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“Does it?”
“Oh yeah,” I say. “Some of it is really weird. Gutsy. And I mean that literally.”
He glances at me, then returns his gaze to the road. “Now that I’d love to see.”
I don’t say anything. Instead, I lean forward and turn up the music, imagining what it would be like for him to come with me. We could explore the whole city if we wanted. I’d drag him around every street corner and we’d look for the weirdest art we could find. He’d probably make me impatient. He’d see something no one else would notice, an abandoned sock or some other ugly discarded thing, and we’d have to stop so he could find some beauty in it. I’d pace up and down the block while he perched on a bench or a curb and made a quick sketch. The same thing has happened on so many of our walks around Cobh that I can see it, really see it. Like it’s a vision. Something destined to come true.
We’re quiet the whole drive back to Cobh. Jack keeps his eyes ahead and doesn’t so much as glance at me. I catch sight of the tattoo on his neck—a dagger pierced through a heart.That’s how it feels to leave, I think, then scold myself for the melodramatic thought.
But leaving doesn’t have to feel that way. Not if Jack comes with me. He’s capable of more than he thinks. He can travel. He can see and do all the things he wants. He just has to believe he can. But I can’t just ask him to come with me to Vienna. I have to start small andshowhim he can.
When I return to the flat, the first thing I do (after greetingSebastian, of course) is buy two round-trip tickets to London. I’ll play for the pub on Wednesday. We’ll leave Thursday, stay one night, and be home in time to work the night shift on Friday.
It’s just a quick little getaway. A small step to feel things out. At least it’ssomething.
I just hope it’ll be enough.
Twenty-Two
Jack
An hour before Raine is supposed to perform at the pub, I get stuck in the guest room at Nina and Ollie’s house with my hand on the light switch. For the last ten minutes I’ve been telling myself that I need to leave so I can make it to the pub on time and yet... here I am.
I could step through this open door and into the hall. It would take less than a second. But I can’t pull my hand away. No matter how many times I flick the light switch, it doesn’t feel right. And I can’t leave until it feels right, otherwise... Otherwise what?Nothing, the rational part of my brain says.Nothing bad will happen.But my OCD doesn’t agree.
Earlier, when I picked up my phone after taking a shower, I found a missed call from my mum. No text. No voice mail. Which isn’t unusual. I called her back, but she didn’t pick up. Also not unusual. Since she and Ed started dating, she’s been busier than she used to be. We miss each other’s calls all the time. I didn’t think much of it as I got dressed. But then, just as I opened the door to the guestroom, I thought,What if Mum’s been hurt? What if she’s bleeding out somewhere and was calling for help?
Instead of leaving the room, I called her a few more times. Still, no answer. I called Ed—something I try to avoid as much as possible—but he didn’t pick up either.
I started playing games in my head when I was ten years old. The first of these games was the mug game. The rules were simple: If Mum handed Da the red mug, it meant he’d have a bad day. If she handed him the blue one, it meant he’d have a good day. Da having a bad day usually meant Mum and I would have a bad day too, and eventually, I offered to make Da’s coffee myself, just so I could make sure he got the blue mug—even if that meant ignoring the four clean mugs in the cabinet and washing it.
I knew it wouldn’t actually keep Da from getting angry, but I did it anyway. I didn’t mind. It made it easier to move on with my day. But then I’d get to school and wonder if I’d actually given him the blue mug. I’d run through the events of the morning in my mind over and over, but could never be sure. What if I was thinking of yesterday, not today? Nearly failed because of it.
Today’s game is calledIf you don’t flick this light switch the right way, your mum is dead.This game is a cousin to the ever-popularStep on a crack and break your mother’s back. The rules of my game are a bit more complicated. All I have to do is flick this fucking light switch in multiples of four until I get the sense that my mother is out of danger.
There are many problems with this game. One, it isn’t real. Two, it’s time consuming. Three, it makes me feel like I’ve lost my mind. Four—there are always four rules—I never know what multiple of four will be the magic number to keep whatever horrible thing I’ve thought from happening. Today, we’re upwards of forty and still going.On-off-on-off. On-off-on-off. On-off-on-off. On-off-on-off.Again and again and again and again. It’s the world’s worst fucking rave. It’s giving me a fucking headache.
I could stop right now. Ishouldstop right now. I should let go on an odd number and put on my boots the wrong way—left before right. I should say to myself,Yes, my mother is bleeding out somewhere in the Canary Islands because I didn’t answer her phone call. Perhaps I could prevent it from happening by flicking this light switch, but I refuse. If she dies, it will haunt me for the rest of my life. But alas, I will just have to suffer the consequences.
I should do all of those things, but I don’t. Because I’m very close to getting it right. I’m sure of it. And then I can go to the pub and not worry about whether or not Mum is dead. If I resist the compulsions like I’m supposed to, my anxiety will be worse in the short-term, and I’m simply too busy for that.
My phone buzzes in my hand. I answer the call and press the phone to my ear. “Ed?”
“Jack, is everything all right?”
“Where’s Mum?”
“She went for a swim. Why? Is there something wrong?”
“And Mum’s okay?”
“She’s... fine, Jack.”
“Are you with her right now?”
“I’m not. But I can see her from here.”
“Can I talk to her?”
