“You’ve not told your family? Friends?”
“No. No one.”
Steve whistles out a breath. “Look, Joel, I don’t know much, but I know that talking’s a good thing.”
“Only with the right audience. That’s why I came to you.”
“But if you talked to Callie, she might understand. You won’t know until you try.”
I say nothing.
“Okay.” He hangs one hand off the back of his neck. With the weight, I wonder, of everything I’ve told him? “Let me talk to Diana, as a first step.”
“Thank you.”
“Hey, I should be thankingyou. That night, you saved Poppy from...” But the rest of his sentence goes AWOL, and I know why. Because it’s too damn hard even to picture some things, let alone put words to them.
We just stare at each other then, while workout music pumps through the office door. It’s like we’re drinkers turfed out of an anonymous backstreet bar, trying to remember which way is home.
“So you believe what I’m telling you?” Even now, I’m not sure I dare trust it’s true.
“Yes,” he says gently. “I believe you, Joel.”
Somewhere deep inside me, a years-old knot works free.
“I wish I could give you all the answers you want. But I’ll call Diana this afternoon. I’m on your side, Joel. We’ll crack this, I promise—even if it takes a team effort.”
It’s that phrase,team effort, that sends my thoughts scattering. The idea of being subject matter, a laboratory experiment. Did Steve mention medical tests, ethical approvals? Maybe talking to Diana would invite publicity, attract attention. Turn her into one of those celebrity scientists who are always popping up in inappropriate places, like quiz shows and radio phone-ins about rising house prices.
“Let me think about it,” I say quickly. “Don’t call Diana yet. Got a few things I need to do first.”
•••
True to my word, I think about it all the way home. Steve’s right. I should trust Callie. Tell her everything.
But more than that: for the first time in my life, I think I might actually want to.
31.
Callie
At three o’clock, he shows up.
“Hi,” he says, across the counter. He looks sturdy and sincere in a woodsy sort of way, in a soot-gray coat and black woolen hat. “Have you got five minutes?”
“She has the whole afternoon,” I hear Dot say, before I can reply. I turn, and she motions to the clock. “Seriously. Two hours left until closing and we’re virtually dead. A bit like that dude.” She jerks her head at the old man in the flat cap by the window. “Go. Make me happy, please. Promise I’ll call if they start queuing out of the door.”
Dot doesn’t know what happened last night. I haven’t even told her we kissed.
When I look back at Joel, I feel sadness settle in my chest—it feels so wrong not to see him smiling.
“I have an interesting selection of dogs outside,” he ventures. “Fancy bringing Murph for a wander?”
•••
Outside, I introduce Murphy to Joel’s dogs, who all seem very keen to make their introductions by sniffing one another’s rear ends.
“The yellow Lab’s Rufus. The Maltese is Tinkerbell, and the Dalmatian’s Spot. There’s another one—Bruno—but he’s not cut out for socializing, so I walk him separately.”
