wildscape. literary journal

Restless
by Heather Emmanuel

     The bed is uncharacteristically cold when Celine wakes up.
     It's not something she's used to. There’s usually warmth—a body tucked beside hers, familiar and heavy with sleep. Wedged between the wall and her own, much smaller frame.
     It's instinctive. How she sits up a little too fast, squinting through the darkness, at the empty space next to her, as she—
     Panics.
     She panics. Even when her tired eyes find Marie and the mellow morning light that nestles against her face. Her eyelids flutter, breaths slow, broad shoulders rising and falling with each exhale.
     This is it. It's all about the unrequited for them. Those still moments buried beneath the dark. Celine panics, because she feels it, seeping through her skin, coursing through her veins like a current. It would only take one laceration to bleed. Profusely, not as a body, but as a being, leaving a wound that will never close.
     And that scares her more than she'd like to admit.
     What she can admit, though? Something about this, the curbed confessions and Marie’s clear cut gaze, makes her forget. She forgets, and it shakes her, because Marie is ethereal and inviting and Celine finds herself thinking—
     Maybe this was a mistake.

                                                                                 +

     “Are we fighting?”
     Celine blinks. Almost jumps. The rather sudden appearance of Marie standing behind her in the bathroom mirror confirms their sporadic sleep schedules. But Marie's voice is gentle, drowsy as she blinks through the dark and meets Celine's tired gaze.
     Marie is there, leaning against the doorframe, nearly six feet of honed strength, functional muscle from years of breaststroke and physics of the water. And yet, softened by lethargy, cheeks puffy, hair ruffled—Marie looks unravelled.
     The band shirt Marie wears—the one that actually belongs to Celine—shifts a little. Celine feels herself blink, fast, at the exposed skin of Marie’s collarbone. The rampant thoughts that materialise in her mind do not dissolve as swiftly as she’d like.
     “What?”
     Marie blinks. Then yawns. She covers her mouth and her shirt rides up. Celine pretends not to see it.
     “You've been avoiding me,” Marie says. Without any malice. “And I've been avoiding you.”
     “That doesn't mean we're fighting.”
     Celine opens the tap, waits in silence as the water warms. When she slips her hands underneath, the heat is one degree shy of burning her skin, sharp and fleeting. It rouses her, runs through her fingertips, her knuckles, her wrists.
     “We've fought before,” Marie continues.
     “I know.”
     “But not like this.” She pauses. Maybe because Celine is drying her hands in the air, looking vaguely ridiculous. Maybe because Marie has to yawn again, not covering her mouth, unguarded.
     Or, maybe, she thinks about all those other silences. Taut, weighted, lodged in their throats. When words between them are minimal and distance is measured in minutes unsaid, hours avoided.
     It's not something that lasts. And that's Celine's fault. Because Celine is always first, always the one who crawls into Marie's bed and curls up her legs. And then Marie makes her coffee the next morning, and things are back to being as normal as they can be.
     They stare at each other. Because it's all they know, right now. They've been doing this for years, they've been in this place for years, where Marie is hopelessly in love, and Celine doesn't know how to deal with it. Push and pull, Celine thinks. Except, they both pull away, a rubber band that could snap at any moment.
     “You confessed,” Celine says. Eventually. When she's gathered what little she has left of her crumbling resolve. She doesn't mean to hold Marie's gaze through the mirror, but she does.
     “I've confessed before, though,” her voice is low, honest. Because it is honest. Marie doesn't pin her words down with her own hands the way Celine does. Marie confesses when she wants to, never expecting any kind of response. It's how she's always been.
     “I know,” Celine sighs. Runs a damp hand through her hair, too. This feels selfish. “But that was different.”
     “Because I cried?”
     Yes, Celine thinks. Only because it's what she thought back then, a little over a week ago, when Marie said I'm in love with you, and Celine’s lungs collapsed at the sight.
     “I—yes?” She blinks. “I don't actually know.”
     Marie shrugs.
     “You don't need to know.”
     Marie says it like mercy. But it lands on Celine’s skin like a bruise. Guilt presses into her chest. 
     “You should go to bed,” Celine says. Because that's easier.
     Marie’s smile is lopsided, but notable. Her voice doesn't shake at all.
     “Not until you do.”
     The tiles are cold against her feet as she trudges to where Marie stands, makes the point of not standing too close because they're not quite there yet.
     This isn't a fight. Celine knows that. It's not a fight, because there's no enemy. Not here. Feelings are feelings are feelings, and they will continue to exist, no matter how many times she tries to draw herself away.
     Celine curls her fingers around Marie's. Hers are still damp, but Marie doesn't seem to mind. She smiles a little, blinks because Celine is always first. It's how they work. Marie confesses, and Celine brings herself close. Maybe it is push and pull, after all.
     “You think too much,” Marie muses. Her skin looks soft, sandy hair falling over her bare face. This feels romantic.
     “I know,” Celine says. Even though she doesn't. Not because she doesn't try, but because there's too much to think about, too much to know.
     And Celine hates not knowing.
     But, what she does know is that Marie is there. And Marie is just as scared as she is. Maybe even more. And Marie's fingers are intertwined with hers, giving them a light shake that puts her heart at ease.
     They are close together, even like this, and for Celine—
     It's always been a lot.

about the author // Heather Emmanuel