And she’s crying, her small shoulders wracked with silent sobs.
Sandwich abandoned, coffee cup dropped, she stands as I approach and then she’s in my arms again.
‘They made me leave,’ she says through gulping breaths. ‘Clean break, l-liability.’
It was a risk. It happens in these jobs.
‘Shush. It’s okay. They’ll pay you out your notice period. Money for free while you run your business.’ I try to pull back to see her face, but she just snuggles in deeper, shaking her head.
‘What is it? What else?’
I’m unprepared for what comes next.
Barney’s back.
It was inevitable at some point, I suppose.
She’s sorry she didn’t tell him before. She thought we’d have more time.
The rest? Platitudes. How good I’ve been to her; how good I’ve beenforher.
How she wishes she was that woman, the one who would change me. But that she has to respect my feelings. That I’d said it myself—love ruins all things.
Did I say that? Because that’s fucking bleak.
Respect my feelings? Talk about fucking yourself over.
I tighten my arms around her and open my mouth because she’s got it all wrong. How can she not see it? She presses her palms to my chest and pulls away.
‘I owe it to myself to get to know Barney better. He’s written to me and asked if I’d visit him in Inverness. And I said yes. Because there might be something that can grow between us. We’re the same, me and him. A little outside. A little bit different.’ She sniffs and rubs her palms against her eyes. ‘It might seem mad to you, but it’s no madder than you and me.’
How do you answer that?
Do I shake the living daylights out of her? See if it’ll helps her see sense?
I feel like she’s stuck her hand in my chest and torn out my heart. I tilt my head, my gaze catching on the wording above the memorial tiles.
In commemoration of heroic self-sacrifice
I’m no hero.
But I love.
And if this is her choice, then shouldn’t I let her go?
35
Archer
‘Don’t lookat me with those judgey eyes.’ Elvis huffs as he drops his big head to his paws again. ‘It’s easier for you,’ I tell him. ‘You’ve got no balls.’
Oh, the fucking irony.
Between the two of us, one is no longer in possession of their testicles, and the other may as well take himself off to the doctor to have them removed.
I throw back my glass, draining the contents. There’s no tonic left to go with my next vodka.Do I go out and buy some?Nah, I’ll drink it neat.
Elvis whines as I step over him on my way to the kitchen, half filling my tumbler from a bottle of Grey Goose I’m trying not to nurse.It could be worse. I could be drinking it from the bottle.But I’m not sure if liquor numbs or exacerbates because I’m not feeling any better about my own lack of testicular daring currently.
