Love is a Place Ch. 02: The Solution

A guy with a Tintin quiff in a pink Ralph Lauren shirt keeps flirting with me. I'm tempted to just go home with him. Gotta be better than going home alone.

I suck. My life sucks. Maybe I should just embrace it and, well, suck.

* * *

It's 1am, Christmas morning. I drag myself up the stairs to our flat. Soon no longer to be. I'm tired and heartsick. I feel wrung out, like an old rag; no tears left to cry. No emotions left at all.

As soon as I turn on the light in the sitting area I burst into tears. Guess I did have something left.

There on the sofa in front of the door are a pile of presents. Tupperware filled with muffins. Boxes of biscuits. Bags of kettle crisps. A jar of olives. Two bottles of wine.

These have to be from Samantha. She doesn't hate me. The weight I've been carrying these last few days is suddenly lifted from my soul, and all the feelings, all the fear, I've been trying to keep pressed down and locked away breaks out. I slump down on my heels and sob with relief and happiness, gripping the arm of the sofa as I bawl.

She doesn't hate me. She doesn't hate me. She doesn't hate me.

It's such a small thing, but it means so much.

There's a letter.

Wiping my eyes and nose on my sleeve, I carefully tear it open. My eyes blur as I read her careful print:

Dear Sarah

I miss you. I don't feel right without you.

I am so sorry. I didn't mean to disgust you by asking you if you wanted to have sex with me. I realise now that you don't. That's ok.

Wait? What?

I think I'm in love with you. But I understand that you don't feel the same way.

What the fuck!? I have to re-read that line several times. It makes no sense to me. Surely, surely, she has the pronouns the wrong way around?! How is this happening?

You are very important to me. You are the most important person in my life. I will put aside my feelings for you and I promise you that nothing untoward will happen. I understand if you now feel unable to share a bed with me. However, I really hope that we can remain friends. You are my guide and I don't want to live without you.

I feel very sad to think that you will be alone at Christmas, even if you are working. I would really like to speak to you. I hope that you won't stay angry with me for long and that you will call me soon.

I miss you.

Your friend

Samantha

She thinks I'm angry with her! Holy shit, how did I get this so wrong!

I quickly grab my phone. I've ignored 32 messages from her so far. I can't bring myself to read them. I send her a message instead.

Dear Samantha

Thank you so so much for your letter. It means more to me than any present. I miss you too. My life seems dull and dark without you. I thought you were angry with me. I was never angry with you.

Merry Christmas

Love Sarah

I hear a loud ping from our bedroom.

I freeze. Hot waves run up and down my body under my skin. Surely not?!

I'm tip toeing towards the bedroom door when it opens. She's there in her pjs, hair tousled with sleep, blinking into the light. She's so beautiful, so vulnerable. I stop, hesitate. She's here!

She holds out her arms to me, and I close the few steps between us in a heartbeat and sob into her shoulder.

"I'm so sorry," I cry on repeat.

Her arms go round me as she shushes me, whispering white noise into my ear as I cry, the way Dr Alison taught me to soothe her. How our roles have reversed.

"Will you share our bed Sarah?" she asks. Her voice is nervous, hesitant, and that insecurity stabs at me. "I promise not to touch you inappropriately." I almost laugh but it turns into another sob.

"Yes," I choke out.

I wash the worst of the bar smell from me, brush my teeth and join her.

"Can I hold your hand?" she whispers.

"Yes," I reply, as I reach for her. "Merry Christmas Samantha."

"Merry Christmas Sarah."

Palm to palm, finally, finally, I get some sleep.

* * *

I wake up to her smell. Her orange scented shampoo. The musk of her skin. I smile to myself. I feel her warmth next to me, under me. The heat of her arms over my back. Are we cuddling?

I blink open my eyes. I see the line of her jaw, the skin of her neck, the flesh of her upper chest where it peeks out from her pjs. I'm snuggled into her, almost lying on her front, my right leg and right arm thrown over her. I've dreamed of this. Despite myself, I tense.

"Sarah?" she whispers, "are you awake?"

"Yes," I breathe back.

"Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas."

"Is this ok? Holding you like this?"

"Yes," I reply. I don't want this moment to end.

We lie there for ages. Not moving. Not speaking. Just holding one another. I listen to her breathing, her heartbeat. I revel in her smell. The feel of her body, the rise and fall of her chest which brings exquisite gentle presses against me.

