Chapter 19
I am, ironically, trapped in a small room again – this time, through choice. As soon as Robert stormed off towards the inn, I half-walked, half-ran back to Kittiwake, slamming the door behind me. Even that didn’t feel quite safe enough, so I dashed upstairs, and locked myself in the bathroom.
I splashed my face with cold water, leaned against the wall, and let myself slide down it until I was sitting on the tiled floor with my legs sticking out in front of me. That was either five minutes or five hours ago, and I am still in the same position. My breath has been short and gusty, my pulse thundering, and a cold clammy sweat has broken out on my forehead.
“This will pass,” I say out loud, closing my eyes to block out the world. “You’ll be okay.”
I repeat the same words a few times, taking some deep breaths in between, counting them in and counting them out. Eventually the roaring sound in my ears recedes, and the zig-zaggy white lines in my vision start to fade. I begin to return to the real world, to come back to myself, to gather up some control of my senses.
I am starting to think that I can maybe consider standing upright when someone starts knocking on the door. It is a heavy knock, and I think maybe it is not the first time it has happened.
“Mum!” shouts Rose, banging on the wooden door again. “Are you okay in there? What’s up? Have you got the shits?”
I laugh out loud, sounding slightly hysterical but glad to be capable of it.
“I’m all right, love,” I reply, clambering to my feet and glancing in the mirror. Yikes, that was a mistake – long strands of my hair are glued to my cheeks, my skin is milk-white, and my pupils are dilated. Zombie Ginger. Nice.
I shake my head and tell myself that doesn’t matter. I make my way on still shaky legs to the door and unlock it. Rose is outside looking agitated, and she takes one glance at me and announces: “You look like crap, Mum!”
“Thank you,” I reply, dredging up a smile, “that’s exactly what I was going for. Are you okay? How’s it going outside?”
I can tell she is distressed and trying to hide it, and completely understand why. Sometimes things just feel a bit too big, don’t they? A bit too much to handle or even acknowledge, so the only way to deal with them is to pretend none of it’s happening. Not especially healthy, I’m sure, but right now I also just need to cope, to cling on, to fake it ’til I make it. We can unpack the details later, when the adrenaline rush has died down for both of us.
“The move is almost done,” she answers, “and I get the sneaking suspicion that it’s all about to kick off and turn into some giant bacchanal in the pub.”
“Bacchanal,” I say, nodding in approval. “Fine word. Look, I’m okay, Rose – maybe you should go and join in the bacchanal for a bit.”
“Will you come with me?”
“I’ll see you there in a while,” I answer, pulling out my bobble and trying to smooth my hair down. “I just need a few minutes to myself, you know? We can talk about everything properly later, I promise, but for now, go and enjoy yourself. Although not too much, I don’t want to be dealing with a drunk Rose later, all right?”
She stares at me, and I can see she is checking for signs of duplicity, trying to figure out if I mean it when I say I’m fine. I give her a wink to reassure her, and she rolls her eyes.
“Okay. I’ll be around,” she replies. “And also, do you think I should give Lyssa a bell? I mean, he’ll probably go there, won’t he? To her parents’ house?”
I sigh and realise I should have already done that – except I was too busy having my mini meltdown.
“Yeah, that’s a good idea – he will, and it’s better if she’s prepared.”
“Give her dad and brothers time to tool up, you mean! Though I reckon her mum could probably take him in a fist fight as well, she was so angry with him… is it wrong that I wish I could see him turn up at Camp Nicholson and face them? He’s a bully, and he’s going to hate being stood up to, just like he hated it today.”
I give her a hug, because we both need it, and say: “Well, maybe it is wrong – but I’ve kind of been wishing the same myself! Now scoot – go have some fun. Unless you really don’t want to – I get it if you just want to hang around here with me for a bit?”
“Nah,” she snaps back, grinning. “I’m not that lame.”
I feel a sense of relief as she leaves, because it means I don’t have to fake it quite so much. I wander into my bedroom, and flop down onto the bed. I throw my arms and legs out in a splayed starfish shape, and just let myself sink into the mattress and pillows for a few minutes, allowing the sensation of my whole body being supported to soothe me.
The palpitations that have been hammering the inside of my chest are finally starting to die down, and when I hold my hand up in the air, it is almost steady. I know that the worst has passed, and that the next on my to-do list of bullshit will be the pulsating headache that inevitably follows.
I sigh, and roll onto my side. I feel drained, and fragile, and conflicted. I am glad that I stood up to him, glad that I made it clear I would be supporting Lyssa if I needed to – but I also feel exhausted, and desperately hope that I don’t need to. I hate feeling like this, like somebody has tied me to a roller coaster and forgotten to press the stop button. It just goes on and on.
I get up, and grab a couple of ibuprofen from the bedside cabinet. I can already feel the headache spreading its tendrils behind my eyes, and know it is unavoidable. I swig them down with some water, and drag the suitcase out from under the bed. I need to do something positive, something active, something that will distract me from the smorgasbord of discomfort I am in, both physically and mentally.
I’m not completely sure why I decide packing is the way to go, and it certainly doesn’t feel like I made a choice to do it. It’s just something my hands seem to decide on without consulting my brain. I throw in a pile of undies and my spare pyjamas, and pull the green super-dress I wore to the wedding off its hanger. I’m folding it up and putting it in the case when I pause, hearing footsteps on the stairs.
