Love Story Competition 2018 - Winner

The little patch of sun spends its morning drifting across Lucy’s pillow until it lands on her sleeping cheek.
The warmth wakes her.
‘What time is it?’ she asks, forgetting.
‘It’s late,’ he replies, heavy-lidded, dry-tongued, ‘you must have slept through your alarm.’
The birds outside the window sing.
‘I didn’t hear you come in,’ she whispers. ‘I’ve missed you.’
‘I missed you too.’
Her phone vibrates on the bedside table.
She looks across to the phone, and back to him. Strands of hair fall in front of her eyes.
He brushes them back, so gentle it could almost be the mid-morning breeze.
‘You’re going to be late for work,’ he says. ‘I don’t have work. Not today.’
She wriggles a little deeper into the duvet. ‘Liar.’
She smiles.
Her phone vibrates again.
‘Your phone’s ringing,’ he says. ‘Let it ring.’
He reaches across her to snatch it. He doesn’t smell the way he used to.
They both grab the phone. A tug-of-war.
Touching without touching.
The screen lights up.
‘You’ve got seven missed calls. Three from work. Four from your mum.’ A brief buzz.
He reads the text aloud. Her mother wants her to call.
Whilst he’s reading, the phone vibrates again.
He looks at her, smiling.
‘He’s there with you, isn’t he?’ he reads. Faux-concern. Faux-shock. Faux-disappointment.
‘Stop it. Ben, stop it.’
‘I’ve stopped! I’ve stopped,’ he laughs. But she isn’t laughing.
He lets go of the phone, falls back against the pillows.
Dust kicks up into the beam of sunlight squeezing between the curtains. She leans in towards him, stopping just short.
He breathes, she breathes. They breathe together, almost.
‘Are you hungry?’ he asks. ‘I could go get us some pastries from that place you like by the park.’
‘No, don’t go.’
A touch of panic in her voice.
‘Okay, it’s okay, I’m not going anywhere,’ he reassures, ‘but we are going to have to eat at some point.’
‘We’ll order something in,’ she says.
He starts doing his stupid Daddy Warbucks impression.
She tries not to laugh.
She’ll never tell him how much it bothers her, makes her feel ashamed of having money.
He wouldn’t be able to hear it.
Besides, it’s a funny impression.
Her phone starts ringing again.
They both look at it.
‘You should answer that. She’s worried.’
‘I don’t want to,’ she replies.
‘Sweetheart.’
A silence hangs between them, the phone softly vibrating into the duvet. She picks it up.
‘Hello?
I’m fine mum.
Yes I’m fine.
I know. I’m sorry, I must have overslept.
I’m sorry.
Yeah, I’m sorry. She shouldn’t have rung you.’
A silence.
‘Uh-huh.
No mum.
No.’
A breath, a little deeper than usual.
‘No mum. I don’t need to say it.
I don’t.
I’m not saying it.
Mum, Ben isn’t here. Okay?’
She looks up at him. He’s smiling that big stupid smile. She almost smiles back but she can’t. It’ll show in her voice.
‘I know mum, I know. I’m sorry. I’ll call her now. I love you too.’
She hangs up. Dials another number.
‘Hi, it’s me. It’s Lucy.
Yeah, I’m really sorry but I don’t think I’m going to make it in today. No, no, not that. I’m just not feeling great.
Yeah, I know, I’m sorry. I slept through my alarm.
Yeah, she rang.
Yeah, I’m sure I’ll be better by tomorrow. I’ll text you.
Thanks. Sorry again. Bye.’
She sits looking at her phone.
He shuffles up behind her.
‘Duvet day?’ he asks.
‘Yeah,’ she replies, still staring at the black screen. ‘Why so glum, chum?’ he asks. ‘You love duvet day.’ ‘Yeah.’
He leans in. She can almost feel his breath on the back of her neck. ‘Who loves duvet day?’ he asks.
‘I love duvet day,’ she replies reluctantly.
‘Who loves duvet day?’
‘I love duvet day.’
‘I said ’Who loves duvet day?’’
‘I love duvet day!’
They laugh.
And they laugh.
And the laughter cracks, and she’s not sure if she’s laughing or crying.
And now she’s crying. And crying.
And crying.
And the tears subside.
And a silence, cold and wet like morning dew, settles between them.
‘You can’t just appear out of nowhere and pretend like nothing’s happened,’ she says.
