Chapter 15
LUKE
I knew this endless run of good feelings was too good to be true.
The warning signs were there at Sunday lunch.
The only thing missing is a mild head cold, which lands twelve hours later.
Innocuous on its own, hot on the heels of an overwhelming weekend, it knocks me over the edge and rolls me a little way down the slope.
My scalp itches, as if reminding me my hair hasn’t been pulled recently.
I tell myself it will pass if I ignore the signals, resist the urge.
I’m in control, and for the next few days, soldiering on at work stuffed with paracetamols, hot water, and lemon, I almost kid myself it’s true.
But by Thursday, even though my sniffly nose is improved, fifty lethargic lengths of my local pool do nothing to shake off the accompanying heaviness.
Isaac joins me at the pool. We occasionally swim together, starting when we both worked in ED. I was still getting back on my feet after my illness, and he was having brother and daddy issues.
“You okay?” he asks as we take our coffees to a quiet corner of the upstairs café afterwards.
Isaac’s good at sensing when my mood dips, but never makes a deal of it.
Though Alaric is too, he usually comes with a million practical suggestions tagged on, to pull me out of it.
Talk it through, splurge on something nice, have a relaxing massage.
So mentally robust himself, he doesn’t realise quick fixes aren’t always the solution.
“So-so. A bit down.” I wrap my hands around my mug. “You know, the usual. I’ll give it a couple of days, and if I don’t feel any better, then I’ll take some time out of work and head to Wales.”
Wales is my mum’s holiday home, a tiny cottage on the edge of nowhere. No Wi-Fi signal, no neighbours, no noise. Nothing to do, either, except read, walk, sleep, and cry. Sometimes, the nothingness heals me far quicker than any drugs.
“That bad?”
Staring into the froth on my cappuccino, I consider. “Hopefully not. Hopefully, it’s just the tail end of this cold. A post-viral thing.”
I don’t sound especially convincing, even to my own ears.
Last night’s twelve hours' sleep improved my cold symptoms but did jack shit for my fatigue and the steady drain of my low mood. I’m nowhere near rock bottom, but every task, even drinking this perfectly decent coffee, feels like a tiring chore.
It’s like a switch flicks inside me; one day I’m bright, positive, and excited about things.
The next the inside of my skull feels as if it’s turning grey.
“Has Neil been looking after you?”
I shake my head. “I haven’t seen him since the weekend. He’s been busy. And…and he doesn’t know. I haven’t shown him my hair yet, never mind my medicine cabinet.”
I know it’s unfair keeping Neil out, but it will rearrange something between us. I’ve told enough people I have serious psychiatric problems to recognise their sudden shift in attitude. I don’t want to see that in Neil’s eyes. He has enough problems of his own without adding mine into the mix.
Isaac frowns. “Oh, I thought you were… Ez said that you were—“
“We are. I think. He knows I have had a few mental health issues in the past. He knows about my anxiety. I can’t hide it.
But… it’s all so new. We’ve seen each other a couple of times, but last weekend was our first actual date.
And Neil likes me because I…” I scratch around for an alternative to the truth.
Neil’s eye problems aren’t my story to tell.
“He was grateful I helped him with his banged head, we got talking, and…yeah, we gel. But I’d like him to get to know me a little better before I lay all that on him.
He’s not ready for the whole mental health backstory.
You know him better than I do—he’s a party boy.
He likes me for my calming effect, maybe. ”
“He likes you for a lot more, Luke. Ezra says he never stops talking about you. You should think about telling him how you feel. You can trust him.”
“Maybe.”
My next date with Neil turns out to be an evening at my place, cuddling on the sofa and listening to music.
Followed by me accidentally falling asleep in his lap.
We had vague plans to eat out somewhere, maybe meet up with Neil’s bandmate, Jacko, but Neil decides he wants me all to himself.
If that’s not the definition of landing on my feet, I don’t know what is.
The very least I could do is stay awake.
One minute we’re kissing and Neil’s explaining—with sound effects and air-strumming—why he needs to own eleven different guitars.
The next I wake to the delicious sensation of him massaging my feet.
