We never talk about the river. Hugo assumes I can't swim and that I'm deeply embarrassed about it, which is so much easier than anything else. Because how do you explain skin burning to someone who hasn't known fire?
It rains. I keep quiet. Hours seep into days. Leaves discolour. I keep quiet. And the leaves begin to fall. Falling and falling until the ground is muddy purple. Darkness descends, and I can breathe.
***
In November, a cold snap moves in from the east. The wind is bitter grey, and as we walk out of the station at London Bridge, a gust of it grabs hold of me. Full-bodied. I let it. Let it hold me. Painfully tight. Because these edges are thin. And more and more often, I feel how porous my borders are. All those holes in my flesh. Like parts of me are seeping out. Into everything. Into nothing.
Above me, the sky is mottled with bruises. Hugo is walking a few feet ahead. He turns and asks, 'What does he look like?'
I think of the last time I saw Will, the summer he finished high school. I'd been home for a few weeks before Christmas, packing up the rest of the apartment in Manly so my father could sell it. I'd been between yacht deliveries and, since my father was still furious that I'd given up an internship to pursue a life at sea, I'd spent Christmas morning with Will and Annie before lunch at Mac and Maggie's. By New Year's Eve I'd found work on another boat, King Tide, and was sailing out the heads.
I shrug. 'It's been so long.' And for a moment, gazing out into the sea of faces, I think: He could be anyone. But then I spy him, across the road.
Hand in hand with his love. And my lips curve into a smile.
I wave and he waves back. Beaming.
The green light for pedestrians flashes and Will hurries across the road. Reaching us, he lets go of his boyfriend's hand and throws his arms around me. He's even taller than I remember. Long and lean, with bleached hair, a gold earring and a tattoo of a rose on his neck. Our embrace is honest warmth and I can feel the years between us dissolving.
He steps back, and says, 'Oli, this is Ramos.'
'It's so nice to finally meet you!' I say, and then introduce Hugo.
'Shall we head to the restaurant then?' asks Hugo.
Will nods. 'I'm freezing!'
As we walk, I ask Will and Ramos, 'So how's the trip going?'
'Amazing,' says Ramos.
'I just loved Paris!' adds Will.
They describe their stay in the eleventh arrondissement with a friend from art school. How they'd gone to galleries every day. Dressed themselves in vintage clothes from one-euro bins. Walked the Seine. Broken their budget on rosé and three-course meals. Had a picnic under the Eiffel Tower, the ground carpeted with orange leaves. Partied in a laneway.
'It sounds wonderful,' I say as we arrive at the restaurant. 'I'm so happy for you.'
Inside the heating is on full bore. We strip off our top layers, hanging our coats on a rack, and Hugo comments that the heat is unnecessary.
The restaurant is walled with white tiles, black grout between. Plants hanging from the ceiling. Natasha is already at the table with a bottle of wine and five glasses. 'This is my boss, Natasha.'
She rolls her eyes. 'I'm not your boss right now.'
'It's so great to meet you,' Will gushes. 'We've been following your gallery for, well, like, ever.'
'Oh,' says Natasha. 'Thank you. That's nice to hear.'
Hugo pours the wine as a waiter hands us menus, and I ask Will and Ramos about their art. Ramos explains how his photographic practice has changed since graduating, now that he no longer has access to a darkroom and his negatives are developed by someone else.
'It's created a distance, I think, in my work … I have less control.'
'Still,' says Will, 'your work is unbelievable.' He turns to me. 'Here, look at this,' he says, pulling out his phone. The lock screen is a photo of two naked bodies, contorted. So abstract you can't tell where the limbs extend from. There are no beginnings. And no ends.
'Wow,' I whisper.
Natasha lowers her menu. 'Show me,' she says. And Ramos's muscles clench, his body stiffening. Natasha ponders the work a moment in silence. I guess from Ramos's face that this silence is painful and intimidating, but I know it's a good sign. If Natasha wasn't interested, she'd have already looked away.
At last, she says, 'Yes …' and Ramos's face lights up. 'Very impressive.' Then she looks at Will. 'And what about your work?' 'I'm a performance artist,' he says. 'Mostly I combine body paint and movement. I love the idea that my canvas is breathing.'
