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Digger wipes the tears from my cheeks with his thumbs, their roughness a contrast to the smooth skin of my face. “You are enough,” he tells me. “You’re more than enough, and nothing else matters. You might not realise it now, and it’s going to take a while for you to get over this, but one day you’ll look back and realise just how strong you are. And how proud you make me.”
I look up, catching his gaze through slick eyelashes. “Thank you,” I say. I mean it, too. It’s not as though I’m throwing myself into his embrace like a long-lost daughter and begging him to become part of our Brady Bunch, but the fact he’s put aside his discomfort—not to mention risked provoking Alex’s ire—to come up and talk to me is enough right now. I might not want to call him ‘Dad’, and I certainly don’t want to see him kissing my mum again, but part of me wants to give him another chance.
After everything that’s happened, this might be the only positive chance I get.
* * *
“How are you?” Charlie slides onto the swivel chair next to mine, his legs splayed so his feet can pivot on the floor. “Feeling any better?”
I look up from my laptop. It’s my first day back in the office and it’s taking longer to boot up than usual. As if it’s fed up with me for ignoring it for five days.
“I’m okay,” I say, rubbing my eyes. They’re tight and itchy from too many tears and not enough sleep, but a good covering of concealer has hidden most of the damage.
Charlie pushes himself along on the chair until he’s close to me. The arm of his chair hits mine.
“Hey, we’re not on the dodgems,” I tell him.
He raises an eyebrow. “The whole point of dodgems, Amy, is to dodge ‘em. You’re thinking of bumper cars.”
I glance at him warily. “I can guarantee that’s not what I’m thinking.” What I’m actually thinking—in the small amount of consciousness that’s not aching for my laptop to load so that I can see if Callum is logged on—is that I want to be left alone. Preferably for the next two months.
Right up to graduation.
Charlie gets the message and backs away. “I bought you a Mars bar,” he says, laying the black-wrapped chocolate bar on the desk in front of me. “I thought you might need the sugar rush.”
I run my finger along the bar. “Thank you, I’ll save it for later.”
“You really aren’t alright.”
Doing my best to attempt a smile, I look over at him. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. If you were fine you’d have shoved the whole of that bar into your greedy gob by now. If you were fine you’d be begging me to make you a cup of tea to go with it, or suggesting we head over to Starbucks for an early coffee.”
The mention of coffee makes my chest hurt.
“Okay, so I will be fine. In time.” It doesn’t even convince me. As for Charlie, he wrinkles his nose and goes to grab the Mars bar. I snatch it back from him, pulling out my desk drawer and depositing it inside. I may not want it now, but it’s chocolate after all.
“Oh, by the way, I gave Caro a talking to,” Charlie says, standing up and pushing his chair back to where he found it. “Left her in no doubt what a bitch I think she is. I wanted to slap her, really, but I was too scared I’d get done for assault.”
The corner of my lip twitches. “That’s a shame.”
“It is,” he agrees, cheerily. “But there’s nothing to stop you.”
“Apart from my need to keep this job. And the small matter of my degree.” My voice is dry. “But thanks for the suggestion.”
“Any time.” With that he leaves, and although the invisible band around my chest hasn’t loosened much, it seems more bearable than it did before.
* * *
The next hour is spent reading my emails. I start to whip out replies, my fingers flying across the keyboard, before realising I’m late for a project meeting. I arrive ten minutes after it’s started, all too aware of my dishevelled appearance, and find myself grilled on project costs and overruns.
When I get back to my desk, I click on instant messenger and type Callum’s name into the box. The system finds him immediately, and the little green icon tells me everything I need to know.
He’s online right now.
I reach out for my coffee mug, hoping the bitter liquid will give me the courage I’m sorely lacking. I want to message him—of course I do—but after days of being ignored, my ability to take rejection has hit an all-time low. Unanswered emails have filled up my ‘sent’ folder, and I don’t know how much more I can subject myself to.
I type and delete over and over. ‘Hi’ seems too vacuous, ‘Why won’t you talk to me’ too demanding. I try—and fail—to hit the right note, to sound breezy without being careless, and in the end I settle for an old favourite.
