Abigail was talking. Unlike Charlie, who thought more about talking than she ever got around to saying, Abigail always knew what to say.
Charlie sat on the blue couch in the kitchen, watching Abigail rush around. Water boiled in the black kettle she’d gotten for Christmas. It had been sixteen hours since the kiss and, so far, neither of them had spoken about it. Instead, Abigail talked about tea.
“Chamomile?” Abigail muttered, tapping a finger against the counter. “I can make hibiscus tea. My mother gave me a bag the other day.” She looked over the boxes in the open cupboard, her other hand on the door. “Or a fruit one, the label’s in Polish, but I think it’s pomegranate.”
“Polish?” Charlie stretched out her legs, crossing her ankles. “From the ghost flatmate?”
“Yes. There’s also blackberry, raspberry, lavender, rhubarb… feel free to stop me. Green tea, blackcurrant…” Abigail sighed, frowning at the boxes in front of her. In the corner, standing out against the boxes, and behind an empty glass of hot chocolate mix, was a clear glass with a red cap. “I also have coffee.”
“It’s too late for coffee,” Charlie said, picking at the dry skin on her lips.
“Yes, but you don’t seem to want tea, and you don’t drink water at night. I have no milk or juice, and you don’t drink coke.” Abigail closed the cupboard. “What do you want to drink?”
“Nothing,” Charlie replied, as she had said back when Abigail had first arrived at the house, drenched and shivering. Her hair stuck between her lips. Charlie ran a finger over the dry skin of her own, pulling at the corner of her mouth.
Abigail hesitated. The shop? she thought.
“Coffee is fine, Abby,” Charlie laughed.
Abigail moved through the kitchen and glanced out the window to see the sky. Outside, rain fell, drops crashing against the window of the small flat on the corner of the street. She ran her tongue over her teeth and didn’t say a word. Not until she sat down, across from Charlie, facing the window, and set a green mug on a small table, filled with coffee, and a white cup with coke. In her hand was a brand new, small, cheap bottle of vodka.
“It’s early for that,” Charlie said, motioning towards the bottle. “You have an eight am tomorrow.”
Abigail smiled and pushed the mug towards Charlie. “Drink,” she muttered. “Come on,” she said, when Charlie simply watched the cup. “It’s easier to talk to people when they’ve got a drink. It feels… kind of like a safety blanket. As stupid as that sounds.” She turned the cup against the table and lifted it up. “How was your day today? Have you eaten anything?”
The kiss hung between them. On the way, Abigail filled her cup with alcohol, and Charlie held the mug close, her hands wrapped around it.
“I ran into Marie today,” Charlie muttered, taking a sip from the mug. The coffee was bitter. “She made lunch for both of us.” Abigail nodded, her eyes on the window. “Abigail—”
“It’s not a good habit to have, you know. Kissing people when drunk,” Abigail muttered. “I’m not mad, but… please don’t do it again. Okay?” Abigail could still feel the taste on her lips, the tongue that had tried to pry in. The feeling traveled down her spine when she remembered.
But, most importantly, she could still hear the words Charlie had muttered, right before falling asleep. She leaned back against the chair and smiled. “It’s a bit early. We could watch a film or just rest. I was thinking of ordering dinner today, so we can split the takeaway. Or you can go home.”
“I like you.”
Shit, Abigail thought. She pressed a finger against the cup’s edge and smiled. “Have you been drinking?”
“No,” Charlie said. “I just… I’ve been thinking about it since I woke up and… Do you remember when you picked me up from the Pavilion? It was cold, raining, and like three in the morning. You didn’t care about it, nor that I literally dirtied your coat with…snot and tears.” She pressed her palms against the mug’s body, and the warmth spread through her hand. “My point is, I’ve been thinking about it since then and—”
“You like me? Romantically? Or just as—”
“More than friends,” Charlie filled in. “It’s more than just enjoying your company and wanting to talk to you because you’re my closest friend. And it’s not because of Ian, okay? I’m not looking for you to replace him or… anything like that. You don’t even have to say anything about it. I’m not asking you out. I just wanted to say—I didn’t kiss you just because I was drunk. But I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.” She sighed. “I’m really sorry.”
