Chapter 19
Peter
It had been the weirdest day, and to be honest?
Also something I was sat here realising I had needed desperately.
Despite the long, silent moments we’d shared, sat at the table saying nothing.
The shouting. The constant outbursts where Oliver would blame me for everything from world hunger to the downfall of the universe as we knew it.
Then those little smiles, rare like small sprinkles of sunshine in the middle of winter.
He was like that, flipping weirdly from being almost happy…to losing his nerve. Anger. Once again accusing me of being the worst person in the world.
And what surprised me the most?
The niggling feeling in my stomach that he was absolutely right. About…a lot of things.
I could handle it. I was a father. A parent.
I had steered my children through growing up, grief and anger.
Through fear and despair to jubilant celebration.
I knew the way life could kick you about.
Confidence was a fragile thing, and…Oliver had it all.
I had none of it left. Once in my younger days, I’d been full of it.
Cocky and self-assured. I had no idea where the old me had gone because in situations like this?
Perhaps I could have done with being more assertive.
Maybe this was a terrible idea. Maybe I should promptly throw the young man currently perched on my sofa…
out. Ring him a taxi and send him home. Back to a life he belonged in, because this was Mary’s favourite sofa and her blanket was still thrown over the side and Oliver was crumpling it under his weight.
I had no understanding of why I wasn’t doing just that. Instead I let him lead the way, allowing him to roam my kitchen unsupervised, spouting out random sentences as he found some edible ingredients and made us a meal.
It was ridiculous, but…I felt it was all I could manage. Just to exist in this space with Oliver doing exactly what he kept repeating.
“I’m going to look after you. Because obviously you can’t.”
Like he knew what he was talking about, slamming cupboard doors and rattling about looking for a colander. Or a big spoon.
And me? I just sat there like the big useless blob I was, my eyes following his every move.
My phone kept making noises on the worktop.
I refused to even acknowledge it existed.
“You going to answer that?” he asked when it once again danced around the surface, still attached to the charger.
“No,” I said sternly.
“Good.”
He smiled, and I once again surprised myself by reading that smile like the open book it was.
Just us. No distractions. No noise. Just me and him trying to…
I had no idea what I was supposed to do other than just sit here and hope he would smile again.
“It wasn’t easy…you know. After,” I said, trying to make something make sense. Explain why this was just…the way it was. Why my life had become this rigid, stale thing that I couldn’t just…shift. Shake. Whatever I was doing.
“I am not saying this is going to be easy.” He suddenly sat himself up on the sofa.
Arranged himself the way he did. Small shuffles where he ended up leaning forward.
His elbows on his knees. Very much him. “I have…ideas. I’ve made a plan in my head.
And I do realise there are limitations here, and things I need to be respectful of, and I need to give you space and time… ”
“Amen!” I burst out.
“Shut up.” He laughed. “I’m not a child.
I have some sense. I admit, not always much, but Peter, I get this.
You have a whole life here, and you have your kids and your work, and I’m not sitting here demanding that you give it all up, not for me.
I just want you to see what you could have. If you just…you know.”
“No, I don’t know.” I didn’t. I was just being honest here.
“I would love to sit down and watch the show with you. Objectively. We know what was real and what was fake in there. I mean, oh God, it’s a shitshow.
From the inside? Looking out? I was a miserable mess for most of the time.
I think you were as well. But when you actually step back?
When you watch it from a different perspective? ”
“No,” I said, louder than intended.
“It opened my eyes to a lot of things. How I behave. What I say. And most of all –”
“Please don’t.”
Silence. I appreciated it, I really did. That he understood when I’d had enough. Just like I could see it in him. When his shoulders would tighten. When his mouth would form that straight, tense little line.
“My stomach is growling,” I said quietly.
“That’s okay. We have time. One day at a time.”
“Maybe…” I started, hoping I would have the guts to carry this through. Ask him to leave. Let me breathe, just for a day or two. Give me the grace of silence where I could just roll into a ball on the floor and scream.
I needed a good cry. Fuck him and everything he was. I just needed to be allowed to be me.
“You look like you’re going to cry,” he said softly. “Can I give you a hug?”
“No.” I shook my head and looked away.
“It’s okay to cry. I’ve cried. I think I’ve cried every day since I got home.
I left, and I cried in the taxi home. I cried at the state of my flat.
Cried because I had no bloody clean socks.
