The Worst Kind of Way

You don’t love her.

My reflection stared back at me, cold and unimpressed. I’d been looking at myself for the last twenty-something years and knew I was tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of lying. Tired of living a life that was expected rather than desired. I was tired of the guilt, too. Waking up in that bed, her tiny body wrapped around me like she knew the god’s honest truth, took everything out of me. Going to sleep in it was even worse. She expected things — thoughts and feelings and expressions of emotion — that I couldn’t give to her. Not anymore. Probably not ever again.

The room felt suffocating. I’d been in there fifteen minutes and hadn’t found any relief. The walls were closing in on me, cutting off the oxygen I desperately needed to fill my lungs. Splashes of cold water hissed and evaporated as they touched the flushed skin of my cheeks. This wasn’t fair; I hadn’t asked for this. Everything felt like a bad dream, a horror film on loop, and even though I knew what was coming, I still covered my eyes at the worst parts. This was my life and there was no easy way out anymore.

No one noticed my absence. The pub on the other side of the door was still buzzing with activity. I knew her girlfriends were out there now, buying her mixed drinks and shots and making fun of all the blokes that tried to chat her up. She was spoken for, they’d tell them, though they probably wished she wasn’t. At least not by me. I didn’t meet their expectations. I was okay with that initially, thought I was going to prove them wrong and make them eat their words. All I accomplished was making myself look like a dickhead.

At one point things had been different, but if you asked me when I couldn’t tell you. Maybe years, maybe days. All I know is that when things between us changed, everything else changed as well. Whatever I used to look forward to seemed dull and boring. Anything I used to do became an annoyance. It was like I’d shed my old skin and stepped into new surroundings, only I was nowhere I wanted to be. This new life — new me — was my worst nightmare. This life was meant for someone else and our wires had somehow gotten crossed along the way. Everything was an out of body experience that never stopped.

Why are you doing this?

The truth was harsh and invasive, blocking my exit every time I tried to run away from it. Lying to myself — as well as everyone around me — was easy. You could call it my number one talent. You’d be right; it’d be no exaggeration, though the guilt of it all never let me get very far. There was always a limit, always a maximum of how far I could go, how much I could get away with, before everything came crashing down around me. I was still pressing my luck. I hadn’t reached that point yet.

I hated the idea of love. I detested being vulnerable and you can’t be in love without being vulnerable. Things were nice in the beginning. We went places together, shared memories. Sometimes I felt like I could’ve loved her if I would’ve given myself the chance. Falling in love was a risk I wasn’t willing to take. Not that it mattered.

A knock on the door pulled me up from the sink, eye-level with my reflection again. The mirror taunted me, dared me to open the door and lie in the grave I’d dug. If this was going to be my life until the day I died, I may as well get used to it. Was there any getting used to it? Did hating yourself ever get easier? No, probably not.

“Are you okay?”

No. I used to be okay but those days were long gone. Now I was hollow, emptied out and vacant. I could fake it, though. Lying was easy, living was not. I lied so I could live a lie. That’s just how it worked now.

“Never better.”

As the icing on the cake, I smiled. If I was going to lie I had to make it believable. To be honest, I hadn’t been okay in three years. I had been better. Even yesterday had been a better day, but I couldn’t tell her that. It’d break her heart. It should’ve been the truth doing it instead of the admittance of feelings, but it was going to be water under the bridge come tomorrow.

“Good,” she grinned, “I don’t need you getting cold feet.”

My feet had been cold since the day I met you. You were a snake in tall grass that slithered its way into my personal space and refused to leave. You were a disease, incurable and cursed. You were, above all else, the worst thing to ever happen to me.

“We should get out of here,” I said. My offer sounded suggestive, but it was vacant. I could fuck but I couldn’t make love.

Her teeth sank so deep into her bottom lip I thought it’d draw blood. She always drew first blood, watched silently as I desperately tried to cease the flow. It was some fucked up ego thing: she had to establish dominance, prove to me she wasn’t willing to roll over and take whatever I threw at her without a fight. None of that mattered to me. I didn’t need dominance. Mostly I just needed a reason to stay. She’d never given me that.

