Work for It

by Talia Hibbert

had Jean-Pierre at home, too, after all. I had the bastard everywhere, and he still sold pictures of our intimate moments for nothing more than a small mountain of coke.

Yikes

I’m not sure how long it takes me to finish, but when I’m done, when the night is nothing more than a story, I feel a little better. The fact that I feel at all makes me want to smile.

The urge to run is an old one. I haven’t exercised it since everything changed last year, since I was forced to come out of my very comfortable, handmade, bespoke closet. Back then, I roamed the world so I could be myself with men who barely knew me. I don’t have to do that now. Last night proved I can’t do that now. I keep typing anyway.

They need a copyeditor. The use of ‘heart’ is repetitious.

Talia Hibbert gets me!

It’s a warm, sunny Saturday—proper lovely, bright enough to beam through my rose-printed curtains and paint my living room blood-red. Which, now I mention it, looks a bit weird. But still; this is a nice, spring day.

Love how she begins this bit, atmospheric description that gives information about the character

People round here aren’t born out of wedlock, people round here aren’t unnaturally massive and unnervingly quiet, people round here aren’t openly into men and completely fine with it. People round here aren’t me, unless they have the bad taste to be me, in which case you’d better avoid them or tell them what a freak they are whenever you can.

My awkward attempt at a smile would probably send them screaming. I don’t know how to deal with people. Never have. Plants are easier anyway.

“Curious,” Rebecca grins, and lowers her voice. “A little birdy told me you’ve smuggled a handsome man into the village.” This is what Rebecca’s like. She says shit like We’re going to spy, but here are three things she can’t do: keep a secret, lie, be subtle. People love it or hate it.

He’s like a fucking sunset.

His skin is light brown, like autumn sunlight through sparse trees, and I suppose that must be natural. His hair, cropped and tightly curled, is a tawny shade that must be natural too, since his eyebrows seem to match. But the rest—the razor-sharp jaw, the soft, wide mouth and noble nose—surely no-one’s born with all that at once, perfectly symmetrical and unnervingly striking?

But this man is slow and steady and impenetrable, with eyes like black mirrors and a near-tangible reserve that makes me want to crack him wide open.

I wait for it and watch the giant. He has the stride of a minor god, and the pub’s patrons, with their muddy tweed and their well-trained dogs at their heels, part for him like he’s a rabid animal. Their worry is understandable: the glower on his suntanned, well-worn face can only be described as ferocious. Beneath a trimmed, black beard, his jaw is hard as iron. I wonder

A hollow pause, during which I study Griff. He looks… interesting. Oh, I don’t know why I’m being polite: he looks as if someone hammered chunks out of a mountain, saw a man’s likeness in the resulting craggy mess, and gave it life. He’s all weather-beaten skin, wild, midnight hair that falls into his eyes, and a nose that could be called a beak if beaks were crooked. His mouth is a grim, finely carved line that my own would suffocate, and his shoulders are like boulders. His knuckles are like walnuts. If I’m frank, he’s quite ugly, but there is something about him.

Men never tease me at bars. They coax me, they catch me, they relentlessly desire me. And, even before Jean-Pierre, I never really enjoyed that. Being desired is such a dull sort of danger.

“Now you’ve hurt my feelings.” But he’s smiling again, that faint curve. I want to reach out and trace it with my fingers, which is such an unfamiliar feeling that it shocks me. And then, a second later, it excites me—because that feeling constitutes desire, and it’s been a long, long time since I experienced anything like it. My odd reaction to him sparks a reckless sort of hope, a wild taste of possibility in my chest.

Want him. Want him carelessly and carnally, and then you’ll be fixed. As if shagging him, someone, anyone, is a magic spell that will rewrite months of cold confusion.

“I’m from London,” I say, hoping he isn’t going to ruin my grand sexual plans by asking where I’m really from. If he does, it won’t take the strangeness to put me off him.

I’ve been shagging strangers for over twenty years, and it’ll take more than a snotty Frenchman, some mild blackmail, and a forced outing to take that away from me. It’s not as if my heart is broken, or anything foolish like that. I never had one.

I’m halfway up a tree—one of my favourite places to be—checking the progress of our organic apple orchard. I don’t technically have to be here, but climbing into these branches is like easing into another world, a cool, simple one where everything’s alive but nothing speaks.

