Broken (34 page)

“You’re cute when you’re mad. Do you know that?” He smiles, but I don’t return it, as much as I want to.

“What happened?”

“Peter asked me some difficult questions. The answers made me feel selfish, which in turn made me angry…then ashamed. I lost it. They increased my meds the other day. Peter said that may have contributed to it, but…it’s no excuse.”

“No, it’s not. I almost wasted a fortune on raw fish that would’ve gone straight in the bin.”

He smiles again, and I’m glad he can hear the humour in my voice.

“No more diva strops, you hear? I missed you.”

“Yes, sir.” He salutes me.

“I’ve been to work the last couple of days.” I go on to tell him all about it. He laughs a couple of times while I rant about Moron Mike, so I keep going just to see the smile on his face a little longer. “Have you thought about going back? What you’ll tell people?”

I hope I’m not pushing him, but it’s a subject that must’ve crossed his mind.

“It’s none of their business,” he says, his voice commanding and authoritative. I’ve missed that. “But my mother’s mistaken if she thinks Gerard is taking charge. She doesn’t have the authority to make those kind of decisions.”

But will you tell her that?
I hope he does.

“I know where things went wrong and I know how to fix them. My father trusted me for a reason. I’ll be talking to her about it when I leave here.”

“Yeah?” I don’t intend to sound so surprised.

“Peter and I have been discussing my relationship with my mother these past few days. He’s made me realise that I’m not disrespecting her by disagreeing, by putting myself first sometimes.”

I’m not sure what to say without sounding like an ‘I told you so’ arsehole, so I keep quiet.

“I know you agree with him. It’s written all over your face.”

“
You’re
my concern, not your mother.”

James shrugs nervously. “She’s the only person I’ve never had the balls to stand up to. I don’t know why that is, or if it will change, but I have to try. When I get out of here, things need to be different.”

A proud grin creeps onto my face. “It’s good to hear you talk like that. Positive.”

“I’m trying.” He sneaks his fingers into the paper bag and pulls out the tub of sushi. “This looks delicious.” Taking the two disposable chopsticks, he picks up a piece of fish and tosses it in his mouth.

“I’ve never been able to figure those things out.”

“Chopsticks?”

I nod.

“Here,” he says, taking my hand. “Hold this one like a pencil.” He guides my fingers into position. “Then rest this one here, and move this one up and down with your thumb and index finger.”

I practice the movement for a few seconds, then dip them into the tub, picking up a piece of food. My mouth opens, as if that will somehow keep it in place, and I’m pleased with myself for managing to lift the food successfully out of the tub.

And then it falls on the floor. “Shit,” I mutter, picking it up with my fingers and throwing it in the paper bag. Heat rushes to my cheeks, knowing that someone, somewhere, is always watching us in this place. “I’ll stick with knives and forks.”

We talk about all kind of things for the rest of my visit – some serious, some light-hearted, and some random nonsense. When it’s time for me to leave I feel more optimistic than ever that he’s coming back to me, and so, when I say goodbye, I tell him to keep it up or I’ll shred his favourite ties.

**********

One week later…

At Heaton Park, James and I stand side by side, preparing to set off into a sprint. He’s been released on a trial day, supposedly to help him adjust to the outside world. We worked out a plan yesterday, together with Peter, on how to spend our four hours together today. So…we’re running.

“Don’t go getting all suicidal on me again when you lose, will you?” I tease. I don’t say it to trivialise what he’s been through. I say it because I don’t want it to be a dirty little secret. I don’t want him to feel ashamed. It needs to be out there in the open, discussed, if only between
us
. He needs to know that I’m not angry or hurt, that it’s
okay
to talk about, that he doesn’t have to hide from me.

I say it because this is who we are. Nothing has changed. We’re the same people we were before and I have no intention of treating him any differently.

“I appreciate that you can say things like that to me,” he says, his voice serious. “You make me feel normal.”

“You
are
normal.” I brush his cheek in a small moment of tenderness before I set off into run. “But you’re also a loser!” I call over my shoulder.

He’s on my tail within seconds, but I pick up my speed, determined to beat him. He’s out of practice, but so am I, and given that my legs are a couple of inches shorter than his, I have to keep pushing myself until my muscles feel like they’re bleeding. As my lungs start to burn I inwardly curse myself for slacking over recent months. I’m surprised how unfit I’ve become in such a short time.

When he’s home to stay, we need to do this every day.

“Come on, slacker!” James shouts, overtaking me.

Bastard
. He doesn’t even look warm, whereas I’m breaking a frigging sweat, too exhausted to breathe, never mind reply. I can’t let him win, even if it feels like it will kill me, so I summon every ounce of strength my body possesses and push forward until I’m by his side and jerk my foot out in front of him.

His fall is hilarious as he tumbles onto the grass. He rolls onto his side, clutching his knee dramatically, and I can’t stop laughing.

“Cheater!”

“Don’t blame others for your downfalls. Don’t they teach you that in therapy?”

Scrambling to his feet, James laughs. “I think I preferred it when you used to hate me. You were far less irritating.”

“I irritate you?” I smirk at him.

Palming my cheek, he stares straight into my eyes. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”

“I’m glad you know how it feels.” I peck his lips with mine, then spin on my heels and run. “Come on, slow coach! We haven’t got all day!”

