Chapter 7 #2
“Why can’t you just be friends?” I find myself asking.
Dean gives me a dead look, but Eli and Leo look at me intently, like I might be on to something.
And actually, I think I am, even if that was a random blurt.
From the tiny smile lifting his mouth, Leo’s definitely having a lightbulb moment, and he gives me an almost imperceptible wink.
Because she’d still have to deal with me. Eventually she’d see…something happen, and she could still get hurt. Leo starts translating once again.
“Well, we don’t mind running that gauntlet. Why should she?” Em has a fire in her eyes, and I grin at her. Plucky little baggage. I smother a snort when I look at Dean’s face, gaping at her like he just got served .
“I mean,” I add, taking up her baton, “even if it doesn’t go anywhere romantic, wouldn’t you like to just be friends with her?
Or…hmmm.” I think about it a little further.
I tend to spitball out loud and then figure out what I’m saying along the way.
“ Would it be better to still have her in your life even if it’s just as a friend, or would that be a constant kick in the nuts? ”
Dean thinks for a long moment, and then sighs. Probably both at the same time.
“You know what would be fun, and a totally wholesome, threat free friend activity?” Leo says suddenly. “Wow. Threat-free-friend-activity. Not an easy thing to say ten times real fast.”
Dean almost smiles. Go on.
“Next time we do karaoke at the Red Lion, we should invite her along. I mean, that singing voice of hers sounded pretty cool on those YouTube videos. Wouldn’t you love to see that live?”
He rubs his forehead, looking frustrated again.
She did invite me to her next gig, but there’s just no way.
A crowd that large? He shakes his head.
I’d be pouring with sweat and running for the exit before the end of her first song.
I can’t let her see that. And besides, it’s usually nothing but the greatest hits of the eighties at those nights .
“We’ll all be there,” Eli assures him, breaking out of watchful mode. “If you want to go, you’ll have us to back you up, and there’d be fewer people than at a live gig. No big crowds. This is one of Leo’s better ideas.”
“Thanks, bro,” Leo preens, “and besides, I can slip John a few quid to keep certain tracks off the rotation.” He’s good friends with all the DJs and comperes in town, so I have no doubt he could easily swing that.
He’s tempted. I can see in Dean’s face that the idea is taking hold: of being able to spend time with Liaden outside of Wishbone, as friends, with clear boundaries to make him feel safer, and with us there as moral support. I hope so much that he goes for it. I don’t like seeing him so down.
I don’t know. Maybe , he finally says.
Leo offers me a lift home, and I gratefully accept because it’s ball shrinkingly cold out.
He’s quiet, focusing hard on the road. I think Dean being unhappy has gotten to him.
He very much sees himself as our big brother, all four of us, and I think he almost takes it personally when any of us are upset, which is the reason for all the WhatsApp groups he creates to monitor our happiness.
I can almost see his mind whirring with ideas, brainstorming new ways around Dean’s needs. It’s kind of adorable.
It makes me briefly want to pour my heart out to him like a flash flood, because I know, underneath trying to solve everything for me, he’d listen without judgement to all the things I’m struggling to admit to myself.
He’d have made a good priest, in some ways, except for his sexual incontinence and general tomfoolery.
But I keep it all to myself again.
We turn onto the road where the parlour is, and I have a lightbulb moment.
“Since you’re going home home tonight, could you just drop me off at Wishbone?
” Leo owns the leasehold of the building, and he’s always let all of us use the studio flat whenever we like, so long as he doesn’t need it, so I know this won’t be a problem.
He gives me a surprised look, but doesn’t question it. Bless you, Leo Mills . “Sure.”
I don’t need to say anything else, but the silence is loud. “I just…it’s complicated,” I mutter lamely.
“I’m sure it is.” His voice sounds kind. Not at all like his usual Tigger-ish ways. Not nosing into my business, or giving me the inevitable, obvious advice I don’t want to hear, from him or anyone else. “If you want to talk anything out, I’m here.” He pulls in next to the parlour.
“Thanks, but I’m good.”
He nods, accepting what I say without trying to change my mind, and opens his arms. “How about hug it out instead?”
I lean over and let myself be engulfed. He smells woody, with a hint of the fresh Foxton sea breeze. I inhale the comforting scent, feeling warmed and reassured in ways I didn’t realise I needed. He really is my best friend.
When I get out of the car, I stick my head back through the window. “Dean’s got it bad, eh?”
Leo sighs.“Looks like it.”
I purse my lips. “I don’t think any of us realised just how much he likes her. I hope he gets what he needs from this. I mean…he’s not wrong about some of the risks, and it would be a lot to put on her , in some ways, but…”
He nods. “But it could be the making of him.”
We share a look of perfect understanding. It’s funny how often he and I agree about stuff. Almost as much as we disagree.
“And it’s gonna be, if I have anything to do with it,” he says, getting into gear. “Night, sweetpea. Dream something good.”
I grin. “Night, pumpkin.”
I head inside. Normally, even when we’re all hard at it in our studios, Wishbone thrums with life. Excited energy, sexy hard rock on the Spotify, the phone ringing off the hook. It’s odd to be here alone, when it’s dark and quiet. But kind of soothing, as well.
The wrought iron staircase up to the flat is really beautiful.
I think Leo rescued it from some reclaim place or other on the outskirts of London.
The whole upstairs flat, though small, is really nicely appointed generally.
One large bedroom, with an ensuite, and a small kitchenette to the left.
The bed is huge, six feet across and covered by the fluffiest duvet in existence.
