The green light of forgiveness

“Claire… I know I probably shouldn’t have done that, in hindsight everything seems so clear, but maybe if you had been in my shoes you’d understand that- shit.” He exhaled, dropping his hands on either side of the sink, “this is never going to work, is it?” His reflection stared back at him from the bathroom mirror. He could see his tired eyes growing frustrated. It had been two weeks, two weeks, of ignoring each other and, rationally, he knew he had to be the one to put a stop to this. Obviously, the fact that his sister and all their other friends had taken her side didn’t help. Only John kept talking to him, because of course he did. That bloke would take every chance he had to rub it in face.

He walked to his living room dejected and almost had a heart attack seeing said guy sitting on his couch like he owned the place, biting into an apple.

“For fuck’s sake John, what are you doing here? How did you even get in?”

John took a pair of keys from his cargo pockets and jingled them in front of him, a casual shit-eating grin on his face.

“Where did you even get them from?! Those are my spare keys!” This was not a good moment. Robert was already frustrated and, honestly, John somehow breaking into his house was definitely not what he needed. What he did need, in fact, was a bottle of moonshine, a book, and silence which he could fill with self-deprecating thoughts and made-up scenarios of how he could go about apologising to Claire. John making constant snide-remarks about him did not fit well into his evening plans.

“No shit, Sherlock, they’re the ones you hide in the second drawer of your bedside table. Figured since neither you nor Claire needed them, I could call dibs.”

Robert sighed – of course he’d steal them. Just so he could come here while he was at his psychological worst and gloat. Because he had been right all along. Not that he would ever tell John that. “Hope the apple you stole from my pantry was worth the trip, because that’s all you’re going to get”, he said while heading towards the kitchen to grab a drink.

John followed him, of course. “You know, I understand it’s crazy, but I think this would all be much easier if, and really listen to me for once, you just… talked to her” he told Robert with his smug smile. For a second, Robert thought that his life must truly be miserable if he always had to resort to annoy everyone around him for pleasure, but he actually had to admit that at least John had a loving girlfriend and their friends weren’t mad at him (this time). Besides, he had a point.

“No shit, Sherlock” he bit back with a sickeningly-sweet, sarcastic tone. Unfortunately, that only made John’s grin wider, and he remembered why you should never agree with what the douche says.

“Well, then why haven’t you done that?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

Robert sighed again. He poured two shots of moonshine, silently passing one to his friend, who whispered a satisfied “ah, that’s the shit” before downing it.

After doing the same, he slumped on the couch, nervously passing his hand through his hair. Talking to John was easy, or at least it should have been. He was always straight to the point, didn’t care to sugar-coat things, and had absolutely no filters. Plus, by now Robert had gone through everything that happened at least a hundred times on his own. He knew what the issue was. He just wasn’t sure talking about it was enough to fix it, or indeed what to even tell her in the first place. Should he start by explaining his feelings or by apologising? Should he mention his reasoning for behaving that way, or would it make her become defensive?

“Dude” John interrupted his mental monologue, “I know you well enough to know that I could never torture you as much as you torture yourself”. They shared a glance and Robert snickered. Well, that was true. “And I know Claire well enough to know that she’ll forgive you if you just talk to her. She won’t understand, unless you tell her the full story, sure, but she’ll forgive you. And the others will come around to it too, once she does. Even your sister.” He gave him a pointed look, and he knew he was right.

“John… we aren’t talking about our usual day-to-day bickering here-“

“-which wouldn’t happen anyway if you just had the courage to have sex with her and be all sappy about the way you’ve loved her for years, but go off.” John interrupted with a wolfish grin.

“This is none of your business, John”, growled Robert, even as his cheeks flushed.

“Oh shut up, tomato. Do you really think we’re all idiots? Why do you think everyone’s with Claire on this? She’s heartbroken.” His voice turned suddenly serious and Robert could have sworn that for the first time in his life John looked… protective, of someone other than his girlfriend.

“I know I hurt her” was all he had it in him to say. Because, really, what difference would it make? Yes, she was hurt, but surely not heartbroken, Robert really couldn’t handle the implications of that kind of feeling. He’d known for a long time that Claire didn’t feel the way he did, which is why it had been best to keep her at arms’ length and resort to bickering. He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t realise what John was doing until it was too late and he was making a bee-line for the front door of his apartment, with Robert’s phone in his hands.

