“No relationship is easy. We’ll figure out how to make things work around your narcolepsy and cataplexy. We’ll work with it, not against it. I promise.”
He brushes his hand over my heart. “Thank you, Stefan.”
“You believe me, don’t you?”
He meets my stare again. “Yes.”
“Good.” I squeeze him gently. “I love spending time with you, Quinn. I can’t see that changing anytime soon, if ever.”
Quinn closes his eyes and smiles. “Ditto.”
* * *
“What’s the bag for?” Quinn asks as we stroll through Waterlow Park on Wednesday. “It doesn’t look big or full enough for a picnic.”
I smile and squeeze his hand. “We’re not having a picnic. The park isn’t our destination.”
“Oh. It isn’t? Huh.” Quinn looks around. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see in about five minutes.”
It’s been a bit of a chore to get here, but I hope it will be worth it. We had to get the tube to Archway on the Northern Line and then a bus to the park, which we have to walk through. I have no idea if Quinn will appreciate what we’re going to do, but I hope he does. Luckily, there’s a path from where the bus dropped us off at St Joseph’s Church Gate that takes us straight across the park. It’s a lovely walk past neat lawns, gardens, two huge ponds, and a children’s play area.
The play equipment is made entirely from wood and other natural materials. The highlight is an impressive climbing structure, with nets and logs to shimmy across.
“That looks fun,” I say.
Quinn slows to a snail’s pace as he stares at it. “It does. I’d have been on that like a shot when I was a kid.”
“It must be pretty tame compared to climbing?”
“Yeah, but at least you have safety ropes when you’re climbing a wall or a rock face.”
“You went climbing out in the wild?”
He shifts his focus from the playground to me. “Yes. Mum was into climbing in a big way. She passed her love for it onto me. I started climbing walls when I was five and climbed my first peak when I was ten. It wasn’t a mountain. It wasn’t tall enough.”
“Wow. I had no idea.”
Quinn drops his gaze to the floor. “I don’t talk about it much anymore.”
“You stopped because of your diagnosis?”
“I’d already stopped.” He takes a deep breath. “We could do with a change of subject, or you’re going to be carrying me the rest of the way to wherever we’re going.”
“Or we could sit on a bench.” There are plenty overlooking the playground. “If you want to talk about it, that is.”
Quinn stands still for about a minute before nodding and sitting on the nearest bench. I sit beside him and raise my arm, encouraging him to lean against me.
“Are we on a time limit?” he asks.
“No.”
“Good. Mum had a list of challenging mountains she wanted to climb. Every year, she’d tick at least one off her list.” As Quinn speaks, his words start to get more drawn out and distorted, and his weight against my side slowly increases. I have to concentrate hard on what he’s saying as he struggles. “The last mountain she attempted was the Matterhorn. She reached the peak, but on her way back down, her group was struck by falling rocks. She and her guide were knocked off the side of the mountain. They”—he sobs and gulps in air at the same time—“recovered their bodies. Dad—" The last word is barely comprehensible.
“Take your time.”
I stroke his arm while he recovers from crying and from the cataplexy attack that had made speaking so hard for him.