My heart feels as if it’s guzzled a glass of wine, because…
how on earth did I get this man? My head, meanwhile, endeavours to prevent a sinking feeling showing on my face.
What kind of idiot falls asleep on a second date with a man who gives foot rubs for free?
I should be flirtatious and elated and demonstrating what excellent company I am, not struggling to stay conscious.
“Shit, I’m so sorry.” I scrub my eyes. “Busy few days catching up with me.”
Neil’s thumb kneads the arch of my left foot with just the right amount of pressure between pain and ticklishness. His lips curl in a smile. “I’ve heard some people find my twenty-two-minute monologue on custom 8.0mm titanium triangle picks captivating.”
With a dramatic sigh, he pretends to push my feet away in disgust and folds his arms, showing them off. “Most of the men I’m trying to impress at least make it to the part where I compare the Dunlop Jazz III against the Dunlop Jazz IIIs.”
I snuffle a laugh. “Your voice was really soothing.”
“What?” He gives me an I-can’t-believe-you-just-said-that stare, brows drawn, though his mouth’s fighting a grin.
“And now you’re making it worse. I sing thrash metal and goth rock!
My voice is supposed to peel paint off the walls!
” Dragging my feet back into his lap, Neil strokes his hand up my leg.
That’s also really soothing. “As long as nothing’s wrong, Luke. You seem a bit quiet.”
I’m falling into the void.
“No, I’m good.” The words come out easily. After all, I’ve been rehearsing acting normal for years, so I can blag it for an evening.
Neil’s kind eyes, the colour of warm earth, are steady on mine. “Are you sure about that? Am I the problem? Is there something you want to tell me?”
“No. I’m fine, really. Tired, that’s all.”
It’s not lying, I tell myself, it's playing along.
Buying myself time and space for him to get to know the version of me he liked on our cinema date and our trip to Moorfields, the one prepared to take whatever the day throws at him.
The person who, since my major breakdown, has relearned the meaning of contentment.
Who has built a successful, useful life, so when the other me comes to the fore, Neil will remember and know the person underneath well enough to still want him.
Inside, however, all is not fine.
I might be hoodwinking Neil, but I can’t dupe myself.
My mood is sinking fast, as evidenced by this tiredness I can’t fight, the crockery I can’t be bothered to wash piled up in the sink.
Emails going unanswered. Even the smallest things—showering and shaving the bumfluff from my chin before he came over—felt like too much effort.
It will pass. My meds are good. My self-care is good. I’ll ride it out. But pretending this soul-sapping pull on my energies isn’t happening? Akin to holding a dinner party whilst the kitchen’s on fire.
“I promised I’d feed you,” I manage, hauling myself to my feet.
I don’t trust myself cuddled here not to burst into tears.
As things are, I’m wading through treacle just to make it across to the kitchen.
Maybe a hot meal, some carb loading, will shake off this lethargy.
Neil’s not staying the night; it’s his turn to close up the club later.
All I’m begging for is another few hours, another evening like our first, to show him how normal I can be. Is it too much to ask?
Neil gets up too. “I’ll come and hinder.”
I set about boiling water for pasta. Neil chops a few veggies before joining me at the sink. I’m trying to hide the fact I’ve been super slovenly since the weekend by hastily washing up the evidence.
“I was so full of cold last night,” I assert, hurriedly dunking a leftover breakfast bowl. It’s partly true. “Then I forgot about all this, this morning.”
Neil’s arms slide around my waist from behind. He draws me back into his chest, and his lips find the side of my neck. “Forgot about what? I don’t see any dirty dishes.”
Heat curls up my spine as his thumbs brush slow, deliberate circles at my hips.
Seems some of me isn’t yet dead inside. The music he put on in the sitting room—something rocky but with a slow tempo—follows us through into the kitchen.
In perfect rhythm, Neil sways his hips to it, humming along.
His chin rests on my shoulder; his breath ghosts over my cheek.
Under pressure from his thumbs, my body sways gently with him.
“So you do dance, after all,” he murmurs. “But only in front of my peace lilies.”