I'm so sorry this has taken me so long!
Thinking Out Loud
I keep dreaming that you forgive me. That I wake up and you're there. And it's not the same; not even my subconscious could conjure up such an injustice. But you're there. We've woken and I'm lying there and you're looking at me with those eyes, those eyes you reserve for me alone, and I swear I can't breathe, swear my chest is tight and my eyes are wet and you're holding me. We hold each other as the sun rises and the monsters are kept at bay.
We keep each other exactly where we should be and that is with each other.
The wedding party watch in fascination as the groom takes the bride by the hand, fingers lacing together in a way that is automatic, tears ignored and earlier shouts forgotten, leading her into the back. They do not reenter the kitchen. They instead opt for the office. It's a more enclosed space; the decor familiar, but not overly so. A centre ground, she supposes, as he closes the door behind her, ensures that they are not to be disturbed.
Her hands are knotted in front of her in the same way her insides feel twisted. Her breathing is calmer than it had been previously, though it is still somewhat laboured. She is ready to speak. She is so very nearly free and despite the sickness she is feeling deep in the pit of her stomach, it is a relief to her. To have been given the opportunity to be honest after spending month after month concealing the truth from the only person who ever deserved to hear it. And in full.
With a sigh, Nick slowly walks over to what used to be his desk and perches. He can't look at her. Not at her face; not in her eyes. He keeps his fixed to the ground, on the shoes he wears she'd had mended for him only days ago, an admission of love without words.
He tries to keep her visit to the cobblers in mind as he finally speaks past the lump in his throat.
"You said you'd tell me everything."
His voice wavers.
She is quick to reply. "And I will. I want to."
He nods.
"I think we should start at the beginning." He is following a logical sequence in his head of how best to handle this situation, however stressful. He thinks, talk. He thinks, understand. He thinks, breathe. Breathe slowly and stay calm.
She is staring at him like one might at a piece of art they have waited years to admire in person, but she's arrived at the gallery far too late and the exhibit is closing soon. This is perhaps the last glimpse she will ever catch of the one thing she came here to see. She tries to commit it to memory. She tries, but she aches. The image in her mind is like sand through fingers. She can't capture it. She can't focus.
"Of course." A deep breath escapes her. "Okay. Right. I suppose we should start with when it happened, shouldn't we?"
They are speaking in a remarkably casual manner about a subject that is anything but and it is unnerving Nick slightly. He shrugs, gives off the impression of indifference despite the screams of every fibre in his body suggesting the opposite.
This matters. There is no way it can't.
"Whatever."
Her dress is too tight. She wonders briefly whether it was designed to conceal such ragged patterns of breathing.
"It happened on New Year's Day." She decides not to pause as she relays it to him, so not to allow him to dwell. To question. She can see the hurt increase on his face with every word, but it just makes her more determined to tell him the awful truth. It's nothing more and it's nothing less than what he deserves to hear, however late she's left it. "It was when I'd gone AWOL. We'd argued and..." Their eyes meet for a fraction of a second and the guilt, his guilt; it eats away at her. "No. Actually... Nick, it wasn't just that. Michelle, she came to the factory, probably because you'd asked her to check on me. To see if I was alright. I don't know. I can't remember now. But I remember she kept going on and on at me about seeing Rob. And I just... I couldn't take it. I didn't wanna hear it, so I ran. I had to get away; escape from it all. So, I got in a taxi outside the factory and I went to the... casino." Nick does not react to that in the way she had secretly hoped he would and her heart sinks just a little further in her chest. "I didn't know what I was doing or why I was doing it. I just wanted it all, everything, to... stop. To leave me alone."
He's listening. She knows he is. His face is full of concentration, of silently joining dots in his head, reliving the worry he had been feeling that day, the indescribable relief at having her back with him in one piece when all along...
"It was strange being back there. I hadn't gambled in months – I hadn't needed to. You'd made sure of that."
He shakes his head at her, shakes it in disagreement, and a part of her – yet another part – breaks. He thinks so little of himself, so little of their relationship and the goodness within it, and she knows she can't change his perception now.
She continues, beyond perturbed at this point.
"I was on my own at first. I hadn't gone there to seek anyone out. It wasn't like that – you have to believe me." He resists the urge to scoff and hates himself for it. Their arms are folded, stances mirroring one another's. Nothing about either body's language is open. "But he turned up." Nick knows who. "He turned up out of the blue and the next thing I know, he's sitting next to me at a table, and I'm going on at him about you, about how he better not be spying on me on your behalf."
Under any other circumstance, she might have smiled at that. Laughed, even. Nick's concern for her is perhaps one of the only constants of that day, of this whole rotten sequence of events. It once warmed her heart, how wholeheartedly he'd look out for her, but now all it manages to do is break it. She never deserved his worry; never deserved his care.
"Anyway, he said he wasn't there to spy on me. He hadn't been sent by you. So... we played together."
"Played?" The word leaves Nick's lips so suddenly, laced with so much disgust that it physically takes her aback.
They lock eyes and she speaks very slowly. She hates what he is implying. It makes her feel sick, makes her want to claw at her own skin.
"Poker," she says. "We played poker."
Now that he has been sucked in, now that he can see the pain and the hurt and the overwhelming sense of fear in her eyes (fear of rejection, fear of him), Nick almost softens. Almost. Just like she'd almost caught him in a web of lies, almost married him a liar and a cheat, and it is those almosts that keep his expression hard.
Carla doesn't give herself the time to take in his thought process.
