We kiss a gentle chaste kiss. A good-morning-my-spouse kind of kiss.
‘Okay, no more looking.’ I slam the book shut with a sharp clap.
The excitement of finding our possible venue spurs me on. Patrick helps me up, and then Bridget arrives, insisting on helping me dress. She makes me sit on the makeup table pouffe while she does my face, which is very kind but I am wearing more makeup than I might have ever worn in my life. The foundation is sticky and tight against my skin, and I have to work not to notice it.
Even though it usually makes my tiny head look like a pea, we shove my messy hair into a high pony topped with a baseball cap that Lina lends me. It saysPathological People Pleaseron the front, which feels a bit on the nose.
Hopefully I look cute and sporty, not desperately hungover from the meltdown.
The overstimulation is still there, but it’s duller today – not because things are better, but because my wrecked brain has given up trying to process half of the stuff around me. I notice I’m missing more words than usual when Bridget chatters to me about what the challenge could be, unable to fill in the gaps when every third word is missing. It’s a beautiful whitenoise of sound, which sounds rude to say, but I’m not sure she expects me to listen.
When I finally make it outside, most of the couples gather by the lawn. Lighting and cameras are being set up, and I suspect that Lucas and Karina are on their way by the slightly nervous atmosphere from the production team. That means challenge with a capital C.
A gaunt man who I think is called Liam is laying down thin bits of card in rows along the grass. They kind of look like stepping stones.
‘What’s this for?’ I croak, when Reb hands me a shiny laminated board and a felt tip pen.
Rather than answer, Reb announces to the group, ‘We’ll explain the rules in just a few minutes.’
I flex the fingers of my right hand, and try to hold onto the pen properly, but it feels strange, disconnected. Sometimes, after a meltdown or shutdown, I really struggle to write. The communication bit of my brain is the first to go, so not being able to speak isn’t a huge surprise. But the writing goes too, though given there’s more typing than handwriting in my life, I forget this quirk. Hopefully I can manage it, though people are weirdly judgy about handwriting.
I studiously ignore Dolly’s glances from across the lawn.
‘How are you feeling?’ asks a cheery voice, and I look up to see Malachi wearing an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, like he’s about to hit the beach. He’s very muscly – I think Whit said he’s in the early stages of training to be a firefighter. You probably have to be very fit for that. You know, physically fit! Not just handsome.
My cheeks redden as I try to find a place to look at him that doesn’t feel ogly.
‘Medium,’ is all I manage to say, which is not really the right answer, but he laughs as though I was purposeful.
‘It’s a real medium kind of morning,’ he agrees.
‘Thank you for the crêpes. They were just what I needed.’
‘I learned to flip one! Second best day of my life.’
‘What was the first?’
I follow his look across the lawn to Whit, perched on a bench with her long legs crossed at the knees, her head thrown back in laughter as Dolly animatedly tells her a story.
‘When I met her,’ Malachi says. ‘The love of my life.’
He says it so sweetly that I want to burst into tears.
Whit and Dolly must sense us watching, because they both look over. Whit and Malachi silently coo at each other, all exaggerated words and heart-hands.
I don’t think they notice the weighted look between Dolly and me. Her eyebrows rise in a silent question, and I give her a quick little nod.
I’ve never been great at reading or conveying non-verbal communication but I hope I’ve conveyedthanks for last night but we’re back to not being friends and also let’s not talk about it with anyone thanks.
Her eyes drop and she turns away to fuss over Whit. My body feels cold all over, like I’ve just been shoved out into the snow.
It weighs on me that I’m able to be so much more honest with her than anyone else, even though we’re practically enemies. Maybe the distance makes it easier?
Or maybe it feels easier because she’s the only one I’ve given the chance to see me.
Still, I feel angry and embarrassed that she saw me like that. And, if I’m honest, a little hurt that all she could bother doing was look at me. Not even going to ask me how I am?
Maybe that’s stupid – we said it was only a temporary truce, I said we’re not friends. And yet, I still feel… dropped? Rejected.
