“Yeah.” He sounded resigned.Sad.Oh, Peter.
Shame? I had none of it, not here, not now. If you fell? You took control. You managed the situation. I was trying to talk myself into action here, in my head, whilst my arms were opening cupboards and grabbing mugs and finding teabags as the kettle made weird noises.
It was empty. Of course it was, and I rolled my eyes as he sighed loudly. Grabbed a random cup from the cupboard. Chucked a teabag in. Filled the kettle up. Pressed boil. Another cup. Another teabag.
“That was Mary’s cup,” he said, far too fast, before stopping himself and hanging his head in shame.
“Sorry, Mary,” I said. Perhaps I sounded snarky. Perhaps I was irrationally irritated at that comment. Yet I wasn’t. I put the cup back and chose another one. They were all the same to me, colourful patterns on a pale background.
“ ’S okay,” he said quietly, as I turned around and stared at him again. I seemed to do that now. Just stare. Like I had to convince myself that this was real. That I had actually done this. Gone to find him like some knight on a side quest, and now I had won that part? I had no idea what I was doing. “That’s her,” he said, motioning randomly at the old-fashioned sideboard in the kitchen.
“What?” I blurted out, not following him.
“Mary. Green box. She’s still here because I never got around to letting her go.”
Oh. Okay.
“Hi, Mary,” I said softly.
“Don’t.” He sounded irritated. Embarrassed.
“No,” I said sternly. “No, you don’t. You don’t get to dictate this. You don’t have the right…”
I was angry again. Fuck. I needed to control this. Own it. Makeit…
“Peter.” I took control. All of the control. I walked up to him and grabbed his arms. His nice big arms. I liked how they felt under my hands and yet.
He smelled of sweat. Sweat and fear. Scents so familiar that I couldn’t even recoil at them. My arms were still there, though, my hands stroking up and down his sleeves.
Him. Fuck him.
“Go shower. Now. Get yourself dressed, and I will make the tea. Do you have food? I bet you do, because there’s no fucking catering truck here, and we’re sorting this now. I mean, what the hell, Peter? You’re supposed to be able to look after yourself!”
I didn’t know what made me do it, but I was not actually doing anything right here. Yet I was. Enough.
“Tell him, Mary.” I turned to the goddamn cardboard box on the shelf. “He’s better than this. Much better than this!”
“She’s dead,” he said flatly.
“And you’re not. You’re right here. With me.”
Good one, Oliver. Poetic. Gorgeous prose, mate.
“Yes…” He was smiling. Good. Unsure and terrified but… “And now we kiss?”
It wasn’t a statement. Nor a question. He was just pulling my leg, and I knew it, letting a small laugh slip out of my mouth.
“Sorry about that,” I whispered, still there, inhaling his stench. I didn’t think I cared.
“ ’S okay,” he said softly, his hand now stroking up my arm. Like we stood here in some kind of awful half-embrace. Too much. Far too little.
“I know,” he continued. “I’ll go get myself sorted. Feel at home. There’s toast in the freezer, I think. If you’re…hungry.”
“Go,” I said sternly, taking a deep breath as he did.
Too much. Too soon. I hadn’t thought this through, had I? Barging into his life like this?
“Sorry, Mary,” I whispered, then laughed out loud. Because seriously? I was doing this? “He’s a bloody mess and needs sorting out.”
