Chapter 22 #2
Not a dog, then. Definitely, not a dog.
He walks into his bedroom and begins to undress. His cycling clothes are in the laundry from a ride last week, but he can pull them out and wear them again. They’ll be sticky with old sweat and will probably stink to high heaven, but if he pedals fast and doesn’t stop, does it really matter?
He lays his discarded clothing on the bed, strides into the en-suite bathroom and rifles through the laundry basket. The cycling gear is moist and smelly, as predicted. He perches on the side of the bath. It was the honourable thing to do, right? Right?
He pulls the padded shorts on over his boxers and pulls the ties tight at the waist. Yes.
Of course, it was the responsible thing to do.
Lorraine’s phone call had been a timely reminder.
A fortuitous pull back to reality and the authentic version of himself that he sometimes loses sight of in Heather’s company.
The unreliable, loner that people are better off without.
That’s who he truly is now.
Heather might not know it, but she has had a lucky escape.
As has he. One night, he can get away with.
Just. He can consign the incredible sex and the completeness of their connection to his memory as a one-off.
Not to be repeated. Had they gone there again – and my goodness, had he wanted to – and if it had been even a fraction as good the second time around, he doesn’t know whether he would have had the resolve to do the right thing.
He stands and inspects his face in the bathroom mirror.
‘You had a lucky escape,’ he says, as though it’s a dress rehearsal and he’s performing for Heather on the other side of the glass.
‘Trust me, if you know what I’ve done. If you know what I’m capable of, you’d never want to go there.
’ His eyes look pained as he speaks. ‘There’s a reason I don’t do relationships,’ he says to complete the monologue, ‘and trust me, with you, I don’t know that I’d have the power to resist if we started something new.
’ He stares at his face for a few seconds more.
His eyes have moistened. He wipes them angrily with the back of his hand.
‘Come on,’ he says, this time to himself.
‘You’ve got this. You’ve been here before.
You know what to do.’ And he does. There’s a reason he immerses himself in adventurous activities and is constantly searching for the next challenge, the more intense the better.
The all-consuming nature of these activities leaves no space for other thoughts to get in.
The ones kept in his head stay there, secreted and under lock and key.
The only safe space for them. He takes a deep breath and pulls the cycling top over his head without inhaling.
The smell is bound to dissipate once he’s outdoors.
He grabs his keys, phone, water bottle and cycling specs and pulls the door to with a bang behind him.
The echo reverberates around the hallway as he leaves.
It’s a good ride. Great, in fact, so when he gets home, flooded with endorphins and sees a text from her on his phone, he reads it with a shifted mindset.
Because, maybe, if they work to keep their guard up, they can still see each other, knowing that sex is off the table.
He knows, deep down, that the idea wouldn’t hold up to scrutiny, but the fact of the matter is, he can’t get her out of his head.
No matter how hard he pedals or what distance he covers.
He wipes the sweat from his brow and reads her message.
“Hope you’re doing okay. So, I understand what you said yesterday.
And that’s fine. I get it. It’s probably the most sensible thing for both of us.
Thing is, now I’m home and looking at my finances, I’m going to struggle to help Georgia with next year’s higher rent without an additional income.
You offered to help set me up with a painting website.
Are you still up for it? There’s no pressure.
I’m just not really in a position to pay anyone.
Let me know. I’m free next weekend, the one after, but not the one after that. H x.”
He reads it again, more slowly this time.
He did offer to help. Her message sounds light enough.
Breezy, in fact. And it would be no good for Brianna if Georgia had to pull out of their new place because of money issues.
So, technically, this would be for Brianna.
He swipes at his calendar. There’s a training ride next weekend, but the one after is free.
He could, in theory, do that. He likes website building. It might be fun.
His fingers, driven entirely by dopamine and his determination to be the good guy, begin to type.
“Doing okay, thanks. You? Weekend after next good. Come to St Albans? I’ve got all the monitors and gadgetry here, so it’ll be easier if you don’t mind a train trip. S x.”
Her reply is instantaneous. “I’m good. Don’t worry. The weekend after next is perfect. Love the idea of a train ride. H x.”
He wonders if it’s not the only thing she loves the idea of.
There it is again: the ‘L’ word.
Stop it, Scott.
Stop it!