SIX
Zeus
The bike ticks as the engine cools, the garage thick with the smell of hot oil and burnt fuel. I pushed it hard to get home, frustrated that I couldn’t go against John, even after the suffering I’ve put myself through these past years.
I’ve longed for the day when Belle would be back on home turf, and then when she is, what do I do? Freeze. She had to initiate contact. I said to John that I’d stay away, but I never said I’d turn her away if she came to me first.
I leave my keys and phone on the bed and head across to the drawers to get myself a clean T-shirt. An afternoon on the bike with the sun beating on my back left me hot and sweaty. Although nowhere near as hot under the collar as I got seeing Belle behind me in the queue. What are the fucking chances? I didn’t recognise the car, but if she’s fresh in the country she won’t have her own ride yet.
What was she doing there? And why the hell didn’t she get out of the car after she pulled over? With a groan, I run my hand through my hair and then strip my shirt off. The fabric hits the wall with a dull thud before sliding to the floor. I step into the attached bathroom and run the tap, wondering if I scared her by coming up behind the car like that. I had to know if it really was her, and I had to know what she’d do when she could see without a doubt it was me. Cold water hits my face, but nothing wakes me from this funk. Fuck, I lost myself the day she left. Fucking slipped off the straight and narrow road John helped me get on and freefell into oblivion.
I dry my face off, scrubbing the fibres of the towel hard against my face out of sheer frustration. Maybe I did do the right thing buying that ticket? After all, if she’d stuck with me, then where would she be now? What would she have done when I went back inside? The thought that I might have given her no option but to crawl back to John with her tail between her legs sends shivers down my spine. Not to mention the fire it ignites when I think how smug Cerise would have been.
Fuck. The bitch is probably smug now. I wouldn’t know; I haven’t seen her since it all turned south at the barbecue.
My phone lights up from the bed, drawing my focus as I step back into the bedroom. A Facebook notification shows on the screen before it slides back into black. I track across the room, pulled to the goddamn devil in a hard case, and check to see if Belle has sent me a request now.
Nope. Nothing.
I flick through to the new message instead and relax a little at the news. I met with the Jerry guy Ed told me about; turned out his last name is Connell—his father started the business. Ed’s story about employee training was legit, and with the tickets I already hold, Jerry seemed keen to get me on board with the view to moving me through the company.
For once in my goddamn life, my criminal history didn’t seem to matter. The guy judged me purely on my performance at work, and now he’s messaged asking for references and contacts.
Now I have the awkward job of providing them and in turn alerting my current boss to the fact I’m looking to go elsewhere.
Fun times.
I opt to leave my shirt off and carry the phone through to the living room to get a brew from the fridge. With the top cracked, I settle in the armchair and open Facebook to navigate through to Belle’s profile. I used to do this daily at the start, scroll her feed looking for anything new, and then I became better at managing my obsession. I blocked her.
I resisted since then, never once stalking her profile to torture myself with images of what I could never have. Even convinced myself that I was doing great, beating those goddamn demons down and taking control of my life.
What a joke that was. I simply denied the truth and buried my head in the sand. My need to know, my desire to be a part of Belle’s life, is as strong as it’s ever been. I’d just tuned myself out to the noise of the regrets is all.
Her profile is locked down with only things mutual friends have tagged her in visible. I tap on the About section, and even that is blank thanks to her privacy settings. My shoulders lift with the deep breath I take as I set the phone down. Truth be told, I don’t know if I can wait for her to make the first move.
She sat there in that fucking car, wide-eyed as though she’d seen a ghost. I studied her in the bike’s mirror, every little thing about her that’s different. Her hair is darker, blacker than the dark brown I remember, and she seems to have leaned out judging by the visible collarbones. Belle also has ink—lots of it—but I guess that goes with the territory when you’re an artist.
Fuck—of course, you dumb shit.
If she’s worth her salt as an artist, she’ll have an Instagram page for her work. I furiously tap through on my phone and search her out, my heart resounding in my ears as I find her in the results. The excitement quickly fades, though, when I see that her entire page is just her work, nothing with her in it. In a lastditch effort, I tap the icon on the far right for posts she’s been tagged in.
My faith in the world is restored.
There, in all her beauty, is Belle. The first few images are other people showing off their work, but third line down, taken against the backdrop of what I guess is the shop she worked in, is Belle beside a shorter girl with pastel pink hair. I stare at the image for a ridiculous amount of time, my earlier mood returning tenfold.
I’ve never hidden the fact I miss her, never lied about the fact I regret setting her free. I’ve also never shared those feelings with anyone other than Jodie, because who else do I know that wanted to hear about it? My best friend became a distant acquaintance, my small circle shrinking to a near invisible dot: me.
I buried my truth deep down where good things go to die, and I became this guy. Who the fuck is he, even? I came out of prison determined not to give in to what’s easy and fall back into old habits. I came out determined to be a better man. But what is a better man? Some guy who pretends his loneliness is a part of his life that he actually likes? Some guy who hides the heart of who he is behind a bullshit icy exterior that solely exists to push away any potential harm building relationships might do?
After all, if I don’t care for anyone, I don’t care if they’re no longer there, do I?
You can’t miss what you never had.
I need to move on, to stop wasting my life in limbo, just as Jodie said. And to a point, I think she was right when she said contact with Belle might be the only thing that will do it. I need to hear from her lips, from Belle’s own mouth, that she no longer wants a thing to do with me. I need her to cut the cord.
I set her free, sure, but who the fuck am I kidding when I say it was without the expectation she’d come back to me? John might have convinced me that I did the right thing given how naïve Belle still was at eighteen, but who was naïve when it came to thinking I could ever let go? Did I really think a woman as gorgeous as her would spend years overseas without the offer of more, of something better?
She said once that I projected my fears onto her, telling her that I was worried she’d walk away when she realised how impossible what we had was. Did I do that? Did I push her into another guy’s arms?
Fuck. I slam my head back on the seat, eyes closed. My mind is a tangled mess when it comes to that woman. I’ve carried the burden long enough; time to let my dove know just what she did to me when she pushed up on her toes and pressed those lips to mine.
I open the messenger app and hover my thumb over the screen before switching to the notes app. I’m shit with words when it comes to getting my thoughts down on paper—or device, as it is. I’m better hashing this out before I accidentally send her a jumbled mess.
The last half of my beer slides down with ease as I prime myself for the most important message of my life. She might be happy with some other guy, but I won’t be happy until she knows exactly what she gave up on.
Time to put the issue of Belle to bed, once and for all.