Loverboy Butch, page 8
It’s a cascade of crap, a waterfall of semi-conscious sentiments and whole-hearted apologies that ultimately feel both excessive and pathetic. It is, quite possibly, the worst speech I have ever made in my entire life. All of the words run into one another, I repeat myself, I swear and stumble and make a pig’s ear of the apology I so badly want to be deserving of her.
From the blank expression on her face, the slow blink and inhale of disappointment, Dean agrees.
I step back, trying desperately not to see the slightly glassy-eyed stare of my reflection, the flushed cheeks drowning out my freckles, the hang-dog expression it bears. I consider running from it all.
I don’t. I made a mess of things. The least I can do is stay to reap the repercussions.
So we stand, our four selves, looking, indirectly, at each other through the veil of the mirror and wait for someone to say something else, anything else, to set the tone of what is to come.
Neither of us does.
Time drags. The world turns to treacle, and I wade through it, impossibly slowly, clutching shame to my chest like a child does a favoured teddy bear.
Eventually, Dean breaks. Her expression doesn’t change, her stoicism unshifting, but she tips her head towards the door.
‘Wanna go stand on the balcony and heckle the dolphins?’
I am so thrown by this breaking of the ice that I don’t have time to think of a witty retort or a meaningful follow-up, so instead, I say;
‘I don’t think the channel has dolphins, do we?’
Chapter Ten
Dean
The last thing I envisioned from this ferry ride was a hurried apology from Dexy. The second to last thing was to be holding back a teenager’s hair as she up-chucks over the edge of the ship just minutes after that.
Of all the Carpenter-Browns, I probably know Cami the least. She’s seventeen, no eighteen, maybe(?), and only ever around once in a while at family events. Kyle and Serena see her more, but at least, for the first few years of her life, her mother wasn’t sure he should be involved. The last time we spoke, she was into Fortnite and K-pop bands I knew about. Now, I’m attempting to keep the long strands of her hair clear of her puke as she hangs precariously over the edge of the metal railing.
Dex has their arm around her slight shoulders and is delicately rubbing circles on their niece’s back in a way that they clearly hope is reassuring and not at all reminiscent of the seasickness that’s taken over her body. I can tell that they only hope this and aren’t sure, by the tight pull of their jaw and the way they’re frantically questioning me with their eyebrows.
‘How long have you been out here, Cam?’
The poor kid answers slowly between retches.
‘Since—we boarded.’
She was bent double when Dex and I appeared on the deck. Not exactly giving either of us the time to delve further into the garbled mess that was her confession.
‘Should we get someone?’ Dex asks, mostly to me. ‘Do you want me to get your Dad?’
Cami’s hands brace on the red bars, the tips of her fingers turning yellow as another fit of it takes her, and yet another wave rocks the edges of the ship.
‘No.’ She coughs, the heaving of her throat slowing.
‘Are you sure? He might have some travel sickness pill, or maybe we could just knock you out with a Melly, and you’ll wake up in France.’
‘A melly?’
I blink at Dex, equally as perplexed as Cami.
‘Melatonin?’ They offer with a shrug. ‘It relaxes you and makes you all sleepy. I use it all the time to get a kip on planes.’
Surely, I am mistaken. They did not just suggest drugging their underage niece to combat a little seasickness.
My fury must travel through my glare because they cease their back pats and raise both hands in surrender.
‘Sorry, stupid suggestion. Ignore me.’
‘No, why not give her some gummies and a glass of whiskey whilst you’re at it? If we’re gonna corrupt the young, why not go the whole nine yards and dose her too.’
‘Hey, I said sorry.’
‘Yeah, only took two years.’ The words are out of my mouth before I can think better of them. Muttered mostly to my inner self, but just loud enough to be considered appropriately passive-aggressive.
