“Because your visa—”
“Stop saying that! I could have married bloody Quentin for that. I wanted to be married to you. I wanted you to be enough. I wanted to be surprised by you every day.” She began counting on her fingers for emphasis. “But I never knew when you were coming home. You’re obsessed with your work and prioritize it over everything, over me. And you refuse to grow up and stop blaming your mother. Tell me, who would that be enough for? Who?”
Frank looked at her face, glowing amber in the firelight. Behind her, the sky through the window was deep blue-black. She seemed to delight in listing in his shortcomings. In that moment, he learned that he had the capacity to hate her.
“And you gave up on your dream when you met me,” he said. “You were an artist. What are you now?”
“What are you?” spat Cleo.
“I am who I’ve always been. Sure, I work hard, that’s how I made myself a success. And yes, sometimes I drink too much. But I never pretended to be anyone else. That’s just who I am.”
Cleo looked at him with pure contempt. “Those have to be the saddest words a person can utter.”
“What?”
“‘That’s just who I am.’”
“Why?”
“Because it shows a total unwillingness to change. That is not just who you are, Frank. It’s who you’ve become, who you choose to be. You just refuse to acknowledge the choice.”
Frank threw his hands up in the air. “Fine! Who do you want me to be, Cleo? Tell me who you want me to be.”
Cleo spun around and looked out the window. She could see tiny white stars beginning to appear, like salt spilled in the sky. In Manhattan, she forgot stars even existed. She wanted someone to tell her who to be. Frank was a forty-four-year-old man. Why was the onus on her to fix him? She turned to face him again and she felt emptied of all love for him.
“Do you know how easy it is to be you?” she said. “You live in the city you were born in. You’re surrounded by people who love you. Even your mum, in her own flawed way.”
“So are you!”
Cleo shook her head.
“I’m not from here,” she said.
“But you chose here,” he said. “It’s your home.”
“I have no family.”
“That’s not true.”
“No,” she said. “I have no one.”
Her voice broke as she said the word, as she realized it was true. No one. She walked past him toward the fire so she would not have to look at him. Frank took a step toward her. He raised a hand to her shoulder, then let it fall. Cleo was watching the flames with such an intensity that her eyes started to burn. A film of tears blurred her vision.
“You have me,” he said.
He let his hand cup her shoulder. She shrugged it off. Pity. She could hear it in his voice. Pity for her, the orphan suicide. She might be alone, but she still had her pride.
“I don’t want you,” she said.
She did not see Frank wince. When he did speak, his voice was hard.
“I’ll get out of your life then,” he said.
She didn’t turn around.
“If I’ve been so bad for you,” he said, “what are we still doing here?”
“Don’t do that,” said Cleo, and her voice was heavy with exhaustion.
He walked back into the kitchen and picked up the grocery bags, hefting them onto the floor for no apparent reason. He walked back into the living room.
“I’m going to call a taxi,” he said. “This was a stupid idea. You obviously don’t want to be anywhere near me.”
“Fine,” she said. “Do whatever you want.”
He stalked back into the kitchen, pointing at her. “This is what you want.”
He dialed the number, pacing back and forth to the fridge, then hung up and tried it again. He waited, then slammed the phone back on the table.
“Why did I never learn how to drive!” he shouted at the ceiling.
Cleo was slumped on the sofa when he came back in. Neither of them had taken off their coats yet.
“I’ll try them again in a few minutes,” said Frank. “You won’t be stuck with me much longer.”
“Shut up, Frank,” said Cleo wearily. “Just shut up.”
“I know you’re struggling,” he said. “But you’re cruel.”
Cleo slapped her hands down either side of her in exasperation. “Stop talking to me like I’m an invalid. I’m fine!”
He strode toward her and picked up her arm, the one she had hurt, holding it above her head like a boxer declared victorious.
“This is fine? You think this is fucking fine?”
Cleo ripped her arm away, cradling it toward her chest, and stood up. “Don’t you dare touch me.”
“Don’t you dare tell me you’re fine!” he cried. “We are not fine! This is not fine!”
“I know this isn’t fucking fine!” Cleo shouted.
“Then tell me what to do to fix it. Just tell me what to do.”
“Fix it?” Cleo looked at him with unadulterated rage. “You broke it!” she screamed. “You broke me!”
“You were already broken!” yelled Frank.
“Not like this,” she screamed, windmilling her arm above her head. “You caused this pain!”
“And what about me?” Frank yelled back. “My pain?”
“I don’t care!” she shrieked. “I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care!”
Frank strode toward her and put his face close to hers. It was the culmination of every fight they had ever had, every cruel word they had ever spoken to one another. There was nothing left to protect.
“You are the worst thing that ever happened to me!” he roared.
Cleo shoved him away from her. He staggered backward over the beanbag and fell to the floor, smacking his head on one of the pieces of wood by the fire. He sat back up again, dazed, and brought a hand to the back of his skull.
“Oh god, I’m sorry.” Cleo dropped to her knees as the rage drained from her face. “Are you hurt?”
“It’s okay,” said Frank, waving her off. “I’m fine.” Then, catching himself, he added, “Well, as we’ve established, nothing’s fine. But I’m not hurt.”
“Let me see at least.”
She scooted round so she could inspect him from behind, picking gently through his hair with her fingers. A memory of his mother inspecting his head for lice as a child rose to the surface of his mind. It was one of the very rare times that she’d willingly touched him, and afterward he had itched his head furiously whenever he was near her in the hope that she would do it again. Get away from me, Frankie, you’re like a dog with fleas.
“Tough as a nut,” said Cleo, knocking gently on his skull.
Frank crawled forward to collapse onto the beanbag and closed his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t fight anymore.”
“You’re sorry that you can’t keep fighting, or for saying I’m the worst thing that ever happened to you?”
“Both,” he mumbled without opening his eyes.
Cleo sat down on the floor and leaned on the beanbag next to him. They lay in silence, listening to the crackle and hiss of the fire as the room descended into a deeper darkness. One by one the tea lights burned down and snuffed themselves out, leaving only the pale-yellow glow of the tapered candles. Eventually, Cleo spoke.