Page 87 of Commitment Issues
He’s tired, I tell myself, he’s tired and worn out and probably all he wants to do is eat, have a soak in the bath, and sleep. And that’s fine, I don’t have a problem with that. And I wouldn’t, if he didn’t feel so distant and that me being here in his house, making myself at home just as he’d wanted me to, and cooking him a welcome home meal, didn’t feel so weird and strange and awkward.
“Sure. Everything’s been fine, and Jasper’s no trouble.”
“That’s good, and thank you. I really appreciate it, you know that.” His smile feels like the first genuine piece of attention he’s given me, and I smile back.
“I was happy to. I’ve cooked dinner, but if you don’t want—”
“I do. And it smells wonderful, thanks for going to the trouble.” He puts Jasper down, and the dog totters off to his basket in the corner. “But I really need to have a shower first, and get into a change of clothing.”
“Shower? I can jump in with you and give you a good scrubbing,” I say with a laugh, waiting, hoping, for a dark grin and an outstretched hand, but all I get is a weak smile and a shake of the head, and I feel stupid, so damn stupid, as my heart plummets and crashes through my body.
“I shan’t be long.” He heads back towards the hallway, leaving me staring at his retreating back.
Forty minutes later and he’s still not emerged. Roast chicken and the bowls of vegetables are waiting on the table, ready to be served up, and there’s a cold beer too, the hoppy citrus one he likes so much. The food’s going cold, as the beer warms up, and a burst of irritation and annoyance flames in my stomach. Has he forgotten that I’ve cooked for him? Has he forgotten that I’m even here?
I stride out of the kitchen and lean on the newel post looking up the stairs, ready to call up to him but I swallow back what I know will be my tetchy, prickly words as I realise what’s probably happened. He’d looked so tired when he got back, and I wonder if he’s fallen asleep.
I make my way upstairs and stop, half way up, when I hear the low rumble of his voice, and I strain to listen. He’s on the phone, talking fast, whatever he’s saying punctuated by the other person as his voice goes quiet. I can’t hear the words properly, but there’s something almost fevered in his tone. I clutch the handrail. I can’t go forward and I can’t go back, and it’s only the sound of the door opening that jolts me out of my frozen state. I can’t be caught eavesdropping, and I scuttle back to the kitchen as fast as I can. When he walks in I’m dishing up the food and grinning like a 1950s housewife on acid.
“How was your week?” he asks, in between forking up the food that I somehow know he’s not tasting. The question feels limp and disinterested but I tell myself it’s my imagination, that he’s tired, he’s tired, he’s tired…
“Busy,” I say, trying to inject some sunshine into my voice. “Like yours, I guess?” I wait for him to tell me about his week, to tell me about what’s made him so strained, but all he does is shake his head and mutter that it’s been tough.
“That was good, thank you,” he says, pushing his plate aside.
The food’s gone, which should gratify me, but if I ask him what it is he’s just eaten, I doubt he’ll be able to answer. There’s no dessert because other than biscuits for dunking in our tea, neither of us has a sweet tooth. Or at least there’s no dessert of the spoon it out and pile it high in a bowl variety, because there’s another kind of dessert I thought I’d be giving him, one that could satisfy all his cravings. I’d planned on serving it up hot and steaming and ready to be devoured, but I won’t, not tonight, because I’m not sure if I can take the rejection I know I’ll get.
I get up and clear away the dishes and pile them into the dishwasher. As I move around the kitchen, I can feel his eyes on me.
“Freddie?” I turn to look at him and he’s looking back at me with a soft smile. “Thank you, for staying here and putting yourself out to look after Jasper. I know he appreciates it as much as I do. And the chicken was lovely.”
All I can do is nod, because I don’t know what to say.
We make our way to The Roxy, the room with the giant TV. It’s a great room, but there’s not the intimacy of the one I think of as his, filled with much-loved books and albums. I’d like to sit and talk, cuddled up on the sofa, about anything and nothing, and maybe plans for the weekend, but Elliot reaches for the TV remote.
“I hope you don’t mind?” He nods to the TV. “But I just think I want to immerse myself in something mindless, where I don’t have to think.”
It’s on my lips to say he can immerse himself in me, but the words die as he turns his attention to the screen.
Yes, he’s tired, I tell myself. That’s all it is.
He switches on a comedy quiz show we both like, and I watch without taking in a word of it. We’ve got into a habit of entwining ourselves when we’re on the sofa, but he’s in one corner, legs out and crossed at the ankles, and I’m in the other, with my legs tucked up under me, cut off from each other, two separate little islands.
In between us, Jasper’s jumped up and he’s curled up and snoring wetly. Elliot doesn’t mind him being on the furniture as long as he’s lying on a blanket, but there is no blanket, and Elliot doesn’t shoo him off. Instead, his hand’s resting lightly on the dog’s back. I run my fingers through Jasper’s fur, nudging accidentally but not accidentally, Elliot’s hand. He doesn’t nudge me back or take mine as, instead, he slips his hand away to rest in his lap.
And I want to cry. It’s stupid and ridiculous, because I know it’s only because he’s tired, because he’s stressed out, because he’s had a difficult week, and we’re not in a real relationship, but I still want to cry until there are no more tears left to shed. He’s not unkind, he’s not cold, he’s just fading away from me, and it makes me want to weep.
The television clicks off; I haven’t noticed the end of the programme. Elliot yawns as he pushes himself up to his feet and I follow. I summon up a smile from God alone knows where.
“You look done in and I think you need a long sleep. I’ll make my way home.”And see you when?
He hesitates. I’m waiting for him to say yes, that he’ll ring me, but he doesn’t.
“You’re right, I am done in. I’m sorry Freddie, for being so unresponsive this evening.” He gives me a wry smile. “But don’t go. Stay the night. If you want to, that is?”
We do this, we do this all the time.If you’ve got no plans… Stay but only if you want to…It’s all part of our non-commitment, the underlining that this is a loose arrangement only, an arrangement that in the most secret place in my heart feels like so much more than we’ve agreed. But tonight, I’m reminded exactly what the arrangement really is. I should go, tell him I’ll see him whenever, but I don’t. Instead, I follow him up the stairs, to the bedroom where I’d imagined we’d mark his homecoming. We strip off, and climb into bed.
He’s asked me to stay, he wants me here… he’s tired but I can relieve the stresses and strains that are holding him tight… he doesn’t have to do a thing, only take what I can give him…