We run for just over an hour, competition remaining in place the entire time. I won. Did I cheat? Absolutely. But I still won. It’s not my fault he didn’t have the initiative to trip me over first. We go back to my flat, because it’s closer, and shower and change separately. James isn’t ready to be intimate with me yet, and I know that’s because he’s paranoid about his scars. Honestly, I’m not ready either. The next time I’m with James in that way, I want to spend the whole night holding him, loving him.

With two hours to go before he needs to be back at the hospital, we go out for dinner. Nothing fancy, just pizza and conversation without eyes boring into the back of heads. It’s nice.
Normal
. I don’t want it to end, but of course it has to.

Saying goodbye at the hospital later feels even harder than usual, but I have to hold onto the fact that what we shared today will soon be
every
day. Peter is waiting for James when we reach reception, no doubt to discuss James’ day and how he feels about being in the ‘real’ world. I can only hope he feels as exhilarated as I do, and that it will put him that one step closer to coming home for good.

“See you tomorrow,” I say, releasing his hand slowly, brushing his fingers until they disappear.

Love you,
he mouths silently, before turning his back and following Peter down the hall.

Love you, too.

**********

One week later…

James is coming home today, and I set off to pick him up in his Mercedes, because mine is in the garage, finally. I’ve never driven anything so fancy before and I find myself driving like an eighty-year-old, terrified I’m going to break it. My insurance would only cover third party damage and I’m guessing if I’ve had to save for almost a month to get my crapheap fixed, I’d have to sell my soul to repair
this
car.

James is waiting outside, along with his therapist, when I arrive and as I pull up in
his
car, his eyes widen a little.

“Eager to leave, eh?” I call after winding the passenger window down.

“No,” Peter cuts in. “
We’re
eager to get rid of him.”

James tosses his holdall into the back seat before sliding in next to me and, reaching over, squeezing my knee. My gaze lingers on his hand and all I can think about is him touching me with it, skin on skin. I can’t wait to feel him again, not sexually, just
close.

“You’ll need to see your GP this week to arrange repeat prescriptions,” Peter says, holding onto the roof while he bends to the window, passing James a white paper bag containing his medications. “They’ll have a letter from Dr Calder on record, so they’ll be expecting you.” His eyebrows wiggle as if to tell James to not even think about ignoring his instruction.

“Your outpatients appointment card is in there, too,” he continues. “And so is my number if you need anything,
anything
before then.”

“Got it,” James agrees. “Thank you.”

“No need to thank me. My wages do that.” Peter winks. “Now go on. Get the hell outta here.”

And then he’s free. He’s coming home. I’m not foolish enough to think he’s
better
. In fact, according to Peter, he’ll
never
be
better
…but he
can
manage his illness. He
can
enjoy life. He can be happy. And if he falls? I’ll be right there to catch him.

For most of our journey back to his apartment, James stares out of the window, his expression contemplative. It must be strange, heading back to normality after being held hostage, in a sense, for just over a month. I can’t pretend to understand so I stay quiet, letting James lead the conversation when, and if, he wants to.

He’s with me. That’s all that matters.

When we reach his front door I pause, twisting the key in the lock. “Don’t freak out. I’ll have it tidied in no time.”

James raises an eyebrow, oblivious to the scene he’s about to walk into. He keeps his homes pristine and orderly, like show-houses, and so when he walks inside and his eyes meet clothes on the floor, dirty dishes piled high in the sink, and crumbs scattered all over his centrepiece rug, his mouth falls open.

“I was going to do it this morning, but Mike wouldn’t give me the morning off,” I say, scurrying around the living room and picking up the dirty washing. Mike didn’t actually
need
me. He could’ve asked anyone with a brain cell and two fingers to send out blanket rejection letters to literary agents. As usual, he was being an awkward arse, knowing I can’t afford to take the chance of undergoing a disciplinary after my recent absence.
Twat
.

Clothes in a pile by the washing machine, I start running the hot tap, ready to clean three days worth of pots.

Creeping up behind me, James reaches out and shuts off the tap. “Leave it. The mess will still be here after.”

I lift a dubious eyebrow, my pulse quickening. “After what?”

“After I’ve held you for a little while.”

My heart melts in my chest as I take his proffered hand. He leads me to the bedroom and crawls, fully clothed, onto the mattress. I join him, lying on my side so we’re facing each other, draping my arm over his waist. “You’re here,” I whisper my thoughts aloud, rubbing small circles on his back. “I’ve waited so long for this moment. This bed is too big for one person.”

“You stayed here the entire time?”

“Beats being at home with the loved-up lesbians. Seriously, I thought
one
woman nagging me about the toilet seat was bad enough.”

“Sounds like things are getting serious with Lucy.”

“She’s there
all
the time, so I reckon so, yes. And Tess is, I don’t know, different. She smiles more than rolls her eyes these days.”

“Wow. Can’t wait to see that.”

“I felt closer to you here,” I explain. “But now you’re home, I’ll leave whenever you’re ready.”

“What if I don’t want to be ready?”

Huh?

“What if I don’t want you to leave?”

“You mean…
ever?
”

“Yes.”

Whoa.
“Are you asking me to move in with you?”

“Yes.”

“But I make a mess.”

“Then you’ll clean it up,” he says, a sly wink pinching his eye.

“I’m unorganised. I eat cheap food. I dance naked to Taylor Swift when I get out of the shower.”

“I like Taylor Swift.” James grins. “And I like seeing you naked, too.”

Tiny bubbles, filled with a mixture of nerves and excitement, swell and pop in my belly. “I can’t pay you much.”