“I did,” I reply honestly, climbing off the bike. My hands shove into my pockets without thinking. “It clarified a lot, actually.”
Her smile softens. “I’m glad to hear that.”
I hesitate, then nod once to myself. “I need your help with something.”
Her expression shifts immediately. It’s attentive, professional. “Okay. Shoot.”
I glance around the car park, checking we’re alone. Not because I’m ashamed, but because this isn’t something I can say casually.
“I’m looking for help,” I say. My voice is steady, even if my chest isn’t. “Like support and advice.” She waits patiently while I find the right words. “I need trauma support,” I continue. “Specifically for partners of sexual assault survivors.”
A quiet gasp leaves her. Her hand lifts instinctively and then stops, hovering before she lets it rest lightly on my arm.
“Oh,” she says softly, “I’m so sorry.”
I shake my head. “Don’t be. I just . . . I need to understand how to support her properly. I need to do this right.”
Her eyes shine with something like respect. “Of course,” she says gently. “There are a few services in the wider area, some group-based, some one-to-one. I can absolutely help you find the right fit.”
She pulls a small notebook from her bag. “Let me take your number.”
I give it to her, feeling something unfamiliar settle in my chest, and I know this is the right step forward.
My next stop is Mrs. Wainwright, who is thankfully passing the bank just as I step out onto the pavement.
“Just the person I was hoping to see,” I say.
She slows, her sharp eyes narrowing immediately. “It usually costs coffee and cake before I agree to anything,” she replies.
A corner of my mouth lifts. “There’s a café just there,” I say, nodding towards the coffee shop on the corner. “Will that do?”
She studies me for a beat then huffs. “Lead the way.”
Moments later, we’re seated with steaming mugs in front of us and a generous slab of carrot cake placed in front of her like an offering. She doesn’t waste any time, already cutting into it with satisfaction.
I wait until she’s taken the first bite before speaking.
“I need somewhere to rent,” I say, keeping my voice level. “Close to Eden.”
Her fork freezes halfway to her mouth.
“Well,” she says slowly, lowering it again, “I don’t rent properties.”
“I know,” I reply, “but I was told you’re the person to talk to if I wanted to find something around here.” I hold her gaze. “You know everyone. And more importantly, you know who I should—or shouldn’t—be asking.”
The indirect praise gets her attention. She chews thoughtfully, watching me over the rim of her glasses. “I do know of someone renting a room,” she says at last. “But I’m not convinced you’re the right fit.”
I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table. “I don’t need it to be perfect,” I say. “Just close. And quiet. I’m not here to cause trouble.”
She reaches into her bag, pulls out a pen, and then flips over the café receipt. After a moment of scribbling, she slides it across the table towards me.
“There’s no harm in asking,” she says, “but don’t embarrass me by behaving like an idiot.”
I pick up the receipt carefully. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
She snorts, taking another bite of cake. “We’ll see.”
The drive out to the address takes less than five or so minutes. Five minutes from Eden. Five minutes from the centre.Five minutes from my kid.
