“Matilda, you still there? I promise I won’t take up much of your time. Please.”
Fuck. I punch the accept button and hear the buzzer at my main door. A minute later there’s a light tap. I open the door and see the familiar face from the day in my office. Her jet-black curls are untamed and her beautiful eyes widen when she sees my bruised face.
“Oh my—” She cuts herself off, swallowing hard.
“What do you want?” I don’t move from the doorway; awkwardness rises in her expression. I guess she thought buzzing would mean instant entry, but I haven’t decided yet. I know my anger toward her is unjust — she hasn’t done anything wrong — but she’s the closest person to Henry I’ve seen since the accident, and I can’t separate the two.
“May I come in, please? It’s a bit public out here.” She gestures to the corridor that leads to three other flats. I breathe in, debate, then step aside to let her in.
“If he sent you—” I don’t finish before she raises both hands like a white flag.
“He hasn’t. Actually, he doesn’t know I’m here, and I’d like to keep it that way, if you don’t mind.” I frown.
“Then how do you know where I live?” I ask.
She smiles a little. “I may have accessed Henry’s work emails and emailed HR for your personal information, pretending tobe Henry, of course.” My eyebrows shoot up. How did she get access to his emails? Pretending to be the CEO to get someone’s details? Pretty sure that’s illegal, but what do I know.
“That’s pretty extreme. How do you have access to his work emails?” The jealous part of me shouldn’t care, but I can’t stop that heat rising — she has access to a part of him I don’t.
“He’s been staying with me for the last couple of days,” she says, pausing as if choosing words carefully. He’s been staying there? What the hell is happening? She must see the confusion and red-hot anger on my face because she quickly adds, “Nothing like that! God, I’m already fucking this up.” She gestures toward the sofa and I reluctantly follow.
“When Henry has an episode he normally reaches out to me. We talk things through, or he just comes to stay for a few days until it passes. To say the least, this has been a bad few days.”
There’s too much to process in that one sentence.
“He’s had a bad few days?” I spit out. Her gaze drops; sadness fills her features.
“I can’t even begin to imagine what this has been like for you. I’m so sorry you’ve had to go through all this. I’m not here to justify Henry’s actions, but I do want to explain why.”
“But why you? Why isn’t he here telling me this?” I ask.
“Because he won’t. He thinks he is too broken and too damaged. He’s in a really dark place, Matilda — the worst I’ve ever seen.” My heart twinges; the broken part of me wants to scoff, to roll my eyes and tell her her time is up, but the part of me that still loves him needs to hear this.
“What do you mean?” I whisper.
“Matilda, Henry has suffered with depression for many years, and with that comes panic attacks. He’s learned ways to deal with them and manages his depression in his own way, but sometimes it gets too much and his mind goes very dark. Lately he’d been so much better — happier for the first time in years— and I know that’s down to you. But the accident brought it all back, and I just wanted you to know.”
“Why?” My voice is hoarse as I try to take it in. I’d always written his ‘dark days’ off as moodiness or arrogance. I never thought he could be suffering with depression; he runs a multi-million-pound business. He seems strong and powerful — everything I wouldn’t have linked to anxiety. How naïve have I been?
“When his mum died, something inside him broke. He’s been living in survival mode ever since. Then you came along and woke him up, made him feel again. But when he saw you in that wreck… it was like losing her all over again.” Jasmine must see the tears forming in my eyes because she edges closer but doesn’t touch me. She’s hesitant; I can tell.
“These dark days — has he ever—” I can’t finish the sentence. I don’t know if I want the answer.
“Hurt himself?” she finishes for me. “No, not that I know of. Henry’s form of self-harm is shutting himself off from emotion. Only a few people ever see his true side, and you are one of them. I’m only telling you this because I know he loves you and I know you love him. You two wouldn’t have gone through all this if you didn’t.”
Her words keep ringing around my head. She’s explaining what Henry couldn’t — or wouldn’t. Does that make it easier? Less hurtful? Part of me can finally understand, but the wound still stings: rejection and abandonment.
“You may call it cowardice, but I’ve seen the guilt eating him alive. He didn’t get in that ambulance because he doesn’t love you, Matilda. He didn’t get in because he loves you so much it terrifies him.”
My eyes sting at that.
“I’ve seen him when the panic hits. It’s not like nerves, it’s not like fear — it’s like his whole body shuts down and he can’tmove. That night in the car… it dragged him back to the worst moment of his life.”
Visions of ten-year-old Henry flash through my mind: the moment he found out his mother was never coming home, how he began looking after his dad and his little brother, how he’d sat at a train station and decided to shut off his emotions to protect himself.
“You need to know this isn’t about you not being enough. It’s about him believing he’s too broken for you. He punishes himself every day for the day he left you. You might see weakness, but I see a man drowning in grief he’s never dealt with.”
Anger bubbles up inside me, an emotion I rarely feel. It feels like an unwelcome invasion that crumbles my defences. I’m angry because how could he not know I would have understood? I would have listened — but he didn’t give me that chance. He just went dark on me. But isn’t that the point Jasmine is trying to make?
