The pub door just swung open. The fresh air was a relief. The breeze here smells different from the breeze on the mainland—a hint of the sea, maybe, a kind of sharp, bright cleanness. Writing stuff down all the time is changing how I see the world—I’m always looking for words for things these days.
I should leave. But where would I go? I came to the pub because I didn’t want to be at the stables. Charlie’s there, and we had this strange intense…moment, I guess, at the shop earlier,and now our constant proximity feels more unmanageable than ever.
The truth is, as much as I try to give her space, if she’s there I just seem to drift in her direction, as though there’s a constant current running her way.
I know way more than I should, too. I know she’s been struggling lately. I’m pretty sure she had a panic attack the night of the pig. Yes, we have a door between our bedrooms now, but it’s not a very good one. They’re still essentially interconnecting rooms, and when somebody is struggling to breathe, you can definitely hear it. I’d stood by the door, hand raised to knock, for an embarrassingly long time.
She’s made it so clear she doesn’t want my help. I really understand that feeling. But…sometimes a persondoesneed a bit of help, even if they don’t want it.
Should I be doing more for her? Pushing harder, asking more questions? Was I right to walk out of there tonight and leave her on her own even when I knew she was having a hard time?
I guess I’m having difficulty figuring out where the line is between being a hermit and just being a dick, you know?
CJ
From:Charlie Jones
To:Charlie Jones
Subject:Day thirteen sober (cont.)
Home now. I didn’t have a drink. I did have a slightly surprising evening, though.
Part of the reason I wanted this job so badly was theremoteness. The isolation.Five hundred people, I thought. That’s hardly any. A farm on a place like that, it’ll be beautiful—and there’ll be no shortage of solitude.
But I got that bit wrong. It turns out I’m actuallyneveralone here. Someone is always about, whether it’s Rog in his cart, or Marly half-visible behind whatever she’s carrying—a huge stack of crates, a tower of loaves and, once, an actual sheep—or one of the committee members advising me on how to do my job, expertise unknown.
Tonight, at the pub, it was Red, wearing a Pirate’s Den T-shirt and carrying a tray of beers.
“You need to get out of this pub,” she said cheerfully, distributing the drinks among the tourists at the next table.
I questioned this, obviously—was she kicking me out? Then her eyes flicked to the pub door, held open by a guy waiting for his friend. I followed Red’s gaze just as Charlie turned her head away, too late to hide the fact she’d been looking at me through the door.
I got up and moved past Red. It was more of a relief than I’d like to admit when I stepped outside. Charlie was in running gear and jogging away down the Rue, her heels kicking up dust.
“So you’ve told everyone, then?” I called down the track.
She slowed, then swiveled to look at me.
“Excuse me?”
“That I’m an alcoholic.”
I think that was the first time I’ve said that phrase out loud. It tasted wrong in my mouth. I wanted to take it back immediately.
She smoothed her ponytail, walking back to me. “Actually, I’ve told nobody, though you did tell Rosie and Marly, and this is the sort of place where newsreallytravels, so I doubt it’s still a secret.”
“And what did you think getting me kicked out of the one pub on this island would achieve, exactly?”
Her cheeks were pink. “You think I got you kicked out of the pub? You think that’s why I’m here?”
“What, it’s a coincidence I spot you outside the pub just when Red tells me I have to leave?”
“Yes, I think on this tiny island with about five walkable roads itisa coincidence that you spotted me outside the pub.”
“You were looking at me,” I said. “When I looked out.”
She blustered for a moment, then said, “OK, yeah, I was looking at you. I spotted you as I ran by and I thought, ‘Oh no, Jones is in the pub. I wonder if he’s having a drink.’ ”
