ONNAXOFF

Chapter 26

Abel

I already told the label that I had a theme for my new project. That isn't strictly true. So far I've got only got vague ideas for the feeling I'm going for. It’s enough to start putting in work on verses though, so I've been spending almost all my time at the studio. Times like this, when the creativity is flowing, I don't like to stop. Who knows when I'll be this inspired again?
The only downside to working 24/7 is the exhaustion. When I get home, I hop straight in the shower to wake myself up a little. It’s only 10.20pm. There’s no way I’m going to sleep now.

I come out of the shower to find a missed call and message from Jessie.
It reads:
"Can you come over? If you have time."

For a long 47 minutes, I ignore the text, choosing to lie on the couch and watch TV instead. But I can't focus on my show, with the message burning a hole in my pocket.
I haven't heard from her since London, almost two weeks ago. And now she's texting me, asking me to 'come over'? What does she want? It can’t be what we usually mean by that.

Her PS4's been waiting in my car for several days now. I've been planning to drop it off but I don't trust myself around her yet. I'm finally getting my shit together and I don't want to get sucked back in.
There are too many conflicting emotions. When I see her, I'm not sure if I'm gonna want to shout at her, or kiss her. I wanted to avoid the situation for a little longer, until I could be sure that I didn’t want her anymore. Or at least didn’t miss her anymore. But then came the text. Just eight words. No hello, no emojis. No clues.