And a faux fur throw like snow leopard print.
And an empty condom wrapper on the bedside table.
I chuckle to myself. At least someone around here is having fun. Thank fuck Leo’s being safe about it. He’ll never change, the loveable slut.
I hope Dean has some good times as well. I mean, his sex life is none of my business, but in all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him truly happy. Smiling, yes, but not happy . And I want him to enjoy some good times at last, and not have any of the bad.
My gut clenches as I switch my phone off.
I wanted some space from Peter tonight, after all, and it’s better to just avoid the ‘why isn’t he calling wondering where I am’ vicious cycle of thoughts.
I wonder what would be worse: going home to find him there, moody and sneering, or find him absent with no idea where he is, or why he isn’t hurrying home to see me anymore, the way he used to.
You don’t bring me flowers…
I snort at the self-pity I have in even thinking of that song unironically.
Get over yourself, woman. I strip off and settle under the covers and refusing to think about Peter anymore tonight.
Not the man he used to be, nor the man he is now.
I shut my eyes tight, refusing to open them again, and eventually, the lingering traces of my best friend’s aftershave on my pillow comforts me enough to allow me to fall asleep.
Dean
Beep.Beep.Beep .
Slow and constant.
It hurts to open my eyes, and everything is white or silver and much too bright.
Oh, right. I’m in the hospital. Fragments of unwelcome memory return to me, like the fact that I’m somehow still alive no matter how much I try to let go.
Gunfire, on and on and on, never stopping. Blood. Stinking death. His demented voice, “I know you’re iiiiiiiiin heeeeeeere”...
And the jangle of dropped keys.
The beeping gets faster and louder, clearer. I wish it wouldn’t. I wish it would just fucking stop.
Everything comes slowly into focus, and I see my mom touching my right hand, resting her head on my mattress as she sleeps. Her blonde and purple hair is in a greasy, collapsing ponytail, and even in sleep she looks tired out. I don’t think she’s left my side.
Nor has Dad. He’s asleep in a chair in the corner, frowning unhappily as he dreams.
And Eli’s sleeping with his head resting on the foot of the mattress on my left. When did he get here? I don’t remember seeing him before now.
I shift slightly, and my left arm feels weird. There’s a drip in it, the needle stinging oddly as it’s disturbed. Gross. I wonder what they’ve pumped me with so far. I wonder if I can have some more.
Mom stirs because I‘ve moved, and I try to say something, but nothing happens. I try again.
Nothing. Not a single sound.
“Sweetheart,” my mother whispers sadly, “it’s OK.
” She’s wide awake in seconds, like only mothers can be, and smooths the hair out of my face with the gentlest touch.
Tenderness is etched into every square inch of her face, and I notice a few strands of gray in her hair that I don’t remember seeing before.
More of the past few days - weeks, probably - floods in.
I’ve been drifting in and out of consciousness until time stopped meaning anything.
Everything hurts, especially my throat. I remember a man in scrubs telling me that they saved my life, but not my voice box, and my vocal cords are wrecked beyond any hope of salvaging.
Dr Uribe. He was pleasant, but very clearly exhausted.
Probably been elbows deep in the blood and guts of my classmates, trying to save us all.
I frown. I can’t speak anymore. I will never talk again. Ever.
Dad and Eli wake up. Eli starts when he sees me awake. “Dean,” he whispers, his face contorted with…with what? Guilt? I’ve no idea why.
Dad leaves the room, calling for a nurse.
“How are you feeling?” Mom flinches as she realizes what she just said, but I know what she means. “Sorry. I mean… Are you feeling rested?”
A yes/no question. Is this how it’s going to be for the rest of my life? Only two options open to me, thumbs up or thumbs down? How am I going to communicate any more than that to anyone? What the actual fuck am I gonna do?
“Bye, Cal.”
I jolt as something else comes screaming back to me, something that can’t be true, mustn’t be true, and I stare wildly at my mother.
I try to say Callie’s name, but not even a whisper comes out.
I can’t whisper? FUCK!! I try again, just mouthing it this time, hoping she can read my lips and understand what I’m struggling to ask.
Dad walks in with a nurse, who checks my vitals, but I keep staring at my mother’s face, so filled with grief and dread.
I’m willing her to tell me. Willing her not to tell me.
My mind desperately casts around for something to hold onto.
Maybe Callie got found, too. Maybe I was wrong, and she wasn’t dead.
What do I know about checking someone’s vitals?
Maybe Calista Lopez is in one of these other hospital rooms, clinging on, scarred and fucked up but alive, please, alive, so I can take care of her forever, whatever state she’s in…
“I’m so sorry, darling. Callie…she didn’t make it.” Mom’s voice cracks as she clutches my hand, willing strength into me, while Dad squeezes her shoulder. “I’m so sorry, darling…”
I squeeze my eyes shut against the truth. I knew. Of course I knew. I shouldn’t have asked.
And I have one more question.
Summoning up the very, very last of my courage, I mouth the words. I mouth her name. I need to know if she made it.
Mrs Oberman .
Mom flinches, and I wait in the silence. And then, very slowly, she shakes her head.
They’re dead.
Mrs O. Her baby. Dead because of me. It’s my fault. I hid in her classroom. I dropped the keys. He heard. He came back. It’s all my fucking fault…
I struggle against my weeping mother, against the nurse and my father and Eli, against the truth of what happened to my girlfriend and the pregnant woman I as good as killed. Can’t the doctors open me up again and just let me bleed out?
I scream. I scream. I scream.
But no sounds come.
Just terrible, choking silence.