He was still solicitous, still caring, but there was something vacant about it. Something overly polite.
My suspicions were confirmed by Greg. One afternoon, I was watching Freddie from across the office, heart aching as he regaled some of our other colleagues with a story from his childhood. I didn’t realize Greg was behind me until I felt his breath on the back of my neck.
He nodded toward Freddie, who was grinning as though his face would split with it. “That’s a sign of a man in love if I’ve ever seen one.”
I forced myself not to react. No one in the office knew about our relationship—Freddie would get in a lot of trouble if they found out—but I squeezed my hands into fists until I could feel the tendons screaming for release.
I had to find a way to bring him back to me. I messaged him later that afternoon.Hi Freddie, could we go for a drink this evening? There’s something I’d like to chat to you about.
He didn’t reply with his usual speed, but he accepted nonetheless. A tiny glimmer of hope.
We walked over together. As soon as we left the office, I noticed how he changed. Where he was loud and exuberant in the office, now he hunched in on himself, shooting anxious glances over his shoulder. I wondered if he was worried that our colleagues would see us together. It never seemed to bother him so much before.
And when we arrived, he ordered a pint and downed half of it immediately. He was acting almost afraid, glancing frequently toward the door.
I took a deep breath, tried to dredge up the speech I’d prepared, despite his odd behavior. I wasn’t even sure if he was listening.
“Freddie, I wanted to talk to you because I feel like things between us have been a bit…” I searched for the word. “Strained.”
If you have an issue, Marcie had said when she felt one of her many boyfriends wasn’t providing her with her desired level of commitment,ask them about it.Straight up. Know your worth. I’ll never understand why women wait for men to read their minds.
It took Freddie a moment to process what I’d said, but when he did, he sighed. “I’m sorry, Iris. You’re right. I haven’t been myself recently.”
“Is there anything I can help with?” I’d do anything for this man.
Another long sigh. Another glance toward the door. He lowered his voice, and it felt—for the first time in weeks—as though he was taking me into his confidence. I relaxed, just a little. Perhaps there was still hope.
“Honestly…” He hesitated. “You’re going to think I’m mad, but I think I’m being followed. I keep catching sight of some guy behind me. Sometimes, I don’t even see him. I just have asensehe’s there. Greg thinks I’m being paranoid, but I don’t know. Something just feels off.”
For the first time in weeks, I could breathe.Thiswas the reason for his strange behavior. His reluctance to engage with me. He was worried. Understandably so, given his concerns about being followed. I nodded sympathetically, chest loosening. “That sounds terrifying. I’m here for you, Freddie. Whenever you want to talk.”
His smile was tight. “Thanks. I’m grateful. Really.”
It was only afterward that I remembered Greg’s words.That’s a sign of a man in love.My chest tightened once more. I checked Freddie’s calendar for the fourth time that evening.
—
Now Jack looksat me through bloodshot eyes, hand still clenching on the table. “The key. Of course. I must have forgotten to reply to you. Sorry.” He stands and disappears into the other room. When hecomes back, he hands me a key. My very own key. I stow it carefully in my bag.
We don’t sleep together that night, though I crawl into Jack’s bed without asking, and he doesn’t comment. Only rolls over to kiss me good night and then withdraws to his side. I’m not complaining. I could do with the sleep, too. I wait for him to fall asleep first, but his breath doesn’t even out, and we lie, side by side, awake for what feels like hours.
It occurs to me, as I’m drifting off, that he didn’t go to the meeting he promised to.
—
The next morning,Jack is shaking. His hands tremble as he pulls on his shirt, and the bags under his eyes seem more pronounced.
“Have you got a busy day today?” I ask, less out of genuine curiosity and more because the silence has begun to feel oppressive.
“Probably. Someone’s got to work to keep you fed and clothed here.” A nasty undertone to this comment that causes a flush of anger, which I dampen instantly, reminding myself that he is in the throes of withdrawal. That he is sleep-deprived and probably still angry about his mother.
Even so, I can’t quite keep the petulance from my tone. “I do work.”
A huff of air through his nostrils. “In a café,” he mutters.
I sit up, another spark of anger—bigger, this time—igniting. “Sorry, is my job a problem for you? Somehow beneath you?”Careful, Iris. Don’t allow the mask to slip.
“Not at all.” He straightens, then looks at me. “By the way, since you’re not going in at the moment, and now you’ve got a key, I’d really appreciate if you could grab my dry cleaning from the shop down the road. Martha usually does it, but we’ve got to put you to work somehow, haven’t we? I’ll let her know.”