“John! What the hell did you do!” he thundered, rushing towards him.

But he just slammed the door snickering, “I told Claire you want to have a chat – oh, and don’t tell me what I can or can’t do, you’re not my real dad”, he shouted from the corridor.

Robert collapsed on the ground against the door. No, this couldn’t be true. He knew he could run after John and try to get his phone back, shoot a second text to Claire, apologising, asking her not to come. But he also knew that would turn him into an even bigger asshole. Rationally, he also knew that John had ripped a long-overdue band aid. He did have to talk to her. He had spent two weeks giving himself pep-talks, staying up all night to think of the what-ifs. He had speeches planned. The problem was, which one of the dozens he’d tried would be the most effective? He knew he had one shot to make it right and the stakes were far too high. Moreover, he couldn’t stop thinking about what John had said. Was it really that obvious what he felt for her? And could it truly be that she felt the same way he did? He stood there for a long time, unable to move, elbows on his knees and hands in his hair, on the brink of an anxiety attack, until he felt a light knock on the door.

“Robert?” her voice sounded small, delicate “are you okay?”

Of course, of course, after what he’d done she would be the one to worry about him. That just shot another pang to his chest. He scrambled to his feet, suddenly self-conscious about the way he looked, and the less-than-pristine state of his place, mentally berating himself for not taking the time to tidy up before she arrived.

So he took a deep breath and opened the door. He was met with her blue eyes scanning through him with worry and he noted that she looked tired, underslept, although certainly not like a complete mess. He was sure he did, though.

“Uh… come in”, he stammered. His anxiety was peaking, as were his murderous tendencies towards John, but he stepped aside to let her through the door and silently led her toward the living room.

“Are you alright?” She repeated calmly as she sat on the couch next to him. He didn’t miss how she sat far enough away from him, so that their bodies wouldn’t be touching, and nervously shifted in his seat. He was not alright, but he had no right to tell her that, he knew as much. Not anymore, not after what he did. Surely, he should start with an apology, see where the conversation went after that. At least she had come, something he wasn’t sure he expected her to do after how he had ignored her. However, he stole another glance at her and suddenly all the speeches he had prepared got stuck in his throat. He swallowed and shut his eyes, trying to erase from his memory the way she was looking at him. She looked so small and fragile, and it broke him in two to realise he had been the one doing this to her. Claire, fierce and confident, and brave, was sporting such an unusually vulnerable expression that tore him apart. He realised that it was selfish to expect her to always be the strong one, and he knew he had to do something, anything, to make this better. As the realisation hit him in full force, he took a deep breath, urging himself to find the words to repair this, but she preceded him.   

“Listen, Robbie…” she let out a shaky breath, “I’m sorry.” His head whipped to her, surely he misheard her? But she peeked at him through her moist lashes, a sad smile on her lips. She must have noticed his uncertain gaze, the way he licked his lips as if he was about to interrupt her, so she pressed, “Just… let me speak, please”. Her voice was low, tentative, and Robert found himself nodding. He hated himself, she really had nothing to apologise about, he knew the right thing to do would be to interrupt her and reassure her. And apologise, obviously. But the way her eyes twinkled mournfully at him only strengthened the lump on his throat. “I first overheard your sister talking about that PhD offer to Sylvia a couple months ago…” now it was her turn to shift in her seat, he noticed she looked uncharacteristically fidgety, “and I let it be, because I thought it was something new and that you’d tell me in your own time. I have to admit, I did feel a bit offended that you hadn’t told me you applied, I thought I was your best friend, after all. But I pushed it down. I thought perhaps you just needed time to sort through it on your own, first. But when… when I arrived at the pub the other week and heard everybody congratulating you and asking when you’d move out, I just… I just snapped”, she sighed. “I felt left out. I couldn’t understand why you’d hide something like this from me. All I could think of, is that you didn’t tell me because you were afraid I wouldn’t support you, that I would ask you to stay. It hurt, because that would have never happened. But now, I’m just terrified that my reaction confirmed your fears, and I want you to know that I’m sorry. It was selfish of me to think you should tell me first, I know I have no right to that… and I should have been more supportive, I should have told you how proud I am of you, rather than snap at you.”

