Broken ribs.
Cuts to her face.
The hospital told me she hadminor injuries. That she waslucky. Minor injuries?! They sound like pretty fucking big injuries to me.
“You don’t deserve to ask how she is. You don’t deserveanything.”
“I know!” I shout, not at her directly, but at everything—at myself. The self-loathing, the self-hatred, the heartbreak—it’s too much, and the words spill out uncontrollably. “I know I don’t deserve anything, and I expect nothing. I will hate myself until the day I die for not getting into that ambulance. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t watch her die. I couldn’t watch the love of my life be taken from me.
“I know I’m a coward. I’m a fucking coward because I watched my mother get taken from my father by a drunk driver. I watched the police arrive and tell him that the love of his life was never coming home. I watched him die that night—and every day after. I watched him grieve while I missed my mother, angry and lonely and confused. My whole world changed, and I lost a part of myself that night.
“I was content being alone, being closed off from the world, stuffing those emotions into a box so I could never feel that level of loss again. And then Matilda had to go and ruin it all—she made me see beauty again, she made me fall in love with her. So no, Rachel, you don’t need to tell me what an awful person I am, because I already know.”
My throat burns, the lump too big to swallow. Hot tears are streaming down my face—when did that happen? Rachel’s looking at me with an expression I can’t read, her eyes wide and filled with tears. All I have left is honesty. I owe her that much. I wish it was Matilda standing here instead.
“When the sirens came, I froze. I think I was having a trauma response—or a panic attack. Maybe both. I knew things were happening around me, but it was like it was happening to someone else. I remember dragging Matilda out of the car, but she wasn’t moving, and I—” My voice cracks again. Fuck, I just need to get this out. “I thought she was dead. Then I saw her chest rise and fall. And then the sirens and the flashing lights came, and the next thing I knew, she was on the stretcher being loaded into the ambulance. They asked if I was coming, and I wanted to say yes. God, I wanted to be with her more than anything—but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t watch her die. And then they were gone.”
I swipe angrily at the tears blurring my vision, and through the haze I see Rachel wiping her own tears away.
“The moment they left, I knew I had made the worst mistake of my life. I wanted to run to her, but I couldn’t. I just fucking couldn’t move. Time passed, and I knew I didn’t deserve to call. I didn’t deserve her forgiveness or her understanding. I didn’t deserveher. But I need her to know how truly sorry I am. I’m so fucking sorry.”
We stand there, two broken people, hot tears and too much emotion choking the room. Her eyes never leave mine—like she’s weighing me, testing if there’s anything left inside me worth believing.
Finally, she speaks.
“I’m sorry about your mum. Matilda never said.”
I can’t answer. I just nod, eyes dropping to my feet, swallowing up the silence between us.
“Do you love her?” She whispers between us.
“Yes.” A quiet sob leaves me.
“If you truly love her, Henry… then make this right. Go to her.”
A sob escapes me, jagged and raw, and I realise it’s mine just as the door swings closed behind Rachel as she leaves.
Forty Seven
Matilda
I’ve just about managed to make my morning coffee when my apartment buzzer sounds. I’m not expecting my family this morning — I may have told them I was feeling better and wanted a day of relaxing on the sofa so I could have some time to myself. I love my family, but they can be suffocating at times.
I’ve always been the upbeat, sunny one of the family, so I guess seeing me like this has scared them into fussing over me every waking minute of the day.
I finally reach the intercom when the buzzer goes again.
“Okay, okay — I’m coming.” I press the speaker button. “Hello?”
“Matilda?” A female voice through the speaker; I frown, not really recognising it.
“Yes, who is this?”
“It’s, um — Jasmine. Henry’s friend.” I flinch at the sound of his name, and then realisation hits: his best friend is at my flat. Why is she here? Is she with him? Did he tell her where I lived? Did he send her because he’s too much of a coward to come seeme himself? Either way, I don’t want to hear what he has to say through her.
“Sorry, now is not a good time.” I can’t hide the bite in my voice.
“Look, Matilda, I just need a few minutes. Please — can we talk?” She sounds hesitant. My first instinct is to refuse, but the more she speaks, the more I soften. Time passes and I think the connection has timed out, but she speaks again, breaking the silence.
