“I’m just saying,somecritics appreciated the raw emotional depth of Turtle With No Face.”
She’s practically wheezing now. “Didn’t Mr Thompson ask if it was supposed to be a potato?”
“That’s the one. The potato-turtle hybrid. A true visionary piece. Ahead of its time.”
We both dissolve into laughter, and for a moment it feels like we’re sixteen again, sitting on the grass behind the science block during break. Except we’re not sixteen, because Josh and Ben aren’t kicking a football around behind us, and Sam isn’t sitting next to me chiming in with a dry comment that he knows will make me smile.
***
I’m still thinking about the conversation we had about hobbies when I walk home. I hadn’t realised just how much of my life had revolved around Sam—his swimming, his goals, his future—until it all disappeared. Without meaning to, I’d built the foundations of my world around someone else. I thought I’d been pursuing my own dream; dreams of medical school, being the best doctor I could be. And I had. But I hadn’t let anything else in, because his swimming had taken up the rest of that space.
It’s a strange thing to reckon with, that you can slowly sideline yourself in your own story and not even notice it. But I’m learning… slowly. Figuring out how to exist on my own and not be the person who just gives everything without getting anything back.
It’s odd. I’d always thought of myself as such an independent person, and in many ways I was. But I always had Sam at the end of the phone, and I’d never realised how much I’d relied on the knowledge that I could always call him. Now I know I don’tneedthat. But it doesn’t stop it from occasionally hurting when I have a bad day and realise I can’t—Iwon’t—call him.
“Hey,” Tom shouts when I let myself in. He’s lounging on the sofa, half-watching a nerdy history documentary, his favourite thing, and half-scrolling through his phone. “How was Claire? Still breathing?”
“Only just,” I say, kicking off my trainers. “I think it’ll take her a full month to forgive me for making her run. But luckily, I’ll be back in Exeter before she’s had time to organise her revenge.”
“I don’t know if you’re safe; she’s pretty resourceful.” He stretches out like a cat. “Still good for that morning run tomorrow?”
“Yep. I just need to call Theo first, then I can help you make lunch if you want.”
“How isTheo from Accounts?”
I give him a look. “He’s not from Accounts. He’s amedical student.”
Tom waves a hand like that’s a minor detail. “It’s more of a personality vibe.”
I know he thinks Theo’s boring. But he’s only met my new boyfriend twice, and he made him incredibly nervous both times.
We’ve been together for six months. He’s one of the graduate medical students, so he only joined our cohort two years ago, and we met when we were both sent to Plymouth Hospital. After six weeks of a cardiology placement we were firm friends, mainly bonded over how much we both kept on failing at reading ECGs (too many squiggly lines on a page). When he asked me for a drink the week we got back to Exeter, there wasn’t the usual stuttered small talk of a first date. No games or mining for information about previous relationships. Just an evening of laughing that led to a coffee date, that led to a dinner, and then another dinner, and somehow here we are. Things are easy. Things are safe. The feelings aren’t complicated.
“He’s not boring,” I tell Tom. “He literally pulled a tick out of someone’s back on Dartmoor last week.”
“Sounds like weird medic foreplay,” he mutters.
“He has a great social life, actually.”
Tom gasps theatrically. “Oh my god, are you actually defending him? Is this serious? Are we inthe Theo eranow?”
I toss a cushion at his head. “Shut up and go put the kettle on.”
“Yes, doctor.”
Chapter 38
Twenty-two years old
Kath
Ican’t stop myself from intermittently checking the television whilst we cook. I keep seeing flickers of the European Acquatics Championships, but not quite enough to work out where in the swimming schedule we are. I might have muted the sound when Theo got back, but I still want to watch.
I’ve always loved watching the swimming, and I refuse to let my emotions surrounding Sam get in the way of me enjoying the sport. Given how superstitious he is, I still text him before big events, but nothing more than those four words ‘You got this, Champ’.
I know he won’t reply. I text anyway.
Some things you do because of who you are, not because of who they are.
