Falling (16 page)

“I stood on some glass when we were on the beach,” Angus tells Oskar as he comes to offer his shoulder for Angus to lean on.

We continue up the path, Angus sandwiched between us. I roll my eyes. I was managing quite well supporting Angus on my own.

“Want me to take a look?” Oskar asks once we’re inside Eleanor’s flat.

I’m surprised to see the place looks a lot tidier than it did a week ago. Angus’s notes are no longer strewn like paper tiles across the floor. The washing up is done and put away. The place even smells fresher, as though someone has opened a window once or twice.

I lead Angus over to the sofa. I feel a little useless—I can’t help check his injury.

“I should go… get some stuff ready to eat,” I say, watching uncomfortably as Oskar sits down and begins to peel Angus’s bandage off his foot.

“Okay,” Angus says slowly, not taking his eyes off me. I get the impression he’s trying to tell me he understands. “You could come back down later maybe, or I could…?”

He leaves the words hanging as if he wants me to finish off the sentence, but I can’t, not with Oskar here. I don’t know why.

“Yeah, maybe,” I say.

I blink at him, hoping he’ll understand I’m not brushing him off, it’s just the complicated mess that is my brain refusing to cooperate. I’m not sure he gets it, but as Oskar hisses in a breath of sympathy at the sight of Angus’s cut, I turn around and leave them to it.

As I walk upstairs, I wonder why I can’t quite let myself jump into this with both feet like the giddy rejoicing part of me wants to. When it’s just me and Angus, I feel more and more sure of him—amazed by how well we fit together on some deep level, thrilled to be close to him, every one of my nerve endings set on fire by his presence. But when anyone else is around or I’m on my own, that certainty starts to recede and I’m back where I started, wondering what I’ve got to offer anyone apart from heartache—and Angus deserves so much more than that—and wondering why anyone in their right mind would want to be in a relationship anyway, giving anyone else that sort of dangerous power over their heart.

Of course, then comes the confusing knowledge that it doesn’t matter what you want or however much you try to fight it—if you fall in love, they have that power anyway.

I
WAKE
up almost twelve hours later with a dry mouth and a head feeling as though it’s made of concrete that had been left out in the baking sun. I lie blinking at the light shining in through the living room windows, trying to piece last night back together and finding I have nothing. I’m in the clothes I wore yesterday, and I’ve slept on the sofa all night. I don’t even think I dreamed.

Slowly, the whole of yesterday starts to come back to me, particularly the parts with Angus in the back of the car, particularly the warm weight of him in my arms, the scent of his skin. My cock stiffens at the memory. It’s a memory I could think on for a good long while—he turns me on so completely—but I don’t let myself. It would feel disrespectful somehow, getting off on that memory, using it, when really what I need to do is sort out my feelings about the whole situation.

I don’t regret it. Surprising myself, I acknowledge I don’t regret any of it, but now that I’ve slept on it, it’s hard to see it happening again. It’s hard to see me letting down my defenses enough for it to happen again. I’m not sure what happened yesterday to break through them.

Perhaps if I hadn’t curled up on my sofa, the velvet soft against my cheek, and fallen asleep, I really would have gone back downstairs. Perhaps I would have just gone for it and invited Angus back to my flat, where we would have had one of those sweet and achy first-time fucks that I’ve written about all over my kitchen walls. Perhaps a lot of things would have happened.

But it didn’t, and all I know now is that I care for Angus deeply and his friendship alone is no longer enough. The thought of him with anyone else makes my guts twist painfully and my heart tighten as though I’m having a panic attack (and it’s been years since I’ve had one of those).

If this goes wrong, it will fuck me up completely. There is no way it will not. But this self-sabotage has to stop. Perhaps I need to talk to him, be open, though I don’t know if I can.

Rolling off the sofa, I wait for my head to stop spinning before I check the time again, and get ready for work.