'It's really something,' says Ramos. 'We'd been at art school together for a year, but hadn't met. We were studying in different departments—'
Will interrupts him. 'But then Ramos saw me perform,' he says theatrically, flicking his fringe away from his face, 'and the rest is history.'
Ramos laughs. Shrugs. 'It's true.'
I smile. 'Have you ever collaborated on a show?'
'That's the dream, isn't it?'
Will nods. 'We've always wanted to, but straight out of art school, we've found it hard to get a space.'
'Perhaps I'll have to get you back over here soon,' I say. 'I'd like to see the interplay of the still body in the photos and the live body in performance.'
Both of them are beaming and without words.
Finally, Will says, 'We read about your first all- woman show.'
'Ah, yes,' I say. 'I was really happy with it. Their work looked phenomenal.'
'We've been following Vivienne's work for a few years now.'
'She's brilliant, isn't she?'
'And so open about her transition,' says Will. 'We know a lot of young people who really look up to her.'
'It was actually her first time exhibiting since her affirmation surgery,' I say. 'I felt honoured to show her.'
'Amazing,' says Ramos.
'Did your parents go to the opening?' Will asks me.
I shake my head. 'I invited them.'
'Fuck,' says Will.
'My dad hardly spoke to me for years after I ditched that internship.'
'But you're doing so well now …'
'He's never taken art seriously.'
Hugo holds my hand under the table, gently squeezing it.
'I found out later that he was actually in London the week of the show.'
'Brutal,' says Will.
'Oh well. Mum is coming to visit me in February. That will be interesting.'
Will laughs. 'Parents …'
'We thought mine were cool with us,' says Ramos, 'but just before we left we heard them tell my family back in the Philippines that I'm going on a holiday with my best friend.'
Will puts his arm around Ramos's shoulder and says, 'I am your best friend.'
Ramos smiles, but it's tinged with sadness. Blue at the edges.
'I love you,' says Will, and kisses him on the cheek.
'How was Annie?' I ask. 'When you told her, I mean.'
'Not great, to be honest.'
'Really?' I say, shocked. 'She's always struck me as very progressive.'
'She is,' he says. 'And she has so many gay friends.'
'What was the problem then?'
'She said that she was worried people would discriminate against me if I chose to live this life.' He's looking at the table now, playing with his napkin. 'What she didn't realise was that she was the only one giving me grief about it.'
'And she thinks it's a choice,' I say. 'Exactly. That probably hurt the most.'
A waiter approaches the table. 'Are you ready to order?'
'Get whatever you want,' I say to Will and Ramos. 'This one's on me.' They glance at each other, unsure.
'Really?' Will asks.
'Of course,' I say.
We each order our dishes. The waiter leaves, Natasha tops up our glasses, and then Hugo says, 'Mothers …' and Natasha very nearly spits out her wine. 'What?' says Natasha.
'Maybe I shouldn't generalise …'
'No,' she snaps. 'You shouldn't.'
'Fine,' Hugo says, and I don't know if he's just trying to contribute to a conversation that he feels outside of, but when he adds, ' Our mother certainly said some crazy things,' my body recoils. Like a tiny creature into its shell. And I feel myself. Behind a wooden door. In the dark. Wet. Rocking back and forth. Noise filtering through. She's fucking crazy.
'You think our mum is crazy?'
'I didn't say that.'
'You implied it.'
'You're putting words in my mouth.'
'Am I?'
Ramos and Will have put their glasses down. Will looks at me, his mouth ajar. He's waiting for me to say something. But I can't. I can't say anything at all.
'I feel like you're attacking me,' says Hugo.
'Attacking you?' Natasha says, her words razor-sharp. 'You just said something problematic.'
I swallow and feel it, my saliva thick in my throat.
'I don't get why it's such a big deal.'
'Hmm,' says Natasha, 'maybe because you've just suggested that the woman who raised you, single-handedly, occasionally got a little "crazy".'
Hugo shrugs. 'Now you're acting crazy.'
Natasha flinches. 'Yeah? Am I? Or am I just pissed off that that's the bullshit kind of thing our dad used to say to undermine her for years before he fucked off.'
