Chapter Fourteen
Nash
The soft orange glow of the streetlights combined with the lull of the van’s engine are enough to send Nash almost all the way to sleep. There’s such a stillness here. It’s just him, Christopher and the navy-blue sky peppered with stars. It feels like a dream.
He is tired. Really tired, and even though he’s been clearing snow left, right and centre, he has been ruminating. He hates that. After all, that’s what all the working out is for, apart from the Hollywood-prescribed hot-bod requirements: keeping his mind quiet.
All day, he’s been so busy. The meeting, shovelling the sidewalks, the supermarket and helping Myffy. The cat. The flour incident. That was just today, somehow. It feels like the longest day of his life.
He feels overtired. Like a little kid who has done too much and it’s so past their bedtime that they feel wired and half asleep all at once.
And the thing is, there is one specific thought he keeps mulling over – one that isn’t the big, wider what the hell do I do about my career thought. And it probably has to be voiced. Especially given how tired he is. And there’s a good chance that he’s not going to be here just one more night.
Is he really going to talk about this? It’s not something he brings up with strangers, or really anyone outside his need-to-know circle, but maybe Christopher technically falls into that category now, especially as he’s somewhat responsible for him.
His old therapist would tell him to just talk about it, but that doesn’t make it any easier.
Often, in fact, talking about it has actually been the problem.
What if it becomes a problem? After all, they’re in one small apartment together, or, well, one small van right now.
Is now the right time? Maybe he should wait until Christopher isn’t behind the wheel, but this way Nash doesn’t have to look at him or read Christopher’s reactions as he takes in his secrets.
But then again, after watching how Christopher is with people – awkward but well-intentioned and thoughtful – maybe it’ll be different this time.
And if not, well, it can’t be as bad as the last time. Worst case, he finds someone at the community centre to drive him somewhere. Anywhere.
The people he lives with always find out eventually, and he and Christopher are so constantly in each other’s way that there’s no way he’s not going to see it unless Nash is really lucky.
Plus, Christopher seems kind of oblivious to some things.
But they should have a conversation. As much as he’d rather throw himself out the van before they do that.
He clears his throat and stares out of the window at the bright moon over the mountains.
‘The answer is, I can’t, by the way.’
‘The answer to what?’ Christopher asks, glancing over briefly.
‘Whether I can drive. You asked me earlier.’
‘Oh.’ There’s a little surprised tone in his voice. ‘I thought LA was basically one massive road.’
‘It is.’
‘You didn’t learn there?’
‘Oh, I did.’ It’s hard to just say it and explain what he means, and he knows he’s making it worse by going round the houses about it.
Beside him, Christopher frowns, clearly trying to work out if he’s missed something in Nash’s half-deliberate obtuseness. But credit to the guy, he doesn’t ask any more, waiting for Nash to fill in the silence rather than adding more questions into the mix.
Nash breathes out slowly, feels the tension loosen under his diaphragm. ‘I’m . . . legally not allowed to drive, and before you get all excited, there’s no scandal or anything that resulted in me losing my licence.’
‘I wouldn’t even consider it. Not a single imagined road-rage incident or dramatically wrecked car from arguing with someone while they were driving.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ he drawls, a little relieved Christopher is keeping this light.
With his eyes set on the dark shadow of the peak ahead, he says, ‘I have seizures. I didn’t as a kid, that’s how I learned how to drive, but when I hit my twenties, I kept getting these weird moments pretty regularly.
And I fall into this helpful little sweet spot where they don’t really know what’s going on or why, and none of the medication we’ve tried works, so I just .
. . have to manage them. Things like making sure I eat right and sleep enough and don’t get too stressed out.
It doesn’t stop them from happening, but it stops me having so many. ’
Nash braces himself for the usual barrage of questions, or slightly awkward statements.
After all, most people’s major touchpoint for seizures is in medical dramas when someone’s going downhill fast. So few people seem to know anyone who just has seizures and lives with them.
But, Christopher pauses. Takes a moment.
Eventually, he says, ‘That must be tricky, to manage with work and life, especially if the seizures take a lot out of you.’
This wasn’t quite what he was expecting and, in fact, Nash is fairly sure no one has ever said this as the first response before.
Usually, it’s an apology, as though it was their fault or a major disaster, rather than a fact of his life that he has to live with.
