Page 52 of Seen
“Fucking beautiful, man!” I grab two tumblers and throw them. And then some half pints. A champagne flute.
“What the fuck, Neil!” Ez advances on me. In my periphery, I spot someone else advancing on me too, big and shadowy. I dart for the exit, taking a whole row of shot glasses with me like fucking dominoes. Clank, clank, clank, onto the floor. Someone whoops with delight—pretty sure it’s me.
My foot skids over ice, sending me listing forward. My other foot does the same. I grab for the wet bar; it slips out of my grasp. And then I’m tipping, falling, tipping falling, arms windmilling and backstroking through the air. My shoulder hits the floor first, then my hip, my thigh, and then my face.
Ez screams—who knew Ez, cool, sexy Ez, could fucking scream?
My hands scream too, sharp, like lemon juice, taking my breath away. A hot red bloom opens up on my forearm, so bright even my heart flinches. Glass sticks out of my skin; I stare at it in wonder. A big, jagged shard of truth and idiocy right there. Time turns syrupy. I’m watching from above, as if this trainwreck’s happening to someone else. Someone stupid enough to think destruction might feel like catharsis. Stupid enough to believe in the cleansing power of anger.
And then the room tilts even harder; the pulse in my ears thrums even louder. Ezra’s arms around me are strong, Gerald’s stronger still. Alaric issues orders in his lisping shrill voice, Isaac calls for security, Jess phones for an ambulance.
After that, I’m swallowed by a red tide. I don’t give a fuck who does what.
CHAPTER 21
LUKE
Some of us don’t run when things get ugly, Luke.
That’s great, but some of us haven’t got the resilience to cope with being screamed at and told to fuck off. Twice.
I don’t return home straight away. I stomp around Hackney Downs for a while and then Tesco’s. Sainsbury’s isn’t deserving of my money today.
Hauling two bags of shopping I don’t need, I let myself into my little flat. Safe. Quiet. Predictable. I should really eat something, but I’m having a hard time contemplating anything but my row with Neil. Too nervous about visiting him, I skipped lunch.
Could he have supported me during my mental health blip if I’d let him into my misery instead of shutting him out? Would his hot chocolate and toast soldiers have helped me recover, during my self-imposed exile in Wales? Would he have stayed by my side? Or would he have taken one look at the state I was in and fled?
Some of us don’t run when things get ugly, Luke.
My answer is right there.
From my jam-packed fridge, I pull out ingredients for a stir fry. Since Neil’s observations regarding my cutlery drawer, my fridge is now much better organised too– ready-to-eat snacks up top, boring everyday staples in the middle, and raw stuff down the bottom so nothing leaks over the rest and ruins my week. Ten minutes later, oil heats, onions soften, and the pan sizzles far too loudly in the still air. At the table, a single plate patiently waits.
Is this it? Is this my future now? Silent dinners for one?
I take out my phone, scared to look at it until now, in case Neil decided to send another barrage my way. He hasn’t; there’s a missed call from Alaric and nothing else. I delete it, not in the mood to speak to him today. Though Alaric never intentionally hurts me– he includes me into every aspect of his life, bar his bed– I don’t want to hear about him and Gerald right now. Other people’s cosy domesticity reminds me too much of my lack of it.
Why didn’t I stay when Neil became angry? He’s pissed off with life– for good reason– and my reflex is to run? What if I’d stayed? When things turned ugly, what if I’d stayed? What if I’d calmed him like I’ve done before, waited for the storm to blow through, then told him the harsh truths about me? After all, he’s shared his deepest fears and biggest secret. Why couldn’t I share the horrors of my mental health with him? What’s the worst that could have happened? Being cuddled to death?
Feel a feeling, touch a hand, lick a wall, Luke.
By the time I’ve eaten, washed up, and stared at my thriving peace lilies as if they somehow bring me closer to Neil, his words don’t hurt the way they did when he spat them at me. If all my years of depression, counselling, anxiety, and treatment have given me anything, it’s the tools to identify when someone else is hurting. The shouty Neil from earlier wasn’t the Neil I’ve grown to care for. I recognise that now. Then, I was too wrapped up in my own inner monologue to see it. The strain in his voice, thatscared fissure when he called after me. His defiant antagonism, sheltering something bigger he’d rather the world didn’t see. Neil was crying for help, even if he didn’t know it himself.
And I ran in the wrong direction. But I'm tired of running. I’m tired of beingalone. Since Neil tumbled (literally) into my life, it doesn’t feel like living any more. I’m tired of the days slipping by as everyone else performs, leaving me watching from the wings. For sure, the wings are a safe place to stay. My routines—swimming, work, drinks with friends—ground me. But…
Alaric phones a second time. This occasion, he leaves a message sayingplease call mefollowed by a red cross hospital emoji. Maybe something has happened at work.
“I heard you were back in the land of the living, babe,” he greets me. “Glad that you’re feeling better.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“You don’t sound very happy about it. Guess that means you’ve heard.”
I frown. “Heard what?”
“That your favourite sexy singer got blind drunk, had an argument with some broken glass, and lost. I’m with him now, at the hospital. Listening to him snore.”
My stomach lurches. “What? Did he fall off the stage?”
