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“What happened?”

“Peter asked me some difficult questions. The answers made me feel selfish, which in turn made me angry…then ashamed. I lost it. They increased my meds the other day. Peter said that may have contributed to it, but…it’s no excuse.”

“No, it’s not. I almost wasted a fortune on raw fish that would’ve gone straight in the bin.”

He smiles again, and I’m glad he can hear the humour in my voice.

“No more diva strops, you hear? I missed you.”

“Yes, sir.” He salutes me.

“I’ve been to work the last couple of days.” I go on to tell him all about it. He laughs a couple of times while I rant about Moron Mike, so I keep going just to see the smile on his face a little longer. “Have you thought about going back? What you’ll tell people?”

I hope I’m not pushing him, but it’s a subject that must’ve crossed his mind.

“It’s none of their business,” he says, his voice commanding and authoritative. I’ve missed that. “But my mother’s mistaken if she thinks Gerard is taking charge. She doesn’t have the authority to make those kind of decisions.”

But will you tell her that? I hope he does.

“I know where things went wrong and I know how to fix them. My father trusted me for a reason. I’ll be talking to her about it when I leave here.”

“Yeah?” I don’t intend to sound so surprised.

“Peter and I have been discussing my relationship with my mother these past few days. He’s made me realise that I’m not disrespecting her by disagreeing, by putting myself first sometimes.”

I’m not sure what to say without sounding like an ‘I told you so’ arsehole, so I keep quiet.

“I know you agree with him. It’s written all over your face.”

“You’re my concern, not your mother.”

James shrugs nervously. “She’s the only person I’ve never had the balls to stand up to. I don’t know why that is, or if it will change, but I have to try. When I get out of here, things need to be different.”

A proud grin creeps onto my face. “It’s good to hear you talk like that. Positive.”

“I’m trying.” He sneaks his fingers into the paper bag and pulls out the tub of sushi. “This looks delicious.” Taking the two disposable chopsticks, he picks up a piece of fish and tosses it in his mouth.

“I’ve never been able to figure those things out.”

“Chopsticks?”

I nod.

“Here,” he says, taking my hand. “Hold this one like a pencil.” He guides my fingers into position. “Then rest this one here, and move this one up and down with your thumb and index finger.”

I practice the movement for a few seconds, then dip them into the tub, picking up a piece of food. My mouth opens, as if that will somehow keep it in place, and I’m pleased with myself for managing to lift the food successfully out of the tub.

And then it falls on the floor. “Shit,” I mutter, picking it up with my fingers and throwing it in the paper bag. Heat rushes to my cheeks, knowing that someone, somewhere, is always watching us in this place. “I’ll stick with knives and forks.”

We talk about all kind of things for the rest of my visit – some serious, some light-hearted, and some random nonsense. When it’s time for me to leave I feel more optimistic than ever that he’s coming back to me, and so, when I say goodbye, I tell him to keep it up or I’ll shred his favourite ties.

**********

One week later…

At Heaton Park, James and I stand side by side, preparing to set off into a sprint. He’s been released on a trial day, supposedly to help him adjust to the outside world. We worked out a plan yesterday, together with Peter, on how to spend our four hours together today. So…we’re running.

“Don’t go getting all suicidal on me again when you lose, will you?” I tease. I don’t say it to trivialise what he’s been through. I say it because I don’t want it to be a dirty little secret. I don’t want him to feel ashamed. It needs to be out there in the open, discussed, if only between us. He needs to know that I’m not angry or hurt, that it’s okay to talk about, that he doesn’t have to hide from me.

I say it because this is who we are. Nothing has changed. We’re the same people we were before and I have no intention of treating him any differently.

“I appreciate that you can say things like that to me,” he says, his voice serious. “You make me feel normal.”

“You are normal.” I brush his cheek in a small moment of tenderness before I set off into run. “But you’re also a loser!” I call over my shoulder.

He’s on my tail within seconds, but I pick up my speed, determined to beat him. He’s out of practice, but so am I, and given that my legs are a couple of inches shorter than his, I have to keep pushing myself until my muscles feel like they’re bleeding. As my lungs start to burn I inwardly curse myself for slacking over recent months. I’m surprised how unfit I’ve become in such a short time.

When he’s home to stay, we need to do this every day.

“Come on, slacker!” James shouts, overtaking me.

Bastard. He doesn’t even look warm, whereas I’m breaking a frigging sweat, too exhausted to breathe, never mind reply. I can’t let him win, even if it feels like it will kill me, so I summon every ounce of strength my body possesses and push forward until I’m by his side and jerk my foot out in front of him.

His fall is hilarious as he tumbles onto the grass. He rolls onto his side, clutching his knee dramatically, and I can’t stop laughing.

“Cheater!”

“Don’t blame others for your downfalls. Don’t they teach you that in therapy?”

Scrambling to his feet, James laughs. “I think I preferred it when you used to hate me. You were far less irritating.”


Tags: Nicola Haken Erotic