Captain Syverson x 1st person "reader" (I absolutely wrote it intending for her to be black btw)
Words: 1,742
Warnings: Heartache. Pain. Saddness.
Not beta'd (do people still do that?) I'm human. Mistakes happen. (if only you could SEE how I edit. It's chaotic.)
Homecoming š
Time seemed to freeze upon seeing them walking up my driveway. Watching the men cross the large bay window, I felt my heart shatter into a million pieces as their attire confirmed who I thought they were. Captain Devin Marx and Chaplain Reedy. There is only one detail that I could think of that would call for cause to have the chaplain present. I felt the chill in my skin as my body broke out into a sudden sweat from the anxiety running through me. Blood rushed to my head drowning out the sound of their knocking. My breathing coming in short bursts while my heart began to beat so hard against my chest.
The shrill sound of the doorbell snagged my attention bringing me back to the present. I looked down at the knife I was gripping so tightly my knuckles began to change color, quickly placing it down on the cutting board before heading towards the front door. With shaking hands I reached out for the door handle, taking an unsteady breath as I pulled it open revealing the two soldiers in their dress blues.
āGood morning, Mrs. Syverson,ā Devin greeted.
I could hear the tremble in his voice. This was going to be difficult for him as well. He and Erik were the best of friends. I met his wife Stacy not long after they got stationed here. The two of us hit it off almost immediately and I ended up inviting them for drinks later that night. When Erik came home from work he told me about the new Captain he met and how he also invited them out for drinks. Since then the four of us grew close as siblings and I assumed that Devin volunteered for this detail. Despite the complete agony I would feel in a moment, I was grateful that it was a familiar face delivering the news.
āM-may we come in?ā He stammered.
I almost lost it with his stutter, but I held back, forcing myself to breathe. Not trusting my voice I nodded quickly and stepped aside to allow the men to enter. They removed their hats as they crossed the threshold and waited for me to close the door before following me into the living room. I gestured to the large sofa for them to sit on while I perched on the love seat across from them.
Fidgeting with my outgrown nails I glanced at Devinās hands as he wrung his beret within his fists. Something that my Erik does when heās nervous or anxious.
Did.
Does?
The silence grew deafening as I allowed Devin time to compose himself. My heart slamming against my rib cage with every passing second. It felt like hours before Devin started his scripted speech.
āThe secretary of the Army has asked me to express her deep regret that your husband, Erik Syverson, was-ā He swallowed hard and my hand flew to my mouth, āwas killed-,ā I let out a sob that sounded more like a yelp, āin action while on a mission in Kuwait. The details of which are still being investigated. The Secretary of the Army expresses her deepest sympathies to you and your family for your tragic loss.ā He rushed through the ending his sobs fighting to break through.
I closed my eyes, the tears I had been holding back for so long spilling over in a waterfall down my cheeks. I was intimately aware that this could happen. I held it in the back of my mind everyday since I first saw Erik Syverson, in his uniform, smile from across the bar. I knew this was always a possibility. I lived around soldiers my entire life and I tried my hardest to avoid falling in love with one of them for this exact reason. I never believed that I was strong enough to cope with news such as this, I still donāt believe it. I knew I had to be strong though, he would have wanted me to be strong but I was struggling. I took a deep shaky breath as he finished speaking.
Lifting my head I offered the men a soft smile, āThank you, gentlemen.ā My voice slightly wobbling on the end. I pulled back a sob as I felt my soul breaking. My legs felt wobbly, I knew they wouldnāt hold me up and I couldnāt collapse just yet. My hands were shaking so I held tightly to my torso because I couldnāt shatter just yet.
Devin leaned forward reaching for my hand, āAaliyah-ā I put my finger up to stop him. I knew whatever he was going to say would break my resolve and I couldnāt break, not yet, I couldnāt accept it just yet. I didnāt want to.
āIs there anything else?ā I asked with a calming breath.
Chaplain Reedy had been silent through out all of this. He kept his head down but when I glanced over at him I could see his lips moving as if he were praying. He started when he realized that we both were looking at him. He turned and pulled out a manila envelope from beside him emptying itās contents and gently placing them on the coffee table as he explained what they were. Appointments to be made to have his things signed over and delivered. Who to contact about Widowās Benefits and a few other things I would need to know regarding the death of my husband.
Widow.
Interesting.
I barely heard any of it, I only cared about when my Sy would come home to me.