I cried at the first episode when Wren told Diane that she was the wrong fucking everything.
At least you didn’t say something like that to me, at least not what they showed. ”
“What did they show?” I didn’t want to know. Oh God, now I was having a heart attack.
“Not what I expected. They showed me curled up on the floor. They showed you sat on the floor, stroking my back. I don’t remember you doing that, but it was kind of sweet. They showed us laughing, and…”
“Shit.”
“It’s not as bad as you think.”
“It’s probably exactly as bad as I think.” I was wiping my eyes, the panic in my chest debilitating.
“Peter.”
“I’m going to go out and cut the grass. The neighbours are complaining.” I stood up. Twirled around looking for…I had no idea what. Shoes? Did I own a lawn-mower? Of course I did. Fuck. Fuck this.
“Fuck the neighbours.”
“They are good neighbours. Helpful and…you know. Friends. I need to…”
“You don’t need to do anything. But go on then. Cut the grass.”
“I need to do something.”
“Okay,” he said quietly. “I’ve got stuff to do. Need to…look into things.”
“Okay,” I said, relief flooding through me. Space. I needed to be alone. I needed to not think. At all.
Things didn’t get easier. I stayed out as long as I could, my thoughts slowly becoming more rational. We were…friends. He was just here, and he wasn’t a threat in any way.
A threat. I laughed to myself, an egomaniac train of thought pulsing through me again. I wasn’t attractive to anyone. I mostly smelled. Especially after the gardening I’d done, leaving my small patch of outside space looking manically clear.
This wasn’t me. But it had saved me from having to share space with the one man I didn’t want to share space with. Not like this. Not sat there in a panic, wondering how I would survive the night.
I had to go inside in the end, only to be met with dinner on a plate and him smiling proudly as I devoured his efforts without a single word.
I just couldn’t. Because if I had opened my mouth, I would have said too much. Admitted everything I didn’t want to.
I hated myself. I hated myself so much. Hated everything I had ever been, all the mistakes I had made, my fruitless attempts at becoming a better person.
My life. My marriage. My…
I stayed silent. Because silence was a shield, and it kept me sane.
I wasn’t sane. Not at all.
“I didn’t bring anything to sleep in,” he said coyly, coming back from the bathroom after we’d mindlessly settled on watching sport on TV, the only thing that didn’t seem to trigger me into panic.
Now he was…strangely…undressed. Wearing one of my T-shirts, carrying a hanger with his clothes.
“Found it on the side in the bathroom. Smells clean enough.”
“It’s clean,” I agreed. Also? Not freaking out.
I was freaking out.
“I have no expectations,” he said, like he knew exactly what demons were terrorising my fragile head. It was a bit much. Much too much. “Okay if I hang my stuff here in the hallway?”
I shrugged.
“Didn’t want to start rummaging for space in the wardrobes.”
“Didn’t stop you in the kitchen?” I hoped he was…taking that as intended. Please don’t leave. Please don’t…do what I did.
“Look, Oliver. I realise what…that perhaps…yes. I overreacted…back there. It was just too much and too overwhelming, and…”
“Yes,” he said sternly, crossing his arms.
He was… Oh God. I couldn’t even think it to myself without cringing.
“I’m sorry,” I said. I was. I was so sorry for so much. So many things.
“I’m not.” Defiant. Proud.
“Good.”
“Good what?”
“That you’re not sorry. You have nothing to be sorry about, Oliver. I…”
“I’m tired,” he declared, still with that edge of anger in his voice. Here we were again. Up and down. I had no idea where I stood.
No idea where I actually wanted to stand.
“Bed.” I stood myself up. What was right or wrong? Black or white?
One step in front of the other. I shuffled over to the front door. Locked it and flicked off the light. It wasn’t that late. Too early. Maybe not?
“We used to use the bedroom upstairs, but then…after. I couldn’t.” I had no idea why I couldn’t even form a proper sentence.
“Understandable,” he replied. Like this was somehow a conversation that made sense.
“The office used to… I… The boys helped. We moved things around. Bought a big bed for down here and a new TV, and the loo is next door anyway. Bathroom upstairs,” I declared, like I was giving him a grand tour.
“I had a look around earlier.”
“The boys’ rooms are upstairs, and they turned the other room into a gaming den.”
“Nice.”
“Handy.”
I had to let out an embarrassed laugh.
“I’m terrible company. And I keep telling you things I have no business telling you. I’m so sorry.”