In the realm of soft pink-and-white petals, I’m not a man who spent last night tossing and turning over a stranger. I’m not a man with a little burning coal trapped beneath his breastbone that could be worry or resentment. I’m not a man who had to go home and Google the definition of ‘provincial’ before he could be properly pissed off, either.

decide, for the thousandth time since last night, that I don’t care if he was upset or not. He’s a prick, and if I never see him again it’ll be too soon. But why was he shaking?

Omg

No recognition, no regret, certainly no fucking apology. I notice that, just like I notice those eyes of his are the deep green of winter firs. I really wish they weren’t. I like green things. He has a dusting of cinnamon freckles across his nose, which is a piss-take, because I like cinnamon too. The terrible lighting at the pub didn’t do him justice, which is bad news for the rhythm of my heart. Thank God I don’t like him, or I might be in trouble.

“I’m aware.” He sounds so calm, controlled, lazily confident. There’s a joke dancing in his green eyes but I don’t know what it is. There’s also an almost-hidden shadow, one I recognise, one that drags me back years.

There’s a short pause before Lizzie says, “You’re very odd sometimes, Olu. It’s my favourite thing about you.” “I thought your favourite thing about me was my ability to mysteriously solve any and all problems,” I say. It’s a joke, of course. So why does my sister respond seriously, and why am I grateful? “No,” she says. “No. You can be undeniably useful, but I don’t need to use you. I just love you.” She stumbles over the last word, not because she doesn’t feel it, but because we are who we are. When we were children, Lizzie and I, we didn’t hear that word much.

And, really, Keynes, you are a writer.”

when I was a child, I dreamed of a mother just like her, one who would hug me and ask me questions and tell me I was clever or kind. Instead of the mother I got, the one who made me in her frostbitten image.

His size should make him slow, but, since he’s fundamentally irritating, it doesn’t. He sprints ahead of us like some kind of athlete.

Fat doesnt mean slow

Everything about him is so… big. Thick. Excessive. He is height and muscle layered with soft, simple weight, and looking at him makes me want to sink my teeth into something. Which is, of course, a disgraceful response; I should have enough dignity not to salivate over my enemies.

Put a gun to my head, and I couldn’t guess.

Black dont crack

I need to be careful with him.

Vanity, vicious anger, petty and childish teasing; they’re arguably my worst qualities, but they’re nowhere near as terrible as the cold nothingness, and Griff brought them back.

think,” he tells me slowly, “that I want to hold your hand.”

But when Griff walks by me a moment later, the back of his hand brushes mine.

he protects the proud, fragile parts of me without being asked. He didn’t even make me ask. My body tightens in that hot, reckless way I no longer thought I was capable of. Fuck.

“Keynes?” Because of course it’s him. Not for the first time, I find myself thinking—ridiculously—that he should call me Olu.

something about the texture of Griff’s quiet makes it alright not to talk.

Keynes is here because he needs looking after, whether he wants it or not.

My mum took her own life,

Fuck

I squeeze harder, talk faster, forget to worry about my words or to feel self-conscious. “I didn’t know how to fix it or how to explain what needed fixing—what the it was, exactly—so I pretended it wasn’t happening. I pretended you weren’t happening, but you are. You’re happening. To me.”

our accents rooted in class rather than home.

This is a thing for Hibbert

“If I thought I deserved it,” he says, “I’d probably kiss you.”

Pros: Seeing Lizzie. Avoiding Griff’s visit today. Cons: Lizzie seeing me. Missing Griff’s visit today.

They both do this, make mental pro/con lists

Occasionally, I visit somewhere new and write a line that perfectly captures every facet of the jewel that life can be. Then I find myself wishing for a breathless, silly moment that I could show the world these journals—but that moment always passes.

like I have been before, because this need feels different. This need tastes like Griff, not like the random-man-at-a-bar he was last week. It’s rich earth and cool rain and careful, creeping roots. I think it might be safe. I think he might be safe.

On Monday morning, the sun rises like it’s shy.

She's Such a beautiful writer

Keynes is cool enough for the both of us; my job is to keep him warm.

For a moment, all I can do is stare down at my hands and imagine them on him, making him moan plant specifications in my ear. Eventually, I manage to say, “You have a good memory.” “You should teach me things, too, so I can remember them for you.” I look up sharply to find him focused on the bush, a sly little smile curving his mouth. That smile says he noticed the heat in my skin and the speed of my breaths. He knows that speech got to me. Which is kind of embarrassing, kind of useful. If he knows, maybe he’ll do it again.

Keynes is energy,

Press my palm against his body and wait patiently for an answer. That’s me: patient. I’ll be so fucking patient for you.

I whisper, “You deserve it. Everything you want, you deserve it.”