āThe plane carrying the,ā Reedy paused quickly looking over at Devin and second guessing the word he was about to say, āthe Captain and his unit is scheduled to arrive by the end of the month.ā He neatly stacked the papers on top of the envelope and gently pushed them closer to me. āIf I may, Mrs. Syverson.ā I looked him in the eye and felt my breathing begin to go jagged, āI am truly sorry for your loss. I spoke with Captain Syverson a time or two when he would pass by the chapel. We shared some very...enlightening ideas. He was a very good and honest man.ā
Was.
āYou know,ā I finally said after a long pause to collect myself, āI kept telling Erik that he needed to retire so that he could be home more,ā I scoffed at the memory, āand so I wouldnāt have to worry about him going to war. He told me that he was going to really consider it once he got back.ā I chuckled at the irony.
With a sense of finality I cleared my throat and stood from my seat. The men followed suit and I walked them back to the front door. I held it open for them as they exited. Devin turned back to me and reached for my hand once his hat was properly placed back on his head.
āIāll send Stacy over in a moment.ā I nodded as I choked back a sob. I could barely see him as the tears welled up in my eyes. The dam had crumbled. The flood was imminent, āIf you need anything, anything at all, do not hesitate to call us.ā
āThank you, Devin,ā I whispered, before giving him a quick hug and closing the door as he turned to leave.
I leaned back against the door and felt everything begin to break. From my head to my toes I felt my entire being begin to crumble. As if I were made of sand I felt my body dissolve from beneath me as I slid to the floor. I finally allowed the cry that I had been holding in consume me as it reverberated off of the, now, too empty walls of my home.
***
I stood on the tarmac next to the airplane with the other surviving spouses. We held each otherās hands as we awaited the conveyor belt to finish being brought up to the cargo hold. Mother Nature must have felt the sadness in the air, for it began to drizzle while we waited. I could feel the eyes of the passengers behind us waiting for their flight in the warmth of the dry airport. Surely someone on the loud speaker would have told them to turn and look at us, so of course they would want to point and stare.
I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and heard the scraping of metal from the plane. I could only stare as the first casket came into view. My body went numb, I barely felt the woman next to me squeeze my hand. The buzzing in my head was so loud I didnāt hear when the honor guard was called to attention. As Erik Syverson was the highest-ranked, he came out first. I felt cold, frozen in place, but not once did my eyes ever leave his casket. I watched with heavy breaths as The Captain led his charges one last time.
He stopped in front of me and I stepped forward with the rest of the spouses. I placed my hand on the cold, hard, wood, draped over with the cotton banner.
āHey, Sugar.ā I greeted him, my voice shaky. I was doing my best to maintain my composure, āWelcome home.ā
With my hand shaking, I braced myself as I leaned forward and placed my lips against his casket and lost the battle of choking back the sobs. The bugler began to play āTapsā and I nearly lost my balance. Reaching my other hand out I braced myself against the conveyor belt trying to hold myself steady, fearing they would pull me away from him too soon. I felt the tears I had been holding back this entire time well up in my eyes and begin to spill over. Silent sobs escaped my body as the music continued.
So consumed in my grief I didnāt hear when the song ended, I only felt someone come up behind me and touch my lower back. I snapped back to reality and stepped back, wiping my face on a black handkerchief with gold embroidery, to allow the honor guard to grab onto the casket. I placed a hand to my swollen belly and willed myself to follow them as they loaded him into the hearse.
After seven long months away, he was home. My Sy was finally home for good.
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This year keeps on surprising me because I never thought Iād be seeing Henry Cavill and Jake Gyllenhaal as an old married couple who extracted damsels in distress in their free time in a movie directed by Guy Ritchie
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Listen, I said I wanted Sassy Cavill and hot damn did they fucking deliver. Lemme go make a financial decision that I may never recover from real quick. (I'm American, $25 is A LOT right now)
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Authorās note: Itās been a while since I wrote fan fiction. I hope itās good! Any other warnings I need to add, please let me know!
The heavy rumble of the train isn't loud enough to drown out the static fuzzing across the grooves on my brain. I flit between closing my eyes against the stimuli ā the laughing families, the groups of friends⦠the couples, and taking in the beautiful countryside. For a Tuesday, the train is relatively busy, which is irksome since the only reason I am travelling on a weekday is to avoid these annoying crowds. There arenāt any bank holidays, as far as I am aware, so why are all of these people here? Why am I here?
I lean my head against the window, extend my legs out, going as far as to sneak my foot up onto the empty seat facing me. Iām not supposed to. Societal custom dictates it. The train conductor dictates it. But society has pissed me off today by being on this train, which I was sure was going to be empty. I can just take my foot away if the conductor comes along. I keep my headphones on, even though Iām not listening to anything. I want to give off an air of mystery because even though I donāt want to admit to myself, I want someone to notice me today. Someone to flirt with me and I want to act coy in response. Itās not a newly single thing, because I wanted that to happen even when I was with Matt.
