It has to be the TV or the pink soles of her running shoes, because I know there’s no way I can move. I couldn’t make my feet leave even if I wanted to. I tilt my head to the TV partially listening to the lyrics. As far as I can make out, it’s a song about a girl who likes chocolate. Typical eighties; a song with a story. Cheesy and abstract though kind of catchy, it holds my attention until, from the corner of my gaze, Fin’s stride begins to falter. I’m already moving from the door as one of her knees buckles, her other following as her arm splays out in slow motion, smacking the emergency stop.
The treadmill halts, as does she, her tiny feet hitting the baseboard heavily, her brain playing catch up against relative velocity. In the milliseconds it takes for her—for me—to process this, she falls into a heap against the baseboard.
Before I know it, she’s in my lap, my arse on the floor and my back pressed up against the side of the machine as I examine her knees and ankles for signs of abrasions and swelling.
‘You were going at a rare old pace. Do you always run that fast?’ I keep my voice light as I run a hand over her thigh, retracting it quickly.Looking’s one thing, touch is something else.
‘Chocolate girl,’ she says on a gasp, her chest rising and falling, the side of one breast pushed up against my chest.
‘I think a PowerAde might be better. Electrolytes, no sugar.’ Surely she must know that?
‘No, that’s me. I—I was the chocolate girl. When I was... when I was married, before—’ Through the fog of having her body pressed against me, I become aware of the watery quality of her words, words that stop abruptly as she gasps. Her shoulders begin to shake and I realise that it wasn’t so much a gasp as a sob. ‘B—broken up...’ she stammers, as the chorus blasts out from the TV, the singer finishing Fin’s words.
A song with a story. About a very unhappy girl.
One arm around her waist, I pull her closer, smoothing the hair from her face with my free hand. ‘Shh. You’re okay. You’re here now with me.’ Not sure that makes her safer, though I’ll try.
As she cries gently, she curls and presses her face into my chest. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispers. ‘I don’t mean to be like this, b—but it sometimes catches me like a wave. Drowning me.’
‘Hush now.’ Something uncomfortable tightens in my chest even as I force those two words out; relieved, at least, their delivery is soft. This isn’t exactly the highlight of my night, seeing her so cut up over her ex. I’m not the caring type, the staying type, but for some reason I just don’t want to let go. ‘It’s okay.’ I stroke her hair while making gentle, reassuring sounds. Even as I do so, I’m conscious of our skin touching where the damp waistband of her leggings has pushed my t-shirt up. It’s dangerous territory, but doesn’t stop me from pulling her closer, settling her into my lap more solidly. How long we sit there I really don’t know. Is there a set time for hiccupping tears to slow? That she feels right, the weight of her against my thighs, the way her upper body has curled into my chest, solidifies my view that I need to leave. And soon.
Just maybe not right now.
‘Babe.’ That doesn’t sound right—doesn’t feel right. ‘Hey, titch,’ I whisper, tilting my head to get a look at her face, though as she moves along with me, I realise she’s cried herself to sleep.
Gut wrenching. That’s how this feels. I run a hand across the back of my head as I try to control my breathing. I’d wanted to tear the meathead’s arms from the sockets for being near her earlier, but that’s nothing to how I feel about the prick who made her feel like this. I shake my head—a rueful motion—well aware that these thoughts are not for me. In the place of anger, I curl an arm under her thighs, the other supporting her back as I bring myself up to stand.
Over at her wee house, I’m pleased to feel she had the foresight to leave the heater on, meaning the room isn’t as frigid as it could be. Manoeuvring her through the small space, I manage to get her into the bedroom without waking or whacking her head on a wall.Go me.I move back the quilt and lay her down and she curls away immediately, almost into a ball. A protection mechanism?Her clothes are still damp and the night outside frigid, so I do the only thing I should: slide off her running shoes, pull the covers up to her neck and leave the room.
Which leaves me... anywhere but in the bedroom.
The light from the tiny lounge dimly illuminates the kitchen as I open the fridge, more for wont of something to do. There’s little in there, I already know. After all, I stayed here over the weekend and snooped till my heart was content. Well, almost. Dunno about my heart, but my cock would’ve been better satisfied if she’d been here with me. Maybe then I wouldn’t be feeling so... antsy.Is that what this is? A need for sex?
The room grows dim again as I close the fridge, its contents nowhere as tempting as her underwear drawer.
What to do? WhatcanI do when all I want is to walk into that room, pull back the quilt and slide in beside her? I’d turn her over, pulling her once more to my chest, sliding my thigh between hers. I’d kiss her head and wrap her in my arms.That doesn’t sound like sex.
I lean back against the kitchen counter, exhaling a long breath as I pull out my phone. I can’t do anything until she wakes when I’ll offer—no, insist—on giving her a lift home, because home she’ll have to go. It’s best for both of us. And besides, I have nowhere else to go. None of the other cottages are habitable and I’ll be damned before I spend a night in the local B&B.
In the meantime, I need some kind of distraction or diversion. Something to stop me from going back in there, because I’m not delusional enough to believe it’ll stop at chaste kisses on her forehead.Wrap her in my arms and keep her there.No—I won’t. I can’t.What was that song she was listening to? Something about chocolate and a girl?
Milliseconds later I have my answer. It is an oldie—a song by a band called Deacon Blue. Volume low, I play the song through. And again. Then search for a copy of the lyrics, just to be sure. To be sure that Fin’s husband cheated. To be sure she felt tied to a man who made her feel like a trophy. To be sure she felt used and misunderstood.
It’s just a song, I tell myself, but somehow I know this was her reality.
A pulse hammers inexplicably in my head as I exhale long and hard again, trying to control the red wave of rage filling my head.
I’m not husband material and I’ll never be, but I won’t ever be that kind of bastard. Relationships begin and end all of the time and no one truly knows what goes on behind doors between people, especially looking in. But this, this bullshit I’m reading and listening to? This is how she felt—how she feels—and no one deserves this.
How can I want so badly to protect someone who won’t let me in?
Jesus Christ, I feel like I need to punch someone until my arms ache. Or have a drink. Looks like I’ll have to settle for the latter and I think I know just where I might find a bottle suitable for the occasion.
