Chapter Seventeen Carys #3
‘That’s right, folks, it isn’t time to explore each other’s bodies,’ says Lucas smugly. ‘Just yet. It’s still all to come.’
‘Haha, cum,’ laughs Zack, and I feel like I want to strangle him.
God, can these people not hang on a few more days? It’s not that big a deal, right? I look at Patrick and I’m obviously attracted to him, but I’m not ready to sleep with him. Especially not in a bedroom with eight other people in it.
I know, hypocrite, but still.
I was mentally preparing for the new sensations of sharing a bedroom with Patrick. Sharing a room between ten of us—
Patrick touches my wrist, sending a jolt of electricity running through me.
It’s not a romantic firework; it feels like a taser.
I startle, flicking both my arms akimbo, which manage to knock over two of the four glasses directly in front of me, Diet Coke spilling all over the white tablecloth, and all over Patrick.
I want to cry. I jump up, trying to clear up the mess. But there’s nothing to mop it with, so I’m just moving glasses away from the liquid splashing everywhere. ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry.’
Patrick is somehow next to me. ‘It’s okay, Carys.’ His voice is so soothing it makes me want to cry more.
I stand numbly, unable to move, and he wraps his arms around me, squeezing tightly. The pressure quietens the frenetic buzzing in my brain, just enough that I can breathe. It’s not quite a meltdown, or a panic attack, but I feel sick and tired and on the edge of one or the other.
‘It’s alright,’ Patrick repeats, stroking my back like he might comfort a scared animal. Perhaps that’s what he likes in me: I’m just as feral as some of his patients.
It was just a startle, I tell myself. It wasn’t him. I was just too het up to process a sudden touch.
When I turn back, a waitress has cleaned up and production have managed to reset our table with a new tablecloth and drinks. Patrick once again holds a chair out for me. It’s like nothing ever happened, except for his damp shirt.
‘Let’s reset and get Patrick a new shirt?’ a voice calls.
‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ Patrick tells me, as he leaves.
I dig my fingernails into the creases on the inside of my fingers, where the skin is thin. It hurts but helps, like the cold water in the shower that morning. Pain is clarity. If I can focus on that feeling, it dulls all the rest – the hurry and panic. I close my eyes and succumb to it.
Time warps and slows, but I hear heels clop over the pathway towards me. When I open my eyes slowly, I see Karina crouched down by the table next to me. ‘Hey,’ she whispers. ‘You doing alright?’
I swallow, because no, but I’m not ready to say Karina Nguyen, I think I’m on the edge of having some kind of menty b.
‘Don’t worry about it. It’s just a couple of drinks. You should see how many things I’ve broken on sets over the years. This is my second pair of heels today.’ She makes a big oopsie face and I can’t help but giggle.
She has something hidden under her shirt, and when she pulls it out, I see David. Karina squeezes him onto my lap, under the table, and covers him with a napkin. ‘There, now the cameras won’t see him either.’
‘How—’ I begin, my words slack with confusion. My heart fills because, wow, Patrick must have got him for me. He’s so kind, so thoughtful.
Lovely Karina gives me the sweetest smile. ‘I hope you don’t mind but when Dolly told me how helpful he is to you, I sent her to get him out of your case.’
Oh.
When I look up, I see Dolly watching me from across the restaurant garden.
I deflate. I’m sour. I’m angry. I’m… grateful, even if I don’t want to admit it. I hate how Dolly can pull so many feelings out of me at once.
Was she just doing this to show she’s better than me? Or to get a rise out of me? This is a perfect way to get herself in good standing with Karina too. God, she’s such a pretender.
I bet Dolly Doherty has never cared about anyone in her life.
But then, is that true? She is always there when chaos tries to swallow me. And she talked about her responsibilities, whatever the hell those are.
Dolly gives me a small smile and turns away, and I suddenly feel cold.
She didn’t have to go in my suitcase without asking, even if it was for a good reason. I mean, I would have been fine without David. Probably.
I’m glad he’s here – rubbing his ears always makes me feel so much calmer. But now I’ve got a giant capybara toy hidden in my lap, and I hope to God that the producers don’t notice and film him. The general public aren’t kind about adults carrying soft toys.
I feel the mask clamp down over my face as I smile demurely, straighten my posture, and forget the fact I was almost about to scream-cry in the middle of this restaurant.