I shift in my seat at the thought. I donāt want to think about how Matt should have broken off things with me rather than the other way around. I donāt want to be in love. I want to be in the idea of love. I donāt know. I just want to get there now. This is taking too long.
Keeping my head against the glass, I watch the countryside morph into a small dwelling with cute houses. I spot their Main Street where all the shops are, the one pub that probably closes at 11. I let myself smile at the domesticity of it. This will be good for me, I think. Living in the city has made me angrier. Numb to all things good. Maybe the simple life with the one street with all the shops, the designated pub, the one decent restaurant is exactly what I need. Somewhere nobody knows me and there arenāt any places for me to be found.
The train ambles onto another stop in its route to its destination. I donāt bother looking for any signs that indicate where we are. I counted the number of stations between where I started and where I need to get off and after this one, there are four stops left. I look beyond the people lining up at the doors into the station itself.
Itās small. One of those where there are only two platforms. Small town, small station, small houses. Small life? Surely not. I bet itās one of those places where the kids graduate school, go out to uni in the nearest city thinking itās the start of their lives only to find out that they miss their one cafe where they hung out with their friends. Or where those kids came back, meet someone they went to school with but never spoke to them until right then, fell in love and stayed. Because at their core, people want to love and be loved. Everyone has their version of the ideal domestic life and almost always, it involves another person who prioritises them and loves them. What the hell is wrong with me that I can have all of that and not want it?
I donāt have time to dwell on it, because there is a massive hand waving in front of my face, wrenching me away from my thoughts. Couldnāt have come sooner, I was ready to spiral out completely. Without looking up, I take my foot off the seat in front of me, thinking the man just needs a place to sit. I sit up straighter in my seat to give him more space for his own legs.
From the corner of my eye, I see a large figure settle in the spot where my foot had been. I sneak a glance at his face to see if heās looking at me. He isnāt. What he is, is fucking handsome and built like brick shithouse.
He is also Henry goddamned Cavill. My knee starts bouncing, and I know he sees it. Without looking directly at him, I place a hand on it to get it to stop. He used to do that when Iād rest my legs on his lap and theyād start shaking. I shake off the memory.
Should I say something? Would it be cute if I gave him a smile? Or would he think Iām some stalker?
From what I apprize of him with a quick look, the years have caught up to him. He still looks great. But there is a⦠tiredness that has settled under his eyes. Has he seen me? Silly question, of course, he has. Does he recognize me? He probably does, and he isnāt saying anything because he doesnāt want to stir up the past. Or he doesnāt want to get caught up in the whirlwind of neediness that was the nineteen-year-old me. Iād laugh if that thought didnāt make me want to cry. Iād move if the train wasnāt filling up. Or if it didnāt seem like I was moving because of him.
God, I wish heād look at me and smile. He knows heās pretty so I canāt be coy with him. I avert my eyes again. It feels like a cruel joke. Itās not like I donāt know what he looks like naked. But here he is, sat right in front of me, close enough that I could touch his foot with mine, if that wasnāt the creepiest move in the world, and I canāt even look at him. If I do, then heāll eventually look at me and see another fan. Worse, heāll recognize me as the undergrad he once slept with ages ago. If I look at him, I might actually try to flirt with him. I put a hand on my knee to make stop bouncing, uncontrollably. If it wasnāt super obvious, I would have pressed two fingers on my pulse to check my heart rate to confirm that itās beating so hard that it makes my ribs hurt.
Fuck, is this punishment?
The next hour goes by much in the same way as the rest of the trip. The only exception is that more and more people stop at my seat, either to ogle at the movie star in front of me (who wouldnāt) or to just go up to him to ask for a picture or an autograph. I keep my headphones on and pretend to sleep, so nobody would ask me to take the picture for them. God, why am I like this? Just say hi. Or I could tell him that I get it. Iām a lot to deal with and itās okay. That would be weird if I said that. I keep quiet.
Matt always said that I always psyched myself out of a good thing. I tried doing it when I had been writing my first book and god knows, Iād done it before I started querying agents. Much like this situation, I had asked myself, do you really think this is going to work? Itās not a story. I have no control, here. I have no control anywhere. Whatās the point? It had been Matt to convince me to do it. And despite all of that, I couldnāt bring myself to love him the way he loved me.
