Next to You

by Hannah Bonam-Young

“When are you going to understand that I like being around you?” Matt’s voice is tougher than usual, as if he’s trying to stop an argument before it happens. “This isn’t a favour, and that wouldn’t be either.”

“Plus, you have stories. I have memories. There’s a difference.”

How are you supposed to look back fondly when you wish you had more to look forward to?

“Right, but you two were barely friends when anything else started. It’s important to me to keep Matt as a friend and that our whole group gets along. What if we dated and then broke up and hated each other? You’d all have to pick sides.” I sigh, putting on my best you poor thing sympathetic smile. “You only have one friend, Warren. I’d hate to get between you.”

The second option is worse. We work. We work well. He likes the way I can’t seem to chew with my mouth closed even though it’s gross, and I brush his hair every night before bed. We fall madly, deeply in love. We get married. Maybe we even have kids. Then one day—maybe not for a while, but certainly someday—I lose him. And it’s as if the world splits open beneath me. I fall into an existence where I’m forced to live without the person who made it worth living. All my favourite things are ruined, because they were all his favourites too. All the places I liked to go for dinner that I won’t visit again. All the people who knew us both can only see me as the one left behind—a walking tragedy. How could I open myself up to that? Wouldn’t that just make me a fool? I am a lot of things, but I hope a fool is not one of them.

“You gotta find somewhere to put the love, Lane—or it’s gonna keep hurting.” He lowers his hand and shoves it into his pocket.

“Not just a pretty face.” He winks. “Listen, maybe Matt isn’t the one. But I think he feels like a real possibility to you. And if that scares you—in my experience—that means there’s shit you have to work through. The good stuff shouldn’t feel scary.”

“Suit yourself.” He shrugs. I will, Jake.

“You’ve got to act like everyone’s having the worst day of their life, right?” His hands untighten, and his shoulders relax as he nods. “I like this more.” I nod to myself. “The high road feels pretty damn good.” I smile up at Matt.

“Are you flirting with me?” I ask. Or at least I think I do. His soft, single laugh surprises me. “For over a year now. Thanks for noticing.” He kisses next to my ear.

“It might complicate things.” I’m arguing for fun now, not to win. I want his reasons, his defence. I want him to want me.

“I’m sure Phillip can’t wait to get you pregnant—otherwise he’ll be in the retirement home before your kid is in high school.” “Grow up, Lane.” “Grow a personality, Liz.” Neither of us hangs up. We should, but we don’t. Shit.

some of your… freedom.” “You mean because you’re an adult and I’m not?” “I mean you’re living, and I’m going through the motions.” “I want the motions.” I shrug. “Or I want to want to go through the motions.”

“They’re clearly all idiots.” He kisses my pubic bone, and I fall back to the mattress in silent permission. “Because you’ve got heaven between your legs.” Then his tongue finds my clit with shocking precision as he curls his mouth down.

Manamea translates to: favourite person, dear, darling, sweetheart, lover. An all-encompassing sort of word. Perfect for us.

“The anticipation probably helped,” he says, kissing my cheek. “But you’re even better in real life than you were in my guilty fantasies.”

He chose an otter because physical touch is his love language, and they’re apparently cuddly.

“Something like that.” Matt nods. “They keep coming back…” “They make it through the cold of winter,” I say, feeling a little embarrassed at how clear it is that I’ve equated my love for a flower to have some deeper meaning.

Nothing more. A sleep aid, like melatonin in human form.

She will be the luckiest woman in the world. If she’s brave enough to let love in. And I’ll watch. “Manamea…” he says too softly. Too sweetly. “You have to know that. We’ve been together every single day for over a month, and I’m not the least bit sick of you.” He forces a laugh. “Of course you’re my best friend.”

From the feeling in my gut that reminds me I don’t deserve the label of best friend—that he deserves so much better than me in friendship or more. In a parallel universe, one where grief hadn’t broken me, I could be with Matt. Easily. It would be beautiful and simple and mundane. He’d want marriage, and I’d go to the courthouse the next day. We’d sit across the kitchen table to write grocery lists. We’d shower together without a happy ending. We’d fold each other’s laundry and bandage each other’s wounds and life would be easy. Easy and content and calm and the opposite of lonely. But that won’t happen. Because of me. And I hate myself for it.

“Why you yove Auntie Yane’s toys?”

“Well, she’s got great toys. Probably the best toys I’ve ever played with.” “Mattheus!” Chloe chastises in a higher pitch than I thought possible for humans. “Let the man talk!” I add, my laugh breaking through.

