Although time may take us into different places
I will still be patient with you
And I hope you know
I won't let go
You glance at the building number and look back down at your cell. Your phone notifies you that you have arrived at Apples and Pears, which, from the outside, looks like any other dingy pub. But you walk in, and are immediately captivated by the exposed brick, beams, and industrial décor. You grab a seat at the bar and type a quick text of your arrival.
"Care for a menu?" The raspy voice is all too familiar, and it jolts your attention away from your phone.
"Shit—Emily. Why—I mean, what- are you doing here?!" You stumble. She places a napkin in front of you with a smirk.
"Effy didn't tell you, then?"
"Tell me what?"
"That I work here."
"And how the fuck would she know that?"
"She is a regular." Emily smirks.
Then it clicks. You asked Effy for a date spot suggestion, and she suggested this. Fucking hell, you think.
"So what brings you here tonight?" Emily leans forward, elbows on the bar, making it hard not to stare at her chest.
"I—uh—actually…"
"Naomi?" Your attention shifts to the hand on your shoulder.
"Melissa! Hi!" You turn to hug your date. You immediately freeze as you look between Emily and Melissa, unsure how to handle introductions.
"Hi, care for a pint?" Emily asks, without missing a beat. And your grateful that she doesn't try to make this harder for you.
"I'll actually have a skinny margarita. Thanks."
Emily nods and catches your eye, clearly suppressing a laugh.
"And you, Naoms? Vodka tonic?" She eyes you, her familiarity piercing you.
"Uhh... yes… please. With lime."
"Course."
As Em turns around, you force your attention to the person sitting next to you.
"Is she your mate?" She asks, nodding her head towards the redhead.
"Uhh... yeah. From college." Your gaze moves towards Emily, and you watch her, in her black vest top, as her exposed shoulders flex while she shakes the cocktails.
Melissa clears her throat, redirecting your attention back to her. You both begin an easy conversation about your interests and hobbies. Emily coyly hovers, always staying within earshot. This makes you uneasy, and as a result, extremely miffed. You feign interest as Melissa talks about her position as a marketing director, and you struggle to sympathize with her frustration about an earlier spat at a board meeting. When the conversation transitions to your work, you find it difficult to describe your job without creating a gloomy cloud on the conversation. You're incredibly passionate about the work you do, and yet, you've come to realize that the constant theme of heartbreak and loss surrounding your work makes polite conversations much more intense. Once Melissa attempts to sympathize with you, you've realize how quickly your agitation had escalated.
"It's so sad that people who aren't ready to have kids have them anyway, and be so irresponsible. It must be so frustrating to witness that." Although this is not a new misconception, you are annoyed you have to educate her during your date, and can't seem to control your temper.
"Actually, I think a large part of this has to do with systemic cuts to reproductive services and education, disparities in unemployment and income, and lack of public services. I'm often faced with children whose parents want to care for them but don't have the resources," you say, the annoyance clear in your tone.
"Right. It's just sad they had the kids knowing they can't actually take care of them or assuming the government will help them out."
"Not all pregnancies are planned. And even when they are, people can still lose their jobs. And unless your parents are a couple of rich blokes, you're fucked!" You state, throwing your hands in the air in exasperation.
"This is becoming too serious, how about we talk about something a bit more... lighthearted?" You realize your anger has already bubbled over, despite your attempts to regulate your breathing. Before you can stop yourself, you lash out.
"You having a laugh? This is my WORK. These are people's LIVES. Not some bloody conversation piece," you sneer. She's clearly taken aback and uncomfortable, but you make no indication of an apology.
She looks down and says quietly, "You know, I'm a bit knackered." She grabs her purse as she stands from her stool. "I think I'm going to head back to my flat. Have a good night, Naomi." She gives your arm a light squeeze while she kisses your cheek, and then walks out.
You glare down at your drink, your rage continuing to course through your body. Tosser, you think.
"So... not a goer, then?" You snap up to see Emily's cheeky grin.
"Christ. That's none of your business." She looks hurt by your harsh tone, but quickly recovers.
"Don't worry, hun. Anyone who orders a skinny margarita clearly isn't worthy of your time." She winks, and you roll your eyes in response. She bites her lip to keep from grinning, and you can't help but stare at our mouth. And she notices. She hands you another drink, and leaves you to cool down.
The date was complete rubbish, you text Effy.
Too bad there isn't someone around to mend your broken heart, she quips.
You roll your eyes, but chance a glance up at Emily. She's talking to another customer across the bar, and you watch her throw her head back in laughter. You can't help but think that it's the most beautiful she's ever looked. She glances your way, and you quickly look down at your glass.
"Dammit," you whisper to yourself. You can see her walking back towards you out of the corner of your eye.
"I finish up in 15. Want to walk back together?" She begins to clear away abandoned pints, and you sense a hint of nervousness behind her request.