My eyes snap open, and I bristle in my seat for a moment. I donāt think itās big enough to disturb anyone around me, but my sudden movement catches his attention. I can tell that I have eyes on me, in my peripheral vision. Iām probably making it up. My brain doing its brain things. I donāt turn. I barely breathe. After what feels like eternity, the train begins to amble to a halt at my destination.
I get up before it stops completely. I feel the heat of someoneās attention at the back of my neck. I shake my head, convincing myself to get out of la la land. Heās not looking at me. Itās a struggle to get to the baggage hold, weaving through people. Living in a major megapolis for the better part of ten years has made it easier to shirk off the guilt of being rude. So, I gently place my palm on strange shoulders to signal them out of my way. I feel their annoyance directed at me when they have to squeeze in the limited space to let me pass. I wish I could tell them I feel it too. But theyāre strangers, and theyāre probably going to the countryside for a relaxing holiday rather than tucking tail and scrambling for a fresh start somewhere nobody knows them. So I keep it to myself.
Luggage secured, Iām ready to make a break for it once these doors finally open. City life has made it so that my nerve endings feel like theyāre on fire. There are no deadlines, no opening hours or appointments that I am late for. Iām still bouncing on the ball of my toes. Iām going to need to take a cab. Iām going to have to get a car, eventually. I donāt like driving. Maybe a motorbike. Can I afford one? Is it feasible to just have a motorbike? What about groceries?
The train doors opening interrupt the beginning of my spiral. I hope out on the platform, lugging my huge suitcase. Everything is a tick box exercise. Eyes forward, ticket scanned, cab stand located. The air is cleaner, but I donāt take the time to appreciate it. I hope into a can, rattle of the post code and sit back. The driver asks where Iām coming from. Have I been here before. I keep my answers short. People are chatty here. Iāll need to remember that. Maybe I can buy a motor-bike instead of a car.
When the driver catches on that I am not one of the chatty ones, he quiets down and rolls down his window. The cleaner air stings against my skin, laying goosebumps in its wake. The view is more of the same from the train. Grass, houses, some cows. I see horses, too. I smile and give them a little wave. The houses make me think about whatās inside them. Years of memories and care, probably. Everything carefully placed, every space with a purpose. My own house, purchased in a hurry, not to mention, exorbitantly marked up than asking price, is blank. Do I have the same care to fill it in these ways? Matt did most of the decorating at the flat in London.
He bought flowers for the balconies. Petunias, because I had asked for something colourful. I never asked him what flowers he wanted. Did he take them with him when he left? I never checked. Maybe I should have taken the sofa. Or the bed, but he bought that too. He cared. So much. Why couldnāt I? Fuck.
Thereās a loud buzz and I lose my train of thought again. Iām glad to, but it takes me a second to remember where I am. Itās a text from Margo. Sheās checking in. Because she cares too.
Margs: Are you there yet?
Me: Almost. In cab.
Margs: Decent journey?
I start to type out the words to tell her about how Henry fucking Cavill was sat right in front of me. But I delete it halfway. I lived on this womanās sofa for over two months while I sorted out this move. My escape, more like. I want to tell her about our history, and that I wanted to flirt with him. That I feel so silly for wanting to flirt with him. But sheās probably had enough of my boy drama for a while, I think.
Me: Not too bad. Slept most of the way.
I put my phone away and donāt check when it buzzes again. My minds too fuzzy to comprehend anything right now. Maybe when I actually feel something, Iāll respond to her. To the number of friends who found out about the break-up and have been checking in. Asking if Iām okay. Asking if I need anything.
Silence. Thatās what I want to tell them I require. Quiet and peace. But itās rude. I also donāt know how I need to be right now. I know I should be sad about it, but I am decidedly not sad. Not about not being with him, any more. That part is a bit of a relief actually, but theyāre expecting sadness. A broken me that they can help put back together. Itās too complicated to tell them that I am broken in a different way to what theyāre expecting. That more than anything, I feel nothing, and I am scared that itās all I will ever feel.
Margo gets it. Sort of. She gave me space when I stayed with her. Talked to me about books and food and only brought up Matt when she saw me looking out into space, thinking I was thinking of him.
I had been thinking of him, actually. But not in the way that she thought. I had been thinking about whether I should tell him the truth. That I could have lived with the drinking, which is why I told him that I was breaking up with him, but I couldnāt live with the feeling that this whole thing was wrong. That every time I thought about my life ten years from now, he was nowhere near that picture. That would be cruel. Best to let sleeping dogs lie, I had told her. She had gone quiet, then. I knew she didnāt know what to say to that. Maybe Margo started looking at me differently, then. For now though, she still cares enough to check in.
I take my phone out to check her last text.
Margs: Let me know if you want to have a call later
I smile a little.