After a few minutes of indecision, I knock on Angus’s door before I leave. I just want to explain that I fell asleep last night, and I didn’t change my mind or regret anything. I wait for a minute or two, but nobody answers, so I leave, thinking Angus and Oskar are probably still asleep. There is a doubtful little voice that tells me they could be sleeping together—Angus could have been upset because he thought I knocked him back last night and needed some comfort—but that voice withers under my steady internal glare.

Angus is better than that—I know he is. Relationships that crumble because of jealousy or pathetic misunderstandings are never going to last.

I’
M
TIRED
.
The strain of yesterday, and still being weak from illness, makes finding the strength to do anything hard. But I make it through the day. Even though Soren is not a particularly sympathetic person, I know he’s watching me. I know he gives me the easy jobs to do, and he even refrains from leaving me to cope alone when it’s his lunch hour and he’s perfectly entitled to spend it away from the shop.

Despite his annoying habit of acting as though he has a right to know everything about everyone’s personal life, Soren doesn’t ask how my day at the beach went or if I even went to the beach.

What’s even more surprising is that if he asks, I’ll probably tell him. I’ve not stopped thinking about it.

There is still some weird excitement bubbling up inside me whenever I think about Angus. I don’t know what’s going to happen with him. I don’t even know what it is I
want
to happen with him, but for the first time in my life it’s the not known that I’m excited about—it’s the possibilities.

I
DRIVE
home quickly after work. Anticipation is making my heart beat wildly against my rib cage as if in an effort to escape my chest.

Betrayed by my body again
, I think with a half-giddy, half-heavy sigh.

Angus is on the front steps of the house, all wrapped up and waiting for me. He phoned me earlier and we arranged to go and see Eleanor together this evening. I thought going straight after work again would be the best idea and that way it would leave the evening free for… for whatever.

“How is your foot?” I ask, trying my utmost to act all calm and collected as he slips into the passenger seat beside me. I noticed he was hobbling a little as he walked down the path.

“Sore, but I can walk on it okay.”

I nod, banishing a vivid image of his foot all covered in blood yesterday.

I’m a mess of impulses. I’m finding it hard to make my brain work now he’s near me after thinking about him nonstop all day. I switch on the windscreen wipers by accident as I try to find something to do with my hand. The wipers protest noisily, and I feel my skin heating.

I never blush.
Never
,
never
,
never
. Crap.

Worst of all, I can’t tell if the buzz I’m feeling is just one-sided or if it’s coming from him as well.

The air feels charged between us, and if it’s not one-sided, Angus must be trying to ignore the hell out of it too.

“You all studied out for the test tomorrow?” I ask, changing the subject.

“Yeah, no more or I think my brain will explode into one-sentence fragments.” He laughs, his cold breath visible in the freezing evening air.

I stare at his mouth and think about kissing him.

“I hope you weren’t waiting outside for long. I rushed back from work, but traffic is a bitch at this time of day.” Impulsively I reach out and squeeze his hand—his fingers are like sticks of ice. It seems my body is going for it even if my brain is ten steps behind. “You’ll be fine tomorrow, you know. I’ve never known anyone be as prepared as you are.”

“We’ll see,” he says, giving me half a smile and squeezing my fingers back.

A
FTER
WE
sign in at the hospital, one of the psychiatric doctors comes out to have a quiet word with us. Angus frowns worriedly as she leads us into a small insipid-colored side room and closes the door. The room is decked out like a miniature consulting room, with a small desk and two chairs. She gestures at the two chairs. We don’t sit down. I sense Angus is more on edge than I am, wondering what the hell is wrong.

“I’m Yvonne Marshall,” the doctor tells us, holding out her hand. “I’m a director of mental health at St. George’s Hospital, but I also work with patients here twice a week.”

The introduction is unnecessary. Her name badge displays who she is. I just want her to get on with it, tell us what has happened. We’re not in some game show where they have to flick to the adverts to keep the audience on edge. We are already on edge.

Then I realize, from the purposeful direction of her gaze, the introduction was for me. She seems to know Angus.

