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“As you know, he’s not exactly Mr. Happy. But for the past few months—as you also know—it just seems like he’s getting worse.”
“You have mentioned this.”
“Right, and before he left for the rig three days ago, I asked him:As a percentage, how happy do you think you are right now?And he said:Forty percent.Forty percent!” Josie repeats, outraged. “And he thought he’d only be eighty percent happy after the wedding and honeymoon!”
Baffled, I silently wait for her to relay their conversation before blowing out a breath.
How do I tackle this?
Josie turns, catching my eye with her sad brown gaze. “I can’t marry someone who’s going to be less than ninety-nine percent happily married to me, can I?” she demands.
“I think it’s a worryingly low percentage.”
“Right. And I’ve come to realise that he’s just one of those people who are slightly down on life.” Another sigh. “I don’t know. I’m just feeling fed up. And time’s ticking; I don’t have long to resolve my feelings.”
An image of Isla pops into my head, and how I whisper that she needs to demand the most out of her life. To be happy. To surround herself with good people, love and laughter. Naturally, I want that for all of my friends too. “If you had a child, would you be happy that they were going to marry someone who only loved live about forty percent?”
Josie shakes her head. “No. It’s a shitty statistic.”
“I wouldn’t want you to settle for that. You deserve so much more.”
“God,” she grumbles. “What am I going to do?”
I can’t make those decisions for her, but it’s good to concentrate on her woes for a while instead of mine. “What would you say if I suggested that, for this weekend, you take your engagement ring off and see how it feels?”
Josie purses her lips. “Oh wow. That’s big.” She chews at her lip. “I guess it would be . . . an interesting experiment. And you do like those.”
For the next few miles, Josie peppers me with questions about Dave and his latest thoughts. When I relay the last session, she nods like she agrees with his hypothesis.
“Your mind has been protecting you. And you were drugged—there was all sorts of shit in your blood when you escaped—but wouldn’t it be nice to think that your mind is telling you it’s ready to unpick this gigantic knot?”
I nod because I want answers. I want to be done with the cavernous hole inside my head.
“Maybe nothing will happen, but just see where it leads,” she suggests lightly.
“I will,” I say with conviction, though I’m not exactly sure what I can do to help this voice along. I’m in limbo, waiting. It’s like being on the cusp of a sneeze only for the sensation to completely disappear.
The journey to Stourbridge is filled with rolling hills and pretty-stoned villages. When we head down a bumpy single road, I spot a sign reading Lake Cabin and Pinewood Cabin, an arrow pointing straight ahead.
“There!” I point.
Josie makes the turn down the narrow track, a private lane of gravel and small potholes.
“We’re Lake Cabin, right?”
“Right,” I confirm as we round a bend. In front of us, nestled into a shallow bank, sit two dark wood cabins. The front doors face the driveway, cute porches offering some shelter.
That’s when I notice the sleek, black Range Rover parked by the other cabin. For some reason, it makes me feel queasy. “Whose car is that?”
“No idea. It’s got to belong to our neighbours.”
My eyes go to the other cabin, wondering if I can glimpse anyone through the windows. My heart rate triples, a dark feeling coming over me. And it makes no sense, but the vehicle seems so oversized and menacing compared to Josie’s small, red VW.
Unaware of my inner turmoil, Josie turns off the ignition and opens her door, a blast of cool air entering the car and showering me in goosebumps.
“Shall we explore and bring the bags inside in a bit?”
“Sure.” This is Josie’s weekend and I’ll do whatever she wants. Plus I drank too much fizzy in the car and now I’m suffering for it.