I’ll never be like them. Strong like them. Selfless like them. Brave like them. I can’t grow past my traumas, fears, or reservations and open myself up to a world of hurt for the sake of love like they both have. They’ve faced hardship after hardship, and instead of it making them fearful, it’s made them powerful. Chloe’s strength and determination to provide her sister with a better life than she had, her ability to bring out the best in those around her because she sees the good in them—it’s a gift born from suffering.

I don’t deserve the happily ever after.

“If I ever loved someone like that… If I ever lost someone like that…” My breathing becomes rapid. “Losing my dad was horrible, but it took the life out of my mom.” I can’t catch my breath, and my hands begin to shake. “I couldn’t… I can’t.” Panic overtakes me, and I rock back and forth, sobbing. One second, I’m on the floor, the next, I’m in Matt’s arms.

I’m on my own, Matt.”

“I think I could live a hundred lifetimes and never deserve you, Matt.” “I think that’s bullshit, and you’re the best person I know.” “It might not end the way we want it to.” “That’s okay. At least you said we.”

“Can we please be friends again?” I ask with a weak laugh. “We never stopped.” He noogies me, the universal sign of friendship, before he goes and tucks the box of worry dolls away under his bed.

Natural caregivers like that, they burn out. They give and give until they’re emptied and have nothing left for themselves.”

It’s so comfortable here. I genuinely feel like I’ve known all these people for years. And I guess I sort of have, through all of Matt’s stories.

Because Matt is my own personal comfort. A walking hot-water bottle. A favourite blanket. A cosy hoodie. A cup of tea delivered with a kiss on the forehead. Warmth builds and builds inside my chest, and I realise suddenly, clearly, and certainly—I’ve never felt like this about anyone else. I think I’m in love with Matt.

The love I have for you is urgent. It’s a needy thing. Maybe it wouldn’t be if we had eternity. I’d get lazy with it.” I groan, furious with myself. “Fuck you,” I whisper, tears breaking free. “Let me have better words once.” I joke through ragged breaths.

Safe, comforted, loved. I think he’d really like Matt.

“Lover is a term for perverts,” Liz says with a shudder. “Or Taylor Swift,” I add distractedly, then shake myself. “Wait. Mom, you have a boyfriend?”

“Because I’m scared too, dammit! Do you know what it’s like to finally feel like what you want most in this world is within reach, but it could startle at any damn moment? I’ve barely got you. If you’re here, and I’m back home, I could lose you. We could lose this. What if you don’t come back? How can I convince you that you need me if I’m a thousand miles away?”

“He who has felt the deepest grief is best able to experience supreme happiness. Live, then, and be happy, beloved children of my heart, and never forget, that until the day that God will deign to reveal the future to man, all human wisdom is contained in these two words, ‘Wait and Hope.’” So that is what I will keep doing, waiting and hoping.

Grand fucking gesture time.

“I love you. I love your generous heart and your kindness. I love your insane number of books and your strange hobbies. I love that you sing in the shower and use your toothbrush as a microphone. I love that you can’t just sip drinks but chug them. I love your hair, your beard, and your whole face, really. The rest of your body too. All of it.” I take a breath, realising I’m about to spiral. “And I’m ready now. I’m ready for this. Us. All of it. The morning breath and the bedtime stories and all the parts between. I want your clothes in laundry baskets with mine and your books to take over my shelves. I never want to be parted from you, ever again. I don’t even want to think about that, actually. Because being far from you… it was like its own sort of grief. I missed you. Like Rochester missed Jane. Like my ribs were torn out. I felt it too.”

“Matt?” I reach out and take his hand. “Yeah?” He kisses it again, quickly. “We should probably get off the floor now.” I glance up at his parents behind him.

“Because I need you, Lane. Your heart, your creativity, your wildness.” She steps back, and we both reach out our hands, and our fingers intertwine. “I love you, pudge.” “I love you too.”

“Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” begins playing.

You saw me. And that was the last thing I wanted.”

I blow out a forceful breath. I’ve got to keep going. “You’ve shown me patience, kindness, faithfulness, and generosity in spades. You’re a good man. A kind and honourable man. Not only do you show this with words, but action. The way you care for me and our families is so—” my voice breaks, “beautiful. And I know my dad would have adored you.”

It’s not midnight yet, but this is the best New Year’s Eve kiss I’ve ever had.