Dex’s hands are still raised as white flags, and it’s an annoying reminder that I’m the difficult one here. Any high ground I had in my two-year-old grudge just melted away beneath the heat of my catty comment. I would love to say that this is surprising or out of character for me, but unfortunately, losing sympathy due to opening my mouth is familiar territory at this point.
Generously, Dex swallows their knee-jerk reaction and eases their niece’s head over the bars.
‘Alright, kiddo, the tank’s gotta be empty now. Let’s get you back inside. Maybe recline you on one of those big armchairs in the lounge area, and have your Dad fan you like a butler.’
The pair stagger towards the glass door as I catch Cami’s whimpered ‘That would be nice’ and the tail end of Dex’s laughter. Then it’s my turn to hang my head over the edge of the ship.
Maybe if I dangle far enough, some kind of sea life will jump up and knock me in, and I’ll get dragged away with the tide. At this point, it wouldn’t be undeserved.
I shouldn’t be so mean to them. I’m not saying they’re innocent. My comment was cutting, but undoubtedly accurate. The accuracy is what helps to make it so harsh. But now, I’m also a dick. And they were all gracious about letting it slide. Fucking unbelievable.
I stand there, staring down at the slow peaks and valleys shifting beneath me, watching as they buoyantly ebb away from the line of the boat’s edge (stern?) (bow?) (Christ, I know nothing about ships).
The afternoon sun is high overhead, shrouded in clouds and the sweeping silhouettes of seagulls. We’re moving surprisingly fast, the water parting around us as if by magic, and I suddenly see myself from very far away. A bug floating along on one of those toy sailboats kids take into the bath. I wonder if that were true, where my journey would be headed; towards a great tidal wave or a surprise ship flip into the sea? Maybe an oncoming freak weather incident of bubbles and foam that I would have to blame on climate change.
The door to the deck creaks open again, and I feel the presence of Dexy coming to stand next to me. There is something so particular about their body, not just the scent but the energy they emit, that I could identify them blindfolded and backwards.
We stand parallel to each other for a while, both facing out towards the oncoming shoreline of France way, way in the distance.
Eventually, they break.
‘Well, you sure know how to make a private dig at an inappropriate time.’ They say not unkindly.
‘It’s a gift.’ I reply stonily.
‘It’s something alright.’ They sigh, curving their spine and resting the broad expanse of their forearms on the bar. The metal is horribly cold against my hands; I can’t imagine it’s pleasant pressed up against the bare skin beneath their rolled-up sleeves. ‘Come on then. Let’s have it out.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘We’ve probably got about fifteen minutes before another relative of mine comes out here to vomit, so chop-chop.’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘Our dirty laundry, let’s air it out. Get the wind in those knickers.’
They’re waving their hands in front of us both, and I’m too distracted by the glint of their rings in the sun to process their words in real time.
‘Wind in my knickers? Air it out? What on earth are you saying and—hang on, since when did you say the word laundry?’
‘Fuck me, has Parker been talking to you?’
‘No?’ I say, somehow more confused by this addition than the nonsense they were spouting before. ‘You’re British. We don’t say laundry, we say washing.’
‘Alright, well, it’s an expression, and apparently, I do occasionally say laundry now. Is that alright with you?’
I shrug, still pretty lost on what this means to me.
‘Alright, then. Onto the hard stuff. What I meant was, now that we don’t have a green teen between us, I’m ready to hear what you’ve got to say.’
‘About?’
‘Me,’ they answer as if that should be obvious.
‘I don’t have anything to say about you.’ My walls instinctively come up. They aren’t pretty, but they have kept me safe all my life. Maybe I could paint them pink.
‘And that’s what I’m talking about. You’ve been sniping at me since you saw me days ago, whispering snide little comments under your breath, and if glares could kill, you and I’d be single-handedly keeping the Portsmouth mortuary business afloat.’
‘I wouldn’t give yourself too much credit there. Pompey isn’t exactly short on the grievously ill and close to death.’
