Lines Crossed Chapter 2: Battle of Morals
And so this lonely, lonely hull
Has no use left for living
After finding her love
In a heart so unpermitting
And I will die and never ever hold your hand
And I will die and never ever hold your hand
But I’ll kiss my lips and blow it out to you
It’ll be the last thing that I ever do
And wherever you go and whatever you do
There’s a man underground that will always love you
-Second Lover, Noah and the Whale
I am so much better than this.
Florence couldn’t recall how many times she told herself that. She knew, however, it comes to mind whenever she meets Harry, but she couldn’t imagine life without Harry, no matter how much he complicates everything.
Harry was already in her studio when she got there, examining her latest charcoal piece, a couple lying on the grass their hands next to each other, fingers barely touching. The woman has tears in her eyes, and she was looking away from the man next to her, while the man has his eyes on the back of her head, a slight frown on his face. In some ways, he looked torn—maybe heartbroken too. Her other hand was on her chest, just above her heart, as if holding onto it will stop it from breaking.
Florence walked on her tiptoes as she approached Harry, whose six-foot-three figure was making her studio look smaller than it actually is. Her studio is wide, able to fit about ten office cubicles in it, and she had requested her landlady to remove the ceiling as she needed some room for her big canvases (which she only uses once in a blue moon for her big acrylic creations) and wire installations. One wooden cabinet was filled with paints she rarely use, and three tables—two metal, one wooden—has here charcoal pencils and other art materials strewn all over it. Wires of various malleability, sizes, materials and shapes were stacked in one corner of the room—Harry had showed her 3D art made of wire and she was thinking of dabbling into it one of these days. It was a messy place, Harry had always told her, a place that always reminded him of Florence’s organized chaos.
A ghost of a smile lit up Florence’s dark mood. Philip Harry Cochin—the person who has made her heart beating and fluttering in the past year—both in good and bad ways. He is a professional basketball player suiting up for the three-conference, grand slam champions Highland Boosters, and is a two-time Most Valuable Player (MVP) in his young four-year career in the Philippine Basketball Association (PBA). They met through Emma, who interviewed Harry for one of her articles, and who has probably regretted introducing them to each other since.
Florence cleared her throat. “You called?” she asked, interrupting Harry’s brooding, and Harry turned towards her, his smile barely reaching his deep set brown eyes. She walked over to him and ran her hands over his semi-bald head, his tiny hairs tickling her fingers, a habit she was used to doing whenever she sees him, which was nearly every day. He has dimples on either cheek that made his face very amiable, especially when he smiles. He gathered her medium-built body in his muscular, ripped arms, wrapping them around her waist, pulling her close to him. He kissed her on the temple, on the forehead, on the nose, but avoiding her lips.
“I’m sorry to pull you away from your friends,” Harry, a tall, lean guard-forward, whispered against her skin, and Florence buried her nose in Harry’s chest, a faint smell of sweat, soap and fabric conditioner wafting through her nose. She sensed he was only a bit sorry—there was something urgent in his voice when he called her so she knew something was up.
But if he only missed her—judging by the way he was holding her close to his body—Florence was thinking he could have just waited a little bit more.
Harry released her a bit, and his hand moved to cradle her face. He gazed into Florence’s jet black almond eyes, half-covered by her bangs, which he blew gently away from her face. She leaned her face into his hand, closing her eyes, treasuring this moment—as she treasured every moment with Harry before this. In this kind of relationship, you’d never know when it will end.
It’s like walking on landmines, with every touch, every kiss, every meeting, every step—one wrong move, and an explosion occurs, a chain reaction that neither of them wanted to happen.
Florence tiptoed, wanting to feel Harry’s lips on hers. He moved his head, her kiss landing on his cheek. She frowned, obviously affronted, removing Harry’s hands around her. She took a step back, trying to keep her emotions in check, waiting for Harry to speak, hoping she has patience for an impending drama.
Harry ran his hands over his face, as if washing it underwater. He leaned against one of her metal tables, the furniture barely moving under Harry’s weight. When he looked up, it was only then did Florence notice the dark circles under his eyes, as if he hasn’t slept in days. They last saw each other two days ago, but she had watched him play on television yesterday. He didn’t look like this yesterday.
“What’s wrong?” Florence asked, walking towards him, placing her hands on his broad shoulders.
Harry felt Florence’s hands weigh like boulders. They weren’t offering much comfort as they have had the past year or so that they were together. He took a deep breath, and said, his voice heavy, “Wilma’s coming home. With Cliff and Jake.”
He felt Florence’s hands slide down his shoulders a bit, but he saw her knees slowly becoming weak in front of his eyes. When he reached up to hold her hand, he saw her eyes dart to his left hand, where something glinted, catching her attention.
His wedding ring.
He hasn’t worn that thing in ages, something Florence knows very well.
“When you mean ‘coming home,’ you mean like… a couple of weeks like the last time, right?” Florence asked, having gone down this road before. Wilma and his kids, who are in the States where Harry is originally from, will come home here in the Philippines to have a vacation and be with Harry. Those weeks were the toughest—watching the games with Emma and seeing his family at the sidelines, cheering for him too, not seeing Harry at all, no texts, calls or even DMs on Twitter from him. Those weeks when his family is here, Florence is invisible to Harry, a nobody, a forgotten entity.
Harry heaved another sigh, sending a bad sign to Florence, who completely slid her hands away from his shoulders. “No,” he said, running his hands again over his face, “they’re staying here for good.”
