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After five minutes of watching me struggle, Tom sighs and takes over, locating my keys in a frustratingly short amount of time and unlocking the door.

“Here,” he says, holding the door open. “After you, Buttercup.”

But the moment we get into the house I start feeling slightly nauseous. Scratch that, I feel very nauseated. Shit.

I make a break for it down the corridor, suddenly rediscovering the ability to run in heels, and only just get to the bathroom in time.

I hate alcohol. Why do I drink?

Griping the toilet even more tightly I nearly startle when I hear the sound of someone behind me.

“Where do you keep your hair ties?”

My hand vaguely waves towards a cabinet, and then clings to the toilet again.

I hear Tom opening the cupboard and moving things around, before he kneels on the floor next to me and pulls my hair back into something that’s a vague semblance of a bun. I stay where I am for a few moments, feeling both sweaty and shivery. His hand smooths down my back and I give a murmur of thanks.

“Do you think you’re going to be sick again?”

I shake my head.

“Do you want to move?” His hand is still rubbing calming circles on my back.

I shake my head again.

Tom stands to leave the room before returning a few moments later with a glass of water.

He sits silently on the tiled floor beside me whilst I attempt to piece together the remaining scraps of my dignity. I’m not sure how many are left at this point. I would feel embarrassed to be in this position with almost anyone else, certainly with any of my exes, but right now I’m just glad Tom’s here.

Eventually, I peel myself away from my emotional support toilet and take a tentative sip of water, swilling it around my mouth and spitting it out.

I feel fractionally more human.

“Are you sure you’re alright, Claire?”

I nod my head, but then a tear creeps out. And the first is followed by a second and then a third. And then I can’t stop.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out.

He goes completely still beside me.

“For before,” I mumble, wiping furiously at my face. “For the messages. And Kath’s birthday party. And all of it.”

“Claire—”

“No, let me say it before I lose the courage.” I let out a watery laugh. “Or before I throw up again.”

Tom stays quiet.

“I messed up. Everything with my mum got in my head and then I ignored you because I didn’t know how to explain all that without sounding insane.”

“You could’ve tried to explain. That would be better than silence,” he says gently.

Fresh guilt crashes into me. “I know.” I let out a wet hiccup. “But I’m never enough. Not for my mum. Not for Alexander. I always try so hard and it never works.”

Tom reaches out and gingerly pats my knee. There’s something so earnest in his expression, so kind, that it makes my eyes well with fresh tears.

Chapter 19