‘I know. I’m sorry, love.’
‘I don’t like lying to her,’ she says.
‘You’re not lying to her,’ he replies, smirking, ‘I’m not here.’
‘Ben.’
He leans in to kiss her but she pulls away just before their lips touch. And she’s crying again.
Gentler this time, a trickle not a flood.
‘What is it?’ he asks.
‘I don’t need this you. I need the real you. Can you just be real for a second?’
He looks at her, hurt. Wordless.
‘I’m sorry.’ ‘It’s okay.’ But it isn’t.
The silence settles, thickens, hardens. ‘Ben.’
Nothing.
‘Ben.’
He’s looking at his hands. She looks at hers.
She brings her wrists to her temples, makes ears with her hands. He does the same.
He has to.
It’s in the rules.
You can’t stay in an argument if you’re both doing bunny ears. That’s what he always says. Said.
They sit there. Looking at each other.
The silence cracks, with a smile. Him first, then her.
Bunny ears always works. Always.
‘I was in the park yesterday and I saw this dog that made me think of you,’ she says.
‘Charming,’ he replies.
‘It was this tiny little thing, looked a bit like a cross between a Jack Russell and a Border terrier. It was trying to get this husky to play with it, but the husky was having none of it. But that didn’t stop this little mongrel. He’d do these playful little nips at the husky’s face then run away. Over and over again. Until eventually the husky seemed to realise that it had to play with the mongrel. It had no other choice but to play.’
Her hands drift down from her temples, land gently in her lap. He reaches out towards them.
‘Not yet,’ she says, wriggling back on the bed. Under the duvet. It’s too late to be in bed, too warm, but he joins her anyway.
He breathes, she breathes. They breathe together, almost.
‘Sing me a song, love,’ she says.
He props himself up on one arm next to her and gently starts to hum. She watches dust dance in the shaft of light, the soft tone of his breathy hum lulling her, gently, back to sleep.
She doesn’t know how long she’s been sleeping. It’s late, she thinks.
The light’s changed.
Her phone’s vibrating again.
She looks over at him.
He’s gone.
Where’s he gone? The phone vibrates. And stops.
And starts again. And stops.
And starts again.
Maybe it’s him.
She picks up her phone just as it stops ringing. Nine missed calls, all from her mum.
Where is he? She gets up, grabs her dressing gown from the back of her door.
Her phone starts ringing again.
‘What mum? What? What? What do you want?’
No.
No, I told you, I told you he isn’t,’ but the words catch. Like they’re barbed.
She can’t get them up.
Get them out.
Thorns snagging in her throat.
Her eyes start to water.
The door opens, and there he is.
Just standing there.
He sees she’s up, a look of panic darts across his face.
‘I’m sorry,’ he mouths.
He smells of smoke. Fingers yellow. Teeth yellow. Lips yellow. This isn’t him. Not how she remembers him.
She makes the decision.
‘I’m sorry,’ she mouths back.
‘He’s just walked in,’ she says into the phone.
He nods. Sits on the bed. Pats the space next to him.
‘I’m sorry mum. I’m sorry,’ she says. She sits next to him.
‘It is my fault mum.
It is.
It is.
Because I want him here. I know. I know. I know.
I know.’
He doesn’t smell of smoke any more. He smells like burning.
But he looks like him.
Burning wood and paint and rubber and metal and hair and skin. It’s filling the room.
Filling her nostrils. Her mouth.
Her eyes.
Her ears.
Swallowing mouthful after mouthful of saliva, she looks at his face, his eyes, but he’s staring at the floor. Tracing a figure of eight on his thumbnail.
The dressing gown is suffocating her.
She stands up, tries to take it off with her one free hand, but she’s struggling.
He doesn’t help.
He can’t.
Not really.
She finally gets it open, and it falls to the floor, taking her phone with it. He just sits there.
She picks the phone up.
‘Sorry mum, I dropped my phone.’
‘Yeah, I’m okay.’
‘Yeah.’
She sits back down. Looks at him. He looks at her.
‘I know mum.’
‘I know. I can’t.’
She can’t say it. If she says it, he’ll leave. A deep breath.
‘Ben isn’t sat in front of me.’ Her voice catches.
‘Ben isn’t sat in front of me. He can’t be.’
She looks up.
He nods at her, reassuring. She can’t.
He nods again, smiles that stupid smile.
She breathes.
He breathes.
They breathe together, almost.