Ez slaps his head. “Duh. I don’t know. Maybe because he’s not well, and you and him had a sweet little thing going?”
A sweet little thing. My heart lurches. Kisses on street corners. Hand holding under a restaurant table. Late-night phone calls. Trust Ez to come up with a perfect description.
“He’ll be fine,” I answer carelessly. “Alaric says he’ll bounce back.” At least talking about Luke changes the subject away from me. “I’m not worried.”
“No?”
“No.”
The lie hums against my teeth. I know it, Ez knows it, even the fucking desk knows it.
CHAPTER 19
LUKE
I have to admire my brain chemistry’s impeccably shit timing. Why decide to play up now, when I’ve got a man gifting me peace lilies and I’d dared allow myself to hope? Why didn’t it falter when my kitchen window sill was bare and I was already falling apart, chewing my own arms with anxiety? Like last Christmas, for instance, when my divorced parents decided it would be nice if the three of us went out for dinner to celebrate. Separately, and living far away in Edinburgh, they’re great. Together, visiting me in London, I’m a pawn in a hostage situation.
But no, way too easy. Instead, my mood imbalance waits in the wings until a beautiful, kind, funny man takes me on a date, feeds me Maltesers as an entrée, and sucks my knob for dessert. Then massages my feet. As if to say,don’t you dare start enjoying this.
I come to the cottage in Wales thinking brisk walks in the clean ocean air might reinvigorate me. And usually, it does. Instead, with my peace lilies staying damp in the kitchen sink—the only precious things I’ve brought with me—I huddle tiredlyon the tiny veranda overlooking the murky grey sea and stare at nothing, for hours at a time.
I think a lot about calling Neil, my thumb hovering over his name every time I find myself in a patch of reception. He was rightly upset at being shut out and deserves a fuller, honest reason for my silence. But how? How do I explain the whys and wherefores? How do I admit to him what’s gone before and then watch him battle the temptation to pull away? Even the thought of explaining feels like dragging a body uphill.
He’d be kind, of course. He’d offer to cook for me when I return home, cuddle me, and insist I’m not a burden. I’d have to face his unreserved caring and not know what to do with it.
Yet, all the same, he’ll like me a little less.
The days of doing nothing pile up. I sleep a lot, take my pills on the dot, attempt not to pull my hair, and check in online with my community psych nurse.
Neil’s sweet, thoughtful texts go mostly unanswered. It’s better this way, I conclude. He’s got his own knotty problem to solve. Distance is kindness, right? Space is good. Less noise in my head.
Except it’s not quiet in there. My mind is crammed full of unsent messages and unspoken conversations.
A month goes by before the first rays of light creep in around the edges of the fog. Boredom is the first reliable sign, along with an itchy restlessness crawling under my skin and a craving for a night in my own big bed in my own cosy flat.
On my return to London, life waits for me, greeting me with piles of junk mail, unanswered emails, bills to be paid. I don’t mind this part of recovery; each piece of admin sorted is proof that I’m on the mend. I clean my flat from top to bottom, change the bedding, and complete a month’s worth of laundry (surprisingly little when even changing your socks feels like a huge effort). In the watery sunshine, I walk the long wayround to the supermarket, fill a trolley with healthy ingredients (I’m suddenly ravenous), and then return home for some long overdue personal grooming. A patch of hair behind my left ear is thinner than before this latest downer struck, and my beads are a touch more worn. Otherwise, no overt harm done.
Desperately in need of physical exertion, I go for a swim. Isaac joins me.
“Looking good,” he comments with a smile. “Ready to face the world again?”
“Yes,” I confirm, after not much deliberating. “Back on an even keel. I’ll take that as a win.”
Isaac swims with me the next day too, and the next after that. He doesn’t say much, simply turns up at my usual time with a towel over his shoulder and a friendly hug. Like it’s nothing. When we do talk, we discuss the guy with zero spatial awareness hogging the middle lane, Jonty’s latest scrape at school, Isaac’s most recent shift at the hospital.
I must be feeling better, because, on our third session, I bring up the subject of Neil.
“He texted me every day for a couple of weeks,” I tell Isaac as we rub ourselves dry. “And then he stopped.”
“You didn’t answer,” Isaac surmises. Or perhaps he knows.
“No. I couldn’t. You know how I am when I get like this. I can’t face anyone. Even people who are worrying about me. And I can’t explain all that to Neil. He won't understand.”
Isaac smiles again, though it’s not especially happy. “He still doesn’t know how ill you’ve been in the past, does he?”
I shake my head. I’m no relationship expert, but even I know slipping your involuntary psychiatric admissions into the first couple of dates is hardly the best way of keeping your man keen.
“You could tell him, you know. Underneath all the Neil-ness, he’s a good guy. He’s been a rock for Ez over the years. I think he really likes you.”
