Pear

I don’t have to wait very long for the phone call. I suppose it should have surprised me more, but in the end I think I knew that Nicholas was always going to be the type of wound that refused to heal.

“What are you doing tonight?”

“What about Oli?”

“You and I, we’re friends, Hugo. It’s OK.”

I agree and I regret it because I want to hate him so much but I just don’t know if I can anymore, if I can feel anything. All the way to the cinema on the tram, in my best jeans and button up shirt, I think about that dewy youthful face that Oli wears. The way it will crumble and fall and age on the day that it all ends, because it will end. It will always end. It will hit you like a freight train.

So why am I here?

“You look lovely, Huegs. You always do.”

I don’t reply to him because I have nothing to say. This is off limits and he knows it. He still throws an arm over my shoulder.

“I’ve missed you, you know. Remember when we used to come here?”

I nod. I remember it. I remember all of it.

We buy tickets for the latest release, but the session doesn’t start for two hours, so I’m subjected to Thai first. Across my bowl of Pad Thai Chicken his familiar animated face enthuses at me about his family and friends, his architecture degree, the latest release from his favourite author, a concert he saw last week. What about you, Hugo? What’s new? I tell him about my violin and my fingers and how my skin feels on Wednesday mornings, and how sometimes I swear the creaks in the steps of my apartment building sing songs to me. He smiles at me in that same favourite-jumper way that makes me feel warm and soft, and then he pays for us both. I don’t like it. I make it known. He laughs, as if it is given. I don’t know why I fall for this every time.

The movie is forgettable, the plotline negligible and the actors wooden. Nicholas has this wonderful ability to absolutely rip in to something with a kind of fiery wit that always gets to me, and as we walk to my apartment building I am in positive stitches. It’s as I’m leaning with one hand on a wall, catching my breath, that I look up at him and see the streetlight catching his face in a way that makes me forget everything else for a moment.

“I always loved you best like this,” I blurt out before rational thought can stop me.

Nicholas shoots me a look that is molten chocolate on a winter day.

“It’s me, you know. It’s always been me.”

We’re quiet for the rest of the walk. When I reach my door, he reaches for my hand.

“I’d like to see you again, Hugo. I’ve missed you. Very much.”

I can’t concentrate for a minute because all I can feel is a warmth on my hand and a fluttering in my chest that I haven’t felt in years.

“OK” I manage, before he kisses me on the cheek.

“Take care. I’ll see you soon.”

He squeezes my hand once before turning back down my street in the quiet dark. He has left me standing on my front step with one hand on my cheek and the other hovering somewhere between us. He doesn’t look back.

*

In the morning I pour a bowl of Rice Bubbles and light a candle, and watch the sun come up to some soft song that makes my heart ache. It’s the first morning I haven’t felt tired or anxious in weeks, and something in me has been abated for the time being. I’d forgotten what it was like to be looked at like that.

At nine I get a call from Romy. She wants to have lunch with me, and she’s bringing a friend. I know what this means: she and Vanessa often try to set me up with anyone they can find. I think of Nicholas’ soft hands and wonder if I need it, but then I shake myself and think stop it, Hugo because Nicholas is past and he will stay there, and because Nicholas already has a pair of hands to hold. So I agree.

At 12:30 I finally get up, at 1 I’m still deciding on my outfit, and by 1:10 I’m out the door and setting off for something that started twenty-five minutes ago. It’s unlike me to be running late, and Romy comments on it when I finally arrive- to find her seated alone at the table.

“Jordan is just in the bathroom,” she winks at me. “I got you a good one this time, Huegs.”

I maintain a healthy level of skepticism until, at length, ‘Jordan’ returns, and I think yes, yes you did Romy. While I will admit that I am ‘pretty’ in the kind of typical manchild way, Jordan could only be described as handsome. Tall, lean muscle, straight nose and blue eyes: he has the kind of jawline you would find in a hunting portrait, and the kind of body you would find on an underwear advertisement. He sees me, widens his eyes, smiles softly, clears his throat and says

“Hey, I’m Jordan. It’s Hugo, right?”

the kind of voice you would make out with.

I hold my hand out, shaking a little, and say

“That’s me.”

the kind of voice that parents use to communicate when in the same room as a sleeping child.

Romy is smiling at me rather smugly when I glance over at her, and Jordan takes his seat across from me. I scream help me at her with my eyes because I feel like I’m punching above my weight just looking at this guy and the idea of social interaction with him makes me want to pass out. She shakes her head at me and turns to smile at him.

“So, Jordan, what were you saying again?”