"We played a couple of games. Nothing major at first, but then we won. Well, he won. He won a lot of cash. I was drinking the whole time, wasn't really thinking about how much. I mean, when do I ever? But then after his win, he took me over to the bar to, in his words, celebrate." (Nick can't remember the casino ever being in possession of a bar.) "And I should've seen it coming, Nick. I should've."
She goes to step forward. She questions whether it is comfort she is wanting to give or wanting to receive and quickly decides that it is a combination of both. Internally, she sighs; ultimately deciding against such a move. She remains perfectly still.
"He asked me if I wanted to take our celebrations – " But they were his celebrations. I had nothing to celebrate. I didn't feel a thing. " – elsewhere. Upstairs, he said." (Nick can't remember the casino ever being in possession of a hotel either.) "You won't care to hear this, but I hate myself. For what I did then and for what I'm doing to you now." His eyes are fixed to the ground. "Nick."
He doesn't pay attention to anything other than the story he is being told because it is all he can handle right now. And he's struggling even with that. "And what did you say?"
"What?" She's momentarily confused.
"He said he wanted to take it upstairs and you replied with..."
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
She looks ashamed. She is ashamed. She can feel her face beginning to burn – all of her, in fact – and she has to blink back tears from her eyes, take a deep, shuddering breath.
Her tone of voice is verging on argumentative. She's angry that she even has to say this, that she has to admit that it happened; that she let it happen.
"I didn't say anything because I didn't reply. I just... I kissed him, alright?" But nothing about it is alright. Nick's face twists in pain and she can't stand it. She can't stand herself. "And then — "
He interrupts her. "What kind of kiss was it?"
She frowns. "I'm sorry?"
"How did you kiss him?" And her stomach drops. She's at a loss for what to say. What can she say? Upon noticing her lost expression, Nick stands from the desk and it gives her hope, hope for the briefest of moments that some kind of reassurance is going to come from him, not the nervous, almost cruel laughter that escapes his shaking lips, breathy laughter that's combined with, "Oh, come on! Carla, come on!" She can't look at him. She refuses. "I mean, was it a peck? Were there tongues? Open mouths?"
He's taunting her. Or maybe he's just taunting himself. Either way, she can't stand it. She cannot and she will not stand there and take that, pretend it isn't ripping her insides apart piece by already fragmented piece.
"Nick." She almost touches his arm. It would be so easy to. He's closer now; the move a subconscious one. His eyes are wild, breathing erratic. He's trying to hold it together, to hold it all in, but he can't. "Nick, stop it. Please. You'll drive yourself insane."
"I am insane!" he all but shouts.
She's silenced.
For a long moment, there is nothing. No eye contact, no moving lips. Just the ticking of a clock somewhere in the distance; the sounds of a wedding party growing increasingly more restless, guests threatening to leave and carrying out that threat.
Carla watches Nick. She watches his internal struggle, his need for the truth and his inability to handle what he is being told. She wonders whether she should stop here. Give him that time alone he earlier requested to process this, to make sense of it. To reflect. But she knows that that would be the coward's way out and she's tired of hiding. The harsh reality is that the beginning is nothing compared to the middle and it's easier to swallow than what her desperation drove her to in the end.
"We had to get a room before anything could happen." You two need to get a room. Nick nods, only just. His eyes are glassy and his fingers spread apart, resting tensely against his thighs. He's so lost and all Carla wants to be is found. "He took it upon himself to get a key for a room in the hotel upstairs and I remember standing in that lobby, drinking champagne from the bottle, and nobody saying a word. Nobody questioned me or what I was doing. I didn't wanna be there. I didn't wanna be anywhere. All I could think in my head was about how much I wanted to forget, forget everything, and… maybe this would help. Maybe I could go to bed with a stranger — "
"He wasn't a stranger. He's — " He corrects himself. " —was my business partner."
She ignores him. He is only increasing the pain he is feeling and she doesn't have the time for it. Neither of them do.
"I thought I could lose myself in someone else and then maybe I could wake up and everything would be different, I would be different, and maybe I would feel better and — Nick, I am so sorry."
She doesn't really believe in the things she is saying. She is making up excuses, attempting to justify a moment of madness she has been unable to pin down the cause of since it happened. She feels she owes Nick an explanation and so that is what she is trying to give him, but it's not what he wants. He doesn't want her empty words of self hatred, of regret and sorrow and all of these apologies. They don't matter to him, not now. Nothing truly matters other than the fact that she lied and she cheated. She betrayed him and allowed herself to be blackmailed for the privilege.
Her apologises are not what he is here to listen to and he, his head, suddenly comes to the conclusion that he does not want to listen to anything at all.
"I can't do this."
It's like the ground beneath their feet has given a wobble. Carla makes a grab for him; his hand, his arm; she isn't quite sure which, but he tears it from her either way and he is heading for the door. The sickness is back. She feels so sick and unsteady and unsure.
"Nick." Her voice is desperate and it is pleading and she is no longer calm.
"I'm sorry." And he looks at her. He is the one apologising, the one with tears escaping his eyes, remorse all over his face. "I just can't."
A hand is pressed to her own and she responds by giving it the tightest of squeezes. It hurts. It hurts because she is watching him let her go, watching him walk away, fling open the door and escape into lowly played love songs. Into their farce of a wedding. Nick doesn't look back. He walks and he walks and he walks until running feels like the better option. To run from his head, from the truth, from all of this pain inflicted onto him by himself as much as those around him - whilst all along his bride, abandoned in an office that once held so many secret moments, knows that it was that desire to run that got them in this mess in the first place.