Dinner, Actually

TW: graphic suicide and self-harm descriptions, homophobic slurs, internalised homophobia

The train rumbles north, taking James with it. He rubs the scars on his arm, remembering what happened a decade ago. The train screeches to a halt as he stands up, pulling the sleeve of his shirt down once more.

It’s near sunset at the beginning of autumn, a warm breeze drifting through. Tara walks down the street and James gets up, crushing his cigarette under his boot. 

“Hi,” James says.

“Hi,” replies Tara.

“I like your cardigan.”

“Oh. Thanks,” she says, looking down at it draped over her arm. “I’ve had it forever, but I still love it.”

“I remember,” he says, smiling.

She looks at him, tilting her head. 

“So, dinner?”

“Yeah,” James laughs. “Dinner.”

Their server sits them and places down the menus.

“It’s changed a lot since last time,” James says.

“It has,” Tara replies, her eyes wandering down the laminated page. “They still have the chicken you loved.”

“I know, I saw. I’m scared to try it though.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know if it’ll be as good as before.”

“Are you still talking about chicken?”      

James laughs nervously. “I think so.”

The server appears. “Can I get you guys anything to drink?”

“I’ll have a Coke Zero,” Tara says, smiling.

The server looks at James. “Water’s fine, thanks.”

Tara studies James. “Not wine? You really have changed, huh?”

“No, I - I’m sober.”

“Really? How long?”

“What, it must be almost six years now.”

“That’s amazing, congrats!”

“Thanks. It’s uh, it’s been good.”

“I love Down by the Water, by the way,” Tara says.

“Sorry?” James replies.

“I love Down by the Water. The way you painted the riverbank was amazing. The colors meld together so well.”

“Oh. Thanks. I spent way too long on getting the turquoise right. Where’d you see it?”

“You do realize our work is being held up in the same gallery, right?”

“Oh, right. I haven’t had a chance to look at yours yet, sorry.”

“It’s okay. There’ll be other times.”

The server re-appears and asks if they’re ready to order.

“Yes, could I get the chicken parm?” James asks.

“Of course,” the server replies, then looks at Tara. “And for you?”

“The Caesar salad, thanks.”

“Fantastic, it’ll be right out.”

They both look around the room, taking in everything that’s changed and everything that hasn’t. 

“The art’s… different,” James says. 

“Yes, it’s a lot shittier,” Tara responds, causing James to snort out water. They continue like this for a while, falling into an old, familiar rhythm where their personalities mirror the others'. At first, they are in shock, but this soon falls away. People don’t change - they both think - not really. Their food comes and goes as they talk about the past and the present, focusing on the good and dancing around the bad. The server appears with the cheque once they’ve finished, setting it down between them. They look up and lock eyes before both reaching for it.

“No, no, I’ll get it,” James insists. 

“That’s unfair. I invited you, I should pay.”

“Okay, fine, but I had the more expensive meal.”

“And I had two drinks, so who’s really ahead?” She replies, smirking.

James holds his hands up in the air. “Fine, fine, pay if you must.”

“I must, thank you very much,” she says, and does, sliding her card into the slot at the top.

They walk out of the restaurant and into the park across the street, almost without realizing. It was their routine when they were dating: dinner at Caruso’s, then a walk in the park, then climbing up the stairs to their dingy apartment and falling asleep in each other’s arms. They turn the first curve in the path, passing by the great oak tree which has stood longer than anyone can remember.

“So are you seeing anyone now? Or recently, I guess,” James asks, the question hanging in the balance for a moment. “Any bad date stories? Awful ones?”

“Not really. Men are… well, men. And work’s been busy, so I haven’t had the time anyway,” she says, then looks over at him. “How about you? Anyone special in your life?”

“There’s this guy I’ve been seeing for a few weeks. Lucas. He’s sweet, but…” James trails off, then glances at Tara, who smiles and replies: “But what?”

He sighs and looks down at his feet. “But I don’t think it’ll go anywhere.”

They walk farther into the park, two pairs of feet retracing all-too-familiar steps.