“Are you sure that you like me?” Abigail ran her fingers through her hair. “It hasn’t been long since Ian. I’m not saying it’s not possible, it’s just—” She picked up her cup. “It can be easy to confuse feeling lonely with actually liking somebody.” The bottle stood beside it, half empty.
“It’s not that.”
“Are you sure?” Abigail muttered, wiping coke from her lips with the back of her hand.
Charlie set the mug down, the coffee inside lukewarm. “I’m not asking you to date me, Abby. I just wanted to say it properly.”
“You remember,” said Abigail. She let her head fall back and looked at the ceiling, following with her fingertips the lines. “I was really hoping you didn’t.” She could feel the rain against her eardrum. “What do you even like about me?”
Charlie said, “Everything feels easier with you. I can tell you everything and not get worried about whether you’ll judge me or not. I feel comfortable just being with you and not saying anything. I can actually talk to you. Thinking about you makes me happy. I don’t have to doubt myself as much when I’m with you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
Abigail squirmed as the liquid burned her throat. She could feel it spread to her ears, down her neck. She said, “That I can’t feel the same way.” She scratched behind her ear. “And that I won’t be able to.”
“That’s fine.” Charlie smiled, with those eyes that were easy to recognize from afar. The eyes of a person who’d just been rejected and was too busy trying to push it down. “Do you have someone you like?”
“No. I just don’t feel romantic love,” Abigail explained, her tongue soft against the roof of her mouth. The world around her grew in size. The bottle on the table had a quarter to go. “Crushes, dating. None of it.”
“You’ll get your chance,” Charlie muttered, the words flat against her teeth. “You just haven’t met the right person yet. I’m sure you’ll find someone.”
“It’s not something I’m sad about, Charlie,” Abigail muttered, pressing her thumb against her chin. “I mean that I don’t feel the need for it. Romance doesn’t intrigue me, or bother me. It’s something other people feel, and I just hear about.”
“But you’ve dated before.”
Abigail smiled, and it left her cheeks as quickly as it had appeared. “I felt broken back then.” She placed her elbow on the table and her chin on the palm of her hand. “Everyone around me kept talking about relationships and crushes, and there I was, not really understanding, just listening to them. I thought dating was what was normal, so I said yes. Men, women. All because they said you just didn’t know until you experienced it, that you’d find someone eventually. But it was never because I liked them. I never liked anyone. I just weighed out the pros and the cons of a relationship.” She emptied her cup. “Of course, they didn’t last. They said I looked too miserable with them, and I was. How could I not? I kept trying to make myself fall in love. I talked it out, thought about it a lot. I read books. Eventually, I stopped dating.” She smiled. “It’s not for me.”
“How do you know?”
Abigail shook her hair. “I just do.”
“Don’t you feel lonely?”
Abigail nodded. “Sometimes.” The empty bottle sat by her cup. “Usually when my friends start dating. I become a sort of an afterthought to them. But, you sort of get used to it, romance is important for them, and I’ve learned to accept that. What can I do about it?”
“It doesn’t bother you?”
“A little bit. It’s hard when a person you cared for suddenly stops calling or says they won’t hang out with you before leaving the country because their boyfriend is visiting from abroad.” Abigail opened her mouth and chipped away at a tooth with her nail. “It feels like you’re less important.” She looked toward the window, the sky clear and the rain leaving behind only traces on the window. “But, what can you do?”
They sat in silence, listening only to their breathing.
“You know I love you?” Abigail muttered. “You are my best friend. And I am so happy to have met you.” There was a small plea stuck behind her tongue. The kind that always made itself known when someone fell, promised to be fine, and found themselves taking ages to respond to her messages, before they didn’t reply at all. She did not look up as she whispered, “We’re still friends, right?”
“What do you think?”
Yes.
Elia Del Rosal is an aspiring author from the north of Mexico. She moved to the UK at seventeen to do her A Levels and now lives in Sussex with family.
Featured image by Dean David on Unsplash.
