Page 19 of Seen
“Look,” I begin. “I shouldn’t have said all that. Sorry, I think I need to go.”
I get as far as the door.
“What? You’re going to throw all that at me and then fuck off?”
“I have to. Sorry. I can’t do this. Alaric’s downstairs, maybe you should offload onto him. He’s?—“
“For fuck’s sake.” Neil flings himself onto the sofa, burying his face in his hands. He makes a sound horribly like a sob. “Don’t you get it? It’s not about the bloody asking for help. It’s about what happens after, isn’t it? What happens after I admit to everyone I need it.”
I pause, one hand on the door handle.
“What do you think will happen?”
“People will start treating me differently, won’t they? Start being fucking nice, reminding me all day, every day, that I’m not who I was. That my eyes are only going to get worse.”
“Yes, possibly. But…”
I remember the first time I came back to work after a period of ‘extended leave’, which could have been construed as a pleasant holiday away but clumps missing from my hair and my pallor suggested otherwise. That first step back into the hospital had been hellish. Whilst it’s not easy now, at least I’m not wasting energy covering up who I am.
Except where this man is concerned. He’s not seen me without my hood and long sleeves. Even a guy like me, who fell as far as a person can go, keeps a shard of vanity hidden away. And Neil’s way prouder than I’ll ever be.
“But Neil, by hiding and prolonging that moment you’re making life so hard for yourself. Why would you do that?”
Men like Neil don’t fall apart easily. But it’s there now in the clenching of his jaw, the shaking of his shoulders. He’s blinking too hard, too fast. When he manages to speak, it comes out in a whisper. “I think I do it because…because it lets me pretend I’ve still got time. I’m not ready for that role.”
I cross the floor to stand in front of him. I don’t lean down to hug him; spontaneous physical affection doesn’t come easily to me, and I don’t think to him either. Instead, I lay my hand onhis bare arm. “You do have time. Not to fix it—that’s never going to happen—but you need to stop wasting that precious time and your energies pretending you’re not scared. You are. I would be too, but there’s no shame in that.”
He doesn’t snatch his arm away, but he doesn’t lean into it either. “I don’t want to be someone people feel sorry for, Luke.”
“Then let people help you,” I plead, “so that you cope well.”
“I don’t know how to do that.”
Neil’s words hang there as I hover uselessly, watching him try to hold himself together. Wanting to help, wanting to step in, to say something—anything—but the right words feel too small and too scary, all at the same time. I tug at my hair.
“You could start with me.” My voice doesn’t shake, but pretty much everything else inside me does. “If you like.”
CHAPTER 9
NEIL
Half an hour after Luke leaves, I’m still trembling. Back and forth, back and forth, pacing in front of the window, biting down on my nails. I’m not even a fucking nail biter, but I’m still chewing them when I spy Luke exiting the club an hour later, shoulders hunched and hooded head down, swiftly striding away. I nearly begged him to stay; he’s the small voice of reason in my head given life. When he stood there, clutching my arm, for a brief fragment of time, he made it all sound so fucking achievable.
The pacing isn’t solving anything, but at least it gives my feet something to do whilst the rest of me tries to swallow the enormity of the steps I’m about to take. With Luke’s help.
Why him? Why, out of all the people I know—and there’s plenty of decent friends amongst them; my parents would be supportive too—is Luke the one I feel safe enough to unburden this shit onto?
He’s quiet, for sure, but he’s not soft. Far from it. He’s just had the balls to call me out on my bullshit. Not many would do that. Neither has he tried to fill me up with platitudes or falsehope that my RP might not turn out as badly as, deep down, I’ve always known it would. Even during the years I convinced myself I might dodge my fate. And if he truly does pity me, then those innocent hazel eyes do a damn good job of hiding it.
His offer to help was heartfelt and sincere. I don’t know how much it cost him, but he flicked that wristband and clenched and unclenched his fists as if he’d collapse if he didn’t. If his mental health problems have been as bad as he hinted, then maybe I shouldn’t take him up on it. I should have bottomed out the conversation. Alaric and Isaac won’t thank me if his health deteriorates and it’s all down to my influence.
But maybe it’s not too late.
I give Luke another hour to get home and get settled, picturing him in his busy flat. I didn’t spend much time studying it—too fucking wrapped up in my own drama, and my limited visual fields don’t let me surreptitiously sneak peaks out of the corner of my eye at anything. Yet the warmth and cosiness seeped into me as if I had my hands wrapped around a mug of cocoa. All the rich colours, patchwork throws, and exotic wall hangings felt like I’d escaped into another realm, calming me down almost as much as his reassuring capability with the accounts spreadsheet. He has artistic flair; so many bright colours thrown together from different materials and different eras, but it kind of worked.
I text him at eleven o’clock, when I’m in bed myself. Unheard of for me, I’m usually last man standing at kick-out time. The steady pounding of the bass two floors down is hard to miss, but I’m used to it.
Hi. Sorry I shouted and got upset. It’s been difficult holding it all in for so long. That was the first time I’ve let rip, and you didn’t deserve to be at the other end of it. I’ve been thinking about your offer. It’s massively appreciated, but are you sureyou are up to it? You know, health wise? I don’t want to stress you.
