she walked across the kitchen, setting the ceramic pot beside the coffee cups.

A cactus? Cully said to herself. That's an afterthought. Dad will probably murder it with too much attention. Her parents were both enthusiastic gardeners—her father had embraced it long ago as a distraction from his work—but preferred plants requiring care. You can't be distracted by tending a cactus.

Her mother's face was strained. "Oh, it's...um, beautiful," Cully said after a moment, trying not to look at the bristling stems as she nodded, hoping she appeared grateful. Surely that was what her mother wanted. Gifts were not Gavin's forte, she decided. Like many things. "Thank you very much."

"When did you come down?" he asked.

"Last night." No harm in saying that much, it was already done.

"She's getting us organized," her mother added.

"Trying to." He was looking straight at her, and the next words tumbled out before she could snatch them back. "Do you fancy some coffee?" What are you doing? But coffee was nothing, meaningless.

"Oh, great." The smile was broader—tinged with relief?—and his shoulders loosened, his body just beginning to relax.

"Dad?" she asked, glancing to her father. Please say yes. The mask was crumbling around the edges already.

"Uh, no, thanks," her father said, tugging his wallet from his pocket, examining the banknotes. "I am going to get some paint, and I'm going to drop off and see Auntie Alice on the way home."

Nothing else for it, she thought, taking the first steps across the kitchen. It was something to do, though, something to look at. Gavin moved back from the counter for her to pass by, though he left hardly enough room. She had just taken her hands from her pockets, and her arm almost brushed his fingers before she reached for the coffee.

"My aunt," her father said, glancing to Gavin. It drew his attention away from her, for he was watching as she counted the spoonfuls of coffee, and her hand shook when she dropped the first into the coffee pot. "She's staying at that nursing home up near Aspern Tallow. She's been in hospital, poor old darling, and we need to keep an eye on her."

Well, Mum's still here, she thought as her father walked into the sitting room. Gavin's gaze had drifted back so quickly—not to her hands, not to the spoon filled with coffee, but to her. It was too much to endure for long.

"As long as you don't forget the paint," her mother said, following him out of the room.

"I wouldn't dream of it."

Their footsteps and voices faded away—and Cully felt the nerves rise again, seizing her. The spoon knocked against the rim of the cafetière, almost deafening, and it fell from her fingers before she could set it beside the mugs.

"Are you all right, Cully?" Gavin asked, his hand reaching for her shoulder—and stopping before she had to draw back.

"Of course," she said lowly, switching on the electric kettle and replacing the lid on the jar. "Why wouldn't I be?" Leave me alone.

"I didn't mean that—"

She pushed the coffee aside, pressing her hand heavily against the counter, staring at her fingers. Can't you let well enough alone? "Then why did you ask?"

"I'm—"

"Don't bother answering."

The kettle had begun to gurgle in the quiet kitchen when her mother finally returned, and Cully poured the scalding water over the coffee. It darkened immediately—milk chocolate, then dark brown, nearly black—and the coarse grounds floated to the surface as she set the lid on top. "He'll be gone a while," her mother said. "You know how gets when he talks to Alice."

"How long will you be in town?" Gavin asked quietly. Almost timidly.

"About a week." She didn't want him to be afraid to speak to her—she wasn't sure what she wanted from him. Maybe an apology to start, more than merely "I'm sorry". Didn't she deserve that much?

"Or until things are almost put together," her mother added.

"Mum's afraid it will take a year or so."

Taking the milk jug from the refrigerator, her mother shook her head. "As long as it took him to finish things the last time, I think that's fair."

"Do you have much going on in London right now, Cully?" Gavin asked, a bit louder now.

"The same as usual."

"You've done a couple of adverts, Cully." Her mother set the milk jug beside the coffee pot, standing between them. Good. "Those are new."

"They're only commercials, Mum, nothing much." The coffee finished, Cully slammed the plunger down, the pale brown foam floating to the top as her hand briefly touched the hot metal.

Gavin smiled weakly. "That's still something—"

"Not really," Cully said, pouring the coffee into three mugs. Her breathing was calmer and her hands were steadier, not a drop of the coffee splashing. "I haven't found another theater part, except just after I left."

He looked away—and Cully immediately wished she hadn't said anything. She didn't want to hurt him again and she didn't want to care. "Right. What play were you in?"

"Much Ado," she said, hearing her own disappointment. She always enjoyed Shakespeare, but it had been misery. The role, the production—everything. "Margaret. Not really worth it—"

"You can't expect the roles you've had here if you're in London, dear."

"I know, Mum."

Gavin picked up one of the mugs, pouring in a generous dollop of milk before passing the small pitcher to her mother. "But even a small role there—"

"It was a tiny theater, Gavin," Cully said, sliding the dish of sugar to him, ignoring the squeal of ceramic, not wanting to watch him drop one—two—three spoonfuls into his mug. Why does it matter to you? "It wasn't anything."

"It was still something," he said. The way Gavin acted, they might have simply grown apart. Like that evening had never happened, like he still cared. But how can he?

Cully had still resented him as they stood around the counter, awkwardly drinking the coffee. Her mother had tried to fill in the silence, describing the various adverts, other auditions, what she termed a wonderful performance of Much Ado—even while no one responded. Cully had hardly spoken at all: she had nothing else to say to him.

To her relief, he had not lingered, instead escaping from the house with some butchered excuse. He would never be a good liar. The front door had only just closed when the wretched guilt began, the questions, the second-guessing, intensifying as each day came and went. The further that night slipped into the past, the more she loathed all of it, not just his fear. How had she shouted like she had, found such angry words, refused to listen to him even if she did not believe what he said? The certainty was gone, and a week or so later, she finally understood—it was forgiveness, as simple as that—the anger ebbing away, disappearing a little more every day. She didn't remember the moment when it vanished entirely, leaving her willing to...what, welcome him into her life anew, as she had before? But for...it still frightened her, remembering what could have been, all of it.

All she had wanted was for their friendship to return, to talk freely on the occasions they met, perhaps to forget everything. Yet day after day, week after week, she had lost herself again. Not in the same madness, but the same confusion. What was it? What remained? Did anything remain? Month after month, not hoping but wondering...at last asking the question that erased so much of the past. In that moment beside the rope course, it was all gone. She had never stood on that street, hating how quiet he was, not knowing he would push her away, how furious she would be. It was no longer an ever more distant memory: for all it mattered, it had never happened at all.

And here she was again, months of her life gone with a single kiss and thoroughly banished with a second. Will this ever end? she thought. The years she had spent with Nico had been so clear, even when romance had first faded to friendship and eventually silence. But Gavin...If she closed her eyes, she still felt his lips touch hers, her limbs again numb. Happily mystified, willingly disoriented in a world that refused to cease spinning— Stop, she thought again, opening her eyes. Keep revising.

Cully didn't bother returning to the book; she knew it from the first word to the last. 'If this reptile is a man, it isn't an IT, is it? That wouldn't be grammatical, would it? I think it would be HE. I think so. In that case one would parse it thus: nominative, HE; dative, HIM; possessive, HIS'N. Well, I will consider it a man and call it he until it turns out to be something else. This will be handier than having so many uncertainties.'*

* An excerpt from Eve's Diary, Complete, by Mark Twain.