Chapter 12
Oliver
“What’s your favourite thing?” he asked me later that night, lying in bed. Unusually for us, we were both still awake. I’d had a shower and expected him to be asleep. He wasn’t, obviously. But I still went quiet, shuffling uneasily under the shared duvet.
“I hate this duvet,” I replied as he chuckled.
“It’s too small, I agree. Cheap, and of course useful for those awkward shots from that corner camera. My feet are constantly on display.”
“Not that they film us during the night.”
“I’m sure they do. I don’t trust anything in here.”
“Agreed,” I said, trying to make myself more comfortable against the flat pillows. It was no luxury hotel bed, that was for sure.
“Favourite thing in the whole wide world?” he asked again.
“I don’t know.”
“Of course you must have something you absolutely love?”
“Nailing a deal. Getting a client on board. A big bonus is always nice; I’ve had a few.”
“What did you spend them on?”
“The bonuses?”
“Yeah?”
“Nothing. I stick money in the bank or invest it for the future. Nothing I need. Not really.”
“You have a flat, I take it?”
“Yes. Nice place, top floor and all that. Never use the balcony. I did splurge on a nice bed, though. Nothing like this.”
“Nice.” He sounded like me. Flat. Wrung out. “Are you managing the mortgage okay? I mean, with not working and being here?”
I laughed. It wasn’t kind; I knew that. “Oh, Peter,” slipped out. Condescending and rude. He’d only asked.
“Just out of concern. I do care about you, you know.”
“We’re pretty much strangers.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t wonder what goes on in that head of yours.”
He was such a dad. I told him so as well.
“What’s your favourite thing in the world then?” I was curious now, and he shuffled so he was on his side, facing me.
“It’s stupid, but it’s my life.”
“Not stupid,” I said quietly. I didn’t dare to face him. Too raw. Too close.
“It’s the sound of my sons coming in after a night out.
When they’re trying to be quiet, and they’re both all giggly and a little…
well. Too-much-to-drink-giggly drunk. Stumbling around downstairs, trying to make snacks.
They always sound happy, and it calms me because I can finally relax, knowing that they’re safely at home.
Well. Apart from worrying that they’re setting the kitchen on fire. ”
“Not stupid,” I repeated, feeling just that. “I can…see that. It must be nice for them. Having you there, and that you care.”
“Of course I care. They’re my boys.”
“Do they still live at home?”
I was surprised we hadn’t talked more about that. That there was still so much I didn’t know about the man who had been sharing my bed lately.
“They’re at uni, but they come home for a couple of weekends…now and then. They have all their friends here. And their football team. You know. Normal things.”
Normal things. I’d once had normal things. None of those had included football practice.
I’d always wished they had. Anything normal. I didn’t share that my teens had included antagonising my stepdad and causing trouble. Getting beaten up. Stupid things.
“I was watching Diane with Gina earlier,” I said quietly. I hadn’t meant to tell him, but now I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I didn’t dare to open up because there were so many thoughts bubbling inside of me. Things I wanted to tell him.
Things I shouldn’t tell him. These lies I was making up in my head were starting to become troublesome. Because he was a stranger and we were not actually…friends. This was just a weird situationship and would end badly.
“She was crying,” I continued quietly, glancing over at the cameras. No red dot on the side. Hopefully that meant what I hoped it meant.
“Why?” Peter almost whispered. There was still commotion out in the common room. People talking. Movement past our door.
“She said things were hopeless. That nobody liked her and that the only man she liked had no interest in her whatsoever.”
“Oh no.” Oh, Peter.
“She was talking about you, you know.”
“Was she?”
I had to smile, and I reached out and clumsily patted his hand. “She fancies you.”
“Why would she do that?”
He didn’t know? Oh dear indeed. I let myself get more comfortable, my wrist against his fingers. Perhaps I should have moved them, but. I liked it. A little…comfort.
“Peter, you’re a very, very attractive man. I mean…”
“But you don’t think so.”
“You’re not my type.”
“Then what is your type?”
“Peter, we’re talking about you and Diane here!”
He made a little frustrated sound. Very him.
“You could probably walk up to any of these ladies and say ‘Hey. Move in with me. I’ll kick that overgrown twink in number four to the kerb, and we can get down to the nitty-gritty.’ ”
“The nitty-gritty.” He sighed.
“The devil’s tango. Shaking the sheets. Doing the horizontal mambo. Riding the dragon…”
“Oh, stop it.” He smiled. Even if the room was dark, I could see it. The soft shadow of his face. The stubble on his cheek. His soft, deep laughter.
“You haven’t shaved in a bit. Suits you.”
“The damn stylist told me not to. I look silly and unkept.”
“You look hot.”
Damn it. I should have taped over my mouth.
“Then what is your type?” he asked again, making me roll onto my back. Unease. I didn’t want to talk about myself. I wanted him to tell me things. Make this nice and…uncomplicated.
“Mary…”
“Mary was a woman, Oliver. Not your type.”
He was so stupid. And now I was laughing again.
“No, what I was trying to say is…Mary was lucky. She must have felt so loved. You know? Having you around to look after her. Like, you would have waited up for her as well, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course. It’s what you do when you’re family.”