I immediately go on high alert and find myself grabbing a coat hanger from the wardrobe and holding it in front of me as though it’s any kind of weapon. Bloody hell, I’m rubbish – I think I need to book myself in for a week of training at Camp Nicholson.
“Lucy, it’s me, Josh!” I hear him shout, just before he walks into the room. He stares at me and my impromptu killer coat hanger, and then his eyes drift to the half full suitcase on the bed. I see him process the image and the information and feel the full force of it when his expression changes to something halfway between sad and angry.
“You’re leaving?” he asks quietly, obviously making a real effort to stay calm and reasonable. I’m sure he knows I can’t handle any more confrontation right now, and I hate that I’ve made him feel this way – I hate that I am some delicate thing to be managed, that he can’t even give full vent to whatever it is he is feeling right now. He is allowed to be pissed off with me.
“I’m… yes, I think so,” I reply, “I’m sorry. I would have said goodbye.”
He runs his hands over his face, and emerges looking serious. He nods and says: “Okay. Can I ask why? Is it because of what just happened, or because you’ve made a decision about your future?”
I want to go to him, to hold him, to comfort him and tell him how very special he has become to me – but it wouldn’t be fair. I am leaving, and it would be the emotional equivalent of a hit and run.
“Josh, I’m not sure. I’m still trying to figure it out for myself,” I say carefully, “but I think… I think I just need to be somewhere I feel safe.”
“Right. And don’t you feel safe with me?”
That, of course, is a much bigger question than it seems. Josh makes me feel cherished and desired and yes, sometimes he makes me feel safe. He has been kind to me, and he has made me laugh, and he has defended me in a way that nobody else ever has – but it is not enough. It is not enough to overcome everything that lies beneath. I owe him honesty, if nothing else.
“Not right now,” I say quietly. “Maybe not ever.”
He blinks, in a way that suggests my answer has hurt him, and I hate that it has, but I know I cannot take it back.
“Do you think,” he asks, his gaze running from me to the suitcase and back again, “that this might be just how you feel right now, in the heat of the moment? I know how that scene affected me, and I don’t have your history. Do you think that if you give things some time to settle, that you might feel differently? About leaving? About me?”
I breathe out, and frown. He may be right, of course – it is entirely reasonable to think that perhaps I will feel completely different tomorrow. But perhaps I won’t. Perhaps I will still be strapped to this roller coaster, screaming inside.
“I can’t answer that, Josh, and I need to be honest with you – I am never going to be easy. I’m never going to be simple. I have too many scars, and not all of them are healed.”
“I know that,” he says quickly, an edge of frustration to his voice. “And I don’t expect easy! I’m not easy either, and we all have scars. I’m not some kid who needs a fairy tale princess, Lucy. I’m a grown man who is only just starting to realise that he’s maybe in a bit deeper than he thought…”
“What do you mean?” I say, dreading his reply.
“I mean that I’m not normally the kind of man who gets physical. I’m not normally the kind of man who jumps into conflict like that. I’m not normally on the edge of losing control – but seeing him here, seeing the way he bullied you, the way he tried to make you small… it made me realise how much I care, Lucy. We can pretend that we’re just friends. We can pretend that we barely know each other – but it’s not true. At least not for me. I have to be honest, too, and I want more than that. Am I going crazy even thinking that?”
I sit down on the bed, and stare at my hands. Hands that are yet again trembling. I feel the headache hitting hard, the familiar sensation of it all – as though a living creature is trapped inside my skull, clawing to get out.
There is a world of feeling lurking just beneath my surface, and I have to control it. I see the signs in my own body, and I know I am on the edge of losing that control. I am angry and sad and scared and frustrated and none of it makes any sense if it all happens at once. I need to deal with each strand separately, and I need to ignore the one that is shouting the loudest – the need to run to him. To let myself sink into his arms, to fool myself that everything will be okay in the end.
“You once told me you hated liars, Josh, and pretending I can give you more would make me a liar. This thing between us… it crept up on me, too, and no, you’re not crazy. But look at today – look at how I reacted. When I was under pressure my instinct was, as it has been for a very long time, to find a place to be alone. To run away from people – from you – not towards them. My idea of comfort is solitude, and I don’t know if that’s ever going to change. It wouldn’t be right to take this any further.”
He is silent for a few moments, and I know I have hurt him even more. I wish I could undo it all, but I know I can’t.
“Wouldn’t be right?” he eventually says. “Or wouldn’t be simple?”
“Maybe both! Josh, you’re amazing, you really are. But I can’t give you more, not right now. And I can’t promise that I ever will. I know it’s not fair, but it’s the way it is, and maybe this just means going back to Ireland is the best thing for you as well as for me. I can’t ask you to put your life on hold for something that might never even happen. Does that make sense?”
I finally look up, and our eyes lock. I drink in the gold-flecked brown eyes, the shape of his lips, the firm line of his jaw. I drink it all in, because I know I might never see it again.
He gives me a small, sad smile, and says: “I wish it didn’t, but yes – it does make sense. And you’re right. I can’t put my life on hold. I’ve done that before, and I won’t do it again.”