Page 54

I open the front door.

Walker is where he usually is. His glasses are sliding down his nose. He doesn’t look quite so put together as he did in the dream, or whatever the hell that was. His sleeves are rolled up and his shirt unbuttoned. His hair, which is usually fashionably messy, is actually just a mess – that’s how I can tell he’s completely out of sorts.

‘Is this another of your questionable fashion choices, or the work of demonic poultry?’

I look down at myself.

‘Both?’

He looks away, his jaw tensing. When he looks back at me again, he keeps his eyes trained on my face. I couldn’t tell you how long we stay this way. Watching. Staring like the two interactions when we helped each other has changed the fibres of our make-up. Of who we are, and were. Like that dream was both death and resurrection, and now we’re two people the same and changed.

The humidity is a killer. Sweat rolls down my neck and makes the mountainous trek over the bones of my collar to the valley between my breasts. My blouse was apparently lost to the chickens; my singlet is tucked beneath my underboob soaking up the sweat. I must look a mess. A moment’s reprieve presents itself as the open window ushers in a cool breeze. My skin dimples. Walker’s eyes flit downwards and dart away like a skittish animal. Skittish wolf. I watch his Adam’s apple bob.

‘They’re wrong,’ he says quickly, like it’s burning the inside of his mouth and he has to spit it out. ‘They were wrong. They made a mistake.’

I look away, and my lips pinch while I try to wrangle them into a smile. I look up to stop the tears from coming on again. I look back, and his stare is filled with such certainty, I almost question if I’ve ever known anything at all. I don’t know if I’ve ever truly believed a word that comes out of my own mouth, except for, ‘I’m easy to leave.’

I watch his throat bob. ‘From personal experience, I haven’t encountered a statement more untrue.’ He’s still watching. Still sure. Still.

You don’t know me, I want to say. He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know what I’m really like. ‘You don’t⁠—’

‘You’re like cat aids. A lifelong affliction. There is no getting rid of you,’ he says with the same sort of humour I’ve witnessed briefly in passing. The tension is broken so easily, it’s hard to remember it was even there. He’s always been quite funny. Even whilst feuding. I laugh. I always laugh. Everything hurts, but at least he’s funny.

When the humour fades, and all that’s left are the remnants of it in our eyes, things go back to feeling too much.

Why do things feel both better and worse than before? I feel too big and small in this space now. I feel coiled and tight. I feel…

‘Tired.’ Walker raises his brows. So expressive, those bushy little giveaways. I clear my throat. ‘I’m tired.’

He seems to be at a loss before his shoulders bunch and he offers, ‘Coffee?’ He says it like he’s scared.

‘The stupid machine’s broken.’ I shrug. ‘I think I’ll head to bed.’

To bed, away from this uncomfortably awkward no-mans land we’ve found ourselves traversing.

‘Right.’ He nods.

Now is when most polite company would say something kind and inconsequential like ‘good night’ or ‘sleep well’. But Walker is none of these, so I don’t wait for anything else from him.

Contrary to what one may assume, I sleep well. Sound and dreamless. No Tilly. No memories. No Walker. Which makes it all the more difficult to pull myself from the light soft sheets of my bed and dress for a job I’m not entirely sure I still have. But I got a call this morning to come in, so here I am.

‘You’re up.’

I pause on the second last step of the stairs. Walker stands beneath me. I didn’t notice him. Too deep in my own thoughts and worries for the day ahead to notice the phantom at the bottom of the steps loitering.

Why is he loitering?

‘I am,’ I answer.

His hair is dishevelled. A frantic sort of look in his eyes. I study him with a head tilt. His eyes race across every part of me as if he’s looking for signs of something. What? I couldn’t tell you. But after an uncomfortably long silence he nods and exhales, seemingly found what he’d been looking for.

‘You didn’t dream – I couldn’t—’ He stops and starts twice, and I watch in awe as the most put together being I’ve ever perceived proceeds to get tongue-tied. Eventually his default settings kick in and he says, ‘You look dreadful.’ The words are slow to fall from his lips.

Ah. Normalcy restored.

Almost.

Because he’s saying the words he usually would, but they don’t sound like they used to. No, this doesn’t sound like him at all. At least, not the version of him that I know.