“Want one?” James asks, lighting a cigarette.

I thought you had quit, she wants to say, but doesn’t. “I’m okay, thanks.”

He takes a long drag and breathes out, a column of smoke dissipating upwards. They pass what was their favorite bench in the entire park, empty in the moonlight. The red-orange leaves remind James of one of Tara’s paintings, but he can’t remember the name and lets the thought drift away. Neither of them speak, letting memories fill their minds. 

The pair emerge from the park and sit down, both lost in thought. The sun has set, leaving the gentle haze of pollution and street lamps to light up the night. James finishes his cigarette and tosses it out onto the street, at the great cliff where the cement falls into the asphalt. He leans back and stares across the street, up at the apartments filled with light.

“That’s our old apartment up there, right?” James says, pointing up.

Tara leans forward. “Oh, it is, isn’t it? I wonder who lives there now.”

“Yeah. What do you think? Old married couple or kids like us just trying to get by?”

“Definitely kids like us. It’s way too much of a shithole for an old married couple.”

James laughs. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

A taxi rumbles down the street, drawing their attention. When Tara and James look back up, the light in the apartment is out.

“Do you remember when we first moved in? With all our boxes and canvases and paint pushing the walls in on us?” he says.

“Yes,” she says, laughing. “And that stupid argument about whose stuff we needed to get rid of. It seems so unimportant now.”

“Yeah. Thank god that the place a block over had storage though. We wouldn’t have had any space to live otherwise.”

“It was a good solution, although trying to find anything in there was impossible.”

“Yeah.”

They both pause for a moment, breathing in the familiarity of each other and the purple-stained sky.

“Where are you living now?” she asks.

“Oh, downtown again. By Chinatown.”

“Is it near where Julia used to live?”

“Same building, actually,” he replies. “Damn, I haven’t talked to her in years.”

Tara pauses for a second. “She’s doing good. That building’s great though.”

“It’s great,” he says, and looks across the street, up at their old, dark apartment, then smiles weakly and looks away.

The pair of them stare into the sky, up at their old apartment, down at the sidewalk in front of them, at two businessmen leaving a Japanese restaurant. Their minds turn back the years, lingering on the summer they went to Japan, the winter they spent Christmas apart, the spring their apartment flooded, the fall they broke up… their thoughts jump back and forth, crossing but never overlapping until they both end up in the same memory: their breakup. The day, far buried in the past, which started - and ended - everything. They remember the pain that followed in the days and years afterwards, the pain that still rolls through on the first day of spring and cold winter mornings and September nights spent on park benches. 

“I’m sorry, you know. About what happened,” James says, looking down at the pavement.

“About what?” Tara asks.

“I don’t know. Everything. I… when we broke up, I was the cruelest I’ve ever been, and I just - I’m sorry. I never should have said what I said.”

“It’s okay,” she says, resting her hand on his leg. “It was forever ago. I forgive you.”

“It’s not fucking okay, though,” he says, looking at her. “I destroyed us. After so many years. And then you found out and I became something that I’m scared to admit to myself that it's possible for me to become,” he pauses. “Some kind of monster.”

“You aren’t a monster,” Tara says.

“But I am. There’s no other way to describe it. You were the first person to show me that life was worth living. You were - are - always kind, to everything. You taught me not to kill spiders and I repaid you by killing us.” He looks up at her, then looks down at his hands, turning them over in his lap. “Then I ruined it. I lied to you, called you things no one deserves to be called.”

Tara looks away from him and says, “It doesn’t matter anymore. It really doesn’t matter.”

"It does matter. I took all we had, four years of it, and threw it away. I loved you so goddamn much and I just… threw it all away. I said things that I desperately want to forget, but can't. The words I said… they still haunt me, refusing to let me live in peace. And then,” he says, his voice shaking, “and then I tried to kill myself and you were still there for me, still waiting patiently even as I was ready to let myself drown in a pool of my own blood. How kind you were, I thought back then. How cruel. How much I loved you, after all that I had done. I wish I hadn't. But at the same time, I didn't know what else I could do at that moment. I didn't know how to escape my own mind,” he pauses, crying. “I'm scared I still don't.”

“J, please. It doesn’t matter. It was too long ago for it to matter.”

“IT FUCKING DOES!” he yells, turning to her. “YOU CAN’T JUST ERASE THE PAST! I’VE TRIED! I CALLED YOU A FUCKING FAGGOT! YOU TOLD ME SO MANY TIMES HOW MUCH YOU HATE THAT WORD! SO MANY FUCKING TIMES! AND THEN…

“And then… and then…” he trails off, the street swallowing his words. “And then I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Even now I can’t stop thinking about you. Every date I go on, every person I meet, I see you in them. In their eyes, in the way they dress, in their humor, in all their little insanities. All I see is you and I wish I had an off switch because then it would stop. Because then I could’ve let you slide out of my life when you did, when all you left behind were a few cardboard boxes. Everything would be solved if I could just stop thinking about you but I can't. I've tried so many fucking times, Tara, but I can’t. I just… can’t.”

She looks down, letting his words wash over her. “I’m sorry too.”

James looks up at her, confused.  “What?”

“I’m sorry too. For what happened.”

“But… you didn’t do anything.”

“You’re wrong. I did. I said the same words you did and thought the same thoughts,” Tara looks into James’s eyes. “Please tell me you haven’t forgotten that.”

“I…” 

“Even if you won’t accept it, even if you don’t remember it, I was just as cruel to you as you were to me. Stop ignoring it, stop making yourself the only villain.”

James focuses his gaze down the street, away from Tara, who stares at the back of his head as she continues.

“In you, I saw something - someone - I could fix. I always loved you, don’t misunderstand me, but I tried to fix you. Instead of seeing you for yourself I saw you for this puzzle I could solve. I thought I was being kind, but I wasn’t. It’s the cruelest thing I’ve ever done. To both you and I. It’s the one regret I still have. I loved you as you were and if I hadn’t tried to fix you-”

“It’s still my fault. I didn’t let you change me. If I had, I wouldn’t have ruined everything.” He paused. “I never would’ve tried to kill myself.”

“Goddamnit James. It’s not just your fault, okay? I was a stupid kid back then and I fucked up as much as you. I thought I could stick by you long enough to change you, but I couldn’t. We were both despicable people doing despicable things, why can’t you just accept that?”

He looks at her, pain playing across his face. “You know why I can’t.”

“I don’t know why you still do this to yourself after all these years, J. You can’t linger on me forever.”

He looks away, not saying anything. They sit there for a while, too scared to look at each other.

“I have to go,” Tara says quietly. He nods. She stands up to go but turns back before she does. “James?” she asks and looks into his face, finding bloodshot eyes staring back at her. She opens her mouth to say something, then closes it and sighs. “Call me, okay?”

Before James responds Tara is already walking up the street, getting into a cab. James watches her get into the car, watches it start accelerating down the street, watches it take a left. He continues to watch, hoping, waiting, watching. Waiting. 

Eventually, a man walks by him, his dog stopping and sniffing the ground around James’ legs. The man apologizes. Then, after taking a closer look at James’ face, he asks if he’s okay.

James opens his mouth, closes it. He doesn’t know how long it’s been. I’m crying, he thinks, wiping tears from his face with the back of his hand. He thinks of Tara, of the sound of the taxi door puncturing a hole into the night.

“Yeah, I - I’m good,” he replies and pets the dog.

James begins to walk down the street towards the subway, the brightness of its sign seeping into the night’s soft edge. He gets on his train and stares at the floor of the car. He thinks of Tara, how he knows he won’t call her, how that wasn’t a real question. He doesn’t get off the train when it reaches his stop, nor when it reaches the end of the line. He just sits there, thinking, as the train goes from one end of the city to another. He lies his head against the window as dawn approaches, watching the sunrise, its light glinting off the top of skyscrapers. He’s falling asleep against the glass now, and he’s thinking about Tara, and how he should’ve told her he loves her.