‘Keeping me humble and morbid, what would I do without you?’ They pause then as if considering the rhetorical question a real one. ‘Look, if you’re not going to be honest, I will. I did live without you for two years and six sorta ones before that, and it sucked.’
Without meaning to, I straighten my spine, as though their words have inflated the vertebrae there.
‘I’ve been so happy these last two years. My most me I’ve ever been, and the only dark spot, the only part I fucking hated, was you not being there with me. And I know it’s my fault. I know that I let Khloe come between us, not at the wedding, although, yeah, but before that. She felt threatened, and instead of being an adult learning to talk through my problems, I bent to her will and slowly shut you out.’
I’m nodding because that’s a relatively accurate description of the pain I felt in my early twenties. The slow, seemingly systematic way Khloe found to have a problem with every aspect of my involvement in Dex’s life and the disarmingly abrupt actions they took to prioritise her comfort over either of our wants.
‘I get it, or at least, I understand logically why you might hate me, and you have every right not to trust me again, but I want to prove that I care about you. That I can be there for you again if you want me. That you can trust me with your heart.’
The words press on an internal ache I didn’t know I had, buried down deep somewhere beneath my sternum. It’s as though I’ve waited decades for this moment, the sheer confirmation that I wasn’t paranoid. I saw what was happening and called it out, and I got brutally crushed for having the bravery and common sense combo to call a spade a spade.
I take a second, assessing that ache, letting my brain check in with my body, my heart.
When I look over at Dexy, the ache dulls. I test that once more, looking at the soft curls of the clouds around the sun and back to the dazzling brightness of their eyes. The ache is getting lighter every time I glance at them.
I’m not willing to say I feel better. I don’t know if that could be true; there is a lot more for me to unpack, sort through and file away in the recesses of my memory, but I’m surprisingly light.
‘Huh.’
The light auburn hairs of Dex’s eyebrows are crinkled inward, each one edging closer together than I thought humanly possible. It’s enough to crack a smile from me.
‘So, you’re sorry?’ I try to keep my tone even. I deserve to have one final second of fun playing with my food before I let them off the hook.
They angle their body, and I know they are making a conscientious effort to be present, to meet my eye, to bring their whole self to this conversation.
It’s another one of those facts I might have missed if not for the decades of knowing them. Dexy has always had a hard time reacting to things. They spent most of their time in their childhood being told off for not showing they were listening, even when their work was done and they could prove that they were. Then they used our teen years to piece together an exquisitely crafted carefree demeanour, nodding, smiling, laughing at all the right points just so that they could be perceived as responding in an appropriately human register. It’s always harder for them to display that concentration in serious conversations.
I’m not suggesting that they’re fake, their emotions a shrewd manipulation, it’s the opposite. They care more than most people; their brain just doesn’t always match up with their face. It runs miles ahead at three times the speed and often forgets to read the signs aloud. It’s just a part of Dex, something I’ve known about them as assuredly as the cluster of freckles and one mole that are closer together than all the others on the top right side of their cheekbone.
So, when they fix their eyes on mine and move that ocean gaze down to watch my lips periodically, I understand that they are trying to keep themself entirely focused on my reactions and how I might respond, giving it all they’ve got.
Still, the intensity of their stare is a lot to process. Their eyes, my lips, connected by a sparking invisible line of energy.
‘I’m sorry,’ they say with an almost scary earnestness. ‘I’m sorry for a lot of things, but particularly, I owe you an apology for how I ditched you. You got shit for basically saving my life, and I never once considered how that felt for you or what people might have said. I’m sorry you got blamed for my rash behaviour and that I wasn’t around or aware enough to defend you. And I’m sorry that I slipped away before that. It was stupid and short-sighted and, mostly, pretty fucking cowardly. I don’t think there’s a part of me that will ever not be sorry for that because I denied both of us a great friendship.’
