Page 46 of Survival Game

“Shit, shit, shit.” He threw the TV remote across the room, watching as it hit a potted plant and dirt scattered in all directions.

“Great,” he groaned. “More shit to clean up. It can wait till tomorrow.”

He sagged back again on the couch and closed his eyes.

The following morning, Eric got out of bed, determined to stop his pity party. He’d faced rough times before and this was nothing like that time.

He needed to get a grip.

His dreams hadn’t been welcome, and had involved mixed and random occurrences, some of which had featured Kyle broken on the pavement. But Eric told himself that’s all they were. Dreams. His Kyle was alive. Real.

After coffee, Eric sorted out some buttered toast then texted Kyle.

Soz bout lst nite. I wz shit comp. FanC a drink tonight?

Twenty minutes later—thinking he’d messed things up—he got a text back.

I have no idea what you said. Please translate. Queens English please. :)

Ha. The smiley face must mean Kyle wasn’t mad. Instead of regaling Kyle with text slang, he called him. The phone rang five times before it was picked up.

“I hope this is Eric and not some snot-faced teenage skateboard dude. Honestly, I have no clue what half of that message said. All I recognised was the word drink.” Kyle’s tone was dry but there was a trace of wary amusement.

Eric snorted. “Sorry, I automatically assume everyone knows text slang. I said I’m sorry about last night. I was shit company and do you fancy a drink tonight?”

I can throw this mood off and make time for him. I need to. I miss him.

“Oh, I can’t.” Kyle said regretfully. “Luce leaves at midnight to go back to the US and we have a girls’ night out. Just the two of us. Because no doubt there will be tears and snot. And plenty of drama when we wave goodbye.” He snorted in amusement. “Plus Luce and I have been tasked with getting something special organised for the club.”

Eric tried to hide the disappointment in his voice. “Oh. She’s off already? It was only last week we all had dinner together. Her departure came around quickly. Maybe another night then. I’ll text her, say goodbye before she goes.”

After what Luce had done for Kyle in Vegas, they deserved time together, and Eric certainly didn’t begrudge them it.

There was silence, then Kyle spoke softly. “I heard that there’s a great Impressionism exhibition at the National Gallery. Maybe you’d like to join me and we can go for dinner afterward? It’s Monday night, so I guess you’ll be off?”

Eric didn’t have a clue what Impressionism meant but he wouldn’t disappoint Kyle a second time.

“I like Impressionism.” He made a mental note to look it up before they went out. “And Monday is good. And the best thing is it’s only two days away. It’s a date. Just let me know where to meet you.”

“I’ll do that. I’ll text you but it won’t be that stupid stuff you do.” The smile in Kyle’s voice warmed Eric. “Okay then, I’ll speak to you soon. Looking forward to it.”

Eric smiled at his phone. “Me too.” He ended the call and slumped down into the armchair. His stomach was still queasy with the aftermath of yesterday’s events.

Perhaps Aaron was right. Perhaps Eric needed to talk to someone again about the recurrence of the nightmares, the fact his job meant less and less to him each day and that he might have found someone else who was special.

Eric knew Kyle was important to him and was becoming more so every day. It was time to begin living again, to place his trust and caring in another person. Carrying the shadow of Lincoln’s death in his soul and the still-twisted remnants of the similar event of yesterday was not going to bring him that solace.

With a sigh, Eric picked up his phone again and scrolled through the numbers. Then, with a resolve he drew up from his soul, he dialled a number he knew off by heart.

“Wow, that exhibition was amazing. The brushstrokes on that Cezanne were so intricate they were breath-taking.” Kyle’s enthusiasm about the art they’d seen should have lifted Eric’s spirits more. Instead, he smiled and continued walking down the busy street, avoiding people coming in the opposite direction. The streets were packed, and he was irritated at the constant pushes and shoves as people strode past, uncaring of whether or not they knocked into anybody.

I should have known better than to go the therapist this morning. I should have cancelled. But Kyle was so looking forward to the exhibition.

This morning’s session with his old doctor, Louisa Kenton, had been rough. A specialist in PTSD and survival guilt related disorders, she’d been soft-spoken yet thorough and it had left Eric feeling shattered and drained.

Dredging up old feelings had been tougher than he’d imagined. He’d never had thought his guilt at not saving Lincoln and surviving was a living thing, a despotic malingerer intent on destroying him from within. Dr Kenton had shown him a glimpse of the monster and Eric wasn’t a fan. The fact he felt he’d failed at saving the suicide jumper hadn’t helped either.

“I’m surprised you’re so chipper when you got in at one this morning,” Eric said dryly. “You sound as if you and Luce had a really good time.”