The sun comes up. The sun goes down. Love comes. Love goes. Every now and again, two people collide. The damage is done. The world keeps spinning on its disinterested axis. Disinterested in the story of…

…when a girl meets a boy…

Once there was a girl. She was very content living on her own, but she did enjoy the company of a number of friends when they had time to come and visit with her. She didn’t get out all that often because it took so much energy and preparation. Energy she never seemed to have, and preparation that included too many things to count, including the number of the local emergency. She wished she was a little stronger, more able, but other than that, she wished for not much at all.

It was possible, she had come to realise, for loneliness to eventually fade away. For the state of ‘being alone’, being on your own day in and day out, to become simply your constant state of being, and for the emotional charge attached to that to leave you numb to the idea of this kind of forever. She had numbed herself nicely through the years and presented a casual face of carefree detachment to the world.

Towards the end of a year, not that long ago but long enough not to wince when recalling the time, she met a boy. This was unusual, but she had made a huge effort to get out and sit in the park with a friend. Someone who could keep an eye on her and make sure she wasn’t overwhelmed by all the sights and sounds around her. A plaid blanket, a large water bottle, dried fruit and nut mix, and a hand hovering over her mobile phone. Just checking, she said to her friend. Paranoia made her check that the phone was within fingertip reach at all times. Her mind was filled with the distraction of hoping to last outside in the sun at least until the band started playing, and fear that she would cause a scene if she had to suddenly leave, dragging her friend away with her.

It was a surprise when a boy stopped to chat and later left the park with her phone number. It was nice enough, but she imagined she wouldn’t see much of him and really, did it matter? Boys tended to come and go, and she often wondered if she didn’t have long legs and long blonde hair would they stop to notice her at all?

But the boy was fairly persistent. He phoned regularly, and they organised to meet up. For the boy didn’t live near the girl. He was far enough away that she wouldn’t see him all the time, but close enough for it not to be ridiculous to think they’d get together sometimes—just enough not to tire her to the point of collapse. So, she agreed to see him—what is the harm in that? she thought.

He was sweet, and they talked, and he was interesting. It had been a long time since she’d allowed someone new into her world, and to find that he was interesting, and interested, was very fine indeed. The air smelt fresher when he took her out of the house, and the world didn’t seem quite so small. It was safe enough to leave her cocoon because nothing bad could happen under the care of someone so strong and worldly, right?

After that, he phoned every night. She was pretty blown away by that, as most guys didn’t really have all that much conversation in them and yes, while she did most of the talking, he was listening. And he kept phoning…

This went on for some time. He’d go away, as his work was the sort that spread people around the country—a little here and a little there. Plus, Christmas holidays came and went, and other times he was in mobile phone dead zones. But each time he came back, he’d phone as soon as he came into range, and within a few days he’d turn up at her place, smelling of the outdoors, of adventure, and of those wide-open spaces he was beginning to help her see.

She got quite used to these random visits. Sometimes for lunch, sometimes for an afternoon and dinner. In special moments, he’d stay over, leaving at stupid o’clock in the morning to make the nearly two-hour drive back to work. He was always sweet and interested in her days, and very gentle. For as the year progressed, her health—never all that good to start with—deteriorated, and she had long moments of complete bedboundiness (a word, she informed him, that helped her see some humour in the long hours of aloneness that came with this state). But he’d still phone and visit, and involve himself in her life. And when he kissed her, the constant chaos in her mind went still.

Even when she had nothing in particular to say about her day, he listened. He took in the words of her—all those dreams and hopes for the future, but also the fears and the blackness that came with the not knowing if there would be a future. And she started to look forward to the late-night chats because he did things. She loved to hear about his adventures—overseas explorations for work, climbing mountains to abseil off their tops. She felt alive again. She could close her eyes and see these quests as though she was there. Breathing deeply, scenting the gum trees and she-oaks covering mountains she could no longer climb.

 

Time went by, as it does. And she thought, as she was always going to do because she had a mind that never stopped thinking. And she discovered, to her surprise, she was starting to trust him. She trusted he’d come to see her if she asked. She trusted he’d phone and listen, even if he didn’t understand how bad things had become in her world. It had been a long time since she’d trusted anyone to be close, really comfortably close. To believe they’d actually be there and do what they said. The idea of trusting had crept up on her when she wasn’t looking.

Then one day, one rather ordinary day that was to stand out forevermore, the boy told her he’d probably be leaving. His job had shut down in that area, and they were moving him far to the north. Her heart retracted, like a startled sea anemone when the shark glides by. Then, in brittle response, she wondered if perhaps it wasn’t a good thing because she was getting awfully comfortable with the status quo—even though there was so much, she suddenly realised, she didn’t know about his life.

He tells the girl: You were planning on leaving here sometime yourself, weren’t you? You could always make your way north to visit, couldn’t you?

She was surprised at this comment, an almost throwaway line in the middle of some other conversation, hidden behind scattergun words that meant I’m leaving you, because while she liked feeling special, she knew something was missing. He made sure she was completely separate from his world—the little secret tucked away from the reality of his day-to-day life. She didn’t know a single friend of his, always explained away by the distance and the workload of his peers. She had made a mental note of that. She wasn’t entirely stupid. It had been so nice not to think of it, though. Self-preservation wasn’t always necessary…was it?

But each time the boy phoned the girl and talk came round to his leaving, he brought up her visiting, and she started to believe she’d be safe and fine with him. Her worry started to ease because surely, he wouldn’t say these things if he still wanted to hide her away, would he? She figured her mistrust was misplaced.

