Chapter 5
Christina
The retching starts again, violent and helpless-sounding, and I stand in the corridor for a second longer than I mean to, staring at the downstairs toilet door like it’s going to offer me a sensible explanation for how my first proper date with Phil turned into a one-man cautionary tale about alcohol and poor coping strategies.
I would be lying if I said I wasn’t angry.
Not the shallow kind of anger that fizzles out once you’ve had a rant to your best friend.
The deeper, sharper kind. The kind that comes from letting yourself hope for something and then watching it collapse in real time.
When I walked into Bella Italia and saw the shine in his eyes and the slightly too-smooth confidence on his face, I knew. I knew before he even spoke.
And yet, I sat down anyway.
Because he had asked me. Because he had finally stopped running. Because I’d been waiting for that moment longer than I cared to admit.
Now I’m in his cottage, listening to him empty the contents of his stomach into porcelain while my own emotions ricochet between fury and worry and something dangerously close to tenderness.
He probably drank because he was nervous.
Because he wanted to feel braver than he is.
Because his body responds to fear by shutting down and I assume he thought alcohol might pry him open.
And maybe it did. For a while. Then it took everything else with it: his filter, his balance, his dignity, the fragile little trust I’d brought with me into that restaurant.
Phil’s cottage is small and neat, open-plan downstairs, the sort of place where everything has its assigned space.
Kitchen at the back with a breakfast bar dividing it from the living room.
Dark wood furniture. Muted autumn colours.
The cosy aesthetic of a trendy coffee shop, if a trendy coffee shop also had the quiet intensity of a man who alphabetises his cupboards.
Near the front window sits a piano, almost too large for the room, like it arrived first and the rest of the house was built around it. It’s not showy. It’s just… there. Solid. A statement in polished black and ivory that doesn’t match the rest of his restrained little world.
It makes me curious in a way that annoys me, because curiosity is an indulgence I don’t think Phil has earned tonight.
I go into the kitchen and look for a glass. The cupboard above the sink is exactly where it should be, and inside everything is lined up with quiet precision. I fill a tumbler with water and spot a stack of colourful coasters on the counter. I grab one without thinking.
Of course I do. Of course I’m furious and still protective of his coffee table.
The noises in the bathroom stop.
The toilet flushes.
I carry the water to the living room, set it on the coaster, then creep back to the bathroom door. I knock lightly and push it open a crack.
“Better?” I ask.
A low groan answers me. Not the good kind. The kind that says his body has filed a formal complaint and is demanding compensation.
“Phil,” I say, keeping my voice steady, “I’m going to get you into your bedroom.”
“No,” he whispers, then dry-heaves again. “No. I… I should stay here.”
“You can’t sleep with your head in the toilet,” I argue, because apparently I’m playing nurse tonight and nobody asked me if I’d like the shift.
He shakes his head slowly, then winces like he regrets the movement immediately.
“Okay,” I say, adjusting. “Sofa. That’s still an improvement.”
I hook my arm under his, careful not to jostle him, and guide him out of the bathroom. He moves like his limbs aren’t entirely under his command, all awkward angles and delayed reactions. He stumbles into the living room and collapses onto the sofa with a sound that’s half groan, half surrender.
I sit on the edge of the coffee table and hold out the water.
He lifts his head, takes a drink, and some of it escapes down his chin. He doesn’t notice. Or he does and doesn’t care.
There’s something about that, about how quickly his pride has evaporated, that makes my anger sharpen and soften at the same time.
I take the glass back to refill it, then go looking for a bucket. If this evening has taught me anything, it’s that I like contingency plans. I find a plastic bucket in a tiny utility cupboard off the kitchen and bring it back, placing it beside the sofa like a very unromantic accessory.
When I look up again, he’s asleep.
Just like that. His breathing has evened out, his face slack with exhaustion. The tension that usually lives in his posture has drained away, leaving him looking younger, almost innocent, in a way that makes my chest ache despite myself.
It would be a lot easier to stay angry if he looked less like someone who genuinely hates himself right now.
There’s still a faint greenish tint to his skin, and his dark blond hair is a mess, falling across his forehead.
He has stubble along his jaw and cheeks.
