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“Home,” he said.
“Where’s that?”
“To my parents’. I can’t go back to…the flat.”
I nodded, not fully understanding, but at least he was talking.
“So I’ll have to go home and admit to my parents that I have an eating disorder that once again is out of control, and my OCD is so bad even my boss is telling me to rein it in. Then there is, of course, the small fact that my boyfriend has beaten me to a pulp. Again.”
I could barely breathe, but he was suddenly calm, a small smile settling on his face.
“That…was a lot,” I said. “To take in, I mean.”
“It is, when you’re trying so hard to keep up the façade of everything being bloody perfect when your entire life is a massive shitshow, and I just can’t do it anymore. There comes a time and place when things…explode, and I need it all to stop. I need to go away and…”
There was only so much bravado a human being could present, and that was apparently Hugo’s limit, as he buried his face in his sleeve, pulled in a few wheezy breaths, then stood up again.
“I need to leave.”
“Really?” I said, finding my own iron rod and shoving it up my backside. “Did I read this right? You’re running away from your life, and I’m supposed to tell Finn sorry on your behalf?”
“I can’t stay, can I? Do you expect me to go out there in the morning with a mangled face and an arm I can’t move? You’d all love that, wouldn’t you? Look at Hugo, the sorry fuck. Got himself beaten up again. Just like last time.”
He was spitting the sentences at me like it was my fault, but I could be firm and kind at the same time. I stood too and held up my hands.
“I’m not the enemy, Hugo,” I said quietly. “And I have no idea what you’re on about, but can I tell you this?”
“What?” he barked.
Okay. Shock did this to a person. He was injured and hurting and no doubt sleep-deprived, and what had he said about eating disorder? My broken brain couldn’t even start to put all that information into order.
“First,” I said quite sternly, “we’re putting all this stuff back in your locker.”
Hugo stared at me defiantly. “Secondly?”
It was good that he was angry. He’d need that adrenaline to get through the next couple of hours.
“We’re going to A and E. Get you checked over and that arm seen to.”
“No thanks. Happened before. Takes a few days and then it sorts itself.”
“Bullshit!”
“It’s my life! Don’t you dare tell me how to live it too!”
Oh…fuck. That was a low blow, and it made me want to walk out of here and let someone else deal with whatever this clusterfuck of a day had become, but I didn’t.
“Okay,” I said.
“Okay,” he said. Then we stared each other down—until I burst out laughing. This wasn’t funny, but what the hell was happening here?
“You’re a stubborn-as-fuck idiot.”
“I’m not going to no hospital,” he insisted like a petulant child.
“In that case,” I retaliated because I was no better, “you’ll have to come home with me. We’ll even bring all this…shit.” I motioned to the bin liner and his locker. “Do you know how many break-ins we have up here? Whatever you’re stashing needs to be in a safer place.”
“I don’t know you.” He tried to cross his arms and ended up flinching instead. It made me want to hug him, but I knew better than to do it.
