Blackjack

by Anon

There are five boys who have been significant to me over the years. Wow I sound like that Netflix girl who sent the letters. I say boys, because their actions do not reflect the behaviour of men. The first two – users. The third, just didn’t like me back. The fourth – unfaithful, never choosing me over the other, but never wanting to let me go. And the fifth? I will still call him a boy, because he has experience to gain. But he was different. He might just have been the only one who didn’t use me, who didn’t cheat, who maybe did actually like me. The only one who I went on to hurt. 

I knew my feelings the first time I sat across from him, in a dark bedroom at 4am. There was someone else in the room, but his role soon diminished to that of an extra. I was focused on the lead, with his cheeky attitude and an attractive poker face. I was intrigued. Four days later I bumped into him in the library. He stood over me on a staircase, his black hoodie screaming sexy, his glasses calling at my fantasies. I wished I had put on make-up that morning. 

In a crowded room, it became routine for my eyes to look for his. Would his look for me? I hoped so. Eventually, taking a chance, I tried to kiss him. He says he pulled away, but I am convinced he kissed back. Just like how he’d stand that little bit too close behind me after a night out, then tell me I was deluded in this claim. His smirk told me I wasn’t. But he told me it was just a game – It’s like playing blackjack, you never know my next move. Cheeky. Of course I wanted him more. But maybe he really didn’t want me, and when the sound of his No rang loud enough – two thuds, as my shoes dropped out of his bedroom window – I took a step back. 

On the soil of my rejection, we grew a friendship. If it was a colour I would call it yellow; daffodils blooming in the Spring sun. We would just smile when we were around each other, which became a lot. He seemed to care about what I thought and felt, he saw past reputation, he wanted to get to know what I was actually like. He cared about the insides and remembered the little things. I soon learnt that this boy was passionate, and dreamt big. He was an actor, a photographer, a sportsman and an explorer all in one. And also a massive nerd – when we walked through town, he would try to show off his knowledge, telling me about artists and architecture, quoting lines from plays, discussing the life works of Shakespeare. On every instance of this, I would be genuinely impressed, but would always end up laughing – such useless trivia, but he took such pride in its possession. He was funny. I found him ridiculous. I think he knew, and I think he loved it. 

I would look up from my work and see him looking at me across the desk. Our friends sitting nearby could see we were texting each other under the table. I’d always get him coffee – a cappuccino with sugar – and one time that turned into me paying 10 quid to have his Big Mac delivered to us. I would never really have said no. I’d read my flash cards on his bed, whilst he’d read about physics, glowing under his lamp. We went to a book shop once, and I noticed how he kept going back to this one book. A few weeks later, I returned, and not knowing the title, looked for its yellow cover across two shop floors. I found it and bought it for him. He said he learnt a lot.

One evening on a break from work, we went to a garden nearby. It was cold, and it was dark, but company goes a long way. I lay on his lap on a bench and looked at the stars. I think he was wearing that black hoodie I liked. We talked about his family, my previous years at university, his friends at home, my plans for the future. He was probably only half listening, because I could feel the warmth of his breath above my face, as he tried to find the right moment to kiss me. It didn’t happen though. Maybe I was holding back, to see if his interest would last, but also for once, it was nice to like a boy who didn’t mind moving slow. Fast forward, a week later in his room, we sat close on his bed. I liked him being near me. We lay down. He stroked my leg. Our faces grew near. And just like that, our first kiss. The lights were on, his Spotify played in the background, it was slow, and it was sweet, and I didn’t want it to end. Underground in the basement of the library, hidden by darkness on the path to my house, in his room after a few hours of studying, our friendship was evolving in secret, and it made me feel like a little girl. Giddy.

Our feelings turned to fireworks. In the way he’d come behind me in the library and put his hands on my hips. In the way he’d push me against the wall and switch of the lights. How he’d hold my legs up as I lay on the grass. How I’d tie his sweater around his eyes so he couldn’t see, only for him to untie it because of how much he liked what he saw. That time I dressed up for him, black sequined flowers to be pushed away by his wet lips, hungry for what lay beneath. The look in his eyes as he looked into mine, pushing inside me as I called out his name.

So this is how it’s meant to feel. Wanting them to succeed. Feeling sad when things don’t go their way. Caring about what’s important to them. Randomly smiling, because that thing you saw or heard reminded you of them. But do you know what was beautiful? When he told a friend that I was ‘amazing’ without me knowing, when he became so scared thinking he’d upset me, when I could tell he wanted an excuse to be around me – what was beautiful was that I think he may have just felt the same way.

However, despite how it may seem, this is not a love letter. 

Sooner or later I broke this boy’s heart, and broke mine in the process. It was ten minutes of poor judgement, and now almost ten months of regret. It wasn’t because I didn’t want him, it wasn’t because I wanted other people. There was no reason to be involved with anyone else. So why was I? Maybe I was scared of how attached I was getting, scared that he wasn’t, scared that I thought our relationship was more than what it was. I have to mess this up, otherwise I’ll get hurt. It’s going to end, this is just a fling, I need to protect myself. What a poor excuse. I am just as bad as the first four boys – no, I am worse, because I actually cared about the person who I willingly hurt.

Seeing how upset he was, hearing the betrayal in his voice, his feelings became clear. But it was too late. I grovelled. I wrote him a card, a letter, and even a poem (following which he left me alone so he could go to Nando’s), but the damage was done, as were we. 

Although, in the spirit of closure, after a while he did say he forgave me. But then undid this. But then forgave me again. But then didn’t. Maybe he wanted to, but as much as he tried, couldn’t in his heart. I had really hurt this boy, and the details of my mess up did not matter, the severity of my betrayal would be equal to whatever was the depth of his pain. His confusion at the truth. His hatred for me, and what I had done. He probably thinks I am an ingenuine witch. But if only he knew the irony, of how real and true my feelings for him were.

I almost wish he had told me I was trash. I wish he would’ve yelled at me, or bad mouthed me, or retaliated in some shape or form. Make me hate you, so it’s easier to not have you. But he was respectful. He didn’t want revenge, he didn’t lash out, he went about his ways, only without me. I was patient and persistent and hopeful as I tried to make amends. But we took different paths. And I soon realised, my existence was something he wanted to forget. 

I anticipate for days, the evenings – separated by months – when I know I will see him. He gives me an awkward hug out of courtesy, and makes sure not to speak to me if we are in the company of his friends. He can’t let himself be near me, he doesn’t want to be sucked in, to my drama, to my trap. I am despicable, a nuisance. He is popular, I am clingy and intense. A mess. I just can’t seem to get rid of you. The words he said to me the last time I lay in his bed. 

There were times when it did go back to normal. That time when we studied together over Summer, and he kissed me before leaving for his train. When he came to my flat, and I showed him my little world. Maybe – just maybe? But we were competing against time and distance. Our feelings were not facts in a text book. Our truths were not common knowledge. They were between us, and if he has chosen to forget, it is not history, it is mythology.

The more I reflect, the more I am sure, certain, that I did love him. Not now, but then. I was going to tell him – at coffee, on Saturday, 10am. I should’ve known he was never going to show.