Now We're Even (#Wattys2017)

viii) memory

Everything was quiet, and James could hear the pounding of his own heart.

He sat there, his breath resounding through the air, and forced himself to look at Ali.

He knew that Ali was fast asleep- that there was no way he could hurt anyone- but he was still shaking. Every nerve was screaming, telling him to get as far away as possible.

But he didn't move.

Ali looked almost peaceful in the dying light of the afternoon. It slipped through the cracks in the blinds and illuminated his face ever so slightly. He looked calm, relaxed. His hands were unclenched and settled against the bedcovers. His long, dark hair fanned out against the pillow.

If this had been a different situation, James would have made a joke. Well, your hair's grown a little bit since I last saw you. The only problem was that the last time James had seen him, he had almost died. That kind of thing didn't exactly translate into jokes, into friendship or even just tolerance. It translated into nerves, and fear, and waking up every night afraid that it would be your last. It translated into being unable to look anyone in the eye, afraid that someone would jump you.

But still. James drew a shuddering breath, then let it out in a muted sigh. He forced himself to count to five, then ten, then fifteen. Ali was asleep. He couldn't hurt him.

But James could hurt him right back.

He had thought about it, sometimes, when his fear turned into anger and tears turned into clenched fists. He had thought about driving back down to Mexico, to knocking on that apartment door. He had thought about beating the shit out of Ali.

And maybe he should have done it, but he never did. He stopped himself every time. Maybe a part of him knew that it wouldn't solve anything- maybe another part of him knew that he was more likely to get hurt himself.

Now was the perfect opportunity. He could get up, go get a knife. How the hell do you like that, asshole? He'd ignore Ali's screams, ignore Larissa's knocking outside the door. Did you think I would like it? Did you think you were doing the right thing?

Fuck you.

He could have done it. It would have been so easy.

But he stayed in the room, stuck to his chair, and watched Ali sleep. He sat there for half an hour, flinching every time Ali rolled over or stirred. And, with every passing moment, he completely forgot about his anger. He forgot about his fear.

He thought about the old days.

He used to bring me flowers.

Not a lot, but when I did things right, like when I got top marks in an exam or something. He'd bring me sunflowers, I think. And I'd take them and smile, and he'd smile too, and then we'd have sex on the couch or against the kitchen counter. It was just like that, I guess.

And when I was upset, he'd get me peppermint tea. He knew I hated it- but he told me that the taste would take my mind off things. And, in a way, he was right. It was disgusting and I hated drinking it, but at least I had something to focus on.

I wish I could do the same thing now.

James wished, in that moment, that he could hate Ali. That he could only remember the bad moments, that he would only think about the times they fought, the times that words dug into his skin and cut like knives. He wished that he could pretend that it had been the worst relationship of his life, that it had destroyed him.

Of course, it had, but only at the end. Up until the end, it had been good. Even great.

"We did good, huh?" James whispered, his words hanging in the stillness of the empty air. "We were good."