I stopped calling her only when Camilla threatened to flush my phone.
I probably should’ve stuck to my guns and stayed under my blanket in the dark till my decomposing flesh became too tempting for Narda. But nah, I had to be the sucker who gets browbeaten into going to a gig at a craphole bar called – I’m not even kidding – the Heartbreak Hotel. Why I agreed to inflict myself on the world, in a fat-Elvis themed cafe, is anyone’s guess. I think, subconsciously, I just can’t handle letting anyone else down this weekend. But I plan on sitting in silence for half an hour and then vanishing back to my cave.
Camilla takes one look at my face as I slouch in and uses whatever magic she possesses to extract the whole story. I don’t even know where my verbal spewage comes from, cos it feels wrong, and sort of disloyal, invoking Sophia’s name in this place of beer and hipster shirts. But I’m worried about her, and freaking out that I’ve done everything wrong. And I really need someone smarter than I am to tell me what to do.
Camilla, I notice, is carefully quiet. At some point the chick on stage launches into a ukulele solo of the crappest, saddest Shins song ever, and I bury my face in the couch cushions and groan. The couch stinks like arse. In fact, the entire bar stinks like arse. Maybe everything stinks, and I just haven’t noticed before. That’d be about right – the whole world reeks, and I’m the one git walking around with his face buried in a fantasy bouquet. Bloody hell, am I really that big a dick?
‘Jesus, Joshua, morbid much?’ Camilla says, bashing me on the arm. ‘Get your face out of the cushions. Adrian found half a ham sandwich and a condom in there a few months back. Seriously, do you even want to imagine what someone was doing with both of those things at once?’
I sit up. I adjust my glasses, then throw them onto the coffee table. Right now, there is nothing in the world I need to see clearly. Funnily enough, though Sam is still perched on an armrest, the rest of the group have made themselves scarce.
‘Camilla, I just want to know what I did wrong. Why won’t she answer the phone? Do you think … should I go find her?’ I peer at my now-blurry mobile, but it is snatched out of my grasp before I can dial.
‘Joshua Bailey,’ Camilla says, managing to sound both gentle and unyielding. ‘Give her some space, and time. She’s not testing your persistence. She needs to not talk to you, at least for a while. Just back off. For your own good. And hers. Trust me on this. Do not be that guy.’
Bammo. And there it is. Have I really become that guy?
But, see – aren’t you supposed to want to make someone’s life better when you care about them? Was I being too pushy? Where is the rule book that explains how that works? And without it, how am I supposed to figure this out?
Houdini would’ve just teleported a thousand roses or, like, a gazillion doves into her bedroom.
But I am not Houdini. Or Dai Vernon or Thurston the Great, or even stupid douchehead Copperfield. Copperfield wouldn’t find himself sinking into a whirlpool of failed expectations. Copperfield would’ve just sawed himself in half with his stupid oversized buzz-saw, or, you know, made the Statue of Liberty disappear just for her.
What I am is some lanky doofus who can pull a coin out of his nose, a sad party magician with a lingering speech impediment, the lamest non-person in the universe. I am a loser with no ambition and no goals, whose greatest achievement so far is learning how to pull off a one-handed Faro shuffle. While I wait, desperately, for any sort of inspiration, my prospects are fast reducing to being a sad street busker or Damien’s underling at the crappy pizzeria he’s bound to end up working at.
Of course I’d never be enough for her. I’m barely enough for myself, and hey, I’m not even that picky.
‘Joshua,’ Camilla says, clasping my hand in hers. She retrieves my glasses and sticks them crookedly on my face. Sam looks on with sympathy. ‘You are so great. And Sophia seems pretty great too. But have you ever thought that maybe it’s just not supposed to be … your time?’
I close my eyes. Suddenly, all I feel is tired. ‘Maybe, Camilla. Maybe you’re right. Can I please have my phone? I’ll back off. I promise.’
Since I am out of options, I will do as I am told.
I won’t call her. I’ll leave her be, if that’s what she needs. I just need to know that she is okay.
And there’s one place I can go to find that out.
I’ve prepared a speech, but I don’t think it’s gonna help. There’s a snag in my voice that I can already sense, my tongue thick in my mouth, sibilants lying ready to be misarticulated all over the place. Stuff it. It’s not like she can think I’m any more of a giant loser.
It’s a nice house. The lawn’s a bit overgrown, and has a whole bunch of chew toys strewn across it. The front door has a cool brass knocker in the shape of a Great Dane’s head. I step over and around a giant pile of guys’ shoes, mostly Chucks and New Balance sneakers.
I give the dog head a few raps, shoving my other fist deep into my jacket pocket.
Elsie Nayer throws open the door. She is wearing an unzipped Hawthorn hoodie over a thin pink nightie. The silk slip just about conceals her torso, and she’s, um – well, she’s not exactly un-endowed, and the expanse of brown skin and curves that fills my vision is, well, momentarily startling. But then I notice that her eyes are puffy, and her hair is bunched up into a tangled bird’s-nesty bun. She looks me up and down. Her eyes narrow.
I adjust my glasses, wishing I’d found the energy to put my contacts in. ‘Hey, hi, Elsie. Ah, sorry to just show up at your house. Look, I know you don’t know me, but my name’s Josh. Joshua Bailey. We’re in Mr Grayson’s Bio class together? I, ah, wanted to talk to you because –’
‘It’s you,’ she says softly. She steps onto the porch, heedless of the wet tiles beneath her shoeless feet. She’s a little shorter than Sophia, but she walks right up to me and stares me down, and I find myself shrinking beneath her glower. ‘You’re the guy. The magical mystery boy.’ There’s a vague tinge of sarcasm in her voice, but I’m more concerned that her chin is all wobbly, her red eyes filled with unhappiness. She zips the hoodie up to her neck, somehow making the gesture look pissed and sad, too.
I swallow. ‘So I guess she told you about me? I kinda had the feeling that she maybe hadn’t mentioned me before?’
Elsie snorts. ‘Yeah. Seems like I don’t know jack lately. How fricking unobservant can one person be. Man, and I want to be a doctor. Oh yeah, dude, sorry about the face cancer, guess I missed that giant oozing tumour growing out of your forehead. My bad.’