Free Spotted Lily by Anna Tambour

left Jim,  who had called me then, for the first time, 'Miss Lily', and who I was absolutely positive, would have smirked. And Brett couldn't say for sure that he hadn't, because, although I hadn't actually seen Jim's face, Brett hadn't been looking at him, either.
    Brett was blind to the absolute horribleness of this, the intolerableness, the impossibleness of my position, not only now, but in the future.
    And the worst part was: Brett didn't see why anyone would want to know what. What was there precisely , he asked again and again, to know?
    His ignorance made me feel silly, and I know it is silly that this snowballed into another feeling, but it did. Because I felt silly, and he didn't understand why, I felt petty to feel silly, and resented feeling petty, and felt angry that I felt petty—a little angry at Brett, which had no adequate outlet, but which made me feel everything all over again, and more so—which made everything so much harder, and impossible to explain.
    I didn't get into the issue about my name—that he'd utterly ruined it, and I'd have to pick another—because he genuinely sounded like he was trying to understand. He just couldn't see what there was to be upset about on my part, given that I had forgiven him his honest mistake. Of course he'd take greater precautions in front of others, so as not to compromise my sensibilities, so now let's have a smile, and everything's hunky do?
    I just couldn't pretend to be hunky do, whatever that was. Wearily, and tearily, I left him. I had no idea how to deal with tomorrow, but he could order his own dinner, or not, as he chose.
    I dragged my chair back to my room, closed the door, took the packet of Tim Tams out of the fridge, climbed into bed, ate the lot—and for afters, cried myself to sleep.

—11—
    Brett woke me with a polite knock at the door.
    I didn't bother getting out of bed. 'Come in,' I said, and he instantly appeared just inside without opening the door, as his hands were full.
    He carried a breakfast tray adorned with a red rose, and set it on the bed. I threw the rose on the floor and smiled at him. He was trying.
    I offered him the foot of my bed to settle on, and he did. I sat up, still in my pongy shirt, and examined my breakfast. It was the same as I'd ordered before. That reminded me. His clothes.
    He didn't have BO, his smells being related to his moods and health. His clothes still looked fresh, but I was sure he had no others. Each item fit idiosyncratically, like factory rejects, pulling around the shoulders on the shirt, tight in various places on the jeans, nothing quite  symmetrical. I wondered about the state of his socks. He had a habit that I'd noticed, of easing the laces on his boots. A half-memory of something when he was in Kate's house fluttered around my brain.
    'What happened to your trunk and bag?'
    'They're here,' he said.
    I'd expected so.
    He watched me eat, and I forbore asking if he'd eaten. Not asking restored a bit of my dignity, and also helped me build up the courage to tell him we couldn't stay here. We'd have to move today. But where?
    And now, that perfect name we had made was ruined. I loved the idea of being Desirée Lily, but now she couldn't be.
    I was swallowing the last dregs of my procrastination when he announced a 'wonderful surprise'.
    'I've taken care of your problem,' he said, 'so we can go to work with no further interruption. And do you want some clothing advice?'
    He put the breakfast tray on the floor as I sat up to hear what he had to say. He was so confident, he gave me confidence.
    But he wouldn't explain more. 'I've saved the sporting part for you,' he said, as he led me to the lounge, and in there, to the gym.
    Jim was stretched there in an extreme athletic position, his arms, legs, head and mouth bound with strips torn from his own clothes.
    He opened his eyes. He must have noticed me but he looked at Brett. Big, blue, dilated eyes fringed with curly black lashes. Then he closed his