Page 37 of Seen
Typically, the usual worries creep in. Is this simply exhaustion? Have I overcooked things, or is something deeper slipping again? I’ve been here before, thanks to misplaced confidence in my ability to differentiate between tired and unwell. Taking on extra stuff and believing I can handleeverything. I’m ninety percent certain this is merely the former, since I’ve had a stimulating, wonderful twenty-four hours. And anyway, Neil isn’tstuff. He’s way more. The Neil I’m growing close to, the one even Alaric doesn’t know exists, is a revelation. He’s funny and kind and, despite his own huge ongoing drama, is nothing but considerate. Brave too, because he's holding all his anxieties about his future inside whilst trying to appear normal on the outside. I know from personal experience how much courage that takes. The Neil Alaric recognises, someone whose internal depth is only measured with a microscope, is a character I’m not sure Neil believes in himself.
And I’m glad. I want more of this one, and I want more of us, if it’s something he wants too. If that involves supporting him as he comes to terms with his worsening vision, then I’m right here.
Right now, however, my soul is slipping into my pyjamas. My cosy quiet flat, my squishy sofa, and mindless telly are calling.
Neil, bless him, spots me yawning. “You want to head out?” he whispers as Isaac and Alaric pore over the dessert options. “I’m done here, too. Let me go pay for us at the bar and I’ll join you outside.”
On the short walk home, we’re both quiet.
“I don’t like them teasing you,” he says as we reach the corner where we go different ways. “I accept that I’m fair game—I’ve dished it out enough over the years—but you’re not.”
“I don’t mind. It’s only Alaric. Teasing, flirting, and being provocative are his love languages.”
Neil frowns. “I don’t care. I almost told him to shut the fuck up.”
“I’m glad you didn’t. I can look after myself.”
He throws me a sidelong glance, turning his head to get me in the centre of his visual field. “I think you probably can. You’re tougher than you look.”
At the moment, I don’t feel very tough. My legs are leaden.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Fine.” I cover a yawn with my hand. “Just tired.”
He pulls me to a stop, his dark eyes searching mine. This close, and head on, he can see me perfectly and he’s not entirely buying it. “You’d tell me, wouldn’t you, if something was wrong? This helping each other business goes two ways, you know.”
“Of course,” I lie. If this is a mini crash, I manage them alone. No one could help me. Only time, sleep, and medicines hold the key. I pray this is only exhaustion; I’m not ready for Neil to see me having a full-blown downer. “Honestly, I’m just tired. I know my limits, and this weekend I’ve stepped beyond them.” I drag my gaze down the length of him, unable to help myself lingering over a certain part. “You’re quite a lot.”
Hopefully convinced, he laughs and pulls me into a hug. “Dear Lord, protect my outline from the wicked gaze of this lustful Jezebel. I’m busy at work for a couple of days, covering for one of the regulars on leave. Can I see you after that? Will you call me, or text?”
A thrill rolls through my weariness. “Are you asking me on another date?”
He kisses the top of my covered head, squeezing me tight. “Not exactly.”
“Oh, okay.” I haven’t got the spoons to deal now. I can’t even muster up a blush at my apparent misunderstanding. If it’s supportive company for another trip to the hospital he’s after, then I can–
“God help me,” Neil’s voice says in the vicinity of my hooded right ear, “but I’m not after a date. I think…I think what I’masking is whether you’re interested in having a situationship with me, rash whisperer.”
“Yeah?” My weary heart manages a weary flip.
“Yeah.” Neil treats me to a final brush of his soft lips against mine. “Who knew that was one of the lesser-known symptoms of RP?”
CHAPTER 15
LUKE
I knew this endless run of good feelings was too good to be true. The warning signs were there at Sunday lunch. The only thing missing is a mild head cold, which lands twelve hours later. Innocuous on its own, hot on the heels of an overwhelming weekend, it knocks me over the edge and rolls me a little way down the slope. My scalp itches, as if reminding me my hair hasn’t been pulled recently. I tell myself it will pass if I ignore the signals, resist the urge. I’m in control, and for the next few days, soldiering on at work stuffed with paracetamols, hot water, and lemon, I almost kid myself it’s true.
But by Thursday, even though my sniffly nose is improved, fifty lethargic lengths of my local pool do nothing to shake off the accompanying heaviness.
Isaac joins me at the pool. We occasionally swim together, starting when we both worked in ED. I was still getting back on my feet after my illness, and he was having brother and daddy issues.
“You okay?” he asks as we take our coffees to a quiet corner of the upstairs café afterwards.
Isaac’s good at sensing when my mood dips, but never makes a deal of it. Though Alaric is too, he usually comes with a million practical suggestions tagged on, to pull me out of it.Talk it through, splurge on something nice, have a relaxing massage.So mentally robust himself, he doesn’t realise quick fixes aren’t always the solution.
“So-so. A bit down.” I wrap my hands around my mug. “You know, the usual. I’ll give it a couple of days, and if I don’t feel any better, then I’ll take some time out of work and head to Wales.”
