The Show Must Go On

Chapter Forty: Labyrinth

Chapter Forty Soundtrack: Labyrinth by Taylor Swift

He's kissing me again. And again. He is kissing me like there is nothing else on earth. I am slowly forgetting everything else too. All that matters are his hands, gently pulling my hair loose from its clip, which tumbles to the floor, and now he is tugging me onto him so that I'm straddling him, chest to chest, and he is still kissing me.

He's hungrier, this time. He's right on the edge of too rough, as his teeth scrape my lip and then apologise with a groan.

I wind my hands up, into his dark hair, thinking of nothing at all except how he tastes, how his eyelashes flutter against my cheek. I can feel his fingers sliding down my shirt, toying at the neckline, and if I could talk I would beg him to hurry up. I have waited so long for him.

He murmurs something but I'm too busy kissing him. He pulls away, and I don't recognise the sound I make. It's like I'm in pain. It's painful to stop.

His eyes are soft and he looks up at me through his lashes. One hand traces my cheek and the other is splayed on my lower back, keeping me pressed against him. My lips must be as swollen as his. For a moment we just breathe.

'You're not engaged,' he says again.

I'm not sure I can speak. Instead, I show him my bare left hand. He presses a kiss into my palm. Fuck. My legs clench and he chuckles hoarsely against me.

'Why aren't you engaged?' He starts doing something distracting against my neck.

'He died.'

Nas freezes. I know what his face will look like. Everyone else I love has worn the same pitying expression and I can't bear to see it on him. I want to keep that heavy, hungry look on him instead, but it's too late.

'Oh my God. I'm so sorry.' His hands drop away.

Why does he sound surprised?

'You knew, Nas. You've known for years.'

He pushes me away. I feel cold all over. Somehow a button on my blouse is open.

'What are you talking about?' he asks, and then, tripping over his words, says, 'Ellie, I have no idea what you're talking about.'

I fumble with my button to avoid his eyes. 'Ben died almost three years ago, on the weekend before my first day here. That's why I delayed my start. You were such a dick about it.'

How could he have forgotten? He never forgets anything I say. He itemises everything in his mind, preparing a catalogue of future humiliations to pull from. He can't have forgotten this—unless it truly meant nothing to him. Unless he plays these games with everyone.

He's pale.

'Nasir.'

He doesn't respond.

'Fine.' I untangle my legs from his.

I can't believe I fell for it again. Has he got some sick bet on how many gasps he can pull from me? Did he just want to test if I was stupid enough to forgive him? Idiot, idiot. I should know better.

'I didn't know.' He finally moves and grabs my hand—my left hand. There's still a faint tan line from my ring. We both stare at it.

'I didn't know,' he says again. 'Barry—fucking Barry—he didn't tell me. I just knew that my job was being cut in half, I'd done all this prep for your arrival, and then you'd decided to start later. I thought you were just some privileged nepo hire, another one of his friends he's always bringing in.' His words are tumbling over themselves now. 'I mean, you wouldn't even drive yourself to set. I was pissed, and stupid. I had no idea.'

Driving. Of course. Of course he thought I was a princess; of course he rolled his eyes whenever I refused to travel. What I mistook for cruelty was sarcasm, certainly, and definitely insensitive, but he didn't know how deeply he was cutting. All this time, I thought he was poking my wounds, but he couldn't even see the scars.

All I can choke out is: 'You didn't know.'

'I thought you were engaged. All this time. I thought that's why you hated me—because you knew how much I wanted you. Because I made it so obvious.' His voice is desperate now. He wants so badly to be believed.

I laugh. It's stupid but I can't help it. 'You hated me too.'

He pulls back so that he can look in my eyes. Gently, he pushes back a strand of hair where it's falling into my eyes, and his hands linger on my cheek.

I have never seen him look this sad. Something has died in him.

'I have never hated you. I hated myself for wanting you. I hated the short skirts you wore—when I couldn't touch you, when I had to look at you.' His hand traces up my leg again to the hem of my skirt. 'I only wanted you. So much.'

His words should be triumphant. After all, I've made it clear that our desire is shared. But I understand his grief as though it's my own because, in a way, it is. What a waste of time. What a waste of lust and friendship and hurt, shared and ignored and batted between us. And now all that's left is the reckoning. He knows now how often he hurt me. And it devastates him.

I was so ashamed of moving on from Ben that I still associate desire with guilt. Nas was so ashamed of wanting me, when he thought I was engaged, that he pushed me away. How can we build on those foundations? How can we forgive each other when we haven't forgiven ourselves?

Even now, he has replaced one type of guilt with another. I see him cataloguing each time he's hurt me: by pulling away during our dance, or at my party, or from our kiss, to avoid crossing a line; mocking Ben's career when he thought I was still supporting him; rolling his eyes when I touched my ring. How could he know what damage that did? And now that he knows, how can he forget that?

We've become another reason to hate ourselves.

Quietly, he says, 'I thought you wanted me, sometimes. You didn't hide it. But I couldn't be your dirty little secret. I've been that too many times before.'

'I know. I was so ashamed, too.'

He leans in to bury his head against my neck. I feel his breaths, long and deep, against my chest. 'I don't know what we do now,' he admits. 'I don't know how to stop feeling like this.'

*

the misunderstanding is finally resolved! but alas, all is not yet sorted. 

did you guess that nas didn't realise? or were you just as surprised as ellie?