He felt a jolt of terror, then remembered she was still here. With him. Whatever had happened, she was alive and well. Beautiful and brave. “What was the worst part?”
“Carlo got a job offer in Denmark and he told me to move overseas with him or we were over, and I almost fucking went.”
She pressed her lips together in a thin line.
“I’m sorry, KitKat.”
“You don’t understand—I almost abandoned my mum for that piece of shit. Even after he was gone, I messaged him all the time. Called, too. I ruined my life trying to be what he wanted and then he just left, and it took years for me to cut him off.”
“But you did.”
“Eventually. Eden wrote a song about it. I hate myself for that sometimes. Letting a douchebag like Carlo control me.”
“Oh, KitKat…”
He tried to pull her close, but she rolled away, tears running down her face. “You must think I’m so pathetic.”
“No.”
“But—”
He put a finger to her lips. “No buts. I think you’re even more amazing than before. And I already thought you were amazing.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. You’re like this… half-woman, half-machine. You built yourself out of all the useful parts of the worst shit that happened to you and made yourself into this incredible person. Like a hot lady cyborg.”
“I don’t want to be a cyborg,” she sobbed. “I want to be shiny and perfect. I wanna be like my dad’s other kids.”
He wondered if she’d ever said that aloud before. If she’d even known she felt that way. Stupidly grateful for drugs and friendship, he stroked her hair. “I thought we talked about being perfect.”
“How if you try enough, it’s totally possible?”
“No.”
They smiled at each other and then hers faded. “I feel so exposed.”
“That makes sense,” he said. “What can I do to make you comfortable?”
“Why don’t you tell me something about you?”
“Something bad?”
“No, maybe just personal.”
He thought about it. “I dunno if there’s anything there. Not anything like what you’ve done, looking after your mum and getting away from your ex. I couldn’t have done that. Not in a million years.”
“Yes, you could.”
“I can’t. I can’t even re-enrol in uni. I’ve sat down to do it a hundred times and I always bail.”
Cheryl frowned. “Why?”
“I dunno.”
She waited, a knowing smile on her lips. With a wince, he realised that as hard as it had been to hear her stories, it was always easier to play psychologist than to be the patient.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I want to do stuff, but I just… get in the weeds. Get stuck. Not with football, but everything else.”