Harry heard the air whoosh out of her system, the light in her eyes dimming all of a sudden. Florence turned away, walking to the other side of the room, as far as she could get away from Harry, sitting with her back against the wall. “Oh god, oh god, oh god,” Florence whispered, burying her face in her knees, shaking her head.
Harry stared at her, at the woman whom he treated as his wife in the past year, the woman he had made love to countless of times, the woman who loved him like he was her husband. The one who made him laugh and feel like he’s years younger than he actually is. The one who cooked breakfast in bed for him most of the week, the one who fixes his clothes before every practice, the one whom he wished he had married. He felt his heart sink—he had fought with Wilma over and over about staying in the States, but she really wanted to be with him—or at least that was what she was saying her reason was. He knew Wilma could sense his infidelity (a woman’s intuition)—he was actually amused it took this long for her to notice.
“Shit,” cussed Florence, thousands of thoughts running through her head that even she couldn’t keep up with the speed at which her brain is producing them. She felt Harry walk towards her, kneeling in front of her, his hands on either side of her knees.
“What’s going to happen to us?” she asked the question neither of them wants to hear, and when she looked up, Harry saw her face was red, splotched with tears that stream from her eyes nonstop. He felt his heart break further, seeing Florence, who was usually stronger than this, be this weak. “I can’t not see you. I can’t not be with you. Harry, I—”
“Shh,” Harry whispered, wiping Florence’s tears, reaching out and rubbing her back for comfort. He leaned in, placing his chin on her knees, their noses touching. He could see the tears clinging on to Florence’s lashes; she could hear the heaviness of Harry’s breathing and see the sadness in his eyes.
“When we started this… relationship, I never wanted to lose you. I knew it was inevitable, but I didn’t want to lose you,” Harry whispered, and Florence closed her eyes. “You deserve so much better than what I am giving you, Florence—”
“No. You are not breaking up with me, Harry. Don’t you even dare,” she said angrily, spitting out the last word, her eyes flashing. Harry sighed, holding Florence’s face in his hands.
“I can’t let you continue being my other woman, Florence. I want to marry you. I want to be your husband—”
“Then marry me. Be my husband. Make me your only woman. You know the solution to that, Harry. You’re just fucking scared to do it.”
“My sons—”
“They will still be your sons even when you divorce Wilma.” Florence’s voice was hard and cold. She and Harry have fought about this, more than once. Florence had screwed her morals by being with Harry—she is so sure she will burn in hell—and she cares about Harry’s sons, but they are the reasons why Harry couldn’t leave Wilma. They are Wilma’s anchor to Harry.
“Florence—”
Furious, Florence pushed Harry away from her, and he landed on his butt. She stood up, looking down at Harry, the one and only time she is probably taller than he is. “You know what you are, Harry?” she spat, trying to stop angry tears from falling from her eyes. “You’re a coward. Tell me—what you gave up, being in this relationship?” she asked, and Harry’s eyes flashed in anger.
“That’s not fair, Renz,” he said angrily, calling her with his pet name for her. He picked himself up on the floor, now looming over her. “I gave up as much as you did—”
“Right,” Florence cut in, turning away, her words trapped in her throat. She couldn’t let her temper get the best of her—
She twirled, facing Harry again. She pointed an accusing finger towards his direction. “You’re not the one whose friends exchange glances whenever I mention your name! You’re not the one who couldn’t really share to people what a wonderful boyfriend she has because hey, he’s married! You’re not the one who’s ostracized when your family is here in the Philippines! You’re not the one who is praying so frigging hard that she isn’t pregnant whenever she’s late! You’re not the one whose parents think their daughter is filthy and stupid and immoral because she is in a relationship with a married man! You’re not the one whose parents disowned her because of a relationship she thought was so beautiful and was gonna last!”
Florence threw up her hands in the air in frustration, taking a deep breath. “Right, Harry. You gave up as much as I did,” she said angrily. She stalked towards the door and held it open. She saw Harry’s face, hard and cold, as he looked up at her.
“You made those choices, Florence. I didn’t ask you to make them for me,” Harry said, his jaw hard, stumping Florence, whose mouth dropped open in surprise.
“Wow,” she exhaled. “WOW.”
Harry smirked, and then he started to head to the door. He stopped in front of her before exiting. “I love you, Florence, and—”
“You always tell me you love me, and I am always epically stupid to believe you,” Florence cut in, her voice wavering. “But you know what? Emma was actually right about something. That if you really love me, you’ll give up everything for me. Having me should’ve been enough.”
Harry dropped his head low, unable to look at her.
“You came here with all intentions of ending this with me, right?” she said, choking back a sob. Harry looked up, not speaking, but wanting to say no. He loves Florence more than anyone—more than his wife—but his kids mean the world to him, and he knows he’ll lose them the minute he divorces Wilma. He caught his breath, waiting for Florence to say that she isn’t going to end this just yet, that they’ll find a way to get through another bump in the road.
Harry heard her take a deep breath. “You’re getting the ending that you want, Harry. We’re over. Just leave,” Florence said, a catch in her voice. When he looked up at her, his eyes were filled with tears, his lips quivering. Florence immediately wanted to take back those words but she was too proud to do so.
She wanted for him to fight for her, and he wouldn’t.
Harry leaned in to kiss her on the forehead, and Florence flinched when his lips touched her skin.
“I’m sorry, Renz. I love—”
“Shut it.”
Florence pushed him out of the door, an uneasy feat, and she slammed the door of her studio behind him when she succeeded. She crumbled to the floor, her face in her hands, finally breaking down.
