Chapter 23 Nate #2
I step out into the cool morning air. The sky is grey.
This country loves to match your mood. The door clicks shut behind me, and the mask I’m wearing cracks.
My gut twists like barbed wire, churning up my insides.
I take four steps down the path, then break out into a jog down the street.
I’m running. My chest heaves. I can’t remember the last time I ran.
My muscles ache, and my head still has that familiar thump.
I take a shortcut through the underpass and stop with a wheeze, one hand on my hip, the other pressed to my forehead.
Breathe. Fucking breathe.
My throat burns. My eyes sting with unshed tears, but I don’t cry. It’s as if the crying is trapped inside me with nowhere to go. I squeeze my eyes shut and swallow it down, jaw clenched, my teeth hurt.
I should’ve been there.
The words hammer into my skull like a chant.
Should’ve held her while she scrubbed that fucking dress.
Should’ve woken up when she crept out of bed.
But I got drunk, threw up, and passed out like the useless bastard I am.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
A message preview flashes up.
Evan: u alive? rugby in an hour. I’ll pick u up.
I stare at the message.
Rugby.
Fuck.
My thumb hovers over Evan’s name before I hit call.
I lean back against the cold concrete wall as it rings once and close my eyes as Evan answers.
“Oh, good, you are alive.”
“Barely,” I say into the handset, still catching my breath.
“Are you… What are you doing?”
“I was just running.”
He laughs. “Why, is someone chasing you?”
“Need eggs. Just going to the shop. Don’t think I’m fit to drive yet.”
“I told you last night to take it easy.” Evan sounds chirpy, like he’s already done a full gym workout, made himself a breakfast smoothie, showered, and still had time to get some ideas down in his notebook.
I swallow, forcing my voice to be casual. “Can’t do rugby.”
The line goes quiet. Evan exhales. “Because you’re hungover?”
I look down at my feet and kick an empty can down the underpass. “Yeah.”
“A cold shower should sort you out.”
I wince. My fingers tighten around the phone. There’s no cure for my problem.
Silence stretches. My stomach twists. “I’m still gipping. Think that quiche was off, or maybe it was the sausage rolls.”
Evan exhales like he can hear the bullshit in my voice. “Or maybe it was those ten pints you drank and however many shots you had while you stood at that bar.”
I hate myself. “You should go. You always enjoyed it.”
“I didn’t want to go on my own.” His voice is calm, but I know him. He always tries to keep the peace and keep everyone happy.
“Then don’t go.”
“It looks suss if neither of us show up.” He huffs. “Glen would have a field day. He’ll probably think I stayed home to wipe your arse or something.”
“Who cares what Glen thinks? Fuck him.”
“I’d rather not. Thanks.” He exhales down the phone again.
I can picture him now, pacing in his living room, a million things racing through his head as he overthinks every possible scenario.
“I’m sorry.”
“No you’re not. Lazy prick.”
If only he knew the real reason. I know he’d understand, but I can’t bring myself to tell him.
He doesn’t need to know how our plan failed.
There’s no need for him to feel like shit too.
He doesn’t need to know how soul-destroying this is for Nora every month or how I’ve made it worse by being a selfish bastard, wallowing in my own self-pity and drinking too much last night.
“Want me to come round later?” he says with a slight annoyance in his voice, as if he has to come and babysit me.
“Not today.” My voice breaks because the truth is I want him here.
But he can’t see me like this, and I don’t think Nora would appreciate him seeing her at her worst either.
“I’m working. Got some emails and stuff to catch up on.
” My heart splutters as if I have a leaky valve that’s spilling into my lungs, making it difficult to breathe through the lies.
“We’re having a quiet day. Just me and Nora. ”
“No worries.” He clears his throat, voice raw. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
“Yeah, thanks, Ev.”
The call ends.
I stare at the phone in my left hand until the screen goes black. Did he hear the gratitude in my voice, the lies, the shame?
Fuck. I clench my fist around my phone, then clench the other fist and slam it against the concrete wall of the underpass, letting out a roar.
Pain ricochets through my knuckles, wrist, and forearm. I shake my hand while cursing as I pace up and down the underpass.
Blood drips from my split knuckles. Nora. I’m an idiot. How the fuck am I gonna explain this. She’ll think I got into a fight over the last tub of Ben & Jerry’s.
I lean forward and drop my forehead against the wall. My body shakes. Pain is the only thing that makes sense. I’ve lived with it for so long it’s become normal.
I heave in and out for a while, chest rising and falling, before I wipe a hand down my face and force myself back into motion and jog through the underpass to the shop on the other side.
Eggs.
Milk.
Painkillers.
Ice cream.
The fucking works.
Because if I can’t fix the real problem, I’ll fix everything else.
The corner shop smells like cheap bread and floor cleaner.
I grab a basket and load it like I’m preparing for the apocalypse. I stop at the freezer and inspect the ice cream selection as if my life depends on it. Cookie dough or Phish Food? Fuck it. I grab both. Today is not a day for moderation.
At the till, the bloke behind the counter scans my stuff, taking his time like he has all bloody day. “Bad breakup?”
“Just my time of the month,” I deadpan.
He laughs like it’s a joke, and I laugh along with him because if I don’t laugh, I’m not sure what I’ll do, and I don’t want to think about the alternative.
I lug the bags inside the house quietly in case Nora’s asleep.
The house is dim with the curtains and blinds closed, still quiet.
I put the bags down in the kitchen and fill the kettle on autopilot.
It’s the same ritual every month. Hot water bottle, cup of tea, painkillers, ice cream, movies.
Anything to make her feel better and switch off from reality for a while.
Nora’s in the same spot on the sofa, blanket around her legs, eyes fixed on the blank TV screen like she’s watching something only she can see.
“I’m back,” I say.
Her lashes flick up. “Hi.”
My chest squeezes as I kneel beside her. “Got supplies.” I brush my fingers along her cheek, swiping her hair from her face.
Her brow furrows as she holds my hand in front of her. “You look like you fought a bear.”
“I did,” I say. “His name was regret. And he won.”
She huffs a quiet laugh. “What happened?”
“I was running and—”
“You ran?” Her eyebrows shoot up.
“Yeah, and then I tripped.” I shrug a shoulder and lift my lips in the corner. She seems to buy it as I brush my thumb over her cheek. “I got you painkillers.”
“I’m all right,” she whispers. “It’s not too bad right now.”
I press a kiss to her forehead. “Hot water bottle?”
She nods. “Please.”
I stand and head for the kitchen, my body running on autopilot while my brain runs on guilt.
Kettle’s boiled. Hot water bottle filled. Tea made with too much sugar, exactly how she likes it when she’s sad. I carry it all back like I’m delivering an apology. I guess I am. But this isn’t an apology for last night. It’s for every night she’s loved me regardless of my condition.
“Here.” I slide the bottle under the blanket against her stomach.
She winces slightly, then melts into it, her shoulders dropping.
“Better?”
She nods again, eyes shiny.
I sit on the sofa, pulling her into my side, her head tucked under my chin. My arm wraps around her.
Her fingers curl into my hoodie. Her voice breaks. “I hate that my body keeps doing this.”
“Your body isn’t the enemy.” I hold her tighter. “This isn’t your fault.”
She sniffles, face pressed against my chest. “I just wanted it to work,” she whispers.
“It will.” My throat thickens. “We can try again.”
She nods. “Are you happy to try again?”
I kiss the top of her head. “Of course I am. Whatever it takes.”
“You think Evan will be all right with that?”
“Yeah, I do. Evan will do anything for us.” I rub at the ache in my chest after letting Ev down today. Especially because he doesn’t deserve it. And he doesn’t deserve to be lied to. I’ll make it up to him somehow. I don’t know how, but I’ll figure something out.
“Now,” I say, swallowing down my guilt. “Pick which episode you want to watch with your favourite hockey players. I’m making pancakes.”