I had my boots in hand, hung by their laces from two of my fingers, index and middle. I hadn't bothered putting them on, couldn't find the time. Despite the heat, the grass felt cold and cutting against the soles of my bare feet. I wasn't headed anywhere specific; just anywhere other than here.
I recall not being able to move, or even look away from my hand, still wrapped in his own, concealing the object of my dismay. It felt so small in my palm, insignificant enough that maybe if I just opened up my fist then and there, it would fall into the lake. Slip through the cracks in the deck before hitting the water with an inaudible splash. Unseen, unheard.
His gaze, fixed on my face, was felt rather than seen. It wasn't pressured, or expectant, but I wish that it had been because it was hopeful instead. And I don't think anything could have been worse than that.
I don't remember saying anything, and I don't think I did. Although, I knew that I should have, that it would have been the right thing to do. Anything would have been better that what I ended up doing, and I only did it because I didn't know what else I could have done. I felt incapable, and my life; unsalvageable.
I drew my hand away from his, still holding tightly onto the gemstone inside. Maybe I'd hoped that my hand was strong enough, tensed and constricted, to crush it. Turn it to dust so that I could blow it away with a single breath, like I could sand or grain; plenty and unimportant. But that was unrealistic, and I wasn't strong enough.
I didn't want to lead him on; although, that's what I had been doing all along. Quickly, I shoved my hand back in his, placing the ring back in his palm, exactly as he had done just moments before. I couldn't bear to look at him then either, unwilling to witness the disappointment I was so sure his face displayed. Especially because I was at fault for it.
My hands hovered there for a moment, contemplating whether or not this was what I really wanted. It would have been so easy to just say yes; it's only a word, a single syllable. But I'd spent years telling myself I'd regret it, and that was impossible to ignore.
I let go then, retracted as if his hands held fire and I'd just been burned. His silence told me that he was probably as stunned as I was, obviously not having intended things to play out this way. Obviously having hoped for a different answer.
After that, I grabbed my boots, stood up, and started walking. I knew I'd left things there, hair pins on the wooden panels, a napkin perhaps, him. But I couldn't get myself to turn around, I couldn't go back. I knew he would follow me, that much was expected, always wanting answers, never willing to let things be. And it wasn't that I didn't know what to tell him, as if I didn't have an explanation. I did, I just didn't know how I was meant to say it.
He must've run to catch up with me, or jogged at the very least. I never felt him tap one of my shoulders, ushering me to turn around. I never heard him approaching either; no footsteps, no calling of my name. I didn't know how he felt until he turned in front of me, spinning around and stopping, forcing me to do so as well.
We were close, close enough that I had to tilt my head up to see him. Close enough that if I matched my breathing to his own, our chests might meet with each draw of air, only to separate seconds later; expelling air as if it were a collective chore. From his expression, I read hurt, confusion, but most of all: concern.
I suppose he thought something was going on with me, and that was the reason for my reaction. That something was wrong in my life, something specific, and new, seeing as I hadn't brought it up to him before. But there was nothing to blame for my refusal other than the truth,
That this wasn't what I wanted.
"Are you going to tell me why?" He'd asked me. It wasn't resentful or upset; more calm than anything. He waited for an answer as I tried to come up with one, not the real one, but something else. A decoy, to avoid confessing the truth. I knew it would hurt him more, because there was nothing he could do to change it. And I didn't want him to feel as powerless as I did.
I held his stare, stony and piercing on my part, as I blanked out on the field. I wasn't going to say anything, hoping that if I held the facade up for long enough, he would just leave me out there with the trees and the grass; equally spineless, equally unresponsive.
He asked me for one good reason as to why I couldn't, as to why we couldn't. It was a challenge, and seeing as he wasn't about to leave anytime soon, it was also probably my only way out of this. It had seemed easy enough. I'd always assumed that there were a thousand things keeping us apart, things neither he, nor I, could control.
