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I leave Becker on the couch, engrossed in his phone, and spend five minutes in my bathroom sitting on the toilet looking at the photograph of Dad and me. Words run riot in my mind. So many words, but the strongest one is sorry. I’m apologising to him, but for what I don’t know. Abandoning his shop? Abandoning Mum? For loving my new, thrilling life in London? Or for getting caught up in Becker’s web of corruption?
Who knows. But I’m sorry.
Once I gather the strength to leave the bathroom, I grab the picture of Mum and me, checking for cracks on the glass before putting it safely in my bag with my photo of Dad and me. After sheepishly cancelling tomorrow morning’s coffee with Lucy and telling her I’m staying at Becker’s, I make my way down to the street where he’s loading my bag into Gloria. He holds my hand in his lap the whole journey back, releasing it only when there is the need to change Gloria’s gears. His thumb strokes lightly over the top of my hand until the friction begins to warm my skin. He is pensive. I am pensive. The atmosphere has an air of awkwardness that we are both well aware of.
As the mechanical car lift lowers us into the bowels of The Haven, my mind is still swimming with what the remaining hours of the day might bring. And what it might mean. Despite my better judgement, I’ve opened up my mind to my heart. I’ve unwittingly allowed Becker to dismantle my defences. One part of me, the sensible part, is demanding I rebuild them this instant. The other part of me, the spirited, curious, hopeful part, is throwing away the bricks.
‘You okay?’ It’s a question that could be referring to one of two things: am I okay because I’m here with him? Or am I okay because my apartment has been broken into. With no obvious answer coming to me, for either possibility, I murmur a feeble, ‘Yeah.’
I’m not okay. Someone broke into my apartment, yet it isn’t that that’s frightening me the most. Crazily, it’s the revelation of what’s happening between Becker and me. Hating him was easier. Or pretending to hate him was easier. Accepting that I love what he represents is twisting my gut with agony and pleasure too fast for me to get a hold of myself. He’s a free spirit, something I’ve longed to be all my life and only recently come to taste. He’s strong-minded and wilful, he’s intelligent and passionate. He’s courageous and assertive. He’s unleashed a spirit in me, a zest for life, and, cruelly, I feel like he’s the only person who can keep it alive.
‘You sure?’ He sounds worried, and a quick glance out the corner of my eye confirms it. ‘You look . . . worried.’
‘So do you,’ I reply, and he shakes his head in what I know is frustration, getting out of Gloria.
I follow his lead, pulling my bag from the back seat while he puts the keys away. ‘You must be thirsty.’ He takes my bag, slipping his arm around my shoulders, frowning at me when I tense. I’m all edgy, and I can’t bloody help it. He might have detected my reaction, but he doesn’t remove his arm and he doesn’t make any mention of it. ‘You sure you’re okay?’ He looks down at me, concerned.
Fucking hell, I tense up again. What’s the matter with me? Where’s my reasoning of half an hour ago gone? ‘Fine.’
‘Am I going to have to slap that arse of yours?’
I’d usually have some smart-arse comment to lob back at him but my mind’s a blank. ‘Don’t mind.’
This time, he brings us to a stop. Damn. ‘What’s going on?’ He pins me in place with expectant eyes, and I find mine darting away from his gaze. ‘Hey.’ He grabs my cheeks with a firm grip, forcing my face back to his, demonstrating his frustration and commanding my attention. Again, when I would usually have slapped him off, I’m blank. A mass of stupid uselessness. ‘Answer me.’
‘My flat has just been broken into,’ I remind him, shamelessly copping out on sharing the truth of my lacking bite. I should get away with it. It’s a perfectly feasible explanation for my unease, even if it’s a big fat lie. But, now I’m thinking about it, should I be worried? Were they still there when I looked up at my window? Did we disturb them? And most importantly, who was it and what did they want? My head begins to pound. ‘I should call the police.’
‘Of course,’ he mumbles, almost in shame, stepping back. ‘Um . . . yeah . . . we should do that.’
I close my eyes and wish above all things that our normal routine of banter and rubbing each other up the wrong way resumes soon. I’m used to it. I can deal with it, handle it. This? I don’t know how the hell to deal with this, this, this . . .
