Page 82 of Monarch
When Roos’ convulsions finally become less violent, less twisted, she closes her eyes completely, and her breathing begins to level out. Lex and I look up at each other, and we hold the eye contact for a very long time. In Lex’s dark brown eyes, I find all the things I’m feeling: relief, shock, overwhelm, hope, and the ghost of fear. I don’t drop xir gaze for a very long time, and I feel like I’m taking a big drink of water with every second that passes. Xe also doesn’t look away.
We communicate more in that minute of eye contact than we have since we re-entered each others’ lives, and I feel forever changed by it.
It feels like a sign, or maybe more than that. An omen.
But then Roos moans, and we both look down at her. Her body is finally still, and she’s trying to move.
“No, stay on your side,” Lex says, bringing her hip up and over, putting her in the recovery position.
“It’s okay, Roos,” I say, checking her head is still in a good position. “We’re not going anywhere.”
I say it to comfort Roos, but it immediately has another meaning. Because I finally realise that Lex isn’t going anywhere. At least, not for good. If I want to have Roos in my life, then I need to learn how to have Lex there, too.
That would be shocking in of itself, but it’s not what alarms me the most.
What has me taking shallow breaths and feeling a heat in my cheeks is that I don’t immediately feel bad about it. I don’t immediately want to fight it. I don’t think I mind that that might be our reality. I have no clue what it looks like, or how we’ll make it work, but I think I might want to try.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Lex
We shouldn’t have done this, I think, as I stare at Roos. Because I’m not just staring at Roos. I’m also looking at Mari’s face tucked into the side of Roos’ neck. I’m also looking at Mari’s hands wrapped around Roos’ body, their X right in my line of sight. I’m not just breathing in Roos’ lavender scent, but every inhale I take, traces of Mari’s earthy eucalyptus musk land in my nose. I can hear both of them breathing. Roos’ low rumbles and Mari’s shorter, sharper, and more nasal snores. How they can sleep wrapped up in each other like that, I don’t know, but of course, I’m jealous. I wish I could sleep tucked up in someone else’s body. Maybe then I wouldn’t want to crawl out of my own so much.
It hadn’t been my idea – all three of us sleeping in Roos’ bed tonight – it had been Mari’s. And that had shocked me enough that I didn’t think through the implications. I just agreed. Roos had a quick shower with Mari after she was able to stand and walk after her seizure, and I spent that time properly tidying up the kitchen floor and also cleaning up after dinner. When I returned to the bedroom, Mari was helping Roos into her pyjamas, and Roos was looking more like she was in subspace than she was recovering from a seizure. I’m not saying that Roos enjoyed the experience, but she was certainly finding peace and comfort in having Mari take care of her.
More bizarrely, I have found comfort in that, too. I have found watching Mari’s ‘fussing’ brand of care more endearing than I ever would have imagined. They think about comfort very differently. They are all about choosing clothes for Roos that will be loose andunrestrictive. They are the one who changes Roos’ sheets and does her washing, but not with too much detergent because she’s become more sensitive to strong smells. They are the one who combs and styles Roos’ wigs in the morning so they’re ready for her to slip straight on. They are the one who hugs her to sleep.
It's taken me a long time to realise why I like seeing Mari like this, and not because I didn’t know, but because I didn’twantto know. I like watching Mari care for Roos because once upon a time, they cared for me like that, too.
And fuck, I love watching them sleep. Even though it drags me back to a time and a place I swore I’d leave long behind me, I soak up all the nostalgia I can as I watch Mari sleeping. They look exactly the same. Chubby cheeks, curled eyelashes resting on lightly freckled skin, that pointed nose, and those pouty, perfect lips. Insomnia was almost a good thing when Mari was in my bed. It was when I could look at them for as long as I wanted. It was when I could feel what I really felt for them without having to censor myself or hold back. It was when I felt a peace that had been snatched away from me many long years before.
I always knew when I left what I would be giving up. I saw it as my price to pay for freedom, but it’s in having Mari back in my life, having them share the same bed as me again, having them be in love with the same woman I’m in love with, that I realise I gave up a lot more than I realised.
The problem is, even though I know I gave up a future with Mari when I left, and even though I’m lying here now, appreciating possibly for the first time just how huge a future that would have been, I’d do it again. I’d do it again and again and again.
Because while I may have given up a future with Mari when I left, if I had stayed, I would have had to give up my future. Because staying would have killed me. One way or another, I would be dead now if I hadn’t left.
I lift a hand and cup Mari’s cheek. At first, I do it gently, my hand barely making contact, but then I press a little more, and shape the palm of my hand to the curve of their face. Their skin is warm and smooth. Their breath heats my thumb as I stroke their lips once, twice.
“I’m sorry, Mari,” I say out loud. Holding my breath, part of me expects their eyes to dart open and for them to have heard my apology. When they don’t move, don’t awaken, I feel disappointed. I wanted them to hear. I wanted them to know I was sorry.
And Roos.
I move my hand so I can stroke the back of the knuckle of my index finger down the centre of her forehead and down her nose. I do it again and again, only stopping when her eyes twitch slightly. The last thing I want to do is wake Roos after a seizure. I tuck my hand under my chin.
It would be nice to pretend my leaving Roos those times was unrelated to me leaving Mari, but I’m smart enough and self-aware enough to know that’s bullshit. I left Roos for the same reasons I left Mari. I got too close. I got too scared. I got too confronted by what love means. I got out of my depth, and I couldn’t swim because I had too many secrets weighing me down.
And nothing has changed. Sure, I’ve learnt that I miss Roos so much it makes my bones ache when I’m not around her. And apparently, I never stopped loving Mari despite ten years of no contact with them. But I’ve not changed.
I am still weighed down by secrets. And I still want to leave. Right now. My veins buzz with the urge to walk away. To escape a future I cannot control. To find solace and comfort in my work because only that is mine completely. But I made a promise.
Yes, to Roos and indirectly, to Mari. But more than that, I made it to myself. I said I wouldn’t run away again.
So now I have to face the alternative. I have to find a way to carry my secret and still step forward into this life we’re building together. I just… I don’t know how. I don’t know how, and it hurts my head and my heart and my soul that I don’t know how.
Overwhelmed by my own helplessness, I thrust the covers off my body and I get up. After checking Mari and Roos are still asleep, I close Roos’ bedroom door quietly behind me and make my way to the lounge. Switching on a number of lamps, because Roos is a sucker for romantic lighting and impulsive buys at kringloopwinkels, I then pull my canvases and paints out of their temporary home in the corner. I find a blank canvas and stare at it for a long time. I wait for inspiration to grab me. I wait for an idea to appear, either fully formed or in its scrappiest state. Anything. Something. Just something to hold onto.
Nothing comes. Which is a lie because suddenly everything is coming. Years and years of pain. Years and years of lies. Years and years of loss. Years and years of hurt. Years and years of rage. They knot together and form a rough rock in the base of my throat. They roll up my neck and threaten to break free of me in the form of tears and a white-hot scream. I push my paints and the blank canvas to the side, scared I’ll thrash it to pieces, and it’s my last one. I ball my hand into a fist, and I shove it into my mouth. I bite down on my finger, on the very knuckle I was using to stroke Roos’ beautiful face, and I dig my teeth into my flesh hard enough for it to hurt.