"What would they say," I shied, my voice quiet and airy. It wasn't a question, it was a request; I was asking him to think about it, as if he hadn't ever done it before.
But he had, and I realize now that he might have thought about it just as much as I did back then. He told me that they had no say in this, that the choice remained ours, and that he himself was willing. He told me that they were irrelevant to my decision, and that it wasn't a good enough reason.
"This isn't about other people Flo. I'm not asking them to marry me."
That was the first time he'd said it, and the word sounded as sharp as it had in my imagination. The word; a blade, all kept, elegant, valuable, until it's thrown at you. Then it's dangerous and painful, makes you feel foolish for having ever even admired it. His proposal of sorts had been wordless, unspoken; as many things had been between us in the past. He was right in thinking I would understand, but wrong in thinking that I would accept him in this.
I tried to step aside, but he moved with me and blocked my path once more, tall and firm. He wanted a reason, deserved one as well. Our eyes remained locked, mine begged him to just let me out of this, and his told me 'No. Not until you tell me why.'
"I can't- they wouldn't allow it," I tried, not entirely sure who 'they' really were. I was struggling. The reasons I had thought there to be so many of, turned out to be few and far apart. As if all the obstacles I'd faced had only ever been figments of my imagination; excuses not to do something.
I hesitated, my voice wavering as he asked me who 'wouldn't allow it'. I told him his mother wouldn't, but he could tell I was unsure, and I had every reason to be because I had absolutely no idea what I was talking about. Every word that came from my mouth was nothing more than a desperate attempt to keep the truth to myself, away from the world beyond my mind where it could do real damage; break real things.
He revealed that she, his mother, hadn't been born into high society, and had only entered it through marrying his father. What was I meant to say to that. He was shutting me down, and I was grasping at mirages, visual lies. I never could have imagined that her lady and I might have ever been similar In any way, and if I weren't trying to get out of something, I might have felt happy about this.
I pointed blame towards his uncle. The man had never been kind to me, more any of the other help. Why should I have expected any of that to change just because I married his nephew. I just couldn't imagine it happening.
But he told me not to believe the man's hard exterior, the front he had put on as man of the house. But apparently, he believes in love as well; deeply, truly.
I asked him why his uncle had never married, to which he answered, "He just never found the right person." In saying this, it was implied that he, as in T, had.
"Then my mum-"
"-Has already said yes." He finished for me. "I wouldn't have asked you without asking her first." I couldn't believe that my mother had known, surprised that she'd managed to keep it to herself for more than a few hours. I'm sure she'd been ecstatic. This was probably beyond anything she could have dreamed for me, the best version of her plan, the greatest conceivable outcome.
"When." I stood my ground. I wasn't sure sure the conversation had become an argument. At one point, it had felt like an apology, then an explanation. But now, now we were just fighting each other. I wanted for him to be able to see my side of things without having shown it to him, which was selfish of me and I know that; especially since I wasn't making any efforts to see his.
"This morning, by the fountains." He said, as if needing to prove himself of something, which he didn't. I believed him, I'd just wanted to know. "Her answer wouldn't have mattered to me." He reached for me, hands nearing, floating gently by my shoulder. "I would have asked you anyway."
I took a step back before he could touch me. I couldn't let it happen, I couldn't let this happen. His arms fell limp, hanging either side of him. His head cocked, tilting to the right, pleading with his eyes, hollowing me out with his stare. My own eyes darted around his features, back and forth, eyes then lips then back to his eyes.
I searched for something to found what I wanted to say, or rather, tell him. Something that could support my claims, make me sound, or just feel, less crazy in all of this. I couldn't though, there was nothing there. Nothing but pure, unbridled, affection. And stabbing, heart wrenching, disappointment. But that didn't stop me from saying it, well aware that it held no truth.
"You don't really want this."
I said it quietly, shaking my head in the slightest as if trying to convince him of it. Sympathy seemed to ooze from my voice, giving the impression that I pitied him. I tried convincing myself that he'd maybe been forced into it, by someone else, that it hadn't really been his decision at all. Although, it was ridiculous to think that somebody would have asked him to marry me; that seemed highly improbable.
