Page 41 of Reckless

“I know,” I said, guilt and shame swirling in my gut and crawling up my throat. Anger too, because who the fuck was he to talk to me like this? Like he had some say in how I lived? Like we were anything. And he must have heard the edge in my voice.

His head dropped forward. He let out a long, slow breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “Just... just be careful.”

“I will,” I said, and figured we both knew it was a lie.

He turned. His face was drawn, pale, the shadows under his eyes deeper than they had been when I first arrived. He looked like a man who had been hollowed out and left to dry.

“Thank you,” he said. “That means more than you know.”

He crossed the room and sat down on the stool beside the examination table, close enough that his knee almost brushed my leg. He didn’t meet my eye. Instead, he looked at his own hands, folded loosely in his lap.

“Alastair,” I said, and his name felt strange on my tongue, intimate and unfamiliar.

He looked up. His eyes were wet, but he wasn’t crying, and I felt an overwhelming rush of hopelessness, because of this thing between us that wasn’t anything, but was also something, and I didn’t know how to just fucking ask. Or was afraid I wouldn’t like the answer he gave.

“I’m sorry,” I said again, because it was the only thing I knew how to say. “I’m sorry I wasn’t—” I stopped. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want your apology, Robbie,” he said. “I want you to promise me you won’t get yourself hurt next time. You can’t keep doing this.”

“Sure I can,” I muttered. I just wanted to be home, away from these bright lights and away from Alastair. I started to get off the table but had to stop to let a surge of nausea pass.

“No, you can’t. This is really, really not okay.”

“But why does it matter to you?” I asked, genuinely confused. “I’ll pay you back for the painkillers or whatever.” I had discovered, at some point during the exam, that I didn’t have my wallet on me. Which was a mystery to solve another day. If Kat didn’t kill me first, since the feed store receipts were in that wallet.

“That’s not what I’m worried about!”

I’d never heard him speak that sharply. He wasn’t shouting, but he was definitely—loud. Loud enough that my head throbbed. “Well, what are you worried about, then?” I demanded, the pain making me loud too.

“You!” he said. “For Christ’s sake, I’m worried about you. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“I’ve been doing this for years.”

“And you’re lucky you haven’t got anything more serious than an STI from it. Until now.” He looked again at my face, and I realised his cheeks were red, his eyes almost wild.

I ducked my head. “I’ve had worse than this,” I snapped, feeling heat rush to my own face. “Why is it any of your business? All you want from me is the same thing as those guys, just you dress it up with fancy talk.” The words exploded out of me. I didn’t know if I really believed them. Of course I didn’t. I just wanted to hurt him the way he’d hurt me. Which was stupid, because he didn’t even know he’d hurt me. Because I’d never said I wanted anything from him except to go upstairs with him now and then.

I could actually see the red fade from his cheeks. Like turning off a stove burner. Then he just looked pale. And really sad; he wasn’t even trying to hide it. My guilt hurt worse than anything any guy in Newcastle had ever done to me.

“Oh,” he said, in that tired voice I remembered from my first visit to his office. “Robbie.”

But I wasn’t ready to stop. “I didn’t even do whatever you think I did. I didn’t do anything. I went to some guy’s place, but…” I didn’t want to tell Alastair I’d been about to let the guy fuck me but then puked on him instead. “I tripped going down some stairs. That’s what the bruises are from.” What had started as righteous indignation fizzled out towards the end, until I didn’t even recognise my own voice, it had got so quiet. I just wanted to be home. Let Kat mutter about what an idiot I was, as long as I could see Gerty and Sam and sit in the fields for a while and not think about any of this. “I didn’t do anything with him,” I repeated.

Without thinking, I drew my legs up onto the exam table and hugged my knees, resting my forehead on them. I must have looked ridiculous; I was too big for the table to begin with, and the paper tore under my boots as I tightened my arms around myself to hold the awkward position. The jumper’s already-precarious zip strained. The bruise on my cheek throbbed as I mashed my face harder against my knees.

I heard Alastair get up. I thought he was going to leave and give me some privacy. Like he was embarrassed for me, or too angry to keep talking. But then his hand settled on my shoulder. He didn’t say anything, just stood there beside me. After a while, I sighed and let my legs slide back over the edge of the table. I clutched the table’s lip with both hands. I didn’t look at Alastair. Wouldn’t be able to ever again, probably. I blinked until the blurry room sharpened.

The silence stretched between us, long and terrifying. I kept my gaze fixed on the floor, bracing for him to say something kind and professional and devastating—something that would let me down gently and send me on my way.

Instead, he reached out and put a hand over mine.

His fingers were warm and dry, wrapping around mine like they belonged there. He didn’t squeeze. He just held, steady and patient, like he was waiting for me to decide whether to pull away.

“Robbie,” he said again. “Do you…?” But he didn’t ask his question. “It’s alright,” he said softly instead. “I promise, it’s alright.”

“I want to go home,” I said hoarsely.

“Okay.” He shifted closer to me and put his other hand on my shoulder. I took a deep breath, wanting to memorise the clean smell of him. Wishing I wasn’t the one to make him sound so tired and look so sad. “Do you have anyone who can come and pick you up?”