Me: I will
By the time I look up, the cab has pulled into a cul-de-sac, and it stops at the little mews house that I recognize as my own. I have a house now. Itās not massive, which I like. It actually has a back and front garden. There arenāt any neighbours in the strictest of sense. No houses beside my property, but a few scattered about, so itās not abandoned. When I step out of the cab, I see another car pull up to another house on the street.
The cabbie has pulled out my heavy suitcases from the boot by the time I have turned around. I hand him the cash, the man smiles politely, tells me to have a pleasant evening. I say thank you and smile back. Heās back in his car before he can see it though. Itās fine. Maybe I should have chatted to him a bit more. Asked him his name or something. But heās reversing out of the driveway now.
I hear another car door slam shut, and I know itās my neighbour. I could say hello. It would be the polite thing to do. Only, the person who steps out of the vehicle is him. Blood rushes down my legs, and my spine stiffens. There he bloody is. He definitely sees me, because heās looking right at me. No pretending I donāt see him now, frozen as I am in place. Ice water is spilling across my back, and Iām not sure whether Iām not breathing enough or too much.
Shakily, I raise an arm and lift up a hand in a silent wave. Thatās⦠polite. Right? When he does the same, his eyes are wide and eyebrows upturned, as though caught by surprise.
Does he think Iām here for him?
Shit. He probably does. Thatās what this looks like.
It looks like I am not over our little fling from way back when, and that I have followed him here. Wait. I couldnāt have followed him because I got here first. He followed me. No, he definitely lives here. His front garden is all done up, unlike the mews house behind me. Iāve only come up here once for a quick walk around before I put in my offer. It had been the middle of the day. There had been people on the streets, none of them had been him.
Shit. Shit. SHIT.
He takes a step towards my direction. I move. Without looking at him, I pull the handles on my suitcase and roughly pull them. The gravel under our feet gives me some resistance, but I yank, needing to get away from this. Usually, Matt would have taken the heavy bags, but he isnāt here. Because I left him. Henry is here. After I tucked his memory away in a box and shoved it into the back corner of my mind. And now itās crawling out. The memoryās cold tendrils are beginning to fog my mind, slowing my thoughts, causing chills along my arms, my legs, my chest.
I hear another crunch of the gravel. It isnāt me or my bags. Iāve turned away from him to pull the suitcases towards the house, but heās behind me. I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again.
āYou need help?ā His voice is so deep. I remember thinking that when we first met. I think it every time I see him in something. I remember telling him that night when he had taken my earlobe between his lips. Heād chuckled a bit, and heād continued to kiss down my throat. His voice changes when he moans. Iād told him that, too. Heād smirked. Heād probably thought of me as naive, little thing who was somewhat amusing.
My jaw stiffens.
āHey.ā I say, not responding to his question. Finally, looking at him, his expression doesnāt give away anything. āJust need to get these in there. Iāll be okay.ā
āYou sure?ā Voice like honey, it sets my teeth on edge and my blood on fire, āthey look heavy. Are you moving in?ā
āYep.ā A response to both questions. Good. Small responses. Anything more and he will know that I am a mess in front of him. Be strong, carefree, unbothered, I tell myself. Did I seem unbothered on the train though, or did I shuffle too much? If I did, did he notice? Did he think it was because of him?
āWelcome to the neighbourhood.ā He says with his usual ease, slips his hands in his pockets and just⦠stands there. I wait for him to say something else, because it looks like there is something else he wants to say. I could break the tension by asking him something or say anything else, but I donāt want to. I sort of want him to stew in this feeling. Like I had on the train or when I used to check my phone incessantly, waiting for his next text, āHow have you been?ā
There is both tension and relief that flood through me and I canāt decide which one I should focus on. I was convinced that he didnāt remember me. Is it relief? Or some elation of the validation that I was a decent enough lay that he at least remembers my face. But I canāt tell him the truth to answer his question. Not if I want to seem unbothered. I am, of course, extremely bothered. I am nothing if not just so, so bothered.
āBeen fine.ā Iāve ceased yanking on my suitcase and the lack of movement is making me want to break into a sprint away from him, āBought my first house.ā I gesture with my head, to the house behind me.
āWow. Congratulations.ā
I nod. I should ask him how heās been. I donāt want to know, though.
āHow about you?ā I ask, anyway. My forefingerās nail starts to scratch at the plastic handle that is still in my death-grip, āhowās all the acting and stuff going?ā
He chuckles lightly. The same one as before. My toes curl in my shabby sneakers.
