Page 85 of Counting Down To You

Mum hugs me tighter, stroking my hair. “Oh, love.”

And I stay there, wrapped in my mother’s arms, crying until I can’t cry anymore.

—

When I wake, the curtains are drawn and it’s almost pitch-black. I fumble for the lamp on my bedside table and blink around the unfamiliar room—pale blue walls, with a simple wardrobe and a chest of drawers. Tasteful artwork hangs in the bare space on the walls—artwork my mum must have bought in the last year or so, because I don’t remember seeing it before.

I don’t want to check my phone, see what messages I might have from Leo. Or if he’s even messaged me at all. Would that be worse, or easier, if he doesn’t try to contact me?

Instead of dealing with it either way, I find my calendar.

Get up and see sunrise the right side of the day.

It’s like Robyn is giving me an easy one after yesterday—after the challenge I can’t currently think about. But this makes me think of Refuge, of waking next to Leo and getting up to watch the sunrise from the balcony. A challenge I’ve already completed, but that’s not what is making my throat tight.

He knew Robyn. He knew he was ahead of her on the transplant list—or, at least, that he was more compatible with the heart that came in. He got the heart that was supposed to be Robyn’s. And I slept with him.

I remember his hesitation. There’s so much you don’t know about me.

Turns out he was right. Was that him trying to tell me?

He could have tried harder, I think, clenching my hands into fists. When I told him about my friend who died, he’d already known. He’d known and he hadn’t said anything. He’d told me that it was someone else who had been sick—an outright lie. And all the challenges…It was his way of making it up to me, wasn’t it? That leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

I smooth out the little piece of paper, leaving it on my bedside table before getting up and heading to the kitchen, not bothering to change out of my pajamas. It’s barely light outside, but Mum is already up. She makes me a coffee without asking, choosing milky tea for herself, then we sit opposite each other at the kitchen table, like we used to when I came back on university breaks. A different house, but some habits, it seems, are hard to break.

“Graham not up?” I ask, blowing on my coffee.

“He’s a late sleeper.” It’s said with an affectionate smile, like sleeping late is something endearing.

Mum gives me a scrutinizing look over the rim of her mug. But before she can ask, I pipe up with, “So is James still coming for Christmas?”

“He is,” she says slowly. “Any day now, I think.”

So that means I’ll have to find somewhere else to go if I don’t want to see him.

Like Mum can hear my thoughts, she says, “Maybe it would be nice if the two of you could catch up.”

Call your brother. Seeing him would definitely count, I know. But still…

“I can’t, Mum.”

“Why not?”

I frown. I really think she ought to get this.

“I know he’s not perfect,” she continues. “I know he left when you needed support—and when I wasn’t in any fit state to give it.”

“That’s not—” I hate the idea that Mum might be blaming herself for some of this.

“But he has his own demons, you know. He has his own regrets. And things are never as black and white as they seem, are they?” She hesitates, then, “He’s trying, Ali. The fact that he’s coming to stay shows that he’s trying. And if we push him away now, that will be it. Do you really want that?”

I don’t answer, because I’m not sure how to. He’s not trying hard enough, if you ask me. Never has done. He could have called me. He could have come to Robyn’s funeral. But there’s a part of me that wonders—do I really never want to speak to him again? What will I think in five or ten years’ time, if the fracture between us turns into a permanent break?

Then Mum asks the question I’ve been dreading. “How are you, Ali?”

I start to say, “I’m good!” the way I always do when she asks. But I am far from good, and Mum will know that, since I sobbed into her arms for what felt like a solid thirty minutes yesterday.

“I’m…” I set my coffee down, push my messy hair away from my face. “God, I don’t even know where to start.” I look out of the kitchen window at the garden—bigger than the one we had in London. “I thought I was being brave, trying to do something different, but it turns out I’m not so brave after all. I fell for a guy I shouldn’t have.” Fell for. The term feels so right, like I didn’t have a choice in the matter. Like it was something I shouldn’t have done. “A guy who lied to me.” I feel my top lip quiver. “I really, really miss Robyn.” Tears prick my eyes. “I miss her, Mum,” I say, the words thick. “Every damn day.”