Chapter 34
TOM
Two days.
That’s how long it’s been since Pete told me to leave him alone, his voice quiet and broken, like the words weighed ten tonnes just to lift out of his mouth. Two days since the bruises on his face burned themselves into my brain. Two days of silence.
And here I am, sat in my car outside his house like some sort of amateur stalker.
Irony isn’t dead; it’s alive, well, and laughing at me from the passenger seat. Just yesterday I told Daniel to stop stalking me, stop circling my life like a vulture, and now look at me. Parked like a creep, checking my mirrors every five seconds, rehearsing imaginary conversations.
All very Baby Reindeer.
The truth? I didn’t call ahead because I thought he’d say no. Better to ambush. Terrible strategy for healthy relationships, great for emotionally fraught stand-offs.
As I wait, Daniel’s face barges into my thoughts like it always does. That phone call, his voice, the way he denied everything — like he hadn’t been following me, like I was making it up.
That I’d blocked him.
I hadn’t. I know I hadn’t. Regardless, I check. I scroll through my phone, thumbs clumsy with nerves.
And there it is: Daniel, blocked.
My stomach drops.
I didn’t block him. Did I? Maybe I did during some breakdown haze, but no, I would remember. Wouldn’t I?
No, no, someone must have done it.
But who? And how? Paranoia twitches in my brain like a faulty light switch.
I shove the phone back down, my chest buzzing with frustration. I want Daniel out of my life. Out of my head. Out of my phone. Instead, he’s like mould: grows back every time I think I’ve scrubbed him clean.
And then Evelyn.
That phone call still sits in my gut like a lead weight. Her voice cracking, her words tangled, talking about the blood, the pain Guy must have gone through.
She doesn’t know.
She can’t know.
To her, I was just his friend. Someone to cling to in grief. She has no idea that Guy and I were… more.
But then, I know someone told Daniel about Guy and me. The revelation that sparked our eventual breakup. In the back of my mind, I always considered that it was Evelyn. That she always knew and this was her way of punishing me. She was the only one to really have a motive.
But she’s never given any indication that she knew the truth.
Guy. My Guy.
And now he’s gone. Stabbed. Brutal. Quick. The kind of ending that doesn’t make sense, not when you still feel the warmth of someone in your skin.
Evelyn can’t move on. Neither can I. Different reasons, same result.
Guy and Dad. Two losses back-to-back like cruel dominos. I thought I’d never breathe properly again, never love again. I was wrong. Because here I am, camping outside Pete’s house like some lost dog, desperate for scraps of hope.
Saving Pete feels like redemption. Or maybe distraction. Probably both.
Headlights sweep across the street, and my heart stutters. Pete’s car pulls up. He gets out slowly, shoulders hunched, moving like a man braced for impact. My chest tightens just seeing him.
I climb out of the car before I can second-guess myself. “Pete,” I call.
He freezes, keys in hand, then turns. The bruises have dulled to yellow and green now, faint shadows instead of raw wounds, but I see them anyway. My anger flares, not at him, but at James. Always James.
“Tom,” he says, weary, guarded. “What are you doing here?”
“I needed to see you. Please, just… talk to me.”
For a moment, I think he’ll tell me to leave again. But something in his eyes flickers—exhaustion, maybe surrender. He nods once, just barely, and walks to the door. I follow, pulse hammering.
He unlocks it, punches a code into the alarm panel. 2020.
Of course. The year the world shut down. The year everyone was locked inside, gasping for air. The year of silence and fear and no way out.
How appropriate.
And while I want to blame James for this nugget of irony, I know it’s the same code Pete uses when he puts on his Apple Watch.
The door clicks open. We step inside.
Pete drops his keys on the counter, rubs a hand across his face. He looks older tonight, lines carved deep around his eyes. For a long moment, silence fills the space between us, thick as smoke.
Then he speaks. “I can’t do this anymore.”
My chest clenches. “Do what?”
“This.” He gestures vaguely, like the word covers everything: me, him, James, the bruises, the lies. “The pretending. The covering up. The hoping it’ll get better when it never does.”
I step closer, cautious. “Pete… talk to me. Tell me what’s been happening.”
His mouth twists. He shakes his head. “You already know. You’ve seen enough.”
“Please,” I say, gently. “Just… tell me.”
I stand there, not sure what to do with my arms.
He finally lifts his head, and what I see in his eyes makes my stomach twist. Not just exhaustion. Not just pain. Something deeper. Resignation.
When he speaks, his voice is quiet, stripped bare.
“It didn’t start with fists.”
The words catch me off guard. I don’t breathe. I don’t even blink.