Chapter 18 #2
“Of course. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.” I bring his hand to my lips and kiss each knuckle, one by one. “I’m not saying I like it, but I’m trying to understand that you don’t feel like seeing anyone. But I’ll worry if I don’t hear from you.”
“I’ll do my best. Don’t take it personally if I don’t. The mobile signal is patchy around the house.”
I nod, despite a nagging in my gut that says he’s not telling the whole story.
Not lying, merely trimming the edges. Next time he has a downer, I’m staying put.
He’s falling? He falls into my arms, not some lumpy damp Welsh bed.
Or we’ll travel to this cottage in Wales together, even though, for a city boy like me, desolate countryside makes me feel as if I’m about to have a starring role in a true crime podcast.
But for now, it’s time for me to go. I lean across to kiss him. “I’m taking you out on another date when you’re feeling up to it, rash whisperer. Just so you know.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Only if you can’t handle being spoiled.”
Five days later, I haven’t heard from Luke. Alaric doesn’t seem terribly concerned, but then his situationship is in his house and his bed every single fucking night. Mine—if Luke counts—is who knows where: choking on the scent of cow shit in some godforsaken rural Welsh outpost.
He warned me he’d disappear inside himself, so I’m trying not to take it personally.
But, fuck, I’m not accustomed to waiting around for the hot guy to call me.
In the quiet of my flat, as doubt inevitably creeps in, I’m both comforting myself and defending him out loud.
He’s not stringing me along. Luke’s not like that.
He’s ill. I leave my phone unmuted; every text and every call has me reaching for it.
When a fortnight slides by, concern curdles to annoyance.
I can’t help it. I need to know he’s okay.
I need him generally. And yes, I know I’m a selfish bugger.
So far, I’ve had a couple of bland one-line texts assuring me he’s feeling a bit better and one of a muddy field full of sheep.
How hard would it be to phone? For sure, he’s dealing with his mental health, but another quick text or call isn’t that difficult, is it?
My niggling worries about Luke, combined with trying not to take out my frustrations with my eyes on Ezra, add up to me not being the most fun person to be with.
Who’d have thought? The bar staff give me a wide berth, that’s for sure.
Unless I’m simply not spotting them in my vicinity, thanks to my worsening peripheral vision.
And those little white pissing tablets? Nope, nope, nope.
Without Luke’s gentle encouragement, they can absolutely get in the bin.
Ezra, pushing forward with our plans for expansion, arranges a meeting with the health and safety inspector.
Cue more realms of paperwork. Which is how I find myself, down in our windowless basement, sandwiched between him and a very nice lady from the local council.
We have one torch between us. It’s musty and cold, and, thanks to tripping down the last few uneven stone steps, I’m nursing a bruised tailbone, stinging palms, and a wounded ego.
I laughed it off, of course, but now, squinting at a complicated blueprint dictating the legal requirements for escape routes and ventilation, I’m clinging onto the end of a very frayed rope.
With one of his elegant fingers, Ezra indicates to the confusing diagram on his iPad.
His nails are immaculately painted—jet black—and I experience a pang of envy.
He can accomplish that without painting half his hand, too.
I tried my toenails a couple of days ago and…
let’s just say I’m glad I was sat on the bathroom floor tiles, not my bedding.
“I think we should make this area here the principal muster station and fire exit,” Ezra states. The health and safety woman has trotted back upstairs to check the precise coordinates of the building’s sewage outflow. “What do you think?”
“Yeah.”
To be honest, at this point, I don’t give a fuck. When Ez finds out his business partner is about as sharp-eyed as a fucking potato, none of this will be my problem anyhow.
“You barely looked!”
“I trust you.”
Ezra scoffs. “Since when? Do I need to remind you of the time I ordered that glasswasher without discussing it with you? You went through every single model in the brochure, cross-checked the spec with fifteen others, all so you could save us four quid on the cost price and circa thirty quid a year on the electricity bill. Or is that a different Neil?”
If only he knew. That nit-picking, capable version of me glided through the world like nothing could touch him. This one can’t even negotiate an uneven staircase without falling flat on his arse.
