I shrug. ‘It might help, and you don’t have to get specific.’
He doesn’t say anything right away, and I almost think he’s not going to and will just clam up, but then he sighs one more time and leans back as far as he can in his chair. ‘I’m just tired.’
‘Tired?’
‘Of never being enough.’
‘For who?’
‘For everyone.’ He says it so casually, the corners of his mouth lifting up into a sad excuse for a smile, like if he says it with enough detachment, it won’t hurt as much. He might be able to fool himself, but he can’t fool me. I feel the hurt beneath his words, in all that he’snotsaying, settle heavy in my chest.
I look at his hands instead of his face because it’s easier that way; if I keep looking at his eyes, I don’t know what I’ll say. He’s fiddling with the edge of the box, tearing little pieces off here and there as a way to distract himself from what he’s saying.
‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ I hear myself say.
I think the sound he makes in response is supposed to be a laugh, but it comes out dry and bitter, devoid of any warmth or humour. ‘You don’t know that.’
‘I do,’ I insist. I let myself look at him again. He looks tired in a way a good night’s sleep couldn’t possibly fix. ‘And I also know that you don’t talk like that unless someone’s made you feel it for a very long time.’
He doesn’t dispute me and that somehow makes it worse.
‘It’s like…’ he says after a moment, staring past me to look at the wall behind me. ‘If I’m not useful, I don’t really have a place anywhere. Me alone isn’t enough – I’m just worth whatever I can do for people in the moment.’
My heart just about breaks. I want to lean across this plastic table, squeeze his hands and let him know that he’s more than enough for me.
‘Even if you don’t ever do anything for another soul for the rest of your life,’ I say, ‘you’re still enough. More than enough.’
He finally looks at me then and there’s something raw in his expression, like he desperately wants to believe me but doesn’t trust himself to.
I give into my urges and reach across the table to rest my hand over his. His jaw tightens and I think he’s going to pull away from me, but instead his fingers curl slightly under mine.
‘You don’t have to be enough for anyone but yourself. Anyone else is a bonus and they should be so lucky that you’re in their lives.’
I know I am.
The thought hits me without warning and I realise that with devastating certainty, Iamglad that Asher is in my life. These last few months have been chaotic and downright insane and I’m not sure I would’ve survived if I hadn’t had Asher by my side.
He doesn’t say anything after that; just nods once and then goes back to picking at the food. My impromptu pep talkhasn’t solved anything, I know that, but as he reaches back into the box for a wing, his shoulders look a little less tense and the expression on his face is softer, more Asher-like than before, and that feels like a win.
‘I can’t believe you insisted on paying,’ I snort as Asher and I spill out of Top Fry and into the busy high street it sits on.
‘Never let it be said that I’m not a gentleman.’
‘It was£4.’
‘Like I said,’ Asher says, as he steps across me to position himself so he’s walking on the outside of the pavement, closest to the cars, ‘I’m a gentleman.’
I laugh at that and, after a second, Asher starts laughing too. We fall into step beside each other, bobbing and weaving along the high street. Given the emotional start to this unplanned meet-up, I’d almost forgotten that the last time I saw Asher we were pressed up against my kitchen counter. Now we’re walking side by side, his arm brushing against mine every so often, and I’m reminded of what it felt like to kiss him.
It’s startling how quickly and vividly it comes back to me. The way his hands had hesitated for just a second at my waist, the warmth of his mouth – soft at first and then not – like he was afraid of wanting too much and then gave in anyway. I can almost feel it again, the quiet intensity of it, the way the world narrowed down to just the two of us and the space between our bodies.
My stomach flips at the thought of it.
I shove my hands into the pockets of my coat, more to keep myself from doing something stupid than because I’m cold. The high street is loud around us with cars rushing past, music leaking from shops, people brushing by in hurried groups, but somehow there’s still this bubble around the two of us that feels strangely private.
Asher’s arm brushes mine again, this time lingering just a fraction longer than before. I glance at him from the corner of my eye. He’s looking straight ahead, jaw relaxed, shoulders loose, like he’s not painfully aware of the space between us shrinking and expanding with every step.
Or maybe he is.