I could spend the day here. I doze.

Eventually she speaks.

"I'm sorry I misunderstood what it means that you hug me in the mornings," Samantha says.

"This isn't hugging Samantha," I say dreamily, "this is cuddling."

"Oh." There is a pause. "Well, I'm sorry I misunderstood what it means that you cuddle me in the mornings."

Now that I'm listening properly there are several things I don't understand about this sentence.

"What do you mean by "I cuddle you in the mornings"?" I ask. "You're always awake and up way before I am."

"I know," she says, "but I always wake up with your arms around me."

"I don't understand," I'm wide awake now, yet more confused.

She doesn't say anything. Of course: I didn't ask a question. "Samantha, what do you mean by waking up with my arms around you? How often?"

"For the last six weeks, I've woken up every morning to find you cuddling me. I really liked it. I still like it. But I misunderstood it. I thought it meant that you desired me sexually. It was a puzzle. But then Dr Alison helped me realise that the puzzle wasn't about whether you desired me sexually, but whether I desired you sexually."

I hold my breath. I want her to say more.

She doesn't.

I'm about to ask but of course her phone would start ringing at this point. Of course it would.

"Hello Mum," I hear her say.

Obviously, I listen in.

"Merry Christmas to you too.... Yes, she's here.... Yes, she's ok... I'm ok too."

Even I can hear the huge sigh of relief and loud Thank goodness Rachael gives over the phone.

"I don't know.... yes , I'll ask her," she turns to me, "What time are you working today, Sarah?"

Oh, right, yeah, it's Christmas. "Umm, I'm not actually working anymore. I thought I might be, but I'm not now."

"Ok," she turns back to the phone, "Mum, Sarah says she's not working now.... Ok... Sarah, Mum wants to speak to you," she passes me the phone. I gulp and nearly drop it when I take it.

"Hello?"

Merry Christmas Sarah dear! Oh, I'm so glad you're safe. We were all so worried.

"Merry Christmas. Look, I'm really sorry, please let me-"

No, no, none of that, she briskly cuts me off, right, if you aren't working, I insist Stuart picks you up when he picks up Samantha. He can either drop you at your parents' house or you can spend Christmas with us. We'd love to have you here Sarah. There's genuine warmth in her voice that threatens to set me off crying again. I wasn't expecting this.

"Ok, well, if that's ok."

Of course it is. He'll be there in 40 minutes. He's going to leave now. You decide, but we'd love to see you.

I interrupt quickly. Phone calls with Rachael can go on a bit. "Ok... here, I'll pass you back to Samantha ... and, thank you."

I'm stunned. 12 hours ago I felt friendless and adrift, an empty husk. Now there are so many mixed emotions sloshing about inside me I'm at risk of brimming over with tears again.

"Bye Mum," Sarah hangs up and then heads for the kitchen. "Would you like tea?" she calls.

As she showers, I sip my tea and read through the multiple messages from Amanda, Louise and everyone else, seeing how very, very wrong I've been these past few days. I message them Merry Christmas and apologise. I tell them I'm fine. That we're fine.

I don't feel it yet. But I think it's going to be ok. I want to spend the day with Samantha: seeing her this morning had brought home how much I'd been missing her, a visceral ache that had been seated so deep inside me that I felt it in my bones. I hadn't felt really whole without her. That's gone now, but has been replaced with an older, more familiar yearning that is still laced with sick shame. I need to unpack my feelings, and examine them in the light of Samantha's not-quite-revealed feelings... which I also need to get to the bottom of. I need to try to shove these thoughts aside for now and just try to have a nice day, as a friend. I'll go to Samantha's; my parents won't care and their house will be rammed anyway.

By the time I've had my turn in the bathroom, we've barely got 5 minutes to pack presents. Luckily, I had bought some gifts for Christmas before the disaster of last Thursday night, so some can be repurposed for her family. I'll get something else for Amanda and Lydia in the sales. Just as I'm gearing up the courage to ask Samantha about the solution to her puzzle, her older brother Stuart is buzzing the door and we're heading out.

Stuart introduces us to his girlfriend Megan, whom I've heard about but never met. She apparently has zero tact or boundaries, because as soon as we're on the road, she's turning round from the front seat to quiz us about what's been going on.

"So... are you ok? You had everybody worried."

"Yes, I'm fine," I mumble back, avoiding her eyes, trying to make it clear I don't want to talk.