He was sure he must look stupid, looking at her with furrowed brows, aghast at her words. Well, that was not how he had expected the conversation to go. She gave him another small, sad smile, it looked forced and didn’t quite reach her eyes. But she seemed to push through it, putting a hand to his thigh and giving it a soft squeeze. “Europe will be good for you”, she continued, “I’m sure you’ll get to sightsee a lot, maybe even visit Greece, or Italy, like you’ve always wanted. I know you’ll be happy there.” Her smile seemed a bit tighter, more controlled, and he couldn’t help but wonder whether she was trying to convince him or herself.

She made to stand and he followed suit, knowing full well he couldn’t let her leave like this. He had to say something. “Claire, I-“ he croaked, but she shook her head.

“Robert, we’re good. I understand.” There was finality in her words and he knew his chance was slipping through his fingers the moment she turned towards the door.

“No, Claire, you don’t.” This made her stop. “I should have told you.” He mentally berated himself, realising that his voice, heavy with emotion, didn’t have the strength, or courage, to continue.

She gave him yet another sad smile, he felt his heart shattering. “What’s done is done.”

She left after that, leaving him dumbfounded, staring at the door closing after her, wondering how it was possible that even after two weeks of internal struggle he still hadn’t managed to find the courage to talk to her.

John let himself in again around an hour later, looking like he had just bitten an especially sour lemon, and threw his phone back at him. At first Robert thought he was going to get shouted at. But when that didn’t happen, he admitted “I couldn’t do it. She was right in front of me, and despite how hard I tried, all the words got stuck in my throat.”

John didn’t sigh, didn’t make a sarcastic joke, didn’t raise his brows. He looked at him with an oddly serious expression, before growling “You should have tried harder.”

Robert stood up. “She apologised, John! I didn’t know what to say to that! I spent all this time trying to figure out how to ask for forgiveness, because I am damn well aware that I was out of line. But then she came here, looking so vulnerable and fragile, and she apologised, and- and… I was at a loss.”

Then his friend scoffed, shook his head, and left the keys on the countertop. “Well, maybe try living a bit less inside your own head and a little more in the real world, Robert”, he spat, “You’re on your own now."

As he walked through the door, Robert couldn’t help but feel an aching loneliness inside his very bones, wondering how he could have screwed everything up so monumentally.

He spent the following weeks packing his things, which gave him plenty enough time to replay the evening’s events in his head just about a million times. He had talked to his sister, who had a few choice words for him, but ultimately begged him with a resigned tone to please talk to Claire, grow some backbone, and work this out. Sylvie had been even more aggressive and refused to help him out. She ended the conversation with: “if you’re really going to leave without mending your friendship with Claire, you’re not half the man I thought you were”, which was pretty ruthless even from her. John just ignored him, until he snapped and told him to go cry about it to someone else, he could handle one person crying on his shoulder but not two. He knew it was a jab at him, meant to hurt him, but he couldn’t help but wonder if Claire was actually so upset that she was relying on John’s support. He couldn’t stomach the thought she was actually crying about him. So he soldiered on with the packing, feeling more alone than ever, and realising it was all his fault.

Two days before his flight, he texted her. He asked her if she was going to come to his farewell party the following evening. She declined, apologising, blaming it on her job, but he knew it was an excuse and his heart dropped. He knew it would come off as desperate, but he asked her if she would come to the airport to see him off. He was aware he had no right to ask her that, but hit the send button anyway before he could second-guess himself. She left him on read. So he did the first thing that crossed his mind. He took out pen and paper and wrote it all down. How he’d loved her for years but couldn’t bring himself to tell her, afraid to ruin their friendship. How he applied to this PhD to get away from it all, to start anew. How he couldn’t find the courage to tell her, because that made him feel like he was giving up on her, on his feelings for her, which was a necessary step but nonetheless a truly tough one. How he was afraid of hurting her, which only turned out to hurt her more in the end. How he should have known better. He poured his heart out, asked for forgiveness, and told her that wherever he was in the world, wherever he went, he knew deep down would never be far enough away to push her out of his heart. He told her he would be back, they could talk about it then, if she wanted. Then he took a walk, stopped in front of her house, and slipped the letter in her mailbox. As he was walking back home, he was surprised to realise that the constant heavy load on his shoulders that he had felt since that first fight was ever so slightly lighter.