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“Oh, heck,” the man mutters, and before I know what’s happening, I’m engulfed in his body, my arms bunched between his chest and mine. “Everything will be okay.”
He’s wrong, but his gesture is kind. I can’t remember the last time someone threw their arms around me and told me that everything was going to be okay. It doesn’t matter that he’s so mistaken. It doesn’t matter that he knows nothing of my sadness and grief. And it doesn’t matter that once he releases me, all my problems will be back.
But for now, I allow myself to absorb his comfort, because despite him being a stranger, and despite it just being a hug, it’s what I need.
So when he gently breaks away, I can’t help but feel slightly resentful that he’s stolen away my tiny piece of respite. He has accomplished what nothing has for two long years. He made me think of something besides my sadness. And quick on the heels of that respite comes guilt. So much guilt, my chest starts to ache. What am I doing? What am I thinking, taking solace in the arms of a complete stranger? I’m despicable. I’m an awful person, an awful wife. My husband is at home waiting to die, and here I am relishing in the amazing feeling of another man’s arms.
I quickly turn on my heel and pace to the hard, plastic seats lining the far wall, sitting myself down and keeping my eyes on my lap. “Thank you for your help.”
“Stop thanking me.”
“I’m married,” I blurt, stunning myself, the guilt now doing the talking for me. A hug. It was just a hug.
He nods down to my left hand. “I noticed,” he says simply, lowering to a chair a few seats away from me. My gaze follows him the whole way until I’m staring at his profile. “But if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to stay.” He pulls his phone out and starts tapping at the screen, and my mind instantly wonders if he’s messaging someone. His girlfriend? His wife? My eyes fall to his left hand. No ring. I look up and find his perfect white teeth sunk into his bottom lip as he taps away, and I start to wonder about everything there is to wonder about this man. His name. His job. His personal circumstances. He’s smart, drives a nice car, and I bet he’s super successful. Happy. Fulfilled. I bet his life is the complete opposite of mine. It’s late evening, and he looks pristine, whereas I must look like a bedraggled state. My image hasn’t mattered for a long time. I never wear makeup, rarely blow-dry my hair, and I dress for comfort rather than style. Because who the fuck cares anyway?
Looking back to the man next to me, I find that he’s no longer on his phone, but looking at me. “These chairs aren’t very comfortable, are they?” he asks, wriggling his tall body on a grimace. “If we sit here too long, we may get piles.”
I laugh, and the sound shocks me. It’s so unfamiliar. “Maybe you should stand.”
“Nah.” He points to his feet. “New shoes. My feet are shredded.”
I wince on his behalf, quickly diverting my eyes to the double doors when the receptionist appears. I stand and make my way over. “How is he?” I ask, nervous for her answer.
“At the moment we suspect that your little man had a heart attack, but we’ll need to do tests to determine that.”
“A heart attack?” I gasp. Oh my God, this is all my fault. I stood in that road waiting for a car to take me out. Poor Boris must have been terrified.
“I need a few details from you.” She motions toward the desk, and I follow. “His name, for a start.”
“Boris. It’s Boris.”
“And how old is Boris?”
“He’s nine.”
She notes it all down. “His registered vet?”
“Goddard on King’s Road,” I answer swiftly, and she proceeds to ask more questions that I reel off answers to easily.
“And who is he insured with?” She looks up at me, and I freeze.
“He’s uninsured,” I murmur, hating myself for being so stupid. Boris’s pet insurance was one of the first things I culled when things got too tight after Billy was diagnosed. I had to make cutbacks, and since I’d never once claimed on his policy in the whole time I’d had him, it was common sense to cancel it.
“Oh.” The receptionist pulls a face that can only be interpreted as disappointed. She thinks I’m an irresponsible owner. She thinks I don’t care about Boris’s wellbeing. “So you’ll be settling the bill today.” She doesn’t ask it as a question, because there’s only one right answer.
I nod and reach into my pocket, pulling out my wallet. I find my card and slide it onto the counter. “Yes.” I breathe in, closing my eyes.