More time went by. The shivers deep down the girl’s spine, the icy shards of past relationships, were melting, so she dismissed the warning tightening in her gut and thought of the positives. Though she knew if he was ready to move on from his own damaged past, alluded to but never fully revealed, there was no rule book that said it had to be with her. Because, try as she might, those insidious little doubts didn’t go away—if he’d really wanted her, he’d have spent more time with her, introduced her around, and said be with me with just a little more enthusiasm, wouldn’t he? He would have said you are the girl for me; I shall spend all my available time with you, instead of stealing away for secret moments.

The idea crept into her head that perhaps him treating her special wasn’t quite the same in his world as it was in hers. The stark divide between able and disabled stared her in the face.

Then the boy was sent away for the longest time yet, as work spiralled him around the country in a whirlwind of activity for a few months, with spotty or no mobile phone coverage. He managed two calls from dodgy landlines that hissed and spat their words to each other. She was delighted he’d thought to, and found a way to, but they were empty calls, and her body ached after each one. She was sure he wasn’t a bastard; she could feel special, and it was safe, right?

He came back.

Everything changed.

He phoned when he returned. Eventually. But now he phoned once or twice a week. The conversations were distracted and short. She didn’t feel like sharing her innermost self with the person who had returned. She felt the door shut and didn’t know how to open it again.

His leaving date and place were confirmed.

He didn’t come to visit. He was busy. Life was moving on. His life could move on.

She agreed, in her head. And her heart shrugged its shoulders and decided that going back to sleep wasn’t a bad idea after all and really, what did she expect? It wasn’t as though she could go climbing mountains and sailing off their ends, glorying in the deliciousness of a whole, strong and vibrant body, was it?

Then suddenly he made a time to come over to say hello for the first time in a couple of months. Only the girl spoke with her friends, as girls are always going to do—even those who have so few of them—and they all agreed it sounded more like a goodbye.

The girl waited, and the boy came, and he tenderly helped her into his SUV and took her to their beach. The one they had found together one long winter’s day when she had been so confident in his care, allowing herself the rare treat of leaving the house. Where the sand had hissed across the ground as the cold winter’s wind pushed at them, curling the edges of the blanket. The scent of pines and gums mixing with wine and smoke from the fire.

Now, they sat, and they spoke.

And what she heard was: yes, if he’d cared more, he’d have made more time. And once he was gone, she would be free to move on. (She wondered if he was trying to make himself feel better and if she was meant to be grateful for this ‘moving on’ he was so obviously keen about.)

He stared into space and crushed her by saying he hadn’t realised she’d be so ill, so weak, for so long. And abruptly the idea that he hadn’t seemed to mind, that their words each night had let him see the ‘her’ that wasn’t her body was, well, terribly naive. Because in his world, obviously, they were just friends, and what—he’d been humouring her?

She was sure he said other things, but she didn’t hear him because her head was telling her: he was never that into you, and I knew, but you didn’t listen to me, Cold Logic brain—you listened to stupid old Warm and Fuzzy, and now Warm and Fuzzy is broken.

She wondered if everything that had gone on between them had just been, you know, a convenient ‘chummy’ thing to do, something you did just to pass the time. The words—if someone cares, they find the time—kept chanting in her head.

She stared at the boy and wondered just how stupid she’d been. She stared at his shuttered face and wondered just how stupid he’d been. There are nicer ways to say “I only want to be your friend,” she thought, than saying you don’t care enough to make more time for someone.

He left, and she wondered—had she been a convenience for him? Could she now really just be his pal?

Then a few days later, he phoned. She saw his name light up her phone screen, and her thumb hesitated for a brief moment. But hope is a savage and frightening creature, so she took the call.

It was as though the other conversation hadn’t even taken place. He said he’d be off work earlier than expected before he had to leave forever and would have the time to take the girl out as they’d planned. He told the girl that when she was well enough to travel, he’d like to share camping and hiking with her, and she should come up and say hello to him where he was going.

They hung up, and the girl stared at the phone and shook her head. Boys, she had to agree with Cold Logic, were the most damned mixed-up things she’d ever encountered. Let’s just be friends, shall we, as if you’d never held me half the night? Let’s go hiking, as though every word she had ever said about her limitations had simply been a prelude to the real life they could capture once she was able-bodied once more.

She wasn’t convinced he’d ever come back. She wasn’t convinced she wanted him to. Because, you see, trust and even the idea of belief lay shattered on a beach somewhere surrounded by the words if someone cared more. The idea that it had been about her mind was a dream she’d woken up from.

Perhaps, she told herself, if he really does appear, we’ll talk and laugh about this ridiculous idea he had about what we would be like if I could only be and do all that he needs me to be and do. But Cold Logic is going to run this encounter because there just isn’t enough caring to go around for anything else. Despite her size, never petite at the best of times, she felt like a small wounded animal and curled up to hide her heart from everyone—including herself.

Girl met boy. Girl liked boy. Boy made girl feel special. Boy left girl. Girl’s eyes got colder and harder. Girl’s heart got older and wiser.

The sun comes up. The sun goes down. Love comes. Love goes. Every now and again, two people collide. The damage is done. The world keeps spinning on its disinterested axis.

Disinterested in the story of…

…when a girl meets a boy…

 

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  • Melanie is the author of seven novels and several short stories. Her short fiction, Jessica Saves the Day, won the 2004 Nairda Lynne Award writing for 8–12-year-olds, and her adult short story, The Lonely House, won first place in a 2022 writing competition, subsequently published in the women’s magazine Mona. In 2022, Melanie graduated with a Master of Creative Writing from Macquarie University, earning the Macquarie University Award for Academic Excellence.