“Talking about death. Y-Your death, particularly.”
I roll my eyes and immediately regret it when it sends a shaft of pain through my eye. “Don’t be so silly. I’m fine.”
“You nearly weren’t.” The words are abrupt, with a jagged edge to them. He sucks in a breath, staring out the window. Then he utters a low, filthy curse and climbs out of the car, slamming the door behind him.
He walks away but pauses as a man in a nearby car hails him. Reuben turns with a polite smile on his face, and they exchange greetings before standing and talking in a little huddle.
I let out a long sigh. I used to be able to feel the rage the moment I saw him. That rage was the fuel for doing some incredibly shitty things to him, and he’s taken every single one of them. At times it seemed as if pain had become our foreplay.
But I haven’t seen him for a year. It was like he gave up on our explosive push and pull, packed up his white flag, and went home. When he stopped playing our twisted game, it … it fucking enraged me. And that’s when I stopped shagging people. The hookups didn’t seem to mean anything if he wasn’t there to witness them.
I take a deep breath and wince. My lungs burn like I’ve been breathing acid-infused air, and I fist my hand and rub hard at the space beneath my thankfully still-beating heart.
I’d frightened Reuben by coming so close to dying. Literally terrified him into violent action. Even a year ago, that would’ve made my heart warm.
And, yes, I’ve known since Reuben broke the ridiculous thing beating in my chest that my poisonous feelings for him are a little sick and a lot vengeful. But I’ve never managed to cure that sickness. I could never seem to mend the fault line running through my chest called Reuben Langley.
Ironic that he’s volunteered to help me heal. I’m stuck with the person who broke me, and I can’t dance away as I have over the years of our separation. And now I can’t even feel my old friends of rage or revenge lining up to help me get through it.
He’s left his wallet on the dashboard, and I reach over and grab it. There’s a little kiosk a few feet away, and if Reuben’s got any cash, he’s buying me a coffee. It’s the least he can do. I open it, withdrawing the fiver I find and stuffing it into my pocket. There’s a piece of paper sticking out of one of the wallet’s compartments, and I hesitate.
Is it a picture of another man? I haven’t seen or spoken to him for a year. That’s plenty of time for him to have started a relationship.
My heart is hammering far too fast, and I feel sick, but I still need to know. Is there a man waiting for us to arrive at his place on Mull? That would be too much. I swallow hard and snag the paper’s edge, pulling it out. It’s actually two sheets of paper folded together. I glance out the window and see Reuben is still talking, so I unfold the first paper. I inhale sharply.
It’s not a picture of another man. If I’d been given an infinite number of guesses, I’d never have predicted this. It’s a picture of me—a black-and-white candid shot of me laughing with my hair loose. It’s vaguely familiar, and I realise it’s from an old campaign for Dior. It looks like it’s been clipped from a magazine, and the fact that he keeps it so carefully folded in his wallet makes my heart hurt.
I let out my breath and my hands shake as I open the other paper. I hear myself make a soft sound like I’ve been punched in the chest. It’s the caricature I drew of him all those years ago. My eyes are hot and blurry. He kept this. All this time, he kept a picture of me and something I made for him in his wallet, where people keep precious things.
I run my finger down the silly little drawing. I remember this. I’d taken hours over it and then handed it over as casually as if I’d dashed it off in a few minutes. I also remember his words of praise. They’d lit me up inside because it was the first time that anyone had genuinely praised me, rather than the performative compliments my grandparents gave me, like “give praise to Xavier” was on their to-do list.
I sneak another look at Reuben through the windscreen. He’s now the centre of a small group of men, all talking and laughing. The breeze blows his hair about, and his eyes are bright with interest as he listens to whatever the men are saying. Then I carefully fold up the papers and replace them exactly as I found them. I set the wallet back on the dashboard.
Feeling suddenly restless, I unclip my belt and go to climb out of the car. Something stops me, and I look down. My legs are trapped, covered in a navy and green cashmere blanket, the wool as soft as silk. Where did this come from? I think of Reuben carefully tucking me in when I was asleep, and my throat tightens. I force the image away and bundle the blanket onto his seat. Then I reach for the handle, swing open the door, and step out.
The air hits me fresh and cold, and I huddle into my thin jacket. I skirt the edge of Reuben’s group and move past them. They seem to be talking about local events, and the tone is familiar, so he’s obviously well known here.
I make my way down the steep road past a shed selling snacks and coffee. I end up at the water’s edge on a small, tarmacked area looking out over the loch. I can hear the sloshing of the water against the shore and the sigh of the wind in the trees.
A bird calls out a lonely sound, and I suddenly feel like I’m the last man on earth. It makes me feel vaguely uncomfortable. I haven’t liked my own company for a long time. Quiet placesmake my doubts louder, and my whole life I’ve tried to fill these moments with wildness to drown them out.
When I exhale, my breath is a cloud on the air, and I shiver, but I’m held captive by the view and don’t move on. The sky is huge, and it feels like I’m standing at the edge of the world. Overhead, dark clouds skud briskly, offering occasional glimpses of blue sky and a ray of sunshine. In the distance, the mountains stand tall, looking ancient. They’re dressed in their brown and green winter colours and have been softened by a low-lying mist so they resemble a watercolour painting.
Footsteps sound behind me, and somehow, I know it’s him. The rope that’s always bound us together is still there, still intact. All my efforts have done nothing to fray it. As soon as he’s near, I feel the tug and pull in my bones.
Something heavy and warm falls onto my shoulders. The blanket from the car.
“It’s cold,” he says gruffly.
“Thank you. Originally, I looked fashionable. Now I just look like I’ve escaped fromOne Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”
“You frequently act like it, too.”
I snort and pull the folds of the blanket around me. The ferry is crossing the loch towards us. It’s painted white and black with bunting flapping jauntily.
“Come on,” Reuben says. “Let’s head back to the car.”
I sneak a last look at the view and traipse after him.
