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She sent me a smiley emoji.
Look at you being all grown up. I still don’t like that you’ve moved in with someone again. Even though Dad says he’s not too worried this time.
I replied with a heart emoji, grateful that she still had my back, even though I had started to feel a horrible guilt for what I’d put her through. What I had put everyone through.
I needed to shed those thoughts, so I got up and moved to the little veranda outside the canteen—another neglected piece of this hotel where weeds were growing between the concrete slabs and cigarette stubs clogged the drains. The areas the guests had access to were neat and tidy. The staff areas were a disgrace. It was the same in every place I had worked. Filth and neglect. The chairs falling apart. This small outside area had once had benches and umbrellas on the tables. Now, the single bench that remained was falling to pieces—I balanced carefully on it so the wooden slab wouldn’t slide off the metal frame.
At least I was alone. I could breathe out here in the fresh air. It was cold as anything, but I welcomed the chill. Something to take my mind off everything as I took a sip from my water bottle.
“You’ll freeze to death out here.”
I actually smiled, because Benjamin Desjardins was an absolute idiot.
“Your shift starts at three. What are you doing here this early?”
“Got bored at home.” He laughed, staring at me the way he did. I was getting used to it now. His stubble was on full show, his thick hair neatly tied up in his bandana.
“Why do you never wear one of those chef’s hats?” I snarked as he rummaged around in his pockets. “And if you are looking for yourcigarettes, I found another packet in the kitchen. I wasn’t snooping around, I was just looking for a butter knife, and you had one stashed there. Seriously?”
“Guilty.” He actually looked a little mortified. “Don’t like hats. They don’t ever fit my big head.”
“Too much hair.” I reached out and ruffled his mop. “Give them to me,” I demanded, holding out my hand.
He smiled, but it was a kind smile. I’d expected him to bite my head off. If I’d been him, I’d have bitten it right off. And chewed. Also, all this touching we had going on was making me nervous.
Before I could worry too much about it, there was a packet of smokes in my hand, which I swiftly stuck in my pocket. I would properly dispose of those little nasties later.
“No smoking,” I scolded him. “We agreed. It’s not going to be easy, but every time you even think of having one… Okay. Hang on. Okay. Whenever you feel like you need to smoke, you need to come see me. I will listen to your arguments in favour of having a cigarette, and it will be up to me to decide if you deserve one. I can warn you now, you will not deserve one. Ever.”
“That makes no sense.” He grinned.
“Trust me, it will.”
We sat in silence for a while, him with his elbows on his knees, looking out into the distance, me staring at the brick wall in front of us. There was no view here, only concrete and weeds.
“You doing all right?” he asked. He always did, like we had nothing else to talk about.
“Yeah. No freak-outs today. Although the guy who asked for a massage and then started to show me pictures of girls off the internet and asked if I could book him a masseuse who looked like them? Yeah. Interesting. Gave me the creeps.”
“Ugh.” He was playing with his fingers. I got it, God, I did. I understood more than anything why people smoked, and I stuck my hand in my pocket and pulled out today’s stress ball. I had a new one. A soft, squishy blue cupcake from the gift shop downstairs. I gently placed it in his hands.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Something to do with your hands,” I stuttered out. “A stress ball. I always have one in my pocket, and…it’s stupid.” I grabbed it back and shoved it out of sight.
“Not stupid,” he said, once again just looking at me, taking me in.
“Sorry,” I said. I didn’t even know why.
“Don’t ever apologise for being you. You’re really kind, Hugo. It’s the best thing about you.”
Silence again, but these little silences were comfortable. I was starting to like them. He didn’t talk much, Benjamin Desjardins, but when he did, I liked that too.
“Did you manage to eat?” he asked quietly.
Okay, Iusuallyliked what he said, but sometimes he was far too honest. We were as bad as each other. Checking in. Forcing out truths.
“It’s not the actual eating that is the worst,” I admitted. “It’s the feeling in my stomach, afterwards. Like there’s a lead ball in there and I feel too full. I only managed two mouthfuls.”