"I'm fine thanks Megan. I have Sarah now. Why were people worried about me?" Samantha, however, clearly thought the question was for her.

"Oh that's so sweet!" Megan squeals. "So are you two, like, a couple now? Are you girlfriends?"

"We are friends and we are girls and there are two of us," replies Samantha, in her typical pedantic fashion. I expect her to stop there, but she surprises me. "However, I suspect your question was meant to ascertain if we were a romantic couple, and the answer to that is no. I am very much in love with Sarah, but she has made it clear to me that she doesn't want to have sex with me and I value her friendship so I am willing to accept that."

My mouth is hanging open. Megan's is too. I don't know where to look. My heart is trying to expand and crush itself at the same time. Yeah, of course we would be having this conversation in front of people. Fuck my life.

I catch a glimpse of Stuart's eyes staring at me in the rear view mirror and I quickly look away. At her.

My mortification is not yet over as apparently Samantha is not finished.

"Sarah, I am very sorry that I have developed inappropriate feelings for you, and I am also very sorry that I folded when you didn't respond positively to my inquiry about whether you wanted to have sex with me or not. I was surprised by the strength of my own reaction. I'm sorry that this upset you. I really hope you haven't been feeling guilty. Can we still be friends?"

It's too much. This is too much. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I'm going to cry.

"Of course," I choke out, and I reach for her hand, squeezing her fingers. "Always."

I lose the fight, but manage to keep from ugly crying. I turn my head to look out of the window to try to hide the tears tracking down my face.

Do I tell her I feel the same? Do I? Do I deserve that? Does she? Does she actually know what love is? What sex is? Does she realise what two women do together? Could she actually cope with that? Or would just trying cause her another crash? This right now is torture, but getting closer and still not being able to love her fully, to have her fully, wouldn't that be worse? Or would it be enough to just share what she can manage? Holding and being held by her this morning was so wonderful, and she clearly didn't mind, didn't freak out.

Positives and negatives, pros and cons, thoughts and emotions, dreams and nightmares of the future swirl and slosh around my head for the full forty minutes of the drive out of the city. I'm no closer to a clear path to progress when we arrive at Samantha's parents' semi-detached.

I've barely climbed out the door onto their drive when Rachael is wrapping me in a huge hug. And I mean huge: she's not a small woman!

"Oh Sarah sweetheart, it's so good to see you. You gave us such a shock. Samantha told us what happened..." and I just smile and nod and back-channel as the garrulous surrogate-mother of my teenage years holds up both ends of the conversation for me as she ushers us into the house. She's such a contrast from her silent, tunnel-visioned daughter, it's hard to think they're related, but strangers often think we are.

Their house smells and looks amazing. I have a glass of bucks fizz shoved in my hand by Samantha's dad Glen while I've still got my bag of presents in my hand.

"...Oh Sarah, you shouldn't have, that's so sweet, come with me, we'll put them under the tree. Now, have you called your parents?" She doesn't wait for an answer as the monologue continues, listing the various veggie delights she's cooked up for us. I follow her into the book-lined sitting room to put presents under the tree. I answer questions as required, but luckily Rachael is very good at holding up a conversation entirely by herself, so I'm not required to have much input. I mention the bar/cafe where I work and she's off with "...oh, yes, I remember bar work fondly. Did I ever tell you about the time..." and she's spinning some anecdote about spilling drinks on some minor royal, with Megan a sufficiently appreciative audience to cover up my introspection.

She's finally interrupted by a question from Glen about whether he and Samantha should lay the table (her traditional Christmas chore, which she takes very seriously - set squares and measuring tape), which prompts Rachael to exclaim "My goodness! I must look to the food. Megan, be a dear and help me prep the sprouts. We're having a River Cottage recipe, but I've swapped the bacon for halloumi Sarah - you'll love it."

"Thanks Rachael, that's kind of you. I love halloumi."

"Anything for you."

And suddenly, it's just Stuart and me left in the living room.

I sip my drink nervously. Stuart was an ally of sorts at school, friends with my older brother Steve, and they both intervened more than once to ensure the teasing of Samantha never reached critical levels. Their methods were blunt and brutal, but largely effective.

But I've never really felt at ease with Stuart. After all, he knows. He was there. And I know he kicked up a fuss when I was assigned as Samantha's buddy at Secondary.

He pushes the door shut, and then turns to me.

"So, come on Sarah. Cut the crap. What's the problem? Are you seeing somebody?"