āItās going well.ā He says, āI just wrapped a project.ā
āIāll be sure to catch it when it comes out.ā I say without thinking. I want to hide my face in my now-sweating palms. He just nods. I wait for him to turn around and leave. He doesnāt.
āWell, Iād betterā¦ā I trail off as means to end the conversation. When he only smiles wider in response, I turn, beginning to yank my suitcase again. When it barely budges, I curse under my breath. Can I at least exude some semblance of coolness? Please?
Another chuckle. If I hadnāt had the last few months I had, or if my brain was someone elseās brain, I would have found it cute. But right now, it makes me want to scream into a pillow. Or take a bat to something big and expensive. Like his car.
āAre you sure, I cannot help you?ā I hear him say behind me. I sigh. Unbothered. Calm. Collected.
You are an author. You have a four-book deal. You bought this house with your own money. You are independent. You are not less than him just because he is older, better-looking, or more suave than you.
A moment of consideration.
But these bags are fucking heavy, and youāll be here all night if you do this by yourself. My internal voice concedes. Traitor.
Another sigh. One of resignation.
āIf you could grab the other end there and help me get it up to the porch, that would be very appreciated.ā My voice is squeaky. I hate this.
He nods and gets to work. Grabbing the other end of the bag I was just fighting with. He lifts it up with nothing more than a slight oof sound. The other bag abandoned, we both begin to lug the one weāre carrying towards the front porch. I put in as much effort as I can. The train journey, despite being seated for most of it, has taken a lot out of me. The summer day is nowhere near ending and the sky is as blue as it can be, but the earlier heft I felt in my body hasnāt left me. If anything, my bones feel heavier now.
We get to my front door, eventually. I turn to get my other bag too, but heās beat me to it. Heās already jogged to where it is, and is now picking it up with one hand, muscles flexing and veins popping.
āI would have helped!ā I scold when he plops it down on its wheels in front of me, āwhat about your leg?ā
He has a bum knee. Heād told me that during one of our text-conversations. Weād been flirting, or I think we had been. I thought I had been flirting. Ribbing playfully by calling him old, and he had probably thought it was rude and annoying. It was probably the latter. I shouldnāt have mentioned it.
āEh, itās fine.ā He says, āIāve had lots of physical therapy.ā
I hum in response. Right. What now? Heās still standing there. Does he want me to invite him inside? No, right? Because why would he want that? Unless he wants another ācasual thingā, as he had called it then. Surely not. We canāt do the casual thing, now that weāre neighbours. Unless we can? No, that doesnāt work for me. I know that. Why would I even consider it?
āSo, Iāll let youāā He starts to say.
āI would āā I say at the same time.
We both stop. He gives me an embarrassed smile. I return it. He nods at me to silently tell me to say my thing, first. Now, I donāt want to.
āOh, I was just going to say ā um ā Iād invite you in for coffee or something, but I have no furniture or appliances or anything.ā
āOh,ā he shuffles on his feet. Itās the first sign of any discomfort he has shown in this entire interaction. Which is odd. I donāt think Iāve said anything to put him off-ease. Unless⦠Wait, shit, does he think I want to invite him inside as in⦠invite him inside? But Iāve just said I canāt invite him inside. But itās in his head now, isnāt it? Also, is he uncomfortable because he wanted to be invited inside, and Iāve told him no, or because he wasnāt even thinking about it and Iāve ā
āNo, thatās okay.ā He cuts off my spiralling. Still not clear about whether he wanted or explicitly didnāt want an invitation into my house, āYou probably want to rest after a long journey, I suppose.ā
I guess thatās true too. I donāt say that. Instead, I repeat the lie I texted to Margo, earlier, āThe journey was fine. I slept most of the way.ā
āNo, you didnāt.ā His response is instant, and it makes my stomach drop, āYour eyes might have been closed, but you werenāt sleeping.ā
Son. Of. A. Bitch.
āHow would you know?ā I challenge.
Heās back to smirking. He doesnāt respond to my question, though. He succeeds in making every nerve-ending in my body snap and bolt in a seething rage. My back teeth grind together a bit more. I should get inside, but heās making no moves to leave.
Instead, he asks, āYou moving in with someone then or just you?ā
What the hell do you mean by that? Is what I want to ask him as I take a hold of his collar to either shake him or kiss him. Instead, I just ball my hands into fists behind my back, and focus on the feeling of my nails biting into my palm.
āJust me. I moved down for work. Thought it was time to stop living in flats.ā
I donāt tell him that I was living with a boyfriend for the last three years. That we were discussing getting married, what our wedding would look like, who weād invite. I donāt tell him that I probably dropped the surprise of a lifetime on my almost-fiance when I told him that I wanted to break up. That I am more cruel than he remembers me being. Or that Iāve grown up and wonāt be chasing him like I used to. The words feel like theyāre seared into my scalp, but they donāt materialize on my tongue.
