Why not?he types while I’m still trying to work out how to reply.
Why not?He’s making it sound as if I’ve suggested going out for a quick pint, not making life-altering vows that will bind us together for the rest of our days.
He’s acting as if it’s no big deal. But it is. It’s a really big deal. For all sorts of reasons, including the one I’ve been asking myself over and over since the hotel phoned: am I ready? I thought the news we could go ahead and plan the rest of our lives would make me feel more settled, but I just feel nervous.
Maybe we should wait until I’m twelve months post brain injury, when things will have settled down more and we’ll have a realistic idea of my limitations, if any, going forward. Maybe we should keep it super, super small and just elope. Do it in a town hall with just our parents as witnesses. Everyone would understand. I know they would.
All the different options swirl around my head until they become a soup of confusion, so it’s no wonder I can’t seem to doze for more than fifteen minutes at a time when I go to bed that night. At 3 a.m. I give up and I make my way upstairs to the roof.
I reach the middle steps of the staircase and I wonder if I’ll find a familiar figure up there in one of the chairs, head back, staring at the night sky, but when I reach the roof, there’s no one there. The chairs round the wooden table seem too empty, so I walk to the railing and lean on it.
The night air has a slight chill, but I refuse to retreat downstairs.Never let them see you sweat,I think, realizing it’s probably not the best metaphor when the goosebumps are out in full force, but it’s practically my motto. I’m a survivor, I remind myself. The kind of person who sees things through to the bitter end. I need to keep pushing forwards until I reach the finishing line. It’s what I do.
But do you want to?a little voice inside my head calls out.
Of course I want to get better, to reclaim as much of my former life as possible. But I also know I have to be realistic. It might never beexactlythe same.
Does that include Simon?
The thought pops into my head out of nowhere, and I bat it away on instinct. Of course it does! Of course we should get …
But then my gut catches up with my stubborn logic.Shouldwe …?
My future with Simon will not be the same as the one I was planning last year. And that’s because I feel something has changed between us, and I don’t know what and I don’t know why. Even though Simon was physically close to me last weekend, I still feel as if he’s drifting away, like a boat on the river that has snapped its mooring.
And what do I do about Gil?
Ever since that stupid dream the other day, I can’t quite put my feelings into reverse and go back to where we were … friends, I suppose, as unlikely as that sounds. I keep feeling those feelings I had when I dreamed we were in the water, when he looked at me and said he’d give up his life to save me.
Maybe it’s time to go home to my flat in Herne Hill, because I think I enjoy being here with him a little too much. No, that’s a lie.I know I do. My heart does a little skip every time I think he might be about to walk into the room, and I find it hard to take my eyes off him when he does. And when he does things like bringing me a new watercolour pad before I’ve even realized myself that I’m about to run out of pages, something warm and permanent lodges itself deep in my soul.
At least, that’s the way it feels.
I lean my elbows on the railing at the edge of the parapet and rest my head in my hands and massage my scalp gently. I need to be honest with myself, don’t I? And if I’m being really honest, I know I will be relieved if the deadline to call the hotel tomorrow passes. I don’t want to marry Simon in November. I don’t want to marry him maybe ever.
And that’s because … because …
I close my eyes, shying away from saying it to myself, even in the silent confines of my skull. But I need to.
Because I think I’m starting to have feelings for Gil instead.
There. I’ve admitted it. My heart lurches as the words ring in my ears.
I know it’s quite possibly a mirage, something that my bumped-around brain has cooked up from a combination of feeling slightly abandoned by Simon, my new friend’s kindness, and a stupid dream. I’ve tried hard to untangle it all, pull the different parts from each other and compartmentalize them, but it’s impossible. Naomi, the psychologist, warned me my brain might do some unexpected things because of the trauma, that I might develop obsessions or be tempted to make huge life-changing decisions on a whim. Is this one of those times? Could I be about to make the biggest mistake of my life?
What do I do? I can’t decide my future on nebulous emotions, on something that might merely be an illusion.So do I marry Simon, or don’t I? Do I stick to the plan, because it seemed a good one to me when all was right and orderly inside my head, or do I go with my gut, which is screaming all sorts of conflicting information at me? No wonder I can’t sleep …
I walk away from the railing and sit on the small section of raised roof that makes up part of the living room ceiling. My legs dangle down past the narrow windows underneath the square concrete slab. I’m just so tired, both physically and mentally. I want to rewind time a year, to go back to when I was certain about the path I was heading down, when I was completely in charge of my life.
I want that Erin back. I don’t like this new, needy, unpredictable person I’ve become. I rifle through memories of that version of myself, starting with the bride-to-be and flicking back through time until I rest on the optimistic, capable young woman who travelled the world, living and working on the waves. Where isthatversion of myself? What would she tell me to do if she were in my shoes now?
I’m just pondering this when I hear footsteps on the stairs, and my pathetic heart leaps to attention. Gil’s head appears, and he scans the roof.
‘Hey, you …’ I call out gently, letting him know I’m here because I have the feeling he’s looking for me.
‘Hey yourself,’ he replies, his tone low and warm, and my pulse skips even faster. ‘Everything okay?’
‘Yes,’ I say on automatic.