“So?” I bite the urge to scream. “We’re less skint these days.”
“You also let me get away with telling her the new staircase would run from left to right, when I know you preferred it the other way. And she even agreed with you that it might be better. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes! I’m fine.” I’m saying I’m fine so frequently these days it’s almost a reflex. “Stop fussing.”
“Because that trip down the steps must have hurt your bum. Or is your head still bothering you? If you’re getting headaches, then—"
“Christ, Ez. Will you shut the fuck up about my fucking head? I just slipped on the last bloody step, okay? Too busy listening to you two jabbering on about fucking carbon monoxide alarms instead of paying attention to my feet. That’s all.”
“All right, all right. Calm down.”
We study the blueprint in an uncomfortable silence.
When the woman comes back, for the next half hour, we behave ourselves.
The pair of them have an articulate and intelligent conversation about sprinkler systems and exit signage, and I nod, agree at appropriate moments, and try not to appear too sulky.
I can’t remember the last time I fell out with Ez. My chest feels tight, weird, and panicky. I want to slam something, or punch something. Possibly him.
I also want to get blind (hah!) drunk, then pour all my misery out to Luke. Let him take charge, tell me what to do, how to ride this shitstorm also known as my wretched, visually impaired future.
“You know, if you don’t want us to go ahead with this, Neil, then you could just tell me,” Ezra suggests quietly after she’s left.
“What makes you say that? When did I ever imply or do anything to suggest I didn’t want to go through with it?”
We’re in the cramped office, not looking at each other. “Um...let me think.” Ez drums his fingers on the desk. “The fact that you acknowledged we’re not as skint as we were, but similarly, don’t think we can afford to go ahead? Which is it, Neil? I’m confused.”
“I’m just pointing out it’s a lot of money! It’s not just a fucking glasswasher we’re buying here.”
“Okay,” Ez responds icily, like I’m not imploding. “Then may I assume that explains your total and utter lack of engagement with the health and safety inspection?”
Pompous twat.
“What the fuck? I’ve just plodded through an hour of tedium discussing shit, damp courses, and fire exits! How much more engaged do you want me to be? Build the new sewer myself?” I’m being a dick, but it’s the only armour I’ve got.
He raises a cool eyebrow, shrewd dark eyes assessing.
“Neil. I’m not saying I’ll abandon every plan we’ve made, but can I point out that the expansion into the basement was your original idea?
I know the location of fire extinguishers isn’t the most scintillating of topics, but getting her here and then not giving it any consideration, when we both agreed that job was your responsibility, was kind of embarrassing.
If we want the local council on our side with this extension, we need to act with a degree of professionalism. ”
“I said I’d look at the layout, didn’t I? And I will, when I get around to it.”
Ez taps on his screen, then tilts his head to examine me. I hate that he senses I’m holding something from him. “Is it your dyslexia?” he pushes, as if digging around enough times might shake it loose.
“Is what my dyslexia?”
“Don’t be such a knob. You know you only have to ask, and I’ll go through it with you.”
“No.” Just tell him, Neil. Just fucking tell him. “It’s not my dyslexia.”
“Okay.” I feel the weight of Ez’s steady gaze.
“Good. Are you worried about Luke? Is that it? Isaac says he’s fine—he does this every now and again when he gets low.
You know, resets his chakras, realigns the healing stones and all that.
He’s good at understanding when he needs to take care of himself.
” He shoots me a stern frown. “Unlike someone else I know.”
I bark a laugh. Too quick. Too light, as if I haven’t been checking my phone every five minutes. “Why would I be worried about Luke?”
Ez slaps his head. “Duh. I don’t know. Maybe because he’s not well, and you and him had a sweet little thing going?”
A sweet little thing. My heart lurches. Kisses on street corners. Hand holding under a restaurant table. Late-night phone calls. Trust Ez to come up with a perfect description.
“He’ll be fine,” I answer carelessly. “Alaric says he’ll bounce back.” At least talking about Luke changes the subject away from me. “I’m not worried.”
“No?”
“No.”
The lie hums against my teeth. I know it, Ez knows it, even the fucking desk knows it.