He looked at me like I'd just stepped on a ladybird for no reason other than that I'm a cruel person who enjoys watching other people suffer. "Is that what you think?" He asked me, disbelieving laughter coming out in short, cut off, scoffs.
He extended an arm to refer to us both, each individually, one by one, one after another. "Even after all of this." It what he was saying, implying with his physical movements. I can't remember exactly when, or how, but I'd put a distance between us. More than the small step backwards I had taken before, a decent space; a separation.
But even still, neither of our voices raised. No matter how overwhelmed I was, or offended he appeared to be, we kept quiet, as if speaking to ourselves and expecting the other to hear it just as well. I told him it had only been a few months, which was true, but also not.
Perhaps this thing between us had only been going on since December, but I'd felt it long before, and I knew he had too. It had always been there, festering, growing, expanding until it became all consuming. I knew this, but I said it anyways; because I was still unwilling to tell the truth.
But for the first time, I saw this same look of hesitation reflected in his form. The way his lips parted slightly, only to close again, indecisive on choosing whether or not to speak. The way he'd frown the thoughts away, refusing the urge and suppressing the will. Perhaps he'd done it before, but I'd always believed him to be honest to a fault.
"I've been writing for you since I was twelve."
The words had slipped through his teeth, teetering on the edge of being voiced and remaining unsaid. It came out harsh, gritty, as if I'd forced him to say it, which I suppose I had in a sense. I'd forced him to prove himself, provide me with evidence. Unfortunately, this proof was a secret. One he would have preferred keep.
I knew what he was saying, specifically. He didn't need to spell it out for me, lay it neatly on a table, walk me through it. A part of me had known, I think, for a while. The poems, their wording, the language, the way they had felt so personal to me without mentioning so much as a name.
That's why they had all been so vague. He was unwilling to admit it, take ownership of his works. He probably never would have told me, not later, or after, or even in another life. But he wasn't uncomfortable now, no. Confessing this seemed to have given him freedom. Honesty never do that for me.
He could tell that I knew, I wasn't exactly subtle about it. The way my mouth shut tightly, trying not to give it away, but doing the exact opposite as a result. I'd lost. I hadn't managed to come up with a single, valid, reasonable explanation for saying no. And he was right in thinking that he deserved one.
It occurred to me then that nothing actually was; holding me back that is. I'd spent so much of my time worrying about other people, what they might think, what they might do, to me, or him, or us, that I'd forgotten, or never even realized, that it really didn't matter.
Because in the end, it would just be him and I, and no-one else, ever. If that was what I wanted.
I turned around to leave because there was nothing left for me to say. Nothing more I was willing to reveal or admit. I tried to get away, one step in front of the other, then again, and again. He just wouldn't let me leave. And I wished they had been, but the sound of my bare feet against the soft, cushioned grass was nowhere near loud enough to obscure his voice.
"I'd take your hand and call you Flo,"
Stop.
"Before dropping on one knee."
Please. Just stop.
"I'd give you the ring my mother wore,"
I can't do this.
"And then ask you to marry me."
I freeze. Stopping where I stood, somewhere in the middle of the vacant pasture. He paused as well, behind me, having trailed me once again. He'd said his piece, and now it was my turn. But if I didn't say something soon, he'd go ahead and say something else, more. And I just needed it all to stop.
"No."
I held his gaze. It needed to be clear, he needed to understand what I was saying.
"What?" He asked, lost.
"My answer, is no."
There was no point in anything anymore. It didn't matter what I did, or what I said; he, as he was then, would be gone. Things would never be the way they had been this morning, this afternoon, or anytime before eight. It was gone, and I'd never get to be that carefree again. I wish I could have said goodbye.
It was numbing, to know that things were over. But I don't think I would have been able to say what I needed to, if I had been able to feel them for what they were.
"You're right T. If we wanted to, we could. There's no-one stopping us."
