The Overthinkers Read online

  I laughed a little. I didn’t mind her saying it. It was fine. I knew I wasn’t handsome. I didn’t have a square jaw line, and I barely shaved. I was by no means a manly man. Got it.

  “Is that offensive to your manhood or something?” she derided. She was always so obviously provocative. Sometimes I thought she just liked to push people’s buttons to get a reaction. To see them alive. Or maybe she just spoke before she thought.

  “No, not at all.”

  I watched her closely. Inspected the stubby lashes, and deeply set eyes, her bulging cheeks and sharp jawline. Without realising what I was doing I reached across and traced that jawline with my index finger. She shivered a little, and then grabbed my hand and held it between hers, and then placed it on her chest. I could feel her breast bone, severe, and yet rounded against my flesh.

  “You’re pretty,” I said to her. More than pretty I thought. Impeccably beautiful. So exquisite, it was kind of impossible to keep your eyes on her. It was so intensely sharp. So much so that you had to look away.

  “No, I’m not. I’m kind of lop-sided ... all I am ...” There was a long pause, I could feel the rise and fall of my hand against her chest, and the steady beat of her heart too. “Is thin,” she finally said.

  “That’s all I am,” she continued in a clipped tone.

  I didn’t quite know how to respond. It was another strange thing to say. Nestled among all the odd parts that she regurgitated out. Bitter, and harsh, and completely untrue. Yeah, she was thin. Incredibly thin. But it was by no means the only thing she was. She was vivid, and beautiful, and incredibly smart, and wild ... and a whole heap of other stuff too. The thinness was just something that was going on in the background. It by no means defined her.

  “You’re thinking again,” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  The thing is, I should have told her all those things, but I didn’t know how to. I wasn’t good at saying stuff, I was good at writing it down. But I was dominated by the moment. Weak in it. My mastery came over it only later, when it had withered into a memory.

  “What were you thinking?” she asked.

  Here was my chance. Here was my opportunity. To seize it.

  “I was ... I was thinking about all of the things you are. Listing them in my mind ... and how being thin was the last thing on the list. Right down the bottom. Circumstantial. Not even relevant.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Do you believe me?” I asked.

  Silence.

  “Francesca?” Was she still awake?

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you believe me?”

  Suddenly it seemed imperative that she did. That she saw herself through my eyes, where she was perfect and immaculate ... and well, everything that was important. She seemed so terribly sad, and I couldn’t really understand why. But I wanted to fix it nonetheless.

  “No ... not really,” she responded. She sounded incredibly resolute. Like there was nothing I could say that would convince her otherwise.

  “Why would I be lying to you?” I asked.

  “I don’t think you are. Or you’re not consciously aware of it. I just think ... we’re all kind of lying to ourselves in some way.”

  Her words mirrored something I had thought earlier that evening in an unexpected way.

  We were silent for a moment. Lost in our own thoughts. I wanted her so badly, and I wanted her to know that ... but there seemed to be an inexplicable space between us. Even though my hand was still flat on her chest. It was like there was no way for me to actually get inside her mind. There was no way for me to explain to her how I was feeling in a way that she would understand.

  “Why haven’t you kissed me yet?” she asked finally.

  It was a good question. I mean we had been pretty intimate. I’d seen her naked. I’d pulled her fake eyelashes off, and had them in my jean pocket. She’d even sat on my boner, albeit while we still had clothes on ... but close was close, c’mon! Why hadn’t I kissed this girl yet? I’d had Maddison’s tongue jammed down my throat and hand in my pants for the majority of the evening ... and I’d barely said a couple of words to the girl. How was it that with Francesca, someone I genuinely felt a connection too, there was this space between?

  “I don’t know,” I responded finally.

  “Do you want to?”

  “Yeah. It’s just ... it’s just I’ve thought about it a hundred times over in my mind. I’ve imagined it, and somehow it’s perfect in my mind. And I just worry that if I kiss you now it will become ...” I trailed off.

  “Imperfect?” she filled in.