“Josh. I’m a friend of the family,” I tell her.

“He’s staying,” Angus says adamantly, as if he can guess what Yvonne might suggest.

Yvonne nods, possibly as surprised as I am at the determination evident in his tone.

“As I think I made you aware the last time we spoke, Angus, we don’t use sedatives as a method for managing anxiety here. But if a patient does become particularly anxious, we will sedate them to enable them to talk about their feelings and what caused the problem so that they can be better equipped to deal with it next time. It’s all about management.”

Her words make me tense, causing a strange sensation of déjà vu.

It’s all about management, having
strategies in place that help you deal with life, mechanisms that help you cope…

don’t feel

don’t feel

don’t feel

“Why did you sedate her?” Angus asks, bringing me back to the moment at hand.

“Her anxiety escalated this afternoon. She explained afterwards she was expecting you to visit her during afternoon visiting hours, and when you didn’t she was concerned something had happened to you. I think it all stems back to how worried she is about you because of the burglary.”

“But I told Mum I was going to visit this evening with Josh. I have an exam tomorrow and I wanted to spend the day studying and the bus takes ages so Josh offered to drive me if we came in together later,” Angus explains in a rush, clearly distressed.

Without thinking, I grip his hand, locking our fingers together. He would hate the thought of being the cause of his mum suffering, even though Eleanor’s anxiety is not his fault in any way. It’s only when I notice the fleeting, curious look Yvonne gives us that I realize what I am doing and let go of his hand.

“I think she must have forgotten,” Yvonne says kindly. “Please don’t blame yourself. Your mum is suffering from a serious anxiety disorder that has completely affected the way she functions. Her reactions to normal events are extreme, and as I explained the other day, I’m hopeful we can normalize those reactions. But I thought you should know before your visit that she won’t be as responsive to you today.”

Yvonne leaves us to make our own way across the common room to Eleanor’s room. Angus looks miserable.

I tug him to one side before we get there.

“It’s not your fault,” I say, my hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly, feeling the gentle movement of his muscles beneath all the layers of fabric he’s wearing and wishing I could touch his skin.

“I know. In my head I know. But knowing in your head doesn’t make your heart feel any better, does it?”

I shake my head in agreement, feeling his words sink much deeper than perhaps he meant them to.

T
ODAY
,
INSTEAD
of sitting in one of the chairs, Eleanor is tucked beneath the covers in bed. And whereas the chairs and other pieces of furniture resemble items that could feasibly be found in a living room, the adjustable bed advertises itself as pure hospital equipment.

The thin bedclothes emphasize Eleanor’s small frame, and she seems so tiny and fragile. But her face is relaxed and her expression peaceful, making her look younger and more like the woman she was when I met her, years ago.

“We can just sit with her for a bit,” I say as Angus stops woodenly at the foot of the bed. “Sometimes sedatives can make you appear asleep when you’re not. Just talk to her, tell her about your exam tomorrow. She’ll be so proud. She’ll know you’ve been to visit—don’t worry.”

Angus pulls a chair up to her bedside. I hesitate for a moment, then pull a chair up next to him.

“Do you want a minute on your own?” I ask when he doesn’t move or say anything.

“No, I’m just thinking.”

“What about?” I ask gently, berating myself for being as nosy as Soren.

“You,” he says simply.

My heartbeat quickens, a bird’s wing-flutter.
If I placed his hand over my heart,
would he feel it?
I wonder.

“Thank you for being here,” he carries on.

“I want to be here.”

Angus takes Eleanor’s hand where it lies against the bedclothes. Then he takes mine. For a while we sit like that silently. When Angus starts to speak, telling Eleanor about the studying he’s been doing and his exam tomorrow, I squeeze his hand tighter and rub small circles against the soft skin of his inner wrist with my thumb.

We stay for perhaps half an hour. We’re about to leave when I see Eleanor’s eyelids flutter open.

Angus gets up and hugs her without saying a word.