He had no idea how much that cut. How that simple word cut a wound in my chest just by existing.
“Cool,” my mouth said, as I bled inside.
“Are you…” he said quietly, shifting in the bed. Don’t touch me. Just don’t.
“Yeah.” I wasn’t. “Yeah, yeah. Just tired.”
“You know you can talk to me. About anything. I mean that.”
“I know.”
Like I would.
“I hope,” he continued, being his usual self. That voice back to a more normal volume. Clearing his throat with a feigned cough. “That when this is all over. I hope you’ll still… I mean. We don’t move in the same circles, and our lives are wildly different. But I hope we’ll keep in touch.”
“I’ll come have my teeth done.” I smiled, as he chuckled.
“Oliver, I’m a paediatric dentist. I don’t have adult clients. Well, I do deal with…”
“But you said I’m a child. Remember? That first day?”
“I’m sorry about that.” He was laughing. The whole bed was moving again, this cheap arse mattress giving me nausea.
“This mattress gives me seasickness. You really need to stop moving around.” I tried to sound stern.
“Shame the sofa is useless. Not that I want to go sleep on it. I like having you here.”
“You like having a hot man in your bed.”
The stupidity in me was nauseating. Not the bed.
“Oliver.” He sighed, reaching out and patting me gently on the stomach. “Go to sleep. Long day tomorrow.”
Then he turned over. And I wanted to throw up.
The panic brewing in my chest was once again overwhelming as I just lay there, listening to his breathing even out.
Or perhaps he was faking it, what did I know?
This strange man who… Fuck. I couldn’t even say it.
He was just a bloke. A straight bloke. A guy who had no reason to even like me. None whatsoever.
HE IS STRAIGHT! OLD! Not interested, Oliver!
I even sounded like him in my head.
I turned over again, my back to him. The whole bed wobbled precariously. If I did it one more time, his body would probably roll off the mattress and hit the floor. He could break his arm. I’d take him to hospital…
OLIVER!
I turned again with a deep sigh, this time rolling onto my side, facing him, trying to keep an eye on his body, hoping he wouldn’t wake up.
Please don’t wake up.
“Babygirl.” His voice was… Oh God. It made my stomach wobble. And what the fuck, Peter?
I said that too, out loud.
“You need to sleep. You do this every night, tossing and turning and then getting up and sitting in the bathroom. Your body needs rest. I need rest.”
“Sorry.”
I wasn’t sorry. Not when his hand was on my arm. Stroking gently from my shoulder…all the way down to my wrist. On my bare skin. And I hadn’t realised that he’d noticed me getting up in the night. Sitting in the bathroom, letting the waves of nausea wash over me.
The T-shirt collar around my neck was suddenly too tight. Everything too warm.
Please don’t touch me.
Please don’t let go.
“I mean it, Oliver. Whatever it is you’re going through, please know that you can tell me. I may not be able to help, but I am medically trained. I have certain knowledge. Also, I’m your friend. I want to help you if I can.”
No, he didn’t. Not when his fingers were no longer on my skin. Not when I was lying here falling apart.
Not when nothing made sense anymore and everything was too much, and my life was just such a shitshow and I didn’t know where I would go from here.
I couldn’t go back. Not anymore. But the future was too frightening to even think about. So I didn’t.
It scared me. Everything did.
“Sweetheart,” he said.
Just a little word. His hand back on my shoulder. Fingers against fabric. That pinky against my bare skin.
I clung to that touch like it was a lifeline.
It wasn’t enough. It never would be, and I fell, helplessly, silently screaming into something I no longer could control.
My arm grappled with the shirt on his back. Soft jersey being fisted in my clawlike grip as I buried my face into his chest. Tried to breathe in everything that he was.
I tried to find it. The calm. The peace. The scent of feeling safe. It was all there, but I couldn’t get enough of it. My mouth breathing openly against the way his chest moved against me.
I held on tighter, fighting his urge to push me away. Because he must have done.
“I…I need you,” I managed to get out. I couldn’t even have explained what that meant. And I certainly wasn’t ready to admit to any of my many failures as a human being. Not now. Not yet. Maybe never. I wasn’t doing well, and things were not getting better.
“I’m right here.” His voice suddenly felt too close. Like he was in my head. Lips against my hair. Shushing noises. He was holding me now, and I was pressed up against his chest.
Small moments of sanity that finally made sense.
“Shhh,” he said. Arms tight around me as he rolled onto his back, taking me with him. “There. I’ve got you.”
If I was uncomfortable, I wouldn’t have noticed, pushed up into his armpit.
Head resting against his chest. He kept rearranging me, small adjustments to my arm.
My fingers against his shoulder. My hair under his chin.
That big, strong arm over my back. His hand on my face. Small strokes. One after the other.
I never wanted them to stop.
“Sleep,” he said. “I’ve got you.”
I didn’t think I would, and I didn’t. I was still awake when the light started glittering through the cheap blinds.
I was still awake when the sound guy came and rattled with our microphones outside the door.
The clicking noise of him hanging them up on the assigned hooks. The distorted noise as he tested them.
I was awake.
He wasn’t. And somehow I wanted to panic, wondering how I would ever come back from this. On the other hand, I didn’t want to.
But this wasn’t real.
I knew that.