When this happens, I have to stop. Catch my thought, dissect it, find where it has come from and find my alternative reality. Okay, yes. I may have been doing CBT therapy online recently.
I am more than a man, just as Mum was and just as my friends are. Dorothy is right. We have choices. I can choose to be sad and heartbroken. I can choose to let myself be dragged into a self-hatred spiral. Or I can choose to surge forward and put myself first.
But all that strength and self-love can quickly tumble as soon as his name is mentioned.
“Jeeves says Elton hasn’t been himself since that day,” Thea practically whispers to me, despite Mum now having left the premises. Thea knew better than to bring him up in front of her; Mum would pitch a fit at Thea’s blatant attempts to get me to discuss what happened. Thea is keen to get us together to try and work it out.
“She doesn’t care!” Sarah cuts in. “And why should she? He ended it. It’s his own fault if he’s all sad and gloomy.” I do care. I care every time I think of him. He’s not doing well, Neive tells me. She also tells me I shouldn’t care.
I tape my favourite picture of the three of us from our uni days onto the cupboard behind the counter, a reminder of who I can truly rely on in my life.
“Wow, look at us. So young and full of hope. When was that?” Thea asks, as she snaps a picture of the old Polaroid and saves it as her phone background.
“Second year, 2010 maybe?”
“We were so innocent,” she says, wistfully.
“None of us have ever been innocent,” Sarah reminds us.
“I say we were in 2010,” Thea protests. There’s a part of Thea that still is.
“I was dick deep in 2010,” Sarah tells us. She’s always been proud of her free sexual ways, but there’s something in her voice which shows a slight undercurrent of shame. Even the strongest of us aren’t immune to societal pressures.
“You can be innocent and chasing dick at the same time,” I tell her, squishing her little whorish cheeks. Sarah would never judge anyone for how they choose to spend their time, so she doesn’t get to demonise herself.
“Says who?” she scoffs.
“Feminism.”
She swats my hands away and carries on tidying now that we’ve finally finished sloshing paint on walls. Thea mainly gets in the way as she goes into a tirade about double standards and how it all links back to the Salem witch trials and the phasing out of pockets in women’s clothes. I don’t know what I’d do without these two.
As we lock up for the night, I take in my surroundings. This is the perfect place for my bakery, right on the high street between the posh dress agency and the funny little antique shop. High foot traffic and the right customer base.
The road is a constant stream of traffic, so I want to make sure the front of the shop stands out. It should be light blue. Between the burgundy of the dress agency and the black of the antique shop, it will pop.
I hug the girls and head left towards my parked car, but I’m frozen in my tracks as I spot the familiar shape of the Range Rover sitting idle in a parking bay near the shop.
Eyes forward, Reilly, head high, stride strong and with purpose.
I make it past but a door slams behind me. My eyes close in response. If I can’t see him, he can’t see me, right?
“Reilly?” His voice is strained, hoarse. A shiver runs down me, it’s just the cold wind. I pull my coat around me tighter.
I can’t turn, I’ll break. All my strength will crumble apart. He’ll be able to drag me back and ruin me all over again.
“Reilly, please.” I can feel him now, his presence behind me.
I am silent. What does he want me to say?
He remains behind me, which I am grateful for. If I see him right now, I’ll crack. I would beg for him to take me back. And I can’t do that.
“Can wetalk, Reilly? Can I explain?”
I don’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. I choose not to respond to this situation. I walk away and don’t look back. My choice. I will stay strong.
THIRTY-TWO
Elton