'And,' I say quietly, noise filtering through, 'women have been locked up for being crazy.'
'Exactly! Thank you, Oli.' Natasha flicks her hair back off her face. 'Do you get that, Hugo?'
He mumbles something, barely audible.
'What?'
'I'm sorry,' he says.
'It's a loaded word, okay?'
'I guess. I've never thought about it like that before.'
Will musters a smile and says kindly, 'We're all on our own journey.'
'Will's right,' Natasha concedes. She rubs Hugo's shoulder. 'It's okay—we're all learning.'
I take a deep breath, turn to Will and, as if the last few minutes haven't happened, ask, 'Does she get it now? Your mum, I mean.'
'Yeah,' he says, 'it took a while. But once I realised it was coming from a place of love, we became closer than ever. Like, she really understands now that this is just who I am—and she adores Ramos.'
'That's great,' I say, as our food is set down in front of us.
As we eat Natasha asks Will and Ramos where they're headed next and they discuss their travel plans. Hugo's leg brushes mine under the table.
I edge away, and he says nothing. He just sits in silence, hunched over his meal, until we've finished lunch and are out on the street saying goodbye to Will and Ramos. Quietly, he wishes them safe travels, kisses Natasha on the cheek, and then turns to me. I sidestep him and start walking.
'Oli,' he says. 'Oli, wait up.'
I power ahead to the station.
Hugo catches me at the top of the stairs. 'Oli.' He grabs my hand. 'I'm sorry, okay? I said something stupid. I didn't know what it meant. Not really. But now I do.' He gives my hand a squeeze. 'I'm learning. I really am.'
I look up.
His eyes are searching for me. Deep brown with green frills. And as his gaze settles on mine, it's painful. Because he sees me. He really sees me. In sharp focus. And I'm terrified. Thinking, What does he see? What can he know?
***
By the time we get back to my apartment, my fingers are numb. Hugo tells me that my lips are purple and says he'll run me a bath. I make myself a cup of tea in the kitchen, wrapping my hands around the mug to warm them. Slowly, sensation is restored in tingles shaped like tiny stars.
Hugo returns from the bathroom and says, 'It's ready.'
I follow him into a room of quiet shadows. Candlelight dances across the tiles. I breathe in. Sandalwood is orange on my tongue. There are dried rose petals on the water, uncurling as they soak through. Pink blooming into blood red. I begin undressing. Hugo, leaning against the doorframe, watches in silence as I peel away each layer.
I slide my underwear down and step out of it. He turns away.
'Aren't you getting in?' I ask.
He looks up, half smiling. 'I didn't know if you wanted me to …'
'Please,' I say, and he steps onto the tiles, raising his arms. I take his jumper from his hips and pull it up to his neck. 'You're too tall!' I say, laughing now. 'You do it!'
He smiles sheepishly and pulls it over his head. Then he wriggles out of his jeans and takes off his socks so that we're both here, in half-shadows. Breathing softly. He steps closer, so that our naked torsos are pressing together, holds my face gently between his palms and whispers, 'I love you so much.'
Like a mountain river rushing white over granite, those words smooth the hard edges. Slowly, over time and with enough repetition, they'll wear me away to nothing.
Hugo gets into the bath. I climb in and sit between his legs, my spine against his torso. He wraps his arms around me, resting his chin on my shoulder. I begin to thaw. Warmth returning to my bones.
'You okay?' he whispers in my ear.
'Yeah. Why?'
'You're breathing funny.'
'Am I?' I say, feigning surprise. 'I guess it's just hot in here.' Hugo releases his hold on me. I feel the wetness where his skin had touched mine cooling instantly. I shiver. 'No,' I mumble. 'Hold me.' He does, but it's not enough.
'Tighter,' I say.
'Are you sure you're okay?'
I nod. Saying nothing. Because I'm looking at the rose petals, delicate on the surface, but my mind is already beneath. Below the waterline. In the dark wet. Thinking about my skin. And his skin. And how, right now, it's flaking off. A constellation of dirt and dead flesh. These bits of skin, scattered like fish scales in a pool of blood.
'Tighter,' I whisper.