I raise my eyebrows in silence. When I thought about dragging out my forgiveness a smidge longer to make Dex squirm, I hadn’t accounted for the fact that they might go into more detail. I get the sense that if I let them, they would keep saying sorry and elaborating on their misdeeds until they ran out of breath.
Opening my mouth to speak, I watch as Dex drags their eyes from mine to catch the words straight from my lips.
‘You give a good apology, Dexter. Has anyone ever told you that?’
‘Yeah, well,’ they shift their weight to rest on their left foot, smiling at the old nickname. Their name isn’t Dexter, it’s an old joke between us. A sign of my trust. ‘At this point, I’ve had plenty of practice.’
I wonder what that means. In the years I’ve been absent, a diminishing figure in the peripheries of their story, what have they possibly done to warrant a wealth of experience apologising?
‘Not that I’m a bad person or anything, at least I’d like to think not, but I just seem to have a way of hurting women and putting my foot in my mouth.’
‘Hurting women?’ I scoff.
‘They get attached, or I say something overly sentimental, and it all goes to shit. I’m not a long-term type of person. I’m much more tolerable in short bursts, easy to fall in love with, and easier to fall out of love with.’
I resist the urge to protest, to point out that if there is a trail of broken hearts across the globe, breadcrumbs to Dex’s travels, they aren’t as easy to let go as they assume, but they’re staring at me again.
‘This apology is different, though. More important feels wrong, but more personal. I know that I hurt you, and I bailed instead of taking responsibility for my actions. I want to make it up to you, whatever that means: space, time, answering your questions, a willing servant for the next fortnight.’
I nod because, to my surprise, I believe them, and then I scrunch up my face to contemplate.
‘That last one is tempting. I’d have you carry me between the pool and the car, hold my many bags on a Parisian shopping spree, bring me iced tea as I lounge in the sun à la Sharpay Evans.’
‘And I would do it.’ They say, ducking their chin and making a mock bow. It startles an earth-shattering cackle out of me, which in turn earns a grin from them.
We turn in unison, then, looking back out to our approaching holiday on the horizon.
‘Exactly how many girls did you upset on your grand tour?’ I venture after a while.
They tactically do not look back at me. ‘Uh, I’d have to guess about forty-three. The numbers get a bit shaky in the early stages of Europe.’
If I had a drink right now, I’m sure I would be a contender for the world’s most iconic spit take. Come to think of it, a drink sounds really sodding good right now.
I’m still spluttering as I repeat the number back to them. ‘That’s like, two girls a month.’
Dex’s eyebrows knit again, and they seem to analyse the statistic for a second. ‘I’ve never thought about it like that. I guess you’re right.’
‘Of course you didn’t. How would you have the time to crunch the numbers between romancing half of an off-Broadway theatre?’
They’re smiling now, a low chuckle carrying their words. ‘It wasn’t that bad. It’s not a monthly quota; several of them were closer together, some of them months apart.’
‘How close together are we talking?’ I jostle them playfully.
They bite their lip. ‘Seconds?’
And as easy as that, we’re both laughing again. The weight of those years slowly sloughing away with the waves in our wake.
It isn’t all miraculously better. The hurt won’t go away overnight, but I think Dex knows that. For now, we can just make peace and maybe be friends again.
Chapter Eleven
Dex
When I was a kid, Mum’s auntie Marilyn was dating this fancy bloke from Hampstead. I don’t remember his name or any defining details about him, but I do recall his house in the south of France.
That is ingrained in my brain for several notable reasons.
Firstly, having a holiday home in another country was the wildest thing I could imagine as a kid. Secondly, when he lent it to us for a week in my sixth summer, it was the first time I ever left the UK. Thirdly, and most stubbornly burned on my psyche, I remember how fucking awful it was.
Much like this trip, we drove, taking our car on the ferry for a brief joyride. Except then, it was four children and two adults crammed into our tiny, loud hatchback. We loaded ourselves onto the ferry and then off again, only to make the trek hours away from the port to wherever the house was.