You squint your eyes up at her while you bite your bottom lip in thought. You take a resigned breath in, and exhale, "Yeah, sure. Just top me off."
Your footsteps on the pavement and a siren in the distance are the only sounds filling the space between you and Emily. You fumble into your pockets and light a fag without even realizing, your mind too distracted by the person walking next to you. Too distracted by proximity of her arm to yours, and the occasional bump against her that stiffens you on contact.
"Sorry your date was a twat," she tries to casually interject. Caught off guard by her voice, you choke on your inhale.
"Yeah," you say simply.
"I'm glad you came in though." She looks at you and gives you a small smile. Your chest flutters at her genuine happiness, and you have to look away to be able to speak again.
"I can't believe Eff set me up like that…" you roll your eyes and shake your head. Emily's laugh juts out in amusement.
"That is a very Effy thing to do."
"She's a fucking twat."
Emily laughs at your childish reaction. "She's quite hilarious," she says with amusement.
"Because she cocks up my dates?!" you exclaim, throwing your hands up in frustration.
"Naoms, you're good all by yourself." She playful winks at you, and you can't even be mad at that.
"Yeah, well-she's still a twat." You say petulantly. The walk goes quiet for a bit, but you break the silence cautiously. "What about you?"
"What about me? Am I still a twat?!" She laughs, confusedly.
"No! Are you… dating... anyone, I mean?" You're unsure how far you want to tread on this (or any topic, rather) with her, but your curiosity has been slowly eating away at you. You chance a sideways glance and see that she's chewing on her bottom lip.
"Not any one serious," she shrugs. Your mind starts racing about what she means. Is she shagging people? You wonder who and how many, and whether you unwittingly met one of them at her party. She must have noticed your brain swirling with questions because she interjects, "I mostly go on dates to help keep myself a bit sane, not because I've met anyone I want to be with."
"What do you mean?"
She looks up at you hesitantly and takes a breath in. "I mean… you know more than anyone that I can get lost in my work…" She says slowly, and you start to stiffen at the hint of the breakup. She continues, "After things ended with us, I just fully threw myself into my work. I figured if I lost you over it, I needed something to show for it. After a year, it all caught up with me. I was constantly sick, I was isolated from friends and family, and I was severely depressed. I stopped showing up to work because I couldn't get out of bed; I just wanted to stay home and cry all day." Her voice softened, and you look over at her, worry etched across your face. "My assistant—a bloody saint, her- rearranged appointments or found photographers to cover my events. After two weeks, she came over to my flat. Apparently this happened to her mum ages ago. Nothing specific triggered it, she was just bedridden and depressed. Her mum had to admit herself into an inpatient unit. They put her on pills, set her up with a therapist. It took a few months for her to bounce back, but she improved. So I did the same."
She goes quiet, and you're at loss of words. You didn't realize how bad things got for her. You're sad—and a bit guilty—you weren't there for her.
"It took me a while, too, but the pills helped me rather quickly. I responded well to the first dose and I was able to return to work so I didn't lose my job. And I eventually found a therapist I liked. We talked about how work was a way I avoided stress or sadness, and how it became a cycle that made the sadness worse. I can talk myself into needing to work to save for some new equipment or to save just in case. My parents' bankruptcy just really did a number on me, but I didn't recognize it until I was in complete shambles." She glances at you, but your brow is furrowed in thought and you're busy chewing on your bottom lip.
"It was hard for a while. It's not like I could bugger off of work. So I've had to consciously plan my weeks so I'm not overworking. I now have dinner at least twice a week with friends. That way I'm staying connected with people, and my friends know to call me out if I try to reschedule. And I know that if I even try to reschedule plans, it's a sign I need to check back in. Luckily, I've gotten so many clients through this pinup shop, my next goal is to quit the bartending job in a few weeks."
You reach your building, but you both quietly stand at the foot of the stairs. You're left stunned and trying to reconcile your resentment towards her while knowing that this ultimately left her in pieces. As if she could read your mind (because she always claimed she could), she gently grabs your arm for your attention.
"Although I've sorted what happened to me, it doesn't undo what I did. It wasn't fair to you. I'm so sorry." She looks up at you with big pleading eyes. You lock eyes, and feel the tears prickling the sides of your lids. You take in a big sigh and look away, fighting back the tears. She gently places her hands on your cheeks, but you can't look at her. You don't want her to see you cry.
"I'm so sorry I hurt you," she nearly whispers.
Your tears stream down your face against your own volition, and you muffle a sob that tries to escape. She pulls you into her shoulder, and it's the familiarity and security does you in. You wrap your arms around her and sob into her shoulder. She runs her fingers through your hair and rubs your back as the pain you've carried for years slowly leaves you with each tear.
She gently says into your ear, "Come on. I'll put on the kettle." You nod into her shoulder, and she kisses your temple before turning away to open her door. You follow her into the darkened apartment, feeling lighter than you have felt in years.