In the end, my curiosity wins out and I grab my keys and head out.
____________

"Abel?" She seems surprised to find me on her doorstep. “You’re here.”
"Yeah. I got your text." She steps aside to let me in.
"When you didn't answer my call, I thought maybe... you didn't want to speak to me."
"Nah, I was in the shower."
"Oh. Anyway, thanks for coming."
"I've been meaning to drop this off." I hand her the PS4 box.
She takes the box appreciatively and places it gently next to the TV. Along with the gruff, bluesy voice of Otis Redding filling the large room, a few empty fast food containers lay scattered across the table. The couch is covered with blankets and pillows, like she's been sleeping on it.
"Uh, it's kind of messy in here, let's go to the kitchen." She says awkwardly, gesturing to the open archway.
"It's okay, I'm not staying long." I shake my head.
"Please?"
I pause for a moment, taking in her makeup-free face and worn, oversized sweater. She looks uncharacteristically vulnerable. A small, selfish part of me is slightly pleased that she's not taking this as well as I thought. But a larger, more insistent part is feeling a bit worried about her. I remind myself to stay nonchalant and follow her to the glass dining table near the large kitchen window.
"Do you want something to drink?" She offers.
"No, thanks." 
"Well, I'm going to go ahead and have some of this." She unscrews a bottle of vodka. "Kinda perfect weather for it, don’t you think?” 
"Jessie." I say, ignoring her attempt at small talk. "Why did you ask me to come over?"
She continues pouring out the drink and gulps it down in one go, grimacing as she puts the glass down. Finally, she takes a deep breath and answers my question.
"I've been doing a lot of thinking. Like, a lot. And I don't like how we... left things." Her fingers trace the rim of the empty glass. "Things got a bit out of control. And I think it could have all been avoided if I'd been straight with you from the start." No arguments there. I don't say anything, and she continues. "So I'm going to tell you. Everything. You might want to sit down for this."
At first, I comply readily but I start to hesitate as she takes a seat on the opposite side of the table. This is what I wanted, isn't it? So why am I changing my mind now? "Jess, you don't have to..."
"I want to." She interrupts, holding my gaze for a moment before she looks away. "This is kinda hard for me, so I would really appreciate it if you just let me get it all out before you say anything, okay?"
I nod as she drains another half-glass of vodka, and then she begins.
"You already know I'm from England. Well, I grew up in a place called Essex, just outside London. We lived in a pretty big house, considering it was just the four of us. Me, my parents and my older brother Daniel.
When I was two and a half, or maybe almost three, my mother killed herself. Apparently she got depressed after I was born and couldn't fight it. So she took a gun and shot herself in the head. Do you know the percentage of women who kill themselves with a gun?" I shake my head, speechless from the revelation. "No, me neither. But it's relatively small. Especially in England. Women usually poison themselves or OD. But not my mommy. No, she really wanted to die.
I was very young so I don't really remember her. After she died, my dad took down all the photographs of her. He didn't want the painful reminders. He never talked about her, not ever. It just wasn't allowed in our house. I wasn't even sure what she looked like until yesterday. Sometimes, I'd have this fuzzy image of a woman in my head. A tall woman with soft blonde hair and green eyes. But I had no idea whether it was a memory or just someone I made up. Then yesterday, Daniel showed up. He brought me this." She takes an old photograph out of her pocket and slides it across the table.
The photograph is of a young woman sitting on a set of steps with a little boy in her lap. She's blonde with green eyes. Just like Jessie's eyes. The photo was taken with the woman mid-laughter.
"She looks happy, right?" Jessie says musingly. "That's Daniel in her arms. I wasn't born yet. He was older so he remembers more about her than I do. But he never ever wanted to talk about her either." She takes a quick break to put a cigarette between her lips. Her hands are shaking too much to get the flame going so I take the trembling lighter and light it for her.
"Thanks. So that's my mother. My dad just... wasn't there. He hated the sight of me. Of course he never said that but we all knew. I reminded him of his dead wife. And he couldn't hide me like all the other things that reminded him of what he lost. He could send me away to school, but in the holidays I'd come back, like a resistant virus.
So he hid himself. At work, on business trips. He worked himself to the bone. I think to some degree, he was trying to make up for his failure at keeping her alive by making sure his business was successful. 
On the rare occasions that he was home, he wasn't really mean or violent or anything. Not usually anyway. He just stayed in his study. But there were some nights, when he'd been drinking, and the memories came back. And he'd get so angry.
One day, I was playing the guitar in the living room and he came in with a broken bottle. His breath stank of scotch as he shouted that my incessant strumming made him drop his bottle. That night, he gave me this scar." She lifts up her sweater to reveal the thin red line on her side. "He cried afterwards. He always did. Said it was an accident. He told the doctors at the hospital that I slipped and fell in broken glass after I broke the bottle." She takes a long drag from her cigarette.
"Before I went off to school, we had a nanny. She was okay but she wasn't the caring type. She cooked and cleaned and made sure we didn't do anything crazy but she didn't play with us or even talk to us really. So Daniel pretty much raised me. He was my… everything. 
In the holidays, other kids would go home and tell their parents everything that happened at school, about the friends they made, what they learned. I'd tell Daniel. He listened to all my stories, the only person who made me feel like what I said mattered. He taught me how to ride a bike. Oh and he used to make the best snacks; he invented the Jess special pizza. He's always been so smart and resourceful. Unlike me, he could study anything he wanted. If he had any interest in education, that is.
He used to experiment a little with drugs in London, but nothing like this. Nothing serious. My dad used to get so mad at him - he actually gave a fuck about his son - but I never understood what the big deal was. I figured it was just his way of rebelling. Mine was wasting my dad's hard-earned money on boarding school by failing all of my classes. Daniel's was occasionally coming home high.
But as soon as he turned 19, he packed up and left. He told me he was moving to Toronto with one of his friends and he'd come back for me as soon as they got a place and got settled. But he never did.” Another long drag.
“And then about three years later, when I was 18, my dad had a stroke while I was at college and passed away. I got all his money, the business and the house. It didn't matter though. I was all alone. So I surrounded myself with people. So called friends. Lovers. Anyone who could distract me from the fact that I had no one left.
The next few years are a blur. I got drunk a lot. Did a lot of shit I'm not exactly proud of. 
At a certain point, I think I hit rock bottom. I was on a bender, hadn’t been back home in about a week, just going from bar to party to bedroom to bar. Late one night, this guy I’d been talking to, drunkenly suggested that we steal a car. I don’t know why I said yes. I’ve made a lot of stupid decisions in my life, both sober and drunk, but that one was definitely one of the worst. We didn’t get very far before the police pulled us over. I got arrested and Eli had to come bail me out early in the morning after I spent the night in jail. I’d never felt shittier than at that moment.
After that, I decided I wasn’t going to waste my life being bitter and resentful about the past anymore. I was gonna let it go, move forward and just enjoy myself. I had all this money, I could travel wherever I wanted, buy whatever I wanted, learn any skill in the world… The possibilities were endless. As soon as I did that, things started looking up. 
I was making plans for a trip to Asia when Daniel called me one day, out of the blue, on my 22nd birthday, saying that he missed me and was sorry he hadn't been in touch. And that he didn't come home for the funeral. His excuse was that he didn't have enough money for the plane tickets. My dad cut him out of the will a long time ago. I guess he couldn't stand to see his only son go down the wrong path and thought that without the resources, he’d stop or something. How wrong he was.
Anyway, we spoke a few more times over the phone, and he asked me to move out to Toronto. It made sense at the time. I saw no reason to stay in London, living in our big house by myself when my big brother was back in the picture. And I’d wanted to travel, right?
So even though I'd never left England before, I jumped on a plane to Toronto with the few things I thought I’d need. I couldn't stay at his house, because he said he lived in a tiny place with two other guys, so I rented out a suite in a hotel. Your hotel. Just temporarily, while I looked for an apartment that we could live in.

