I don’t need to say anything else, but the silence is loud. “I just…it’s complicated,” I mutter lamely.
“I’m sure it is.” His voice sounds kind. Not at all like his usual Tigger-ish ways. Not nosing into my business, or giving me the inevitable, obvious advice I don’t want to hear, from him or anyone else. “If you want to talk anything out, I’m here.” He pulls in next to the parlour.
“Thanks, but I’m good.”
He nods, accepting what I say without trying to change my mind, and opens his arms. “How abouthugit out instead?”
I lean over and let myself be engulfed. He smells woody, with a hint of the fresh Foxton sea breeze. I inhale the comforting scent, feeling warmed and reassured in ways I didn’t realise I needed. He really is my best friend.
When I get out of the car, I stick my head back through the window. “Dean’s got it bad, eh?”
Leo sighs.“Looks like it.”
I purse my lips. “I don’t think any of us realised just how much he likes her. I hope he gets what he needs from this. I mean…he’s not wrong about some of the risks, and it would be a lot to put onher, in some ways, but…”
He nods. “But it could be the making of him.”
We share a look of perfect understanding. It’s funny how often he and I agree about stuff. Almost as much as we disagree.
“And it’s gonna be, if I have anything to do with it,” he says, getting into gear. “Night, sweetpea. Dream something good.”
I grin. “Night, pumpkin.”
I head inside. Normally, even when we’re all hard at it in our studios, Wishbone thrums with life. Excited energy, sexy hard rock on the Spotify, the phone ringing off the hook. It’s odd to be here alone, when it’s dark and quiet. But kind of soothing, as well.
The wrought iron staircase up to the flat is really beautiful. I think Leo rescued it from some reclaim place or other on the outskirts of London. The whole upstairs flat, though small, is really nicely appointed generally. One large bedroom, with an ensuite, and a small kitchenette to the left. The bed is huge, six feet across and covered by the fluffiest duvet in existence. And a faux fur throw like snow leopard print.
And an empty condom wrapper on the bedside table.
I chuckle to myself. At least someone around here is having fun. Thank fuck Leo’s being safe about it. He’ll never change, the loveable slut.
I hope Dean has some good times as well. I mean, his sex life is none of my business, but in all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him truly happy. Smiling, yes, but nothappy. And I want him to enjoy some good times at last, and not have any of the bad.
My gut clenches as I switch my phone off. I wanted some space from Peter tonight, after all, and it’s better to just avoid the ‘why isn’t he calling wondering where I am’ vicious cycle of thoughts. I wonder what would be worse: going home to find him there, moody and sneering, or find him absent with no idea where he is, or why he isn’t hurrying home to see me anymore, the way he used to.
You don’t bring me flowers…
I snort at the self-pity I have in even thinking of that song unironically.Get over yourself, woman.I strip off and settle under the covers and refusing to think about Peter anymore tonight. Not the man he used to be, nor the man he is now. Ishut my eyes tight, refusing to open them again, and eventually, the lingering traces of my best friend’s aftershave on my pillow comforts me enough to allow me to fall asleep.
Dean
Beep.Beep.Beep.
Slow and constant.
It hurts to open my eyes, and everything is white or silver and much too bright.
Oh, right. I’m in the hospital. Fragments of unwelcome memory return to me, like the fact that I’m somehow still alive no matter how much I try to let go.
Gunfire, on and on and on, never stopping. Blood. Stinking death. His demented voice,“I know you’re iiiiiiiiin heeeeeeere”...
And the jangle of dropped keys.
The beeping gets faster and louder, clearer. I wish it wouldn’t. I wish it would just fucking stop.
Everything comes slowly into focus, and I see my mom touching my right hand, resting her head on my mattress as she sleeps. Her blonde and purple hair is in a greasy, collapsing ponytail, and even in sleep she looks tired out. I don’t think she’s left my side.
Nor has Dad. He’s asleep in a chair in the corner, frowning unhappily as he dreams.