āOh yeah?ā He continues like this is just a friendly, neighbourly chat. Like I havenāt had his thumb and other appendages in my mouth. Like he hasnāt seen me on my knees, āwhat do you do now? I donāt think Iāve ever asked.ā
Itās an effort not to bite back, You havenāt. āI was working in public relations. Nothing fancy, just corporate reputation stuff. But Iām doing something else now.ā
He looks at me, expectantly, silently asking me to go on.
With a small smile I say, āI just got a book deal, so I quit my old job -ā and my old life, I donāt say, ā - and Iām working as a resident author and adjunct professor at the local university.ā
He nods, looking impressed. I ignore the feeling of pride that blooms right at the centre of my chest, erasing the anger that I had felt a moment ago.
āSo youāre an author now?ā
āI guess you can say that now, yesā I let myself sound a bit smug.
āCongratulations⦠again.ā
Another hum. I swing my backpack off a shoulder for two reasons. The first, to dig around and find the keys that had been mailed to me. The second, is to put something in between my body and his. As I dig through the contents of my backpack, grateful that I have something to do with my hands and hinting towards an end to this whole interaction (hey, three reasons!), he still makes no move to get the hell off my porch.
āSo, what are you going to do for food?ā He asks.
āHm?ā Iām not looking at him. I have my keys in my hand, but I make it look like Iām still looking for them.
āYou said you have no furniture or appliances or anything,ā He explains, āwhat are you doing for food?ā
āOh, the movers should be here sometime tomorrow morning, but I think tonight is just going to a take away night.ā
āYum.ā
āYum, indeed.ā
Who the fuck talks like this? Carefree. Unbothered. Why is it so hard?
āAny good places around here?ā I ask, finally pulling my keys out, āfor take away, I mean?ā
āWhat are you in the mood for?ā Isnāt he getting tired of this? This is the longest conversation we have had without it getting dirty, or one of us, usually him, having to step away from their phone. It is also the first conversation we have had in a goddamned decade.
āPizza, probablyā I can find somewhere on the internet. His recommendation does not matter. Why am I still standing here talking about this. Why is he?
āOoh, there is actually this place I always get pizza from, they arenāt online, so āā He looks at me for half a second before he pulls his phone out, āIāll give you the number.ā
āOh. Um, sure. Thanksā Is he about to pull up our old text thread? Or has he deleted them? Heat blooms at the back of my neck as I struggle to remember the last text I sent him. I know it was me who sent the last text. He never responded.
āI have new number now,ā he says as he extends his phone out to me, giving me a sheepish smile, āIām afraid I didnāt move your contact details over.ā
Asshole. Of course, you didnāt. I give him a tight-lipped smile as I take his phone from him and feed my number in. I could have just pulled my phone out and asked him to dictate this pizza placeās number to me. That would have been the coquettish thing to do. Might have intrigued him more to keep trying. Damn.
I hand the phone back to him.
A moment later, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I make no move to pull it out.
āThanks.ā I say, āIt better be good, Cavillā
He chuckles, āIt will be, they donāt do jalapeƱos on their pizza, though.ā
āSo, youāre saying itās bad?ā I say with a smile.
āNo,ā Heās raking a hand through his curls, ātheyāre just Italian and real Italian pizza doesnāt have jalapeƱos on it.ā
āYeah, that still sounds like ānot goodā to me.ā Am I being too annoying with this? Is it going too far? Where does it stop being banter, and where does it become plain rude? He just gave me the name of his favourite pizza place. Why canāt I just say thank you? Why canāt I just invite him for a slice?
āJust because you like to burn your mouth off every time you eat something, doesnāt mean the rest of us do.ā His tone is still playful. He doesnāt sound pissed off. He doesnāt even sound like he wants to leave. But he should.
āWell, not everyone has my spice tolerance.ā I say, turning around and sliding the key into the door, ācause everyone else is a wuss.ā
I hear him laugh a little louder at that one. As nice as this is, I canāt let myself get too comfortable here. Itās too fucking easy to slip back into old habits, especially with Cavill. And now heās going to be so close. All the time. I get the door unlocked, but donāt open it.
āWellā¦ā I say with a finality, āit was nice to see you.ā
āRight, yeah.ā He looks down at his feet, āIāll see you around.ā
āYep.ā
He nods. Again, not moving. Heās actually not looking at me at all. I used to do that with Matt, especially at those times when I wanted space from him, and he would just be there. Iād speak with him about whatever he wanted to speak to me about, but I couldnāt look at him, because I couldnāt find the right words to tell him to leave me alone for an hour or two, without sounding like a bitch. Cavillās doing the same thing. Only if he wanted space from me, heād fucking leave.