He watched me silently, an attentive look on his face. He was listening, absorbing my words, taking them in, really hearing them. I wish I had looked away then, because seeing him there, knowing what I was telling him, was more than I could handle.
"But we won't," I said. "Because I won't."
I willed my voice to hold itself in place, but it was futile. I hated the way it cracked and wavered, hated that I was almost crying. I was getting defensive; what of? It wasn't clear. But I still needed to tell him why, I wasn't going to leave him like this, questioning himself, confused, hurt. I knew how that felt, and I couldn't do that to him.
"This," I motioned to us both, together, "was the only thing I'd ever been equal in. The only relationship where I had just as much say in what we did, what we were, as the other person."
My eyes hit the ground, stared sheepishly at the floor of the field, the weeds, the dirt; anything but him.
"And I won't just sign myself over to you. I don't ever want you to be that person."
When I looked back up at him, I found that he wasn't doing the same. His head was twisted to the side, directed towards the lake. I don't know what time it had been then, but the sun was finally beginning to set.
Once he realised I was finished, and that I wasn't going to say anything else on my own, he turned back towards me. I usually enjoyed silence, appreciated it; but this was uncomfortable, and it was his turn to speak. He tucked both hands into his trouser pockets and I watched at his body tightened. He must have been uncomfortable as well.
"Is that," he hesitated, "the only reason?"
I felt my face soften, slump. Shoulders falling and arms growing heavy in exasperation. I wanted to reach out and touch him; just a graze, a brush. I didn't want him to doubt the last few months, and all the years that came before. All of it had been real; more real than a lot of things tended to be.
"Of course it is." I told him, an attempt at reassurance. I hope he believed me. I hope I'd given him reason to believe me.
"Ok."
I left it there, the conversation, and bent my knees to reach the ground. I could feel him watching me as I placed my boots in front of me, pulling back the laces and tongues. His stare felt hot, burning agains the top of my head as I slid into my shoes, one by one, tying them up as I went.
He remained silent, still, while I did so. Maybe he was thinking, or maybe he'd had something else to say, but I couldn't think of anything he could say that would make any part of this easier. And so standing back up straight, meeting his solemn stare one last time, I made sure I beat him to it.
"I need to go somewhere." I blurted.
"Where?"
I wasn't sure, but I'd had a general idea. Where I went could be decided later, I just needed to get away from this place for a little while. I needed to know how to be alone; a stranger, to everyone.
"I'll know by tomorrow morning." I had to leave, as soon as possible. I don't know if it was what he wanted, but I thought it would be best to give him some time away from me. To think about things, about what happens next.
I heard him clear his throat, the ghost of a cry, a small sound of pain hanging from the tip of his tongue. A strange feeling of permanence settled in the pit of my stomach, one I had never felt before. Things hadn't felt this heavy, ever; not when things ended with Jon, not when things started with T.
"How long will you be gone?" He asked.
"Maybe a week or two... to begin with."
He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back in frustration. His head nodded a few times, subtly; his substitute for a verbal answer, but I understood it all the same. I was racked with guilt. In all the times I had played this out in my head, every possible scenario, and every possible outcome; I had never imagined it would hurt as much as it did.
"I'll speak to Mr. Warren, inform him that you'll be on leave."
I could tell he hated the things he was saying. Hated the fact that he had to say them, that that was what was really happening. And I hated having to put him through it. But it's over now, it's done.
We'd go back to being friends, I couldn't imagine us not. He'd find someone new, someone who wanted him to be that person for them. I'd probably do the same, eventually. Things would play out the way they were always meant to; because what we had wasn't sustainable, I'd known that, and now he did too.
"You will come back, right? He asked me.
I hope he knew why I did what I did, understood where I was coming from. I couldn't let him have that power over me, that ownership. I would have grown to resent him, hate him for decisions he'd make on my behalf. It would have ruined us. And I hope he knew that I still loved him, because I did; no question there.
"Always."