"What? No! There's nobody."

"Ok. So, what's the issue?"

"What do you mean?"

"Come on Sarah, I know you're bi. I saw the photos on facebook from Pride. I know what that flag you had on your t-shirt means. So, is Samantha just not your type?"

"What?!"

"Seriously, I don't get it. You two share a bed. She loves you. You're into women. You're single. I mean, maybe I'm missing something here, but I saw your reaction in the car. I see how you look at her. So, what's the problem? Is she not good enough for you?"

"No! Oh God...." I'd never imagined I'd be having this conversation with Stuart of all people. "No, nothing like that. Samantha's amazing and... and... she's Samantha, Stuart!" I look at him, willing him to understand, to not force me to put this into words.

He's merciless.

"And?" is all he says.

"She's... she's not in love with me. She doesn't know what love is."

"Fuck you Sarah," he snarls, "you don't get to decide that! Would you say that about me? Would you say that about my parents?"

"What? No, I -"

"So you don't get to say that about her. I know she's different, but you don't get to decide for her what she feels. She's a person, she's an adult: she can decide for herself what she feels." His voice softens. "I've spoken to her quite a bit these last few days. She's told me what she feels for you and how you make her feel. If that's not love, then I don't know what love is Sarah."

"Really?"

"Yes!"

"But...but..." shame and hope are scratching and clawing at each other in my stomach, "she can't... she can't touch people Stuart! You know what she's like. You remember her at school."

"Yes... and she's nothing like that now!" He pauses and sighs. "Maybe you're too close, Sarah, you can't see. But I remember when I came back from Reading for the Christmas holidays that first year you were in 6th form and noticed how much she'd changed. Then even more by the summer - she actually gave me a hug, unprompted! And now. You see her every day, maybe you haven't noticed. But she's blossoming. She'll always be a wallflower, for sure, but... she's doing well, you know. Come on, you must see that?"

He's right. Fuck, he's right. She's no longer the scared child that cowered in the corner, hands over her ears, flinching every time another student would brush past her or bump into her. Yes, she has changed. She can cope. Most of the time.

I can feel hope spreading through me, like strong roots, knotting around my joints. So, of course, my shame goes nuclear.

"But... I don't deserve her..."

"What? That's bullshit Sarah! Nobody could ask for a more loyal, more patient, more caring friend than you..."

I cut him off. "You know what I did, Stuart! You were there! How can I be with her!? She doesn't deserve to be with somebody that could do that to her! I don't deserve her!"

"What the hell are you... Wait? Are you talking about what happened in Primary? What... you were in Year 3?"

"Yes," I sob.

"What the fuck, Sarah? You were 7!"

"It was a big deal, Stuart! I had to move schools!"

"Are you... are you still beating yourself up about that? It was years ago! A lifetime ago! You're both completely different people. And whatever..." he pauses as he searches for the word, "penance you owed her for that you have more than repaid over the years. She doesn't even fucking remember it."

"But... you do..."

"And? So fucking what? Do you... do you need my fucking permission to date my sister or something?" he hisses. Then, seeing my face, and glancing quickly at the door, he softens. "Look, wow, I didn't realise you were still feeling guilty about this. Maybe you should talk to somebody? Dr Alison?"

"She knows."

"Yeah, I know." He seems momentarily embarrassed. "I told her."

"I know."

"Yeah. Look, for what it's worth, I forgave you for that a long time ago. I mean, I was angry when I realised who you were. But when I saw how hard you were working to help Samantha, to protect her, I stopped being cross with you and ... well... yeah, I forgave you a long time ago." He pauses. "Come here."

I don't get it at first. But then I see him standing up, with his hand out. Hesitantly, I give him a hug. We don't hug. I don't think I've ever hugged Stuart. He crushes me into him. "Maybe it's time you forgave yourself, Sarah."

"Thank you," I whisper.

He ends the hug and looks at me.

"Anyway, in case you did need it, you do have my permission to date Samantha."

"Um.... thanks?"

"I mean, you know, if you don't feel that way about her, then fine. But I don't think that's true, is it?"

"No." There, I said it. The world didn't end. "No, it's not."

"There you go. So tell her."

"How can I, after all the shit I've put you all through these last few days?"

"It'll only be worse if you put it off. She might find a way to put those feelings aside before you pluck up the courage to tell her something. Look," he goes to the door, "stay here. I'll send her in and make sure you don't get disturbed."