āWhat?ā I finally ask, āWhat is it?ā
āOh āā He looks like a deer caught in headlights. Good. āNothing, I justāfuckāI wanted to see if you wanted to come around for dinner, cause of theāerm, the appliances and things. But youāre getting pizza, so āā
āYou want to cook for me?ā I ask. Is he nervous because this sounds like a date or is he nervous because asking me might give me the wrong impression?
āNot like āā He clears his throat, āJust that, if you want a home cooked meal, Iād be ā erm ā happy to share some of mine.ā
āAre you okay?ā I ask because that sounded like he was going to vomit. Also because I am usually the flustered one in these situations, and itās nice to be on the other end of it. It definitely is a bit cruel, but seeing as he led me on for almost two years, I think I am somewhat entitled to seeing him a bit flustered.
āYeah, Iām good.ā He rakes another hand through his hair. He used to do that when we were in bed, talking and joking. I always thought he was tired of me, and that he wanted me to stop talking. But heās done it twice now, and heās the one who isnāt moving off my front porch, āSo⦠how about it?ā
āYou cooking for me?ā I check.
He nods. Heās still not looking at me. I wait until he does.
āWhat are you making?ā I canāt say yes off the bat. I really want to. But he canāt know that yet.
āI was going to make some linguine with a garlic confit butter. I donāt have any meat, otherwise I would have smoked some steaks on The egg.ā
āThe egg?ā I know what heās talking about. Of course, I do. Iāve seen his instagram.
āOh itās just a fancy grill.ā
āAh.ā I simply say. This is fun. āFancy.ā
āI can run out and get some steaks if you want?ā
How has this happened? How have I become the person who makes Cavill nervous?
āThatās okay.ā I say, feeling a bit bad about how Iāve been toying with him, āthe pasta sounds delicious. I can have bland pizza another time.ā
āHey, they have good pizza.ā He says. I might have been nervous that I have offended him, but heās smiling, so I know heās being playful, āYou donāt have to make everything spicy.ā
I grin. He looks away again.
āI need to take a shower, though.ā I tell him, finally turning the door handle āIāll come over in a few hours?ā
āSure.ā
āGreat.ā Iāve swung the door open.
āOkay then.ā I wheel one of the bags into the house.
āRight.ā
āWonderful.ā The other bag is in.
āMagnificent.ā That one makes me giggle. He laughs too.
āIām closing the door now, Cavill.ā I tell him, peaking through the narrowing creek of my front door.
āOkay.ā Heās still standing there.
āGet off my porch and get cooking.ā I tell him before I finally close the door.
I hear another laugh from the other side. I smile.
I have a warm, fuzzy feeling inside my chest. It lasts for about a minute or so before my smile drops. Is this a date? Another hook up? Should I shave my legs?
Fuck.
I pull out my phone to send Margo a quick text. I see the text that Cavill sent with the phone number of the pizza place. Iām saving his number as a new contact when another text from him pops up.
Cavill: Do you have any allergies? Sorry, should have asked before you kicked me off your porch!
Me: Shellfish.
I try not to smile by using my thumb and forefinger to physically squeeze the sides of my lips. It doesnāt work.
I want to respond to the ribbing too but I refrain. I could say something without being flirty. I am lying to myself ā one doesnāt just rib Henry Cavill without a sexual undertone.
Cavill: Damn, there goes my prawn cake.
I donāt even try containing my smile at that one.
This is familiar. This texting banter. This warm, fuzzy feeling. I have deluded myself into thinking this means something more than it is, before. And coming back down to earth was a crash landing. I canāt do casual. I know this. He knows this. I catch feelings, he doesnāt, and then I end up feeling like ass. Thatās how it goes, every fucking time. So why is he doing this now?
Matt pops into my head again. Turns out, I canāt do relationships either. Even when they love me like I wanted Cavill to love me. We were in touch for over two years, and he doesnāt even know that I have a shellfish allergy. What does that say about this whole thing? It says that I was nineteen and naive. He was this older, sexier, unattainable person. Not even a person, an idea. Just like I was an idea of a person to Matt.
Matt knew all about my allergy though. He knew everything there was to know about me. Except the fact that I didnāt love him. What does that say about me?
Another text.
Cavill: Iām looking forward to seeing you.
Cavill: Again.
Damn. Heās got me hooked. That will absolutely not do.