Not enough to be properly rugged, just enough to make him look like a man who forgot to shave because he had bigger problems. Like being terrified of a woman who has apparently decided to insert herself into his life whether he’s ready or not.
I reach out before I can stop myself and brush his fringe back.
His hair is soft.
His skin is warm.
My anger falters, irritatingly.
“Ah, Phil,” I murmur, mostly to myself.
There’s a stubbornness about me that never can be scared away, Elizabeth Bennet says.
Or something close to that. I’m not good at quoting perfectly, but I’m excellent at the part where I refuse to back down.
It’s one of my best traits and one of my worst. It’s the reason I moved to Fellside when my mum thought I’d lost my mind.
It’s the reason I opened a shop with my best friend in a village that took one look at me and decided to watch carefully before deciding what category I belonged in.
It’s also the reason I’m still here.
Because part of me is furious at him for making a choice that put me in the position of caretaker on our first date.
And part of me can’t stop thinking about why he made that choice.
He didn’t show up drunk because he didn’t care.
He showed up drunk because he cared too much and didn’t know how to hold it.
My phone vibrates. I step back into the kitchen so I don’t wake him when I answer.
“Hey, Alex.” I tried calling him as we left the restaurant.
My decidedly unheroic frame was not designed for hauling six feet of unsteady man through the night, so I rang Alex in the vague hope of backup.
Straight to voicemail. So I adjusted my grip, hitched him higher against my side, and carried on as best I could.
“Hey,” he says, and I can hear the familiar grin in his voice. “Sorry I missed your call. Everything okay?”
I glance toward the living room.
“Yes,” I say. “Mostly. Your best mate decided to drink his courage and then drown in it.”
Alex groans. “Oh, for— I’m sorry. I’m with Emma.”
I hear her in the background saying something that makes him laugh, which is both irritating and comforting. Alex and Emma are revoltingly happy and I love them for it.
“Say no more,” I reply. “He’s home. He’s asleep. I’m staying so he doesn’t choke on his own stupidity.”
There’s a pause.
“You sure?” Alex asks, and the humour fades. “I can be there in twenty minutes.”
Emma’s voice corrects him immediately to forty.
I snort.
“Nah,” I say. “If he starts looking like he’s about to meet his maker, I’ll call an ambulance. Otherwise, I can handle it.”
“You’re a good friend,” Alex says quietly.
“Don’t tell anyone,” I reply. “I have a reputation to maintain.”
He promises to check in the morning. I end the call and set my phone down, suddenly aware of how tired I am.
And how much of that tiredness is emotional.
I glance up the stairs.
His bed is upstairs. A proper bed. A duvet. A pillow that won’t turn my spine into a modern art installation.
I could sleep up there.
I don’t.
I climb the narrow stairs anyway, find his bedroom, and steal a pillow and his duvet like a responsible burglar.
Everything up here is neat as well. A small office.
A bathroom. His bedroom with the bed made so perfectly it looks like nobody has ever slept in it, which is both impressive and faintly depressing.
I drag the pillow and duvet downstairs, throw the blanket from the back of the sofa over Phil, and then settle myself into the grandfather chair beside him.
The chair is uncomfortable. The duvet smells like him.
Warm soap. Clean cotton. A faint sweetness that makes no sense and yet reminds me of the way babies smell on top of their heads. It’s ridiculous. It’s also painfully intimate, because it feels like being hugged by someone who isn’t actually hugging you.
I open my Kindle app and try to read the romance novel I started a few days ago.
I don’t absorb a word.
My eyes keep sliding back to him.
Why did he do it?
Why did he have to ruin the night I’d been quietly looking forward to ever since he asked me out?
Why did he ask me out, only to show up like he was bracing for impact?
The anger rises again, sharp and immediate, but underneath it sits something else. Something colder.
A doubt.
Not about whether he’s kind. He is.
But about whether he’s capable.
Capable of showing up sober. Capable of handling feelings without escaping into something else. Capable of being with someone who will not shrink herself to make him comfortable.
I read the same line four times and still don’t know what it says.
Eventually I switch off the light, curl up in the chair, and try to sleep while my back begins protesting immediately.
This is going to be a long night.