The pub scene was typical. Birds were falling over blokes they didn’t know, thinking an innocent peek down their shirt would equate to love in the morning. The same blokes tossed back shot after shot, thinking they could blame their drunkenness when any woman with self-respect slapped them across the face when they felt up her thigh. The bartender pretended not to notice. Cash flow was more important than integrity. It always was.

“I think we’re goin’ to head back to mine,” she said to her friends. I watched their faces fall with a smirk. She was mine. They were losing her and I just kept pulling. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’,” one of her friends answered quickly, trying to save face. “It’s just…this is your night, and it’s so early.”

She gnawed on her lip again as she turned to me. Her eyes told me she was desperate for guidance, desperate for me to make up her mind even though that was her modus operandi. She called the shots; I just drank them. But now she was vulnerable, controllable, soft. This had been what I’d waited so long for and I couldn’t let it go unnoticed.

I grinned. “Whatever you want to do, love.”

“Why don’ you just stay for a little while longer?” another of her friends offered, eyeing me with the most menacing glare I’d ever received. They hated me. That was all right.

“Is that a'right?” she asked me. Her lipstick bled onto her front teeth and it made me cringe.

“‘Course.”

She moved to kiss me but I backed away, offering her nothing but a small wave as I shifted out of the pub. She'd already touched me enough for one night. My skin was on fire and it’d take scalding water to wash her away. I had to play it cool, though, make sure she didn’t notice me trying to get rid of her.

My mobile was out of my pocket and dialing her number as soon as I was locked in my car. My fingers flew over the familiar buttons and I was honestly surprised they hadn’t started to cave in yet. They were the only ones I dialed, the only ones I cared about. The voice on the other end of the line was my renaissance. She let me start over.

“Matty?” I’d woken her. “It’s half-two in the morning.”

“Sorry. Can I come round?”

She didn’t say anything. Worry consumed me instantly. She couldn’t end this; she was all I had. And that sounded awful, made me sound like exactly what I was, but I couldn’t lose her. I wouldn’t.

“I don’ know, Matty…”

I wasn’t going to beg, if that’s what she was expecting. I’d spent the last three years on broken knees but I still had some pride left, enough to know better than to be vulnerable in front of the only person I needed to convince. But what good would that do? Kate knew me, really knew me — she’d never see me as some weak, broken man. Even though that’s exactly what I was.

“I won’ stay long,” I compromised.

There was a sigh before I heard the rustling of sheets. I knew those sheets like my best-kept secret: cream-coloured with thick black stripes. When I managed to sleep at night those sheets were what I dreamed of; being wrapped in them, with her, while the rest of the world cracked and crumbled around us. In my dreams there was only Kate. In reality, she was barely more than a mirage.

“Fine. Bring somethin’ good with you. You owe me.”

Kate’s flat sat on the outskirts of London, one of those places you wouldn’t know was there if you hadn’t been looking for it. I parked out front, trying to memorise the comfort of seeing the outside light on for me because I knew it’d be the last time I’d ever see it. After tomorrow, there was no more Kate. There was no more comfort. There was only misery and expectations and should-haves.

She opened the door dressed only in a large T-shirt. Mine. She stepped to the side to let me in but I was suddenly overcome with a feeling of dread. The sight of her in that faded black top made me dizzy. This was the woman I wanted — the life I wanted. But I’d never have it. I wasn’t allowed.

“Kate—”

“Don’t.” She shut the door behind me, twisted the lock, and grabbed the two bottles that hung pathetically from my hands. “Why are you here, Matthew?”

Disappointment. It wasn’t a tone I heard a lot, but I recognised it instantly when I did. “I needed to see you.”

She laughed facetiously before slamming the refrigerator door shut. Not another sound moved past her lips as she brushed by me and ascended the stairs to her bedroom. In ten seconds she was gone, the only trace of her ever being there was the soft aftermath of the perfume she always wore.

“You’re getting married tomorrow. Shouldn’t you be off writing your vows or doing that bullshit only people stupid enough to get married do?”

I shrugged. My voice was failing me — the voice she always said was too deep to match my appearance. It made me come off rough, intimidating. My eyes gave me away.

“I don’ want to marry her.”

“Little late for that, don’ you think?”

“I could call it off.”

She laughed again, only this time it was condescending. “You’ve had three years to call it off, Matty.”

I wondered what she thought of me, typical and disgusting as I was. There was nothing redeeming about me. Not what I did for a living, definitely not who I was off the stage. I’d burnt those bridges long ago. Kate had given me the match.

