The Flatshare

by Beth O'Leary

Perhaps I should have taken some of my things to my parents’ house. But most of this stuff lived in storage at Justin’s and it had felt so good to dig it all out last night. Rachel joked that when I found the lava lamp it was like Andy being reunited with Woody in Toy Story, but to be honest it had been surprisingly emotional. I’d sat for a while in the hall, staring at the multicolored mess of my favorite things spilling out from the cupboard under the stairs, and felt for a weird moment that if the cushions could breathe again, so could I.

got a bad feeling about him. Richie: Shit, man. Are we dealing with some kind of post-trauma situation here? Me: You think so? Richie: You’re speaking to the king of the night sweats. I dunno, I haven’t met her, but if she is still processing some shit she had to deal with, all you can do is be there and let her decide when she’s ready for whatever. The trauma of the trial and first month in prison hit Richie about six weeks into his sentence. Shaking hands, sudden terrors, intrusive flashbacks, jumping at the slightest noises. The last part always annoyed him the most—he seemed to think that particular brand of PTSD should be reserved for people whose trauma had actually involved loud noises, like soldiers. Richie: And don’t try and make the decision for her. Don’t assume she can’t be feeling better yet. That’s her call.

“I’m so sorry about last night,” I begin. Leon shakes his head. “Please don’t. It’s not your fault, is it?” “Well. I did date him. Voluntarily.” My tone’s light, but Leon frowns. “Relationships like that stop being about ‘voluntarily’ very quickly. There’s lots of ways someone can make you stay with them, or think you want to.”

But if he did agree to it that would mean inviting him for a proper weekend away together—if a slightly unconventional one. And that definitely seems … serious. Relationship-ish. That thought makes my throat feel tight and starts a little flutter of panic in my stomach. I swallow the feeling away, irritated with myself.

When I think about him I get this rush of unstoppable smiley joy chased with a sort of claustrophobic panic. But I suspect that’s probably a Justin hang-up and frankly I’m done letting those hold me back.

Feel a familiar fear. This will be the start of an unpleasant conversation—have forgotten to tell her something, am changing her plans … Tiffy: No! Are you serious? Stomach writhes. Reach to pull her in again, but she bats my hands away, eyes wide. Tiffy: You didn’t tell me! Leon—I didn’t know. I’m so sorry, but—Katherin’s book launch … I’m confused now. Why is she sorry? Tiffy: I wanted to be there, but it’s Katherin’s book launch on the Friday. I can’t believe this. Will you tell Richie to call when I’m in the flat, so I can apologize properly? Me: For what? Tiffy rolls her eyes impatiently. Tiffy: For not being able to come to his appeal! Stare at her. Blink a bit. Relax as I realize she is in fact not angry with me. Me: Never would expect … Tiffy: Are you joking? You didn’t think I was going to be there? It’s Richie! Me: You really wanted to come? Tiffy: Yes, Leon. I really, really wanted to come. Poke her in the cheek with one finger.

I’m still clearly a mess about Justin, and as things progress with Leon I can feel nice-scary tilting toward scary-scary a little more often. When Leon started talking about making more time for each other, for instance, the panicky trapped feeling tightened right in again. But beneath that, when I’m thinking clearly, I have such a good feeling about Leon. He’s where my mind goes when I’m feeling my best.

“He’s mad about you,” Richie says. “He might not say it out loud, but…” I feel a twinge of anxiety. I’m crazy about Leon, too. I spend most of my waking hours thinking about him, and a few of the sleeping ones, too. But … I don’t know. The idea of him wanting to be my boyfriend makes me feel so trapped. I adjust my dress, wondering if I’m the one having the problem with corsets and nerves. I really like Leon. This is ridiculous. Objectively, I would like to call him my boyfriend, and introduce him to people as such. That’s what you always want when you’re crazy about someone. But … What would Lucie say? Well, she’d probably say nothing, to be honest. She’d just leave me to stew on the fact that this weird fear of getting trapped is almost certainly to do with the fact that I was in a relationship with a man who never really let me go.

After the madness of today, it strikes me with new force that if nice-scary is sometimes scary-scary as I learn to do this whole relationship thing again, so bloody what? If I give in to that fear, if I let it hold me back with Leon, then Justin really does win. And Leon is so worth a bit of fear. He’s so worth it. I reach for my phone and call him again.

I’m just angry with myself.” “Why?” Mo asks. “Because … I bloody well dated him, didn’t I?” “Justin?” “I’m not saying what happened today was my fault, I know it doesn’t work that way, but I can’t help but think—if he’d not got to me, if I’d been stronger … we’d never have ended up here. I mean, bloody hell. None of your ex-girlfriends try to make you marry them and then use that to break up your current relationship, do they? Not that you have a current relationship, but you know what I mean.”

The weekend comes and goes in a blur of guilty pleasure. Tiffy barely leaves my arms, except to go for coffee with Gerty and Mo. Was right that we’d have a few triggers to work around; briefly lost her to a bad memory on Saturday morning, but am already learning how to help bring her back again. Is rather satisfying. She’s definitely more nervous about Justin than she’s letting on—came up with elaborate heavy-milk-buying ruse to get me to come and meet her at the coffee place and walk her back here. The sooner we can get that restraining order sorted the better. I fixed a chain on the door while she was out, and mended the balcony door, just to be doing something.

At this point, I notice that I’m already hugging my arms close to myself and tucking my body in against the wardrobe so nobody who leans in to check the flat will see me in the bedroom doorway, and I suddenly feel like screaming. He does not get to come here and do this to me. I want him gone, really gone, not just out of my life but out of my head as well. I am done with cowering behind doors and feeling frightened. Well, I’m not, obviously, because you don’t get over shit like this that quickly, but temporarily I am done with it and I’m going to make the most of this current wave of crazy angry confidence. I round the corner.