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Eight Months Later
Marianne learns to be alone. The remnants of her troubles, the treacherous doubts that swirl around her ears sometimes trip her; whispering how she has always been so utterly, completely and deservingly alone. They sound like Alan, and this makes them easier to ignore – not wholly, not always, but often enough.
The moment Marianne realized her hurt wasn’t just her wasn’t some big breakthrough like the films make it out to be. It had been a long time coming, like a grand wave building in the distant horizon yet spreading out when it hits the coast far and wide, still serene. Somewhen a lifetime ago, Connell looked at Marianne like he was truly seeing her, and Marianne found that she didn’t absolutely mind being seen, and the bear trap began to almost unperceptively loosen.
But Connell isn’t here, and Marianne learns to be alone. And she is proud of it, embarrassingly so. Whereas being alone used to feel both like an unescapable fate and a deserving sentence - something she had brought on herself simply for being like that, cold and broken - now it is different. There is nothing unredeemable about Marianne. She enjoys her own company, muses in her thoughts, life goes on and her with it instead of stumbling along.
Sometimes Marianne dreams about showing Connell her newfound stability as a child would proudly present a drawing. Sure, it’s still shoddily made, and maybe it lacks depth and perspective – but it’s a first step. Look at me, she would say, I didn’t fall into the arms of the closest available asshole who would only be a pathetic approximation of you. I eat three meals a day. I’ll probably love myself one day.
Connell would laugh with a hand to the nape of his neck. Uh, that’s good, he’d say. You deserve to be happy. And it would be such an absolute truth to him that Marianne would believe.
Then, with a jolt, Marianne catches herself craving Connell’s unbridled validation and feels minute relief that she can edit the things that come out of her mouth. Three breaths, and a whisper of it’s okay. Marianne learns to be alone - but not needing company doesn’t mean she doesn’t want it.
What weird humans would we be if we didn’t like the people we love to tell us we’re doing okay! Joanna’s voice rises towards the end of the sentence. Have you noticed you’re asking me for validation about wanting validation?
Marianne laughs, small, at the stupidity of her condition. I feel stupid, she’s surprised to find herself saying, unedited.
In Joanna’s throat are questions to ask and affirmations to make that she doesn’t dare to. Not because Marianne is to be treated like a wounded animal, but because Joanna respects her privacy and individuality too much to pry, and instead of wanting to hear herself give empty advice to Marianne just to act like a saviour, Joanna wants Marianne to feel comfortable.
It did take a while for Marianne to accept this affection, this… Well, true friendship, if that’s what it is. Being known by Connell was an ordeal, even when her very essence had already deposited all trust in him, terrifying him. Joanna’s life isn’t intertwined with Marianne’s the same way – the act of caring isn’t a cosmic force bringing them together. It’s conscious, careful, and relaxed yet measured. They sit opposite each other in little café tables and talk about meaningless things just to enjoy company, and there aren’t hidden meanings underlying unspoken sentences. In the rarer moments when they confide a deep insecurity in one another, the air doesn’t crackle with electricity nor does Marianne’s chest feel like it took a blow as if the waves of Sligo have taken residency in her.
You two care a great lot for each other, Joanna ponders. The enormity of feelings makes everything scarier but… it’s never stupid. Just normal.
When Connell’s smile shines through the screen, Marianne has a tingling urge to tell him today I opened up about you, my feelings, and it was tremendously okay. Instead, she asks how his week went and, after the statements shift and Marianne ends up detailing her profoundly average life, Connell looks at her like he knows anyway.
Uh, that’s good, he says. You deserve to be happy.
Verbatim. And Marianne nearly believes.
Despite the gritty quality of the video feed, the blue-ish light only serves to alight Connell’s eyes. It’s a deep comfort, so much that Marianne almost swears their foreheads are pressed together and he’s speaking those words into their shared oxygen space, arms around her, sharing body heat and a familiarity only he could ever bring. She is struck, but not surprised, by how much she misses him.
I miss you, Marianne confesses. Hope that’s alright for me to say.
Connell doesn’t smile but softens. Why ever wouldn’t it be okay?
I don’t know, I guess… I don’t want you to think I’m trying to mess with your head or anything. Like I’m trying to poison this situation-
Marianne, Connell starts. Then takes a deep breath, scrapes his chair forward. Marianne waits for him with a held breath. I miss you, too. I think I’m right to say we knew we’d miss each other. It’s not… I’m okay here, despite. Aren’t you okay, there?
Before, hearing Connell say he was okay without her would hurt, or maybe just plant the seeds of childish insecurity. Marianne never liked to share Connell, with someone else or someplace else. She has made everything possible to brand herself beneath his skin where he can’t reach – it’s the most egoistical thing she has ever done.
Yet. When he asks if she’s also okay – in that way so like him, in which his questions aren’t questions but affirmations that he’s too careful with – Marianne knows he’s right.
I am, she confirms, surprised. I, I really am. I can’t believe I just miss you.
Connell finally smiles again. Who would have thought we were capable of having balanced emotions, much less actually talk about them, eh?
The rips a light giggle out of Marianne. Oh my God, she covers her eyes. We're morons. Then, softer, looking at Connell’s relaxed shoulders. New York is doing you good.
It’s terrifying, he sighs. Makes me think “if I can do this, I can do anything.”
I always knew you could. Do anything, that is.
Ah, well. The therapist really helps, too.
Marianne rolls her eyes without any malice. Stop downplaying your achievements.
There is no response. Connell simply stares at her – her version on the screen, but Marianne feels the burn of his desire – as if he could stare at her the whole day and feel satisfied even without touching her an inch. And then he shifts as if he will die if he doesn’t touch her that very same moment, and Marianne hears it. The crackle of electricity in the air. Sligo waves on jagged cliffs. The whole fucking lot of it, she hears it.
Listen, uh. Connell’s voice is raspy, coming from deep within his chest (oh that broad, beautiful chest). Well adjusted adults and all, but… I’d really like you to visit me sometime, Marianne.
You would? She whispers.
It’s not just, Connell straightens. I miss you so much. But I also want you to see me exist like this. This sounds so fucking silly but I think. I think I’m finally the kind of man who would be deserving of you. Who can love you, properly.
The burning sensation are tears, Marianne realises. She doesn’t know where to look to escape the overwhelming rush of love sweeping her from toes to scalp. She can’t even distinguish between the love she feels for Connell and the love he feels for her as they entwine and overflow from the mundane container that is her human body. So fragile does it seem right then, faced with the enormity of feelings.
Oh, Connell, she manages. You’ve always been that person for me. You’ve always been the standard to which I rose.
Connell is sniffling, too. Does that mean you’ll come?
Always, she breathes. You just have to ask.