There was a fleeting moment of bravery before it evaporated. I moved into the room cautiously like the goddamn place was rigged with land mines. Getting blasted to bits wouldn’t be so bad, I figured. At least I’d escape.

“What do you want me to do, then?”

“Get out of my flat. Let me go back to bed.”

She didn’t need me and it made me feel pathetic. I needed her. On most days she was the only thing that kept me sane. To her, I was nothing more than a headache, an occasional orgasm and nothing more. She could easily find someone else to fill my spot once I was gone. I didn’t want her to, but she could if she wanted.

“I want you to be there tomorrow.”

“No.”

“Why not?” I asked, kicking off my shoes and undoing the zipper of my pants.

“I’m not going to watch you marry her.”

“Then stop me. Object.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re a real piece of work, Matthew Healy.”

“Please—”

“No.” She buried her legs under the sheets. “This is real life we’re talking about, Matty, not some fuckin’ romance film.”

“I fucked up.”

“Ain’t that the god’s honest truth.”

I couldn’t fix this. Not anymore. I’d dug my grave and all that was left to do was lie in it. The thought made me sick. Or maybe it was the way Kate simply switched off the lamp on her nightstand and drifted into a quiet sleep because she had nothing more to say. I was fighting a losing battle against myself.

Things used to be so easy. Eat, sleep, play music. Be a public figure. Live in the public eye, try to ignore that millions of people were watching my every move. Go out and have a few drinks, survey the scene, decide who was worth taking home. Not anymore. Now there were wedding planners and tuxedo shopping and details.

Kate rolled onto her side, away from me. The T-shirt gathered at the top of her thigh and I sighed. I’d have to leave soon. It was nearing four AM — surely Victoria was back from the pub by then, wondering where I’d gotten to because I’d told her I was going home.

“I’m leaving,” I said, even though I was sure she wouldn’t hear me.

Kate rolled over to face me again, eyes as clear as the day I met her, and wasted a few seconds just staring. “Had to happen sometime, right?”

She was so good at that — hiding her feelings, keeping up appearances — that I always wondered if that’s how numb she really was. This had to be killing her as much as it was killing me. She’d never admit it. But I guess things were different. I needed her and she didn’t need me.

“You’re not going to be there tomorrow, are you?”

“No.”

I sighed, pressing my forehead to hers. “I don’t want to leave.”

“Just go, Matty. You’re not doing anyone any favors by stickin’ around.”

“Just tell me not to do it and I won’t.”

A small, pained smile appeared on her face. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

I panicked. “No, Kate, please—”

“Don’t,” she interrupted, throwing the sheets off her body again. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

I scoffed. “You have no idea how hard this is.”

“And whose fault is that, huh? Mine, because I let you in every night knowing someone was waiting for you? Or yours, because you couldn’t just be happy with what you had?”

“Mine,” I croaked, my voice dry and scratchy. “This is all my fault.”

She wasn’t done. “But it wasn’t enough to ruin your own life, was it?” She rounded on me, eyes like flames. “You had to take me down with you. You had to make me fa—no. No, I’m done.”

I followed her to the door, trying to memorize the quirks of her flat in case I forgot, in case I never came back. The clock above the stove that was stuck at 5:22. The picture of her and her brother in front of the Thames that was leaning too much to the right. The door of the hallway cupboard that never shut all the way. The one wall in her dining room that was two shades lighter than the other three because the contractor had run out of paint and bought the wrong kind. The bathroom sink that always leaked. My place didn’t have these quirks, didn’t feel this much like home.

She stopped as she undid the lock, trying to hide how jagged her breathing had become.

“Whatever happens, just know if I could do it all over—”

“Shut up, Matthew.”

“Babe—”

“Good luck with your marriage. And the rest of your life.”

I paled. “Don’t—”

“Send me a Christmas card or something, yeah?”

That was it. The end. The grand finale. I moved in to kiss her but she backed away. My only option was walking out the door and, as unprepared as I was to let her go, I knew I’d have to. She didn’t look at me as I left and I didn’t have the nerve to look back. I don’t know what I was expecting. Her to come running after me? Her to beg me not to go? That wasn’t my Kate.

No, hating yourself did not get easier.