Or platitudes, yes, he’s used to those. And there was that one time, a freakout about whether it was contagious – he’s glad to not repeat that.
But this is . . . different.
Christopher is different.
‘Why are you giving me that look?’
‘Keep your eyes on the road, Calloway.’
‘Then stop giving me weird looks!’
‘I’m just . . .’ Suspicious. Surprised. A little taken aback. Trying to work it all out. He doesn’t want to say all that out loud. ‘That was a very considerate response,’ he says, finally.
It delights him a little to see Christopher huff. ‘I’m very considerate. You shouldn’t be surprised by that.’ He looks like a fluffed-up chicken.
‘Sure.’
‘I am.’
‘I don’t think it counts if you insist on it. Plus, the brand of considerate you showed me the last thirty-six hours is more like . . . deeply irritating.’
‘Excuse me?’ Christopher says, but there’s a tiny laugh and a smile caught in there.
He’s relieved. These conversations usually go a different way. It’s so tricky to be vulnerable about this that he usually resorts to humour and then people get weird about it. At least Christopher seems willing to meet him there. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘I do not.’
‘The way you just like, lurk around asking me if I need things. That whole flapping thing you do.’
‘I have just been trying to be hospitable in an unexpected situation!’ Nash can still see the telltale sign of a grin in the corner of Christopher’s lips. ‘If I’m so annoying, then stop saying yes to things.’
‘Why would I do that when you keep doing things for me?’
They both laugh, and when a quiet settles between them, it’s not sharp or brittle. It’s . . . comfortable.
‘And you don’t have be suspicious about my reaction, by the way,’ says Christopher, using what Nash is starting to recognise as his serious voice. ‘My sister is disabled, though she doesn’t have seizures. She has this thing called a connective tissue disorder—’
‘Oh, Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, right?’
Christopher’s eyebrows practically shoot up into his hairline. ‘Yes. You’re the first person I’ve met who knows what that is.’
‘Eyes on the road please,’ Nash reminds him. ‘Yeah, a lot of people with EDS have some flavour of seizures too. Clearly, the support groups are a wealth of surprisingly useful info for conversations in cars with near-strangers.’
The jokes are a comforting place to return to, a nonchalant head space where he can pretend it’s not a big deal. Being earnest is hard because it means being honest about his feelings and his life, and that’s not something that Nash particularly likes to do. But he’s taken the lid off now.
‘Would it be helpful to tell me about them? Like, in case you have one while you’re here, or feel unwell, and need some help?’ Christopher asks.
Nash desperately tries to ignore the clutching feeling in his chest, and instead lets out a teenage-esque groan. ‘I suppose so. But honestly, you probably won’t notice.’
‘I’m pretty sure I’d notice a seizure.’
‘You apparently didn’t notice your sister was in love with your fake girlfriend.’
‘You weren’t even there. And that’s different.’
‘Is it?’ he teases.
Christopher parks the van in the drive, and they both stomp inside out of the bitter cold.
‘Tea?’ Christopher asks, and Nash nods as they wander upstairs to the flat.
* * *
It all feels so . . . terrifyingly normal. Domestic. And Nash hates to admit it, but he feels relaxed. Comfortable.
The flat is slightly warmer now the window isn’t wide open, and outside the orangey sunset turns quickly to a dark purple. There’s not enough light in this country, it turns out.
Beside him, Christopher pours hot water into the cups and stirs. He’s quiet, perhaps still taking in everything Nash said to him in the car.
‘No rogue cats this time,’ Nash says.
‘No,’ Christopher adds a little sadly.
‘We’ll go looking tomorrow.’ He’s not sure why he promises this but Christopher looks so downtrodden and is being so nice that it slips out of him.
They walk into the living room and sit down at either end of the couch.
‘So, you were saying they’re not easy to notice?’ Christopher ventures, blowing on the hot tea.
‘Yeah, there’s no shaking or anything really. I think that’s what most people think of. Kurt, that’s my agent, says I look like I’ve powered down, and before it happens, I get a bit slurry. He says I look like a rabbit in the headlights.’
Actually, what Kurt had said was that he looked like someone had brought up the concept of commitment to him, but that’s a whole other side to Nash that he has no desire to get into right now.
‘Do you know they’re happening? Or are you totally out?’