  I couldn’t bring myself to say it, but yeah, kind of. And that was bullshit and stupid too. Was Francesca Moore only Francesca Moore in my mind, and not when she was lying right next to me? Like, I seriously had to get out of my head.

  “Something like that,” I said.

  “You’re so complicated Benjamin Carroll,” she said suddenly flinging my hand back at me. It hit me in the chest like a missile. “Like I thought I was a basket case.”

  “You are a basket case.” The words ricocheted out of my mouth. Why was it that the wrong words never stopped, but the right ones did? The wrong words just vomited out like a torrent. A reflex almost.

  She made an annoyed sound. Being around her was like that. It was up and down. Angry and sad and hysterical all within a couple of breaths. It gave me whiplash, and not in a good way.

  Maybe in a good way ...

  “Benji, I am going to give you one last chance to kiss me, and after that you can literally forget about it ... and I am going to block you on SnapChat ... no joke, because I’m sick of you trailing me, and then doing nothing about it. I get it. You’re a smart guy ... but it’s next level crazy sometimes.”

  Now I was the crazy one.

  Okay, so it was now or never. I could either live with it all in my mind for the rest of my life, or I could kiss her.

  So I kissed Francesca Moore.

  In the darkness of that inky evening, with that kaleidoscope of bright lights swirling around us, I kissed her. Someone else’s baby cried in the background, and I kissed her still. She tasted like bubble gum, and cheap wine. As I pressed her heavily against me, I felt the harshness of those bones, the dryness of the skin on the palm of her hand, the length of her leg as it wrapped around me, the cavity of her waste.

  Her hair smelt of vanilla perfume, and smoke, and momentarily I felt like I could just drop into that space right there and disappear.

  It occurred to me that this was by far better.

  And that it was a waste of time to imagine things that should be experienced.

  Yep, there was no turning back now, I was obsessed with Francesca Moore.

  I adored her.

  Not because of her thinness. But because of everything else.

  I had this strange sensation that I couldn’t move. I was awake, I knew I was awake, but I couldn’t move my limbs. My eyes were glued shut, my body heavy. I could feel my viscous self lying flat against that mattress. The weight of my breath, steady, calm. But then after a couple of moments of the feeling, I began to panic. What if I started having trouble breathing, but I still couldn’t move? What if I needed to scream, or sit up, or cough ... or whatever ... but I was stuck, here. It was like a schism between my mind and my body. My mind was awake, but my body was fast asleep. I willed myself to move. Put every ounce in trying to lift an arm ... I could feel myself straining. C’mon move already. Move! Wake up! Wake up!

  Nothing.

  The panic was rising, and I could tell that my breathing was starting to get uneven. Ragged even.

  This was how I was going to die. Here, on this bed, mind awake, body asleep.

  What an awful way to go.

  C’mon Benji, pull it together.

  One final try Benji, give it one final try.

  I gritted my teeth, and willed myself to sit up, shift, fall out of bed ... whatever it was ... and it worked. With a great gasp of air, I felt m
yself startle awake.

  I sucked in air viciously. Like I had been trapped underwater for a minute.

  When in reality it was nothing.

  Absolutely nothing.

  It was just panic. Just panic. Nothing else. I regularly had feelings like that, before a major exam, or after one, a couple of times after my granddad had died .... Sometimes because I’d had too much to drink the night before. An anxiety attack. That’s what they called it. I never had them when I was awake, they only surfaced when I was asleep.

  All that stuff that had been buried deep, gurgled to the surface of my unconscious mind.

  It was morning, and there was a steady stream of light coming in from the window, where the heavy curtain had been carelessly left open. Only a couple of millimetres, but enough for that glow to sharply descend into the room. A bright light, cascading down at a 45-degree angle.

  There were dust particles captured in that vivid light. Suspended mid-air.

  The tiniest of things. Otherwise indiscernible.

  This wasn’t my room. This was most definitely not my room.

  I cast my eyes quickly around, and caught the Arabesque style lamp with the coloured lights.

