‘I’ll be fine.’
‘You will be in time, but you can’t skip the difficult feelings bit and pretend everything’s fine. I’m not a psychiatrist, but Ican see you’re definitely not OK.’ She gives me a hug. ‘Andthat’sOK.’
I go to move away but she pulls me closer. ‘It takes twenty seconds for a hug to take effect.’
‘What?’
‘I read about it. Count to twenty.’
And I do. After five seconds, I feel less awkward. After ten, the numbness lifts a little and her warmth spreads through me. For the last five seconds, my mind clears. I let out a deep breath.
‘Thank you.’
She shrugs. ‘No problem. I’m hardly Miss Emotional Maturity, but it’s stupid trying to pretend everything is all right when it isn’t. Stop being such a…bloke.’
I snort out a laugh. ‘Oh yeah, that’s me. Such a lad.’
Meg smiles. ‘Well, I’m mostly joking, but just because you’re gay it doesn’t mean you haven’t been socialised as a stupid man and conditioned by the patriarchy to hide your feelings. Big boys don’t cry and all that.’
‘You’ve seen me cry.’
‘And I’ve seen you pretend you’re all right while there’s an emotional hurricane in your head. Be less male. OK?’
I nod. ‘I’ll try.’
‘Let’s start again. You OK?’
My chest tightens, but I swallow. ‘No, not really.’ I scratch at my thumb. ‘But I’ll be fine.’
‘That’s better, but don’t rush trying to be fine.’
‘I don’t know how much time we have though,’ I say. ‘I need to find my dad. We need more answers.’
As if on cue, the headache starts. No, actually, right on cue. I don’t believe in coincidences any more. I wince and rub at my temple.
‘You’re kidding me?’ Meg starts looking about.
I nod and pick up the camera as the world around me takes on the familiar golden light. ‘Oh shit. We didn’t change the paper.’
We’re in the middle of the cul de sac. I can already see the outlines of people around me. I step away from the wall as more appear.
‘What can you see?’
There are two men in their early twenties, one with dark hair, one red. And then—
I gasp. ‘Oh my God.’
‘What is it?’
She’s older than last time, but it’s definitely her. The girl from the photo. She’s about my age, wearing blue jeans and a yellow T-shirt. Her hair is wavy, slightly wet-looking. The men are talking to her and she’s listening intently.
‘It’s the girl.’
‘No way! Give me the camera.’
‘Be careful of the photo I took of Dad!’ I say as I pass it over.
She takes it and starts rustling in the bag. ‘What’s she doing?’
