“You never told me?” My hands were around his face. He let me. And I was still here. Still breathing.
“Didn’t know how to. I mean…there was so much going on. And I didn’t want any of that on camera.”
“True. Good thinking.”
“Sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry you couldn’t tell me. I’m glad you did. Like. Now. And to be very honest with you? I thought maybe you had something like this going on…you know. You weren’t sleeping; you were obviously distressed, very anxious, all the panic attacks at night. The withdrawal symptoms were pretty classic. I was just hoping I wasn’t reading them right.”
“You…probably were. Reading them right. I struggled in there, but things are better now. A little better. And it’s not like I have a problem with, like. Having a drink. Wine with dinner. I love a nice cocktail. Just…I need you to know that…you know. Sex. I don’t think I’m… It’s going to be…”
“Oliver,” I said sternly.
“I have an appointment to get checked out. To be tested for…everything. I wasn’t looking after myself, at all. Not in the end.”
His phone rang. He just looked at me.
Then mine rang. Okay. Cal. Car. All that. And he grabbed my arms even tighter, speaking far too fast, like there was so much he needed to say and no time to say it.
“I’m triggered by shouting because my stepdad was a dick and he beat my mum and he was violent and drunk, and that’s why I can’t be around beer cans, only bottles. It’s stupid, and I know it’s awful and crazy, but that’s me. You need to know. And I need to get over myself and I need to move on and I fucking know how much therapy I need, okay? But I’m getting it. I’m getting it. And when I am more in control, I need to go back and see if I still have a job. Because I fucked that up too.”
“We need to talk.”
“Hell, yes,” he said.
I kissed him. Hard.
“I’m not in a good place. But I will be,” he whispered.
“I talk to my dead wife. My marriage was a mess. The boys…they think…”
“I figured. I’ve been talking to Cal.”
“Cal thinks the sun shines out of your arse.”
“I told him about the coke. He told me to grow the fuck up.”
I had to laugh, because that? Was very much my son. My darling sons.
“Wanna come home with me and hang with my kids and the ghost of my wife?”
“Idiot.”
“She’s cool. Likes to drop kitchen utensils on the floor on occasion. I haven’t told the boys that. Still want to come home with me?”
“Absolutely,” he said.
And now there was banging on the front door. And my son, standing there with a big grin on his face.
“The security guard downstairs is calling the police. We have, like, three minutes.”
Okay. I could do that.
What on earth had my life become?
“I’ve packed,” he said. Oliver. Getting a bag off the floor and toeing his shoes on. Posh leather slippers to my threadbare trainers. Me in a shirt and suit jacket. Trainers. Him? A jacket being pulled off the hook.
“Let’s go home,” I said.