Whenever we met up, he seemed a little different but I was just so happy that I had my brother back, I was willing to ignore the signs that everything wasn't quite right. But one day, he didn't show up to our dinner so I went to his home to find out what happened.
I wish I never did. I found my brother, my hero, lying in a filthy apartment, needle marks all over his skinny arms, shaking like a leaf because he'd run out of money to get his next fix." She brushes a stray tear off her cheek and finally makes eye contact with me. "I think I met you about a month later."

While she tells her story, as requested, I listen quietly, watching her stare out of the window as if she can see the past in the glass pane. Her face is completely open, the pain clear to see, for once. I’m impressed that she's managed to keep it hidden for so long.

"So, now you know everything." She sniffs. "I won’t keep you any longer. You can leave if you want."
"Why would I want to leave after everything you just told me?" I ask disbelievingly.
"Exactly because of everything I just told you." She replies sadly. "You were right. I am a mess. I'm irreparably damaged."
I recognise my own words in her voice and feel the slow burn of guilt in my chest.
"I shouldn't have said all that stuff when I was angry. I'm sorry. You're not damaged. If anything, you're one of the strongest people I've ever met." I tell her honestly. "You've been through so much and instead of letting it bring you down, you're still trying to move forward. You could have turned out so differently, you know that right?"
If I was in the same situation, with a shit ton of money and nothing better to do, I can see myself either ending up, like Daniel, with a serious drug problem or in prison. Or worse.
"I’m not as strong as you think.” She replies dismissively. “The truth is: I do care about you, Abel. A lot. So much, it scares me. When I first met you, I could never have guessed that you'd become so important to me. I've tried to distance myself from you, push you away, move away even. But it doesn't work. And I'm so tired of fighting it."
"Then stop fighting." I suggest softly.
“You don’t understand.” She sighs heavily. “I’ve never been… enough. I wasn’t enough to stop Daniel from taking drugs. I wasn’t enough to make my dad give a fuck about me. I wasn’t even enough to make my mother want to stay alive for me.” She sniffs and brushes away more tears. “Right now, I know you think you care, but eventually, you’re going to realise I’m not enough for you either. And you’re going to leave. It’s inevitable.” 
“I disagree.” I shake my head. “I think you’ve been really unlucky when it comes to family and that sucks. It really does. But don’t ever think you’re not enough. Especially for me. You’re more than enough for me. For real. You’re the only girl I’ve been able to see myself settling down with, in a very long time.”
"You really still want to be with me?" She asks incredulously. "This lame, broken version of me. Not the cool girl you met in the club, who was all about having fun and sex on demand."
At this point, I can't think of anything I want more.
"Yes. Jessie. I care about you. Finding out about your past doesn’t change that. I'm not going anywhere."
She returns my smile hesitantly. I can tell from her face that she doesn't believe me. And based on what she's been through, I can't blame her. But I decide right there and then that I'll do everything I can to prove it to her.
"Come here." I push the chair away from the table and hold out my arms.
First she stays put, her hands firmly wrapped around her empty glass, but after realising that I’m not going to give up, her face softens and she comes round to my side of the table.
Putting her legs on either side of mine, she straddles me and when I pull her in close, moulding her body against me, she buries her face in my neck. Her hair tickles my cheek and I smooth down the soft flyaway strands, inhaling the familiar scent of her shampoo.
We stay like that for a while, enjoying the music drifting in from the living room until she sits up, looking at me sheepishly.
"In the interest of full disclosure, I should let you know, I don't know how to do this... relationship thing. I've never been in a 'normal' relationship." 
"Who said it has to be normal? Our relationship is just that. Ours. We decide what it's like. If you want, I’m fine with doing exactly what we've been doing. With a few adjustments." I add thoughtfully.
"What kind of adjustments?" She tilts her head warily.
"Like, it would be cool if you slept over some nights. You don't always have to disappear while I'm asleep."
"I'll sleep over if you make breakfast." She cracks a tiny smile.
"You drive a hard bargain." I say, mock seriously, while lacing my fingers with hers. "But I'll see what I can do."
She surprises me with a soft peck on the mouth. “Mmm, I think this could be fun, actually.” 
This time, I lean in for a kiss, gently tasting the vodka on her lips. Palm to palm. Chest to chest. It already feels different. In a good way. Like she's not holding back as much as she usually does. But before I can get into it, she pulls away.
"By the way, I hate PDA so I'm not going to kiss you on the street."
"Girl, there’s no way I'm even going to hold your hand in public."
She looks down at our intertwined fingers with a warm smile and squeezes. "Ugh, hand-holding. Gross."