“Merci,” Iggy said before they drifted away.
He reached for his teaspoon, but I caught his wrist lightly.
“Iggy,” I said softly. “I don’t want to avoid you.”
His eyes lifted to mine, wide, green, and shining like he was trying not to hope too hard. “But you don’t want our worlds to collide,” he murmured, uncertainty tightening his voice.
“To be honest?” I sighed. “I don’t care about that anymore. I’m more concerned about you.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“You’re my friend, Iggy. I don’t want to out you to anyone. Not unless you want that.” I pulled my hand back, only so he’d really hear this part. “So, why don’t we just get to know each other again? In the real world this time. And when you’re ready, we can tell everyone whatever the hell we want.”
“Friends?” he asked, a hopeful, lopsided smile returning.
“Exactly.”
He nodded and finally picked up his teaspoon. “Sounds like a plan, Just Bodhi.”
I tipped my head back and groaned. “I’m never gonna escape that, am I?”
“Nope.”
When I looked back at him, his smile had bloomed into a full, radiant grin. The kind that could light up an arena. The kind I’d missed way more than I should’ve.
“Now,” he said, tapping the rim of his glass with the teaspoon. “Are you ready to see some magic?”
“This better be the best damn black coffee I’ve ever tasted,” I replied with a smirk.
Iggy dipped the spoon into the black liquid and began to stir, and as he did, I gasped as a plume of golden glitter spiralled to life around the edge of the glass. It looked like a potion... or the night sky above the Willow, where London’s pollution didn’t drown out the stars.
He set the spoon down and lifted the cup to his lips, taking a slow sip before releasing a contented sigh. “Delicious.”
I followed his lead, bringing the glass to my mouth. The first taste surprised me, a warm, velvety hit of vanilla smoothing out the bitter edge, and an involuntary hum slipped from my throat.
Iggy giggled, delighted.
“See,” he said, tearing off a hefty piece of his cruffin and slipping it into his mouth. “Don’t judge a book by its cover.”
ADAGIO
IGGY
TWO WEEKS SOBER
“Iggy, are you listening?”
I cracked one eye open to find Darren looming over me, arms folded, looking like a disappointed teacher. I was curled up in a warm patch of sunlight on the cushioned window seat, and honestly, I’d been dangerously close to napping.
“Not really,” I said.
Darren sighed. “You should make an effort to take part in the activity, Iggy. It could be extremely helpful on your recovery journey.”
I fought the urge to roll my eyes. Darren was one of the counsellors at the Willow, and during a gossip session with Amanda, the intake administrator, I’d learned he had a degree in psychology from Leeds and had “dabbled” in art therapy for one semester. Apparently, that was enough for him to lead these twice-weekly sessions in the big glass conservatory of the east wing.
I was on week two of the programme and still hadn’t pickedup a paintbrush. For starters, the extent of my artistic skill was drawing a dodgy stick figure, and secondly, I genuinely didn’t see the point. Was splattering red, yellow, and blue on a canvas meant to make me want drugs less? When it came to creativity, I could either choreograph a routine or do a killer makeover. Since I couldn’t dance anymore, makeup was all I had. But Darren had told me on day one that makeup “didn’t count as art therapy.”
Pfft. As if that man knew the first thing about blending eyeshadow.
