An Invisible String

Another text.

With a laboured sigh I placed my phone face-down on my desk, hurt coursing through my veins like poison. I pushed my chair back, the wheels catching on the edge of my grey rug, which covered the floor in the middle of my bedroom. Three texts in two hours, all of which I left unanswered.  I sent my last reply twenty-four hours ago, a promise that everything was fine, but today, that began to seem increasingly more unlikely.

I crossed the room to my mirror, a full length one nailed to my wardrobe door; I took in the grey circles under my bloodshot eyes, the sickly pallor of my skin, hair that had gone un-brushed since the incident. I pushed my fingers through my matted hair, feeling the knots snap with the pressure I applied, and I watched as strands rained to the floor around my feet, some of them catching on the soft fabric of my grey jumper. Despite spending most nights awake, sobbing into my pillow, tears threatened to overwhelm me again as I looked at my pitiful appearance.

The coffee on my desk dripped condensation onto the fake-wood surface, getting colder with every second I neglected it; a morning coffee to revive me after a long night seemed like a good idea when I made it, but the smell instantly turned my stomach and I had to run to the bathroom before I vomited on the floor.

Another text.

I switched my phone onto silent and shoved it under my pillow, the very sight of the screen lighting up with another incoming text sending me into a spiral. My legs betrayed me, and I sank onto the edge of my bed, burying my face in my hands to stop the tears from streaming down my face uncontrollably as my shoulders shook with every shuddering breath I took. The pressure in my head alleviated slightly with each great, noisy sob, and the tightness in my chest loosened slightly. My phone must have been blowing up, but I couldn’t face it. I didn’t think I would ever be able to face it. Ghosting him, I had to admit, was immature, and definitely not the way a mature adult in a two year relationship should act. So, I really don’t blame you if you’re judging me right now, but maybe I should give you the whole story.

***

“So, what are you and Orla getting up to tonight, then?” Asked Jensen, over the cheerful bubbling of the kettle and the clatter of mugs. “Coffee?” He added, before I could reply.

Usually a coffee fanatic, I found myself unable to face it in that moment, much to my surprise and mild concern. I shook my head, “tea, please, I don’t feel like coffee today.”

He raised an eyebrow at me with a smile playing at his lips, “are you sick, or something?” He teased, planting a kiss on the top of my head when I squeezed past him to stick some toast in the toaster.

I laughed lightly, “I don’t think so – or at least I hope not, I might not make it to the pub tonight if I am.” I accepted my mug of tea and waited for the toast to pop up, while Jensen took a seat at the rickety old kitchen table, something that had been there when I moved in, and it felt wrong to move it. The clang of the toaster broke the comfortable silence we slipped into and I buttered two slices, sliding his plate across the table to him. We ate in that very same comfortable silence, the sun shining down on us through my kitchen window, exchanging small smiles as we ate and drank. Everything felt good.

We said goodbye later that afternoon, so I could get ready to go out, a lingering kiss on the doorstep of my little two-bedroom, bottom floor flat. I closed the door on the early September afternoon sun and made my way back to my bedroom, tipping the contents of my makeup bag onto the floor in front of my mirror and sitting down cross-legged. By the time I finished, my legs had gone dead. I got to my tingling feet and slipped a denim jacket on over my t-shirt and black jeans, wrestling on a pair of black boots and double-checking for my keys and phone. Satisfied that they indeed had not vanished from my pocket on the walk from my bedroom to my front door, I stepped outside and locked the door shut behind me.

If I could pick one word to describe my walk to pick up Orla at her house, it would be “draining”; my feet scuffed against the tarmac as I pulled myself along to Orla’s flat, my eyes drooping even as I crossed roads and lumbered down streets to my destination. I was dead on my feet by the time I reached her.

“It was honestly a nightmare!” Orla recounted the story of her most recent disaster-date to me with lively animation, over a glass of pink gin and lemonade in her kitchen. We had decided on a night in after she picked up on my exhaustion upon arrival at her flat. “He was just so rude, at the end of the night when I wouldn’t sleep with him he sent me his bank details to pay him back for the drinks he’d bought me, but I offered to do that in the first place, and he said no!”

I couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up at her indignant expression and rising pitch, “what? He actually sent you his bank details as, like, compensation?” I chuckled and picked at one of the tortilla chips I’d taken from the bowl on the table.

“Genuinely, he texted me them after dropping me off at my house, when I told him he could come in, but I wasn’t looking for anything to happen.” She shook her head, shoulder-length, bleached curls swinging from side to side. “You’re so lucky you have something so solid with Jensen, I’d love to settle down, but I dunno what we’d gossip about if I did.” A small smile twitched at her lips.

