‘Sorry about your window,’ he says. ‘I’ll pay for a new one.’
He’s trying to keep the mood light, but concern’s written all over his face. I mean, hebrokeintomyhouse. He’s supposed to be in Mexico City tomorrow for the start of the race weekend. I didn’t mean to worry him. I wish I could stop making the wrong choices.
I rub my eye. ‘You really wanted to sit on my floor, didn’t you?’
‘Darn straight. You know what else I want to do?’ he asks.
My insides recoil. I said I didn’t want totalk about it.
‘WatchGilmore Girls,’ he finishes.
I stare vacantly at him. ‘What?’
‘Specifically, the episode where Rory starts Yale. That’s where I’m up to.’
That’s season four. He hasn’t just dipped in, he’s put in real commitment. ‘You’ve been watchingGilmore Girls?’
He nods. ‘Turns out I missed a lot of the story when I was yelling at my sisters to turn it off. Who knew?’
‘Who knew,’ I repeat dumbly, not knowing what to do with this information. He watchedGilmore Girlsfor me? Why would he do that?
He sets it up in the living room and I shuffle to join him. On the coffee table is a packet of M&S tortilla chips and an open bakery box with a yumnut inside.
He catches me looking. ‘Raspberry royal. That’s your favourite, right? There was a Marks & Spencer in arrivals.’
Fresh tears threaten to spill over, and he drops his positive act. His arms surround me, making me worse. Even though a sense of rightness locks in place, my body’s wracked with heaving sobs and moisture soaks into his jumper.
‘It’s alright, sweetheart. I’m here,’ he whispers, long fingers smoothing the back of my head.
I don’t deserve his thoughtfulness. Look at how I hurt Tom and Logan, how I’ve let Minnie down, how I’ve given Nyla a hard time with all my brands clamouring for answers, how I don’t have a good relationship with my dad. I’m not a good person.
And yet… Tiago knows all this. He knows some of the worst things about me, has seen the worst parts of me, and he’s here.
When I’m as stable as I’m going to be, I sink into the couch. He hands me a handful of tissues before pressing play, and I thank him with a watery smile. I’m not used to being taken care of and I don’t want to get used to it.
I can’t concentrate on the screen. His arm’s draped around my shoulders, thumb softly caressing my neck. The side of hisbody’s resting against me; his face is inches from mine. We’ve watched TV like this dozens of times, usually followed by sex, and there’s an aching familiarity to it. Everything inside me is screaming for me not to ruin it but I’m sick of hiding myself. He’s gone to so much effort to be here, the least I can do is be totally honest.
‘I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder,’ I blurt out.
He blinks slowly and takes his time pausing the TV, sitting slightly further down the sofa, his arm running along the back. He’s surely disgusted by me.
‘I know.’
Well… that was unexpected. ‘What? How?’
He raises his eyebrows like,Are you really going to make me say it, and I raise mine like,Yes I really am.
‘Alright.’ He interlocks his fingers and loosens them. ‘You’ve built your entire life around a need for control; you only use even numbers; you triple checkeverything; you hyper-focus on the tiniest details; you check plug sockets in every room; you count under your breath when you’re nervous. Want more?’
I frown. ‘Lots of people are control freaks.’
‘Jules, when you were in Miami, there were at least sixty photos on your phone of your appliances and plug sockets switched off.’
‘I—’
‘Look, I don’t care. I appreciate you telling me but it’s not a big deal. We all have our differences.’
‘It is a big deal. It ruined years of my life.’
