“What about you?” I ask, tilting my head. “Are you lucky?”
“I’m very lucky. I’ve fucked things up so many times, and yet I’m still here.”
I know how that feels. For a moment I want to reach out and trace the high line of his cheekbone, feel the softness of his skin against my own. I want to comfort him, not because he needs it, but because I do.
“What happened after they sent you away?” I ask. I’ve been wondering this for a while. I know my own story all too well—but he’s still a mystery. His hints about messing things up only make me want to know more.
“From university?”
“Yes.”
He takes a long sip of his drink. “I don’t really remember the first few weeks. I was too messed up. According to my ma I spent most of it in a drunken stupor. Trying to block everything out. To forget about Digby, about the fact I wasn’t going to graduate.” He looks at me through sooty lashes. “To forget about you.”
I’m momentarily lost for words. We were in different countries by that point, but still there was this connection, this despair.
“You told me you ended up in hospital,” I prompt. I’ve been thinking about that a lot. How we lost Digby and then Niall was in trouble too, and I didn’t even know.
“I was on one hell of a bender. My ma and uncle managed to cut off my supplies, so I turned to good old whisky instead. The next thing I knew I was waking up in hospital having had my stomach pumped.” He leans on the wall, tracing patterns on his glass. “That was my wake-up call. I ended up travelling with my uncle back to the States and finishing college there. And afterward I stayed on for a while.”
“And now you’re rich and famous,” I say.
“Not as rich as you.”
“That’s not my money. That’s Simon’s. I didn’t marry him for that.” It’s important to me that Niall understands I didn’t marry for money. I don’t know why I want him to think kindly of me, but I do.
“I know.” He looks chagrined. I wonder if he’s remembering our argument that night after the pub, because I am. “But we’ve both done okay, considering how we could have ended up.”
The strangest urge takes hold of me, stealing my concentration away. All I can think of is pressing my lips to his, feeling their warmth, their softness. Letting them move against mine.
I’m losing it. I have to be. Why on earth would I want to do that?
Even though he can’t possibly know what I’m thinking, I feel my cheeks flame.
“Thank you,” I say.
“For what?”
“For being here.” For talking to me, for letting me remember how it feels to kiss you.
“Of course I’m here. We’re friends, aren’t we?” Is it my imagination or did he just emphasise the friends part? My face grows hotter still as I realise he might think I have a crush on him.
But I don’t. I really don’t.
* * *
The house is silent when I push open the front door. Usually, Simon leaves the hall light on if he goes to bed before I get home, but tonight he hasn’t bothered.
The dark is a judgement. A punishment. It’s as if I don’t deserve the light. I flick it on anyway, dropping my keys on the sideboard, barely pausing to look at myself in the big, carved wooden mirror that hangs above it. But from that single glance I see my cheeks are blazing, my eyes rimmed with red. Walking into the kitchen, I make myself a cup of tea just to avoid going upstairs to bed.
/> I’m putting off the inevitable. I should go up right now and apologise, make it all up to him. Instead I lean against the breakfast bar and idly stir my tea, while trying to make sense of things in my mind.
When I take a sip it burns my bottom lip, and I remember how I imagined kissing Niall. I’m mortified. It’s not as if I can shrug the impulse off as friendly. I don’t kiss my friends on the lips. Hell, I don’t even kiss my parents like that on the rare occasion I go to visit them. There’s only one person I kiss on the mouth and I happen to be married to him.
Rinsing my mug in the sink, I lay it carefully on the draining board, turning the handle in so it doesn’t catch anything. Then I leave the kitchen, flicking the lights off, and set the burglar alarm to night mode.
It’s dark in our bedroom. No bedside lamp or en-suite light left glowing. Point well made, Simon.
“Hi,” I whisper softly into the darkness. There’s no response, not even the sound of his regular, heavy breathing. I don’t think he’s asleep, but it’s difficult to tell. In the gloom of the bedroom I can barely see his outline beneath the covers. Silently, I remove my clothes and lay them on the easy chair beside the wardrobe, and grab a pair of cotton pyjamas. I clean my teeth hard enough to scrape the sugary sweetness of the Coke from the enamel, enough for a few spots of blood to appear on the white porcelain of the sink when I spit.