“Yeah,” I teased, “we’d have nowt to talk about if you sorted your love life.”

She giggled and took a sip of her drink, her round, blue eyes not leaving my face. Taking the hint, I had a sip of my drink and nearly gagged, “Jesus Christ, man!” I spluttered, “you trying to give me liver failure or something?” I set the glass down with a clatter as I tried to fight the nausea that arose in my stomach.

“Oh come on,” Orla wheedled. “You need to have fun sometimes, don’t be such a baaaby. We only ever have a couple, sometimes it’s fun to actually drink.”

I sighed, it’s not that I don’t like drinking (I’m northern, it’s practically part of my culture), I just don’t like drunk me; she’s someone that should not be allowed out to meet anyone, under any circumstances. It’s just embarrassing. Also, at that moment in time, the smell of pink gin (a drink I had always loved), was turning my stomach, making me feel like retching. I could not think of anything more disgusting, even as I placed the rim of the glass against my lips and took the tiniest of sips.

The night ticked on steadily, with Orla refilling her own drink between stories from her eventful life, hardly noticing that I hadn’t even finished my first drink. Eventually, she nodded at my barely-touched glass and said, “you okay?”

“Honestly, the smell’s turning my stomach,” I admitted. “I dunno why either, I usually love it.”

She laughed, “maybe you’re pregnant.”

For a moment, I laughed too, when a sudden horrific realisation dawned on me; along with being off all the things I usually enjoyed, I was also a week late. I turned to Orla stricken, a cold, sick fear pooling in the pit of my stomach, and her mouth formed the perfect ‘O’ of surprise.

“Oh…no…” She said slowly, “no, surely not-? Is your – are you…y’know?”

“Late?” I finished for her, “yeah, I am.”

“Oh hell,” she murmured. “Maybe we should pack in drinking, just to be sure,” she reached across the table and took the glass away from me. I watched her as she downed both the glasses herself, before rinsing them in the little steel sink in the corner of her kitchen.

Orla sat back down at the table and reached across to take my hands, “it’ll be okay, you can take a test tomorrow and whatever happens, we’ll figure it out.”

***

After taking the test, I couldn’t face telling Jensen until a week later, when we were curled up in my bed watching Netflix. His curiosity about my refusal of wine was the thing that prompted me; whatever I decided to do with the situation, he would find out eventually. I shifted my head off his chest so that I could look him in the eye, “I have something to tell you,” I said, the words a pathetic product of hours and hours of careful consideration and hyping myself up.

“Okay,” his lips hitched upwards with a smile. “Sounds serious, you’re not gonna tell me you’re dying, are you?”

I forced a laugh, then shook my head. “No, Jens, but this is serious.”

Jensen’s smile faded and he propped himself up on his elbows, his eyes searching mine with concern. “What is it? Are you okay?” His hand came up to caress my cheek and the simple motion nearly broke my resolve. Nearly reduced me to tears.

“I –“, I broke off almost instantly, trying to find my words. “Well, I’ve been off most food for the last couple of weeks and – erm – when it started, you remember I didn’t want coffee that morning? Yeah, well…I took a test the day after and, Jensen, I’m pregnant.”

Jensen stared at me for a moment, apple green eyes unseeing. Eventually, he choked out, “you’re pregnant?”

I nodded.

“Pregnant?” He repeated, his pitch rising slightly.

“Yeah,” I said calmly, hands held up as though to soothe an oncoming meltdown. “I am, but, we don’t have to go through with this, and if I can’t deal with things you can always leave. I don’t want you to feel any kind of pressure here.”

He took his hand away from my face and ran his fingers through his hair, looking rather demented. “Sasha, you’re unbelievable. I’m not upset about the pregnancy, I’m upset that you waited, what, a week? One whole week to tell me. We’ve spent nearly every night together since then and you couldn’t find one good moment to tell me?”

My hands went up defensively, rather than placatingly then. “I was scared! I didn’t know how to tell you; you’ve got no idea how scared I am right now!”

“Are you joking? Sasha, I am terrified! A baby? That’s terrifying, of course it is,” he sighed sadly, the fire suddenly gone from him. “But what’s scaring me most is that, even after two years, you feel like you can’t come to me when there’s a problem, one that involves both of us too.”

Turns out, those words broke my resolve, and great fat tears rolled down my face. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, trying to take his hands in mine, but he kept them clenched by his sides. “I’m sorry, Jens, it was stupid to not tell you, I was just so scared.”

He said nothing, shook his head. Jensen swung his legs off the bed and left the room, and moments later I heard the bathroom light being turned on. I curled up in bed, willing myself to fall asleep before he came back. Alas, sleep eluded me, its warm oblivion evading my every effort to acquire it; I pretended instead, kept my eyes squeezed shut when I heard his footsteps in the hall, my bedroom door opening. Even when he settled himself in bed, I did not open my eyes.

That night, we slept with our backs to each other for the first time in two years.

***

Until I went a long time without it, I never knew how much I relied on talking to Jensen, but without his company I felt like my right arm was missing; I kept going to check my phone, to text him insignificant news from my everyday life, before realising that picking my phone up would mean having to deal with everything, and I was doing my very best to avoid that. In the end, though, curiosity got the better of me and I pulled my phone out from under my pillow to check the messages.

They ranged from angry, to worried, to pleading, back to angry.

Of all of them, one in particular caused me to dissolve into a fresh wave of tears:

Sasha, please talk to me. We can figure all this out together, I just miss you so much. Please reply.

Followed nearly instantly by:

You can’t treat people like this – I’m involved in this too, it isn’t just about you.

I stared at the messages, my heart contracting painfully, the churning of my stomach a constant and unpleasant remind of the situation I found myself in. I missed Jensen like a hole had been drilled into my chest and all the warmth and happiness spilled out of it, but I had ghosted him for nearly a week now, spent every night awake sobbing into my pillow, the chances that he would even want to see me again were slim. Earlier in the week, after the initial fight, Orla had been round to try and talk some sense into me, and had consequently left looking extremely frustrated.

Enough was enough, I decided as I stared at the messages, my eyes sliding in and out of focus. I dialled his number, my heart pounding.

“Hey,” I said when he picked up, “can you come over?”

Twenty minutes later, Jensen arrived on my doorstep with a takeaway pizza and a four pack of alcohol free beer. “Thought it would be more responsible,” he said simply, holding up the beer.

It made me feel, if possible, more terrible. “Jens,” I began softly, but he cut me off.

“No,” he said, “I have to say something; okay, first of all, you cant just ghost me, Sasha, we’re a team, and your problems are my problems. Secondly, this involves us both, and whatever you want to do, I’ll support you. If you want to keep the baby, I’ll move in, I’ll take care of you, and if you don’t want to keep the baby I’ll come with you to the doctors. Sasha, whatever you decide, I’m here for you, but it really hurt to know you didn’t feel like you could tell me.”

I shook my head, tears welling up. “it wasn’t that, honestly when I found out I was just so scared that I froze. It wasn’t about not feeling like I could tell you.” I walked into his open arms, being encased in them brought me instant comfort. “I’m sorry, Jens, I love you so much, I’m sorry I hurt you.”

“I love you,” he murmured, kissing the top of my head. “I’m sorry too.” He held me at arms-length and looked down at me, he brushed a strand of hair from my face. “Do you know what you want to do yet, or have you just been trying to ignore it?”

I let out a slightly guilty laugh, “haven’t thought about it really.”

Jensen looked at me with a sort of shy excitement, “you don’t have to say yes,” he began slowly. “But, what if we kept it?”

A smile began to spread tentatively across my face, “I’d like that,” I said softly, surprising myself by how much I truly meant it.

“Really?”

“Really.”

We both laughed joyfully, he pulled me in for a kiss and my hands went into his hair. I held on to him as tight as I could, and when we eventually broke apart he smiled against my lips. He twirled a tendril of my hair around his fingers and whispered, “I love you so much, Sasha, there’s nothing that could change that.”

“I love you so much, too,” I breathed, “and I can’t wait to have this baby with you.”

We spent the rest of the night laughing, eating drinking and kissing. Jensen held me in his arms as we lay on my sofa and brainstormed baby names, discussed turning my spare bedroom into the baby’s nursery, and I found it hard to believe that things had been so fraught only hours ago. I had seen the end of my relationship, us finally separating after so long of feeling like I had found my soulmate. As it turns out, Jensen and I had an invisible string tying us together all this time, pulling us back when we strayed too far.

I tilted my head up to look at his smile, which was the thing that had drawn me to him in the first place; how his green eyes sparkled as his whole face lit up with happiness, how I felt I had never seen anything quite as beautiful as his happiness. I stretched up to kiss him, and settled down, looking forward to a new chapter in my life, shared with the man I would always love.

“Are you scared?” He asked, after a short pause.

“Yeah, I am.”

“Me too,” he admitted. “But we’ll be okay.”

I curled up tighter in his arms, safe with the knowledge that he was right, that everything would be okay.