It’s under control. I’m in control.
‘Thank you, Karina,’ I croak out.
She blows me a kiss and totters away on her gigantic heels.
Patrick returns, freshly dressed in another white linen shirt – perhaps he has a cartoon character-style wardrobe built of the same few pieces in multiple colours.
‘I hope I didn’t ruin your shirt,’ I say.
‘Don’t worry, pet,’ he says, his eyes crinkling as he smiles. ‘It’ll all come out in the wash, won’t it?’
Well. No, not necessarily. If that cola stain settles in, it’ll be a pig to get out. Some things have a habit of getting their claws into you.
I know what he means, though. Even if his phrasing was a little off, I hope that Patrick’s easy-going nature will rub off on me. He was so calm even though I fucked up.
‘Are we ready to go?’ calls Lucas across the garden.
They count down for the cameras to come back on.
‘So, you were telling us we can’t sleep together?’ Bridget gasps. ‘What about kissing? You’ve got to let us kiss.’
‘Like I said, keep it PG. Kissing is fine, but any and all sexual acts will be considered fineable,’ Lucas explains.
‘Oh my God,’ says Dolly, her eyes wide, and I know she’s faking it because she’s not going to sleep with Warren. That must be in their little fake dating agreement rules. ‘Why are you guys planning on shagging when we’re all in one room?’
It’s a fair question.
‘There’s probably other rooms,’ says Jackson as though this is obvious.
I concentrate on taking a sip of my drink, and suddenly the conversation has moved on and the Nguyens have left, and now a waiter is handing me a menu that I have to try to read. I say, ‘Two of those,’ to whatever Patrick ordered and hope it’s something I’ll like.
The cameras are still on us when the food arrives.
Luckily, Patrick had ordered souvlaki with some dips and veggies and chips, things I already like and can probably force myself to eat.
My hands are shaking so much I worry I’m going to fling it everywhere, so I concentrate incredibly hard on eating ‘right’, which means I’m too quiet.
Patrick notices. ‘Are you okay?’
I put down my cutlery and give him a mega-watt smile. ‘Yes,’ I say too emphatically.
His smile falters a little, like he doesn’t quite believe me.
Maybe I don’t need to lie so hard? After all, he was so understanding when I knocked the drinks everywhere.
‘I’m just so tired,’ I add as a qualifier.
Neurotypical people find I’m tired easier to understand than the audio landscape of scraping cutlery against plates and mouths chewing around me makes me want to die.
It’s the kind of white lie that conveys how I feel… ish, in a way they can understand.
It seems to work. His shoulders soften, and so do his eyes. ‘Me too. That nap on the plane was a good start.’
‘It was. But I could do with like twelve more hours.’
He reaches forward but doesn’t take my hand, just rests his palm up, waiting for me to take it. I do, because I don’t want him to feel rejected, and because choosing to do it gives my brain time to process the movement. It’s nice. His hands are warm and a little scratchy.
‘We’ll have a good sleep tonight,’ he promises.
I want to laugh, but that would be strange and a tad cruel when Patrick doesn’t understand my brain in full yet. I don’t want him to misconstrue it as me pressuring him into sex, or rejecting him. I just smile and nod.
I know I won’t sleep tonight. When I was a teenager, school used to take us to this lakeside camp where everything smelled mouldy-wet, and we built the same failing canoe out of big plastic tubs every year. We stayed in big dormitory rooms of, at minimum, eight of us, and I never slept.
It wasn’t just the lack of sleep, though.
I’m not great in group activity situations.
At the same camp, I’d regularly get in trouble for wandering off when I was supposed to be doing something, and I also got used to accusations of not being a team player.
No one knew I was autistic then either, so they just thought I was rude and mean and uncooperative.
That’s what I’ve spent years filing away. Now I know what’s wrong with me, I can hide it. Make myself palatable. Likeable.
Unfortunately, I worry that Patrick is about to meet that version of me.
‘Yeah,’ I say, with a smile. ‘I hope so.’
I pick up the cup with the wine and take a long drink, as though it was water. As far as Patrick knows, it is. The ice cubes clink against the bottom of the cup as I drain it.
Alcohol dulls my senses. Being slightly drunk will make tonight easier.
Or at least, I can only hope.