  The hibiscus print duvet. The recollections from the night before started to rattle into my mind. Softly at first, muffled even, like the dusty wings of a moth, battering me for attention ... and then they started to march in, quite intensely. The taste of her, her smudged make-up, her eyelashes in my pocket, being inside her.

  Yeah, that had happened.

  I felt myself smile, a reflex from the memories, and I touched my face to make sure it was still there. The smile, that is.

  I knew she was sleeping next to me. I could hear that light sound of her breath. In and out. In and out. Two counts either side. But I couldn’t bring myself to look at her. It was easier to imagine her. To recall her as a memory. Again.

  I’d been real enough last night.

  Finally, I looked down, and there she was. Her dark hair messed up around her, spilling across the pillow in disarray. Her smeared make-up still smeared, and a grubby hand next to her face, smudged with black mascara.

  I watched her for a while. Afraid to move, in case I woke her.

  I didn’t want to wake her, not because I preferred that she slept ... but because I didn’t quite know what to do. There was nothing chivalrous or kind in my actions. They were completely self-serving.

  I literally had no idea what to do.

  I’d only found myself in a situation like this a couple of times before ... and the other times I’d barely known the girl, and yeah, they too, had been incredibly awkward.

  But this was Francesca Moore, which made it way worse.

  Way, way, way worse.

  That’s why I’d had the panic attack ... or anxiety attack, or whatever you wanted to call it. I had an anxiety attack, because the night before I’d had sex with Francesca Moore ... and that was a lot to take in. It was the kind of thing that might take me a lifetime to process.

  I slowly, ever so slowly, slunk back down under that awful pink hibiscus duvet, and stared at the ceiling. Willing myself to calm down.

  I could feel every single part of my body. From my big toe, through to the underside of my knee, the tiny fledgling hairs on my chest ... and even the inside of my mouth ... and everything felt kind of different. Like this pound of flesh of mine, this sausage casing which was stretched over entrails and other bits and bobs, was no longer Benjamin Carroll’s.

  At this very moment in time, Francesca Moore’s microbiome was entangled with my own. The thousands of miniscule germs and microbes which were invisible to the eye, which usually danced on the surface of her skin, were now skipping on mine. Pirouetting. Twirling. Revolving. Head banging. Twerking.

  Her microbiome was now, intrinsically linked with my own.

  And that was something. Weird, I know.

  I was a weird guy, and I was a fucking overthinker. I overthought everything. Nothing came more naturally to me.

  Let me explain. You see, you just didn’t come into contact with someone, and leave them completely untouched. When you brushed the side of them, even in a casual interaction, you left a piece of you behind, and collected parts of them. No matter how unintended the exchange had been ... it changed you in the tiniest of ways.

  But our exchange had by no means been casual, or unintended. It had been completely sanctioned, and desired, and even frantic. Once that first kiss had occurred, we had fallen into each other. Completely, and hungrily. I wasn’t imagining it. By no means was I imagining it. I could still feel the scratches on my back from when she had pulled me towards her, and the bite mark on my shoulder. The smallest of indents.

  I touched it for a second. The tiniest of incisions.

  I kind of hoped it would never go away. Like some sort of sexual souvenir of the most unique variety. The type that only I understood.

  That was the best thing about a secret. The fact that no one else knew.

  Yep, that was a weird thing to think.

  But there it was again, the thought that somehow I was interwoven with Francesca Moore. And no matter if it never happened ever again between her and I, it would take weeks, maybe months before my microbiome would return to regular old Benjamin Carroll microbiome.

  And then there was another unwelcome thought – maybe the twerking microbiomes weren’t just mine and Francesca’s ... maybe it was kind of a gruesome threesome, or foursome even, which included Leo (her flatmate) and Hamish (my own). I mean it was kind of inevitable that Francesca’s and Leo’s microbiomes were interlaced, and Harry’s and mine. We shared kitchens, living rooms, bathrooms ... toilets.

  Gah! The thought was so terrifying, I startled again. Why did I have to think this stuff?

  I glanced at her to see if she had noticed, but she was fast asleep. Her forehead completely still, unclenched, relaxed, like she didn’t have a care in the world. Her mouth slightly open. The smallest of fractions.

  Completely calm.

  I had no idea who Francesca Moore was.

  None whatsoever.

  I had pined over her for weeks, no make that months, even years. I had watched her in tutorials, as she had laughed with her friends, or tapped notes into her laptop. I had stalked her social media presences. Gathering them up greedily. First SnapChat. Then Instagram. And finally, Facebook. Knowing that the last was the most intimate, because it was the platform you only shared with your family and really close friends. The one’s you couldn’t discard so easily. I’d even followed her locations. I’d found her whereabouts late on Saturday nights, on SnapChat, digitally shadowing her from a distance. I’d spoken to her, and unpicked her words a million times over in my mind. Recording what she had said, and then stewing over it. Wondering if there were nuances that I had missed. I’d sent her messages, and received messages in return ... even pictures. Then I’d scrolled over the messages and tried to unravel them. Now, I had tasted her tears, and the dirtiness of her skin, felt the dryness of her palms, and the smoothness of the inside of her thighs. I’d read her physical form too. Navigated the plains, and sought answers.

  But I still had no idea who Francesca Moore was.

  None whatsoever.

  It occurred to me now, that all that intimating, all that guess work, all that piecing together, wasn’t because I was obsessed with her. Okay, I was kind of obsessed with her ... but it was more than that. Way more. What I wanted most was to know who Francesca Moore was. I wanted to get inside her head, into her mind, and be lost amongst her thoughts. I wanted to know why she had smiled at me in that way the first day we had met, why she had sent me that text, and if she left her location on SnapChat on purposefully, so she could be found. By me? Or by someone else?

  Who did Francesca Moore want to be?

  What did she want to be? An artist? Did she even care? Did she want to get married and have kids? Did she hate kids and the idea of husbands? Did she think that the notion was patriarchal? Wha
t foods did she eat, when she ate? What were her parents like? Did she have a favourite brand of jeans? Or even eyelashes? Why was she so tight with Leo? What did they even have in common? Did they talk about stuff late at night? And what did they talk about?

  And why was she so goddamn obsessed with her weight?

  Sometimes, I thought, it was the only thing on her mind.

  I wanted to know all of the intimate details about Francesca Moore. I wanted to know what made Francesca Moore, Francesca Moore. And while, I had a sense of it, I was only operating on vibes and chemistry and nothing more. She had never told me anything truly honest about herself.

  ... and maybe I had never asked.

  Christ, I didn’t even know what questions to ask.

  That’s when I heard a knock at the front door. It was kind of loud. I realised it was easy to distinguish when a noise was coming from inside the terrace as opposed to next door. The sound lacked that muffled insulated quality. It was all sharpness and angles.

  What time was it?

  I didn’t know where my mobile had landed the night before.

  There was a pause. She was still asleep. I held my breath. Hoping that things would continue that way. I hadn’t quite figured out what to do if she woke up.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  There it was again. That brass knocker against that heavy door ... and she too startled awake.

  Her brown eyes quickly locked on my green ones. I watched as she came to the same realisation as I had. Sleep nullified everything. It always took a couple of seconds for the memories to come back . I counted, one, two, three ...

  There was the recollection.

  She looked surprised, and not in a good way, and her brow furrowed. It wasn’t the expression I had been looking for, and I felt something instantly ache within me.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  Again. It was almost as though every violent abrasion, of knocker against door, came with its own exclamation point. She looked concerned.

  “There’s someone at the door,” I said, kind of unhelpfully.

  “I figured,” she said sitting up. She pulled the duvet up to her scrawny chest, in a protective way. The shrouding of her figure surprised me, and disturbed me at the same time. She wasn’t a particularly private person, she’d spent the majority of our friendship straddling me or intimating that we should get it on, in a playful, non-committal way of course.