For days after I’ve seen David at the restaurant I can do nothing but cry and wander around my flat touching the boxes that were taped shut and stacked near the doorways of each room. I feel restless, unsettled. I haven’t told Ethan that I’m still married to David, and I know that’s a conversation we should have already had. I keep expecting David to show up at my door with the papers he wants me to sign. I send Ethan’s calls to voicemail until he leaves messages saying he’s worried about me. I text, tell him I’m under the weather and I’ll call soon. I don’t want him to hear my voice. He’d know right away that something is wrong and I’m not ready to tell him that I’ve seen David. I make more excuses—a sore throat, exhaustion, packing—but finally after a week, he shows up at my door wearing a look of deep concern.
“David. You’ve seen him then?” he says once I step aside to let him in.
“How did you know?” I ask.
Ethan looks distraught for a second, like I’d confirmed his worst fear.
“His band is here, there are posters all over the city. They’re talking about it on the radio and at work.”
I turn away so he can’t see my face and put the kettle on. David used to make fun of me, he said the Brits thought they could solve everything with a cup of tea. And we can.
“Yes, I saw him.” I move toward the canister of sugar and squeeze my eyes shut, willing Ethan away. It doesn’t work like that, Yara. You have to deal with things head-on.
“Did you fuck him?”
I spin around, disgusted. “Are you fucking with me? That’s the first thing you ask?”
“It’s important,” he says firmly. “I want to know where your heart is.”
“Well, it’s not in my pussy,” I shoot back.
Ethan looks immediately sorry, but it’s too late.
“Listen, Yara, cut me a break here. Your rock star ex-boyfriend comes into town, the one who wrote a song for you that plays all over the radio, and I’m not supposed to be concerned?”
He knew more than I gave him credit for.
“No. I did not fuck him. And he wrote that song to humiliate me. It isn’t exactly a love song, Ethan.”
“It is a goddamn love song. He wants you back—that’s why he wrote the thing.”
I laugh. I can’t help myself. I’d never thought of “Atheists Who Kneel and Pray” as a love song. I guess it was a song about love.
“He doesn’t want me back, trust me.”
“Why not? How can you know that?”
“Because I left him six weeks after our wedding, Ethan. I never spoke to him again.”
Ethan stares at me, his mouth slightly ajar.
“I’ve not told anyone that until now,” I say softly.
“You married him? I thought you didn’t believe in marriage.”
“Yeah, I thought so too. That’s why I ran.”
“I don’t know what bothers me more, that you did that to someone, or that you never told me you did that to someone.”
The kettle whistles and I hide my tears by turning away to switch the burner off.
“Listen, it happened, and it’s the truth. I’m sorry for all of it, but I’m the one who has to live with the things I’ve done, not you.”
He looks like I’ve slapped him across the face. “Is that the way you see it? Like I factor in very little?”
The image of pedaling backward on a bike flashes through my mind. I can backpedal but I’m tired. I don’t want to defend myself to make Ethan feel better. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.
“Think what you like,” I say. “But if you’re even questioning me, we shouldn’t be together.”
Ethan leaves and then it is just me. I wonder if it will ever be any different. I don’t think about my mother often, but when I do, her memory is always accompanied by feelings of loneliness. She left me alone in our tiny flat when she went to work. She worked nights at the front desk of a hotel. I’m not sure how old I was when she first started leaving me alone, but I remember feeling tiny. I couldn’t reach the cupboard with the biscuits. I’d have to drag a chair to the kitchen and climb on the counter. What would have happened if I slipped and fell? My mother would have come home to a very small, dead child. No one would have even come to my funeral because there was no one we knew. My mother was from a small village in North England. When she got pregnant with me she left the village. As far as I know, she’s gone back and lives there now, but I haven’t spoken to her in years. When I asked her once if I had grandparents she’d said, “It doesn’t matter.” And that was valid, I suppose, because I technically don’t have a mother either, and it doesn’t matter. People live without things and they thrive.
My mother gave me a gift. It works against me, not for me. She was always irritated that I was around. As a child I tried to stay out of her way as much as possible because she didn’t like me to ask her questions. When she was home I watched her keenly, eager to please, always wanting to earn a half smile or any sort of acknowledgment. If she was reading and I’d drop something in the kitchen, her head would snap up and she’d glare at me. I’d feel like such a failure in that moment, like I’d failed her in the deepest way. She never hit me, and she rarely shouted. It was her quiet that was distressing. As an adult I am racked with guilt when I feel I have inconvenienced someone. That’s how it works against me. If I walk into a cafe and take the seat by the window, I feel guilt for being selfish, for taking the best table in the house when someone else could have it. If I buy a new pair of shoes and then see someone with no shoes, I want to strip mine off and walk barefoot for the rest of the day. Why should I have anything when someone else does not have what I have? I wonder if this affected the way I thought about David, because I always knew I had someone who was far better than anyone else. When Petra showed interest in him I lost my mind. Petra needed him more; they were more alike than we were. I could survive alone, but Petra needed healing and David could make the lame walk with his never-ending faith. In a sick way I thought I was doing everyone a favor.
It was wrong. I was wrong. I